The lanky man crawled forward a few inches on his hands and knees and peered into the dark and dusty space below the bottom shelf. Five-spoke faucet handles, he thought. When was the last time somebody came in asking for five-spoke faucet handles? The man reached one arm far into the recess and dragged out a dust-covered wooden box heavy with plumbing fixtures. He picked through the disorganized collection of copper and steel objects, laying the larger objects on the floor next to him and pushing the smaller objects around inside the box. After a short period of digging he removed a matching pair of faucet handles and held them up to the light to get a better look at them. He inspected them closely through the lower half of his bifocals, and, finding them acceptable, set them aside. He then returned the other displaced objects to the box and slid it back into the darkness.
"I got 'em, Jerry," the man called out as he left the storage room and returned to the front of the store. "Here, tell me what you think of these." He handed the faucet handles to a portly man standing at the counter.
"Ahh, these look good, Charlie," the second man said, turning the handles over in his hands. "These are just what I need."
"The plate on the cold one is cracked a little bit," the lanky man said, as he bent down and brushed the dust from the bottom of his pant legs. "I can probably find you a new one, though. It's a standard size."
"Yeah, that would be great," the portly man said. "The teeth are in good shape. And the metal isn't tarnished much at all. A little bit of buffing and these little beauties will look like new. My daughter will be tickled with these."
The two men walked down one of the aisles and stopped in front of a cabinet containing a dozen rows of small plastic drawers. The lanky man ran a gnarled index finger over the front of a few of the drawers and pulled on one of the indiscriminate handles. He reached into the drawer with thumb and forefinger and removed a small clear disk.
"Here, see if this fits," he said, handing the disk to the other man.
"Yeah, that'll do it. Perfect."
"It's plastic, mind you," said the lanky man. "They don't make 'em out of glass anymore, so it won't be exactly the same as the other one."
"Oh, that's all right," replied the portly man. "They look pretty much the same. Unless you tap on them you'd never know the difference."
The two men walked to the cash register at the front of the store. The lanky man rang up the sale.
"So when is the place going to be ready for your daughter to move in?" he asked.
"Not too much longer now," the portly man replied. "All of the hard work is done. That roof was the biggest job, but they finished that last week. I'm doing a few of the odds and ends like this faucet here myself. Now all she needs is a little bit of painting and a good cleaning and she'll be ready for the big move. My daughter is hoping to be moved in by the end of the month."
"Well, I hope she cooks you a big dinner once she gets settled in there. Lord knows you deserve it after all the work you've put into the place."
"Oh, I'm counting on having a lot of dinners over there. She's a great cook, you know. Loves to cook. That's why she had her heart set on that old Robinson place. It's got the biggest kitchen you've ever seen for a house that size. Biggest room in the whole house. Why, that kitchen must take up a quarter of the place, easy. You could fit the living room and the master bedroom into that kitchen. They made 'em big back when that house was built."
"Yeah," the lanky man said. "I guess since they didn't have television back then people used to spend a lot more time in the kitchen than they do today, cooking and eating and talking. The other rooms were where you went to get some peace and quiet, you know, to sleep or to read, so they didn't make them so big. But the kitchen was the room where everybody got together. It seems like it's just the opposite nowadays."
"You're right," the portly man agreed. "That's why Jill wanted this place so bad. She's always liked the older places. Says they have a lot more charm than the new ones. Of course that's why I have to come in here and make you crawl around in the dust back there to dig out these old fixtures. Jill would shoot me if I tried to put a pair of those cheap plastic faucet handles in her bathroom."
The lanky man smiled. "That's no trouble at all. I'm glad to do it. I guess Jill is keeping us both gainfully employed."
The portly man paid for the hardware in cash and walked toward the front door. "Hey, Charlie, how would you like to join us out at Jill's place for dinner some time? I don't know exactly when just yet, but some time next month maybe. Jill would love to see you and Ruth again."
