This is my continuing work of fiction, inspired by a
wayward voice-activated Internet Search.
Enjoy….
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DARKