The Light Between Us

A Light in the Dark-2

Later in the day, after a short siesta and another cup of tea, I venture back to my computer and the fantasy world of crime fiction. I work for two hours, writing three more pages of my new novel, untitled at the present time, when the sound of a dog barking jars my reverie.

A surge of fear pulses through me. I pull my hands away from the keys and sit back, listening. I cross my arms over my chest. Darth Vader barks. But the bark turns to snarls. And then someone screams.

I don’t notice the growing darkness outside until I peek out the window to where Bret Hicks and a handful of his high school chums hover over Darth in the backyard, teasing the beast with chicken scraps.

The five young boys gulp beer from bottles and suck on a joint, passing it among themselves, laughing. Country music blares from an opened window in one of the boys’ pickup trucks parked under the elm tree.

I recoil at the sight of the helpless animal and fury seethes in me as I reach for my cell phone. In the mouthpiece I ask Cora, the sixty-five-year-old receptionist who’d been a staple at the sheriff’s office for thirty-one faithful years, “May I speak with Sheriff Erickson, please?”

In her throaty voice, from years of smoking cigarettes, she says, “Sheriff Erickson’s out on a call, Christian. May I give him a message for you?”

For a second, I think about it but then recall Sheriff Erickson giving me his private cell number a year ago when a slew of burglaries swept through our postage-sized town and a few personal belongings were stolen from my car. “When do you expect him back in the office?” I ask.

“Hard to tell. Mrs. Worthington’s cat climbed that big old juniper tree in her backyard chasing after a squirrel and got stuck up on a high branch.”

“I’ll give him a ring.”

Before I have a chance to end the call, Cora asks, “Are you writing another book, Christian? You know, I liked your last one. I love crime novels.”

I suppress the laugh erupting in the back of my throat. “You’re my number one fan, Cora. I appreciate it.”

She guffaws and I see her waving a dismissive hand at me on the other end of the line. “Please. You’re a national bestseller. And rightly so. What with all those vivid descriptions of crime scenes and dead bodies, you make it sound so real—”

“Thanks again, Cora. And I’ll give Sheriff Erickson a call.”

With that, we disconnect. The barking next door continues. Like nails across a chalkboard, the agitated whine of Darth makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

I rummage in the kitchen drawer for Sheriff Erickson’s cell number and find the scrap of paper underneath index cards on which I’ve scribbled scads of notes for my writing over the years.

I punch the sheriff’s number into my phone. After five rings, a breathless voice answers. “Sheriff Erickson.”

Weak-kneed, I mumble, “Um, Sheriff Erickson, this is Christian Rivers.”

After a ten-second pause, when I think the line has been disconnected, the sheriff answers with a celebratory exhale, “Some nights are better than others.” The husky cadence in his voice rouses something mischievous in me.

The smile in my voice reflects it. “I’m having neighbor problems.”

“The Hicks’ boy again?”

“Afraid so.”

I hear him sigh as if my call is the sound of the world ending. “What’s the problem?”

“Loud music, drugs, and animal abuse.” That is all I need to say.

Sheriff Erickson answers, “Up to no good again, huh?”

“I am up to my you-know-what with that snarky kid, sheriff. It is unlike Bret to hit his dog, but I can’t sit back and do nothing.”

“I hear ya. I’ve adopted a new pooch this weekend.”

Man’s best friend.

“What breed?” I ask.

“She’s just a mutt. Cute as hell, though. I was tired of coming home to an empty house.”

I swallow hard and look around the uncomfortable silence of my once cozy home. Suddenly a clap of thunder rumbles somewhere far off. Pellets of sleet blast the windows as if Milestone County is under attack.

Then over the deafening clatter, I hear my name being called as if it is an echo in a dream. “Christian?”

“Yes. Sorry. I got sidetracked.”

“I’ll be at the Hicks’s place in less than ten minutes.”