"Well, thank you very much, Jerry, we'd be delighted. You tell Jill that we'd love to have one of her gourmet meals whenever she's ready. No rush, of course. Next month, the month after; whenever she's ready. I know she'll probably have a million things to do between now and then, what with the move and the holidays coming up and everything, so don't make her feel that she has to have us out there by any certain time."
"No, of course not. I'll see when she's ready and let you know. Maybe we'll play some bridge afterwards. You know she's as good a bridge player as she is a cook."
"Sure, Jerry. I haven't played bridge in years, but I think I remember how."
"Take care, Charlie."
"Goodbye, Jerry. Give my best to Jill."
As the portly man opened the door and stepped out into the bright noon sunshine, a police car pulled up to the front of the store. Scott Caldwell emerged from the car dressed in his uniform and walked up to the entrance.
"Good afternoon, Scott," the portly man said.
"How you doin', Jerry?" said the officer.
"Not bad, not bad," came the reply, as the older man kept walking toward his pickup truck. "Keeping busy, you know."
"Yeah, I know, Jerry. You be good now."
Caldwell entered the store and spotted the owner behind the cash register. "What's up, Charlie?" he said.
"Hello, Scott," said the store owner. "What are you doing in uniform at this time of the day? Aren't you on the graveyard shift these days?"
Caldwell beamed a wide smile. "Not this week," he said. "Paulie had to take the week off at the last minute. I think his father-in-law died. He and his wife had to fly to Seattle for the funeral. Anyway, I managed to get his shift for the week, so I'm working regular hours until next Monday. What a relief."
"So how are things down there at the clinic these days?" the owner asked. "Seems pretty quiet lately."
"Oh, it's the same old story. Every day there's a bunch of yelling and fussing between those people, but not much more. Once in a while somebody gets a little too aggressive and we have to step in and break things up, but we haven't had to arrest anyone in the past couple of weeks."
"Maybe they're getting tired of each other," the owner suggested.
"Yeah, I can only hope so. God knows I'm tired of the whole lot of them."
"Are you heading down there now?"
"Yeah, my shift starts in ten minutes. I just stopped in to get my lottery tickets."
The owner shook his head. "Are you still playing that thing? You know you're never going to win at that game."
"Never say never, Charlie," Caldwell said. "One of these days my numbers are going to come up. And when they do, I want to be there waiting for them with open arms."
The store owner walked over to the lottery register. "Well, I think the whole thing's a racket," he said. "Take it from someone who should know. I must sell five hundred dollars' worth of tickets a week, and on a good week those tickets might win fifty bucks. In ten years I don't think I've ever paid out a single prize higher than a couple hundred dollars. How many do you want?"
"Let's take it easy this week," Caldwell said, "since the jackpot is only a couple of million. Give me five dollars' worth."
The owner punched a few buttons on the register, which then made a low-pitched whirring sound and ejected a pinkish slip of paper.
"Here you go," the owner said, handing the slip to the officer. "I guess I shouldn't complain too much. I get fifteen percent of the gross receipts, plus a percentage of any winnings. Still, sometimes I don't feel right about it. I'd rather sell people something they can use than a bunch of worthless numbers."
"It's not a matter of right or wrong, Charlie, it's just business," said Caldwell as he tucked the slip of paper into his pocket. "You keep telling yourself that. Selling people something is never wrong as long as they want to buy it."
"I thought you said to never say never," the owner said with a smile.
"Never believe anything a cop says, Charlie," the officer replied, and both men laughed.
At that moment the front door swung open and Rachel Farrell entered the store. Both men halted their conversation instantly, responding to that instinct which tells men to immediately cease any conversation among themselves, regardless of its licentiousness, whenever a woman enters their company.
"Can I help you, Miss?" the owner asked.
"What's the heaviest cardboard stock you carry?" the woman asked, in a very matter-of-fact tone.
"Corrugated or non-corrugated?"
