Shadows in the Night

Chapter 9

Chapter 9Officer Shana Givens waits for me outside in the parking lot.

From the looks of it, I am riding shotgun. I slip into the passenger seat without preamble. I’d rather be behind the wheel, so I have an excuse to pay attention to my driving and the roads on our regular route instead of listening and reacting to Givens’ sarcasm.

I fasten my seatbelt before she pulls out of the lot and makes a sharp U-turn in the middle of the street. The barren area around here is primarily woods, but her show-off performance is unwarranted.

Officer Wallace and Officer Keller wave to us and I see Ben laughing in the passenger seat as they drive off. Shana slaps the steering wheel and snickers, high-pitched like a hyena. I stare out of my window and pray silently that the shift goes by quickly and uneventfully.

* * * *

We ride down Tallis Way along the back roads where most school kids skip class to get high and make out. It is a high-trafficked area, mainly in the evening hours, around dusk, but this morning we are lucky when a long-legged blonde girl and a scruffy dark-haired young man appear at the base of a gigantic willow tree, a plume of smoke veiling the air around them. Her flowery skirt hikes up over her waist, and everything but the young man’s face pokes out from under it.

“Are you f*****g kidding me?” Givens says, braking by the side of the narrow dirt road and shutting the engine off. She unbuckles herself, pauses and stares out at the two students. I hear her sigh. I wait for her to make the next move, but when she continues gazing over my shoulder at the two love birds fornicating in the tall grass, I ask, “What are we waiting for?”

“Do you remember being horny and young and in love, Ballinger?”

I clench my teeth and my forehead furrows. I turn away from the middle-grade students because I am uncomfortable watching them. The moment grows increasingly painful when Givens keeps talking, asking me questions about s*x and young love. I think about Steve, and my ache for him rises like a lump in my throat. I want to get out of the car and run. Find Steve and tell him I love him.

“I do, actually,” I say, “but it never involved f*****g outdoors.”

My partner looks flabbergasted when I turn to her and flash her a smartass grin, open the passenger door and step out into the humid, spongy air.

“What just happened?” she asks, getting out and staring at me from over the hood of the police cruiser.

I wade through a dusty path strewn with rocks and broken tree branches, smacking the tall grass on either side of me as it sways lazily in the hot morning breeze.

“Ballinger?”

I turn to Givens. She throws her large manly hands into the air in a what the f**k gesture. I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”

“What’s eating you?” she keeps asking, following me through the brush, down the path to the two young adolescents.

Our presence and loud voices interrupt the Midsummer Night lovelies, and the young man stares in our direction, his glasses askew on his freckled face. He wipes his mouth as if satisfied he’s eaten the best meal of his life. “s**t. Shit.” He scrambles under the shady willow tree, jumping quickly to his feet and zipping up his fly as the girl lays across the ground, spread-eagle, unfazed, hands tucked behind her head as if dreaming. “Christina, the f*****g cops.”

I approach him, staying a few feet behind on the beaten path, hooking my fingers in my utility belt. Givens is close behind, breathing hard as if the walk through the field is too laborious. She stands next to me, watching the two young students, breathing hard.

“Shouldn’t you guys be in class?” I ask.

“We’re skipping today,” the girl answers, sitting up and pulling herself against the side of the tree. She tells her companion to take a seat as she adjusts her dress and the spaghetti straps over her shoulder, so her left breast isn’t exposed. “Be cool, Derek. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“You’re having s*x in public,” I say. “It’s called indecent exposure.”

“It’s only indecent exposure if our genitals are showing,” she says, crossing and uncrossing her legs and trying to educate me with an air of confidence. She reminds me of Sharon Stone’s character in Basic Instinct. Many years ago, but an iconic performance. “I know my rights.”

Givens coughs to cover up a laugh. When I turn to shoot her a hard stare, she looks away, amused, hunched-shouldered, smiling.

I am tempted to leave Givens out here and drive the police cruiser to happier places. I make a mental note to talk to Chief Barnaby about transferring partners. I will argue that Givens’ and my philosophies are dramatically different. But after this morning’s meeting with the chief, I can only imagine my pleas being swept under the carpet the moment I open my mouth.

I reach into the front pocket of my uniform for my writing pad and pen. “What are your names?”

“Are you serious?” The young man looks embarrassed, staring at his female friend and then up at me, running a nervous hand through his ruffled hair.

“Quite,” I say, eyeing him closely. He looks like he might make a run for it, shifting back and forth and glancing in the direction of the road, the police car.

Givens is still giggling like an i***t. Even if the young man runs, I will be doing all the leg work. “Tell me your full name, Derek,” I say.

He looks at me as if I haven’t heard the girl call him by his first name earlier. “Sander. Derek Sander.”

“And you?” I ask, turning to the freckled, blonde girl.

She smiles, the end of her tongue curling around her mouth in a curt, s****l gesture. “I’ll whisper it to you if you come closer.”

I look to Givens, but she is no help. She and these kids are testing my patience. My grip tightens on the pen. I press hard on the pad, making indentations on the page. “What is your name, Miss?”

The girl says something I cannot decipher, and she stands, brushing dirt from her knees and dress. She is barefoot. As she searches the ground for something, I growl at Givens to give up the childish charade and help me out.

“Listen up right now!” Givens yells, her voice booming and echoing across the open field like a trumpet. I wince and bring a hand to my ear to block the ringing. I think my eardrum is damaged. “You will tell us your names, or we will bring you down to the station.”

The girl crosses her arms over her bosomy chest and steps forward, kicking stones along the path. A smug expression contorts her face. “Do you know who my father is?”

“Oh God,” I whisper, exasperated, losing my patience.

Givens lumbers over to my side. “Am I supposed to?” she asks.

“Jonathan Jackson Bahum,” the girl answers, haughtily, eyes widening, head raised, proudly.

My skin crawls at the sound of the man’s name. I look to Givens; she knows what I’m thinking.

Jonathan Jackson Bahum: mayor of Black Falls.

I am stony-eyed when I glance at my partner, but my expression shifts from severe to exasperated when I turn to the middle-grade students. I jot down Christina Bahum’s name in my notebook. I know the mayor’s daughter by reputation, putting a name to the face. She has been on the wrong side of the law for many years now. Running with the wrong crowd, involved in illegal activities, breaking-and-entering, indecent exposure. She’s made a notorious name for herself around town with a particular group of people: Sloppy Seconds Christina.

The frustrating part is that Christina receives a get-out-of-jail-free card every time because of her connections.

“Let them go.” Givens is breathing hard and steadily on my neck.

“No f*****g way,” I whisper back. “We do this the right way.”

She sounds vanquished. “Fine. Have it your way. Just don’t come crying to me when the chief calls us both into his office to explain the red tape associated with this ticking time bomb little whore.”

I stare off into the distance and recall the past feuds between Mayor Bahum and Black Falls Police Chief over a handful of incidents last month involving the mayor’s daughter and the chief of police. A case that involved ruining the chief of police’s reputation if he did not release Miss Bahum from police custody on the night that she and a few students decided to graffiti the police chief’s house on Cabbage Night with spray paint, broken eggs and toilet paper.

Nothing came of it. Just like nothing will come of this incident today. The defense: Innocent teenage angst, flirtation, and s****l exploration.

I study Christina’s weighty expression, her head tilted to the side, her lopsided, cocky pose. She smooths a hand over the red silk scarf around her neck, fingering it as if petting a dead animal.

How the f**k do parents raise their children to be so disrespectful? I ask myself. I’d be grounded. Today, kids would report their parents for child abuse if you look at them the wrong way.

I gather my pen and paper and stuff them back into my uniform pocket. I turn to leave, whispering to Givens, “It’s probably time to retire if I can’t do my job.” It is a jab more at me than her, but I know walking away is not right.

Staring at Miss Bahum with the cunning smile on her face, I am unnerved. “Are you coming?” I yell to Givens, who looks as confused as I feel.

As she meanders along the path toward the police cruiser, I hear the gravelly dirt road crunching under a set of moving tires crawling up the narrow path. Sun glints off its windshield. I squint to glimpse the driver slowly driving toward us.

There is nothing out here but an empty stretch of fields: a dead-end road.

I step out into the narrow road, waving at the driver to turn back.

The dark vehicle stops but doesn’t move. At this angle, I am blinded by the glaring sun bouncing off the windshield, making it difficult for me to see the driver’s face.

“Do you think it could be for them?” Givens asks, jerking a fat thumb over her shoulder at Romeo and Juliet.

I use my hand as a visor from the blinding sun in my eyes. “I doubt anyone knows these kids are out here.”

“What do you want to do?”

I make a run for it, but the mysterious vehicle reverses in high speed, tires spinning, bits of gravel shooting out from under all four tires. Before I can catch up to it, the car turns around sharply and peels around the corner. Gone before I can glimpse the eight-digit license plate number.

I crouch to catch my breath, and turn to my partner, shaking my head.

Something’s wrong.