"Non-corrugated."
"We have a variety of different grades back here in aisle three," said the owner, as he moved out from behind the counter.
"That's all right," said Rachel in a tone that told the man she was not interested in being helped. "I can find it myself." She walked down the aisle on her own.
The owner looked at Caldwell and gave a quick shrug of his shoulders. Then both men, either intrigued by the thought of a female customer attempting to locate an item unassisted in the decidedly masculine world of a hardware store, or simply attracted to the sight of a thinly-shaped young woman walking away from them, turned to watch Rachel from behind as she made her way down the aisle. The two men stood silently at the counter in the front of the store, watching the woman as nonchalantly as they could manage, waiting for her to call out a question at any moment. The silence lasted a while longer than Caldwell expected.
"I think I'll go see if she needs any help," Caldwell said with a wink.
"I thought you would," the owner replied. "I'll be here if you need any help."
"Don't worry, Charlie," said Caldwell, "I know my hardware," and both men stifled a laugh.
Caldwell strolled down the aisle at a measured pace, one that suggested neither apprehension nor aggression. He used the same stride whenever he approached a car which he had pulled over to the side of a road. He wanted to command an air of authority without making the subject too nervous. He moved directly to the area where Rachel stood studying the selection of manufactured paper products.
"Are you working on a craft project?" he asked. Always ask them something about themselves, he thought. Women love to talk about themselves.
"Not really," replied Rachel's less-than-interested voice.
"Well, if it's an important project, you'll probably want to go with the heavier grade cardboard. Don't skimp on the cheap stuff. It doesn't last as well."
Rachel raised one eyebrow and half-turned her head in Caldwell's direction. The barest suggestion of a smile crossed her face. "You're a cop, aren't you? What do you know about cardboard?"
Not exactly the friendliest response, Caldwell thought, but he could work with it. He notched his smile one level above hers. "Well, I know that you've got to have the right stuff for the job," he said, placing one hand on top of the display partition and leaning forward to put his face more directly in her line of sight. "I mean, if you don't have the right stuff you might as well not even attempt a job, right?"
Rachel looked straight into his eyes for a second or two and then turned back toward the merchandise. "I think I've found exactly what I need right here," she said as she lifted several sheets of heavy grade cardboard from the display rack. "But thank you for your help, officer. I don't know how I could have managed without you." Again that wispy smile flashed at Caldwell. And she flipped her hair over one shoulder in his direction as she started to walk back up the aisle. Caldwell was hooked.
"Let me guess," he said, as he followed her toward the front of the store. "Holiday decorations, right? Something for Thanksgiving, maybe? Or Christmas, better yet."
"No, officer, you're not even close," Rachel said. She placed the cardboard sheets on the front counter and then turned to the store owner. "Where are the painting supplies?"
"Aisle eight," came the reply. "Way towards the back."
Rachel turned and headed toward the opposite end of the store. Caldwell's eyes met those of the store owner, who was grinning from ear to ear. Caldwell followed Rachel in the direction of the painting supplies.
"Hey, Scott, don't forget," the owner called out in a loud voice after him, "your shift starts in a couple of minutes. You don't want to be late." Caldwell turned and shot him an I'll-get-you-for-that-one look as he pursued his quarry down aisle eight.
"All right, let me see now," Caldwell said when he had caught up to Rachel again, trying to regain whatever control he once believed he had over the conversation. "Cardboard and paint. Cardboard and paint. What would I be doing with cardboard and paint?"
"Gee, that's a tough one, officer," Rachel said, putting on an air of puzzlement. "Maybe if you crack this case they'll make you a detective some day."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I like a good mystery," he said. "You know, searching around, finding things out, checking out clues. It makes life interesting, wouldn't you say?"
"Actually, my life is quite interesting enough as it is, thank you very much. But if it brings a little happiness into your life, here's another clue for you. I'm buying red and black paint, see? That's a significant clue, don't you think? And it's waterproof, too. What does that tell you?"
Caldwell smiled more broadly now. She seemed to be enjoying this cat-and-mouse game as much as he was. Unfortunately, it was difficult for him to determine exactly which animal he was.
"Hmmm," Caldwell hummed, "you are definitely a riddle, young lady. I may have to put you under close surveillance until this case is solved."
"Gee, I'm disappointed, officer. I thought for sure you would have solved this case by now. But maybe you need just one more clue to help you out. Let's go look at some lumber."
Rachel led the way to the adjacent aisle, where an assortment of light-duty wood products was displayed. She picked up a three-foot piece of pine cut into the shape of a fence picket, only narrower.
"Any idea what this might be used for?" she asked, holding the spiked end of the stake playfully towards Caldwell's chin.
"Oh, I could come up with a lot of ideas for that," Caldwell said, "but I'll play it safe and guess that you're going to be making signs of some kind."
"Congratulations, officer. You solved the case. I'll put in a good word for you with your boss next time I see him." Rachel grabbed a dozen stakes from the bin and once again headed for the front of the store.
"So, what's the occasion?" Caldwell said as he followed her. "You having a yard sale or something? Maybe I'll stop by and see what you've got for sale."
"No, officer, I am not having a yard sale," Rachel replied. Her voice was suddenly very stern, even hostile. "I'm sending a message. And it's a message that is obviously very difficult for you to understand. But don't worry. You'll see the message spelled out for you very clearly before much longer."
Caldwell was taken aback by her sudden change of tone. Message? he thought. What the hell was she talking about? A few seconds ago she was ready to give him her telephone number. Now she was treating him like he was her worst enemy.
The recognition hit Caldwell in an instant. Holy hell, he thought, she's one of them! Yeah, he thought he recognized her from somewhere. She was one of those goddamned abortion protesters. He knew there was something about her that irritated him. It all made sense now. That condescending attitude. That smug way she talked down to him like he was the biggest scumbag she'd ever met. The bitch.
"I gotta go, Charlie," he said spitefully to the store owner as he turned toward the front door. "My shift is starting. Gotta go play nanny for a while."
"Gee, officer," Rachel said with sarcastic sweetness, "aren't you going to ask me for my phone number?"
"Some other lifetime," Caldwell replied with a sneer.
As he reached for the doorknob, Caldwell's hand was suddenly stopped by the sound of screeching tires on the pavement outside the store. All three of the store's occupants turned to look through the picture window behind the counter. In the middle of the parking lot, about fifty yards away, a large, rusty pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Inside the cab, two people were involved in a violent tussle. From the driver's side, arms and fists and curses flew in one direction, and from the other side smaller arms were held up in defense. The passenger side door swung open and a teenage girl with shoulder-length brown hair scrambled to get out of the truck. As her feet were about to reach the ground a heavy boot kicked her in the middle of her back and propelled her forward with a jolt, knocking her down onto the asphalt. Her face and shoulder struck the pavement viciously and her limbs tumbled about in all directions. She pushed herself up unsteadily and tried to stand, but she collapsed immediately back to the ground.
Caldwell threw open the door and raced out of the store. In a few seconds he had crossed the parking lot to the place where the girl lay. Rachel and Charlie followed several steps behind.
The engine of the pickup truck roared aggressively, and the vehicle whipped around and sped toward the far end of the lot. Caldwell yelled to the driver to stop, but the man behind the wheel did not obey. The truck careened over a curb, peeled around the nearest corner and was quickly out of sight. Caldwell continued running across the parking lot and down the street, trying to get a look at the license plate, but he could not get close enough to read the number.
Rachel and Charlie ran up to the girl as she lay on the ground. Rachel knelt down beside her and helped her to a sitting position, then wrapped one arm gently around the girl's shoulders. The girl's hair hung down over her face, and her arms quivered as she held them up to cover her head, still protecting herself against her departed attacker.
"It's okay, it's okay," Rachel told the girl in as calm a voice as she could summon. "You're all right now, just relax. We're here to help you."
The girl seemed paralyzed in her arms. Rachel could feel the tremors coursing through the young girl's body as she tried to comfort her. At first the girl seemed incapable of moving. It was only with a great deal of patient coaxing from both Rachel and Charlie that the girl was able to drop her arms from about her head. Rachel looked at the palms of the girl's hands and saw the nasty abrasions left by the rough surface on which she had fallen.
"Your hands are bleeding," she said to the girl. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
The girl was unable to respond. She only sat weakly in front of Rachel, breathing rapidly in short, shallow gasps. Rachel reached out and pushed the girl's hair back from her face.
Rachel and Charlie both recoiled at the sight. The entire right side of the girl's face was streaked with bright red blood and her nose displayed a deep cut which bled profusely over her lips and down her chin. Her lower lip was severely bruised and swollen, and another fresh stream of blood flowed from the left corner of her mouth, trickled down the front of her neck and disappeared under her shirt. A few pellets of hardened black tar and dirt remained implanted in a large scrape above her right eyebrow, an injury which was just beginning to bleed. Her left cheek was black and puffy, but did not appear to be cut.
Caldwell came jogging back to the group. "I called that guy in," he said, bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "I couldn't get a tag number, but hopefully they'll find him based on a description. How is she?"
"Take a look for yourself," Rachel said.
"JEE-zus," Caldwell exclaimed. "You don't look so good young lady. We'll have to get you to a doctor."
"Do either of you know any first aid?" Charlie asked.
"I've got a kit in the trunk of my car," Caldwell said, "but she looks like she needs a whole lot more than first aid. Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked the girl.
"I already asked her that," Rachel interjected. "She seems pretty shaken up. She hasn't said a word to us yet. I think she may have a concussion."
"What's your name, kid?" Caldwell asked.
"What difference does that make?" Rachel said impatiently. "We're wasting time. We need to get her to the hospital first and try to get information out of her later."
Caldwell looked down at Rachel with an icy stare. God, he hated bossy women. "Yeah, well, you're not the officer in charge here, now are you?" he told her. "When you've made lieutenant you can give the orders. Until then I'll decide how to handle things."
"Don't give me your macho police bullshit," Rachel shot back. "This girl is hurt and she needs a doctor. Put aside your petty male ego for just a second and help her. If you want to argue over protocol we can do that later."
"Listen, smartass," Caldwell retorted, "I'm telling you this for the last time. This is a crime scene and I'm the officer in charge. I'll decide what gets done and when. If that doesn't suit you, then you can just go on about your business. But if you give me any more lip, I'll arrest you for obstruction. And don't think I'm kidding, because I've done it before to pains-in-the-ass like you for a whole lot less."
Rachel was about to fire back a sharp response when Charlie grabbed them both by the arms. "Come on, you two," he said reprimandingly. "Your fighting isn't helping this little girl at all. She looks like she's hurt real bad, and I can't stand to sit here listening to you two argue while she bleeds to death. Let's get her to a doctor."
Caldwell and Rachel both fell silent.
"All right," Caldwell said at last. "Help me get her into my car and I'll drive her to the hospital."
The three of them carefully helped the girl to her feet and slowly led her to Caldwell’s patrol car. Rachel opened the back door on the passenger side of the vehicle and started to lead the girl toward the back seat.
"Wait a minute," Caldwell said. "Let's put her up front. That way I can keep an eye on her while I drive her over there."
"I'll watch her from back here," said Rachel.
"What?" Caldwell asked.
"I'm riding with her."
"Take your own car."
"I'm staying with her," Rachel demanded, her jaw set firmly in place.
Caldwell looked at Charlie. If it were not for the elder man's mediating expression, the officer would have told her to kiss off. "Fine," he said, tired of arguing. "Get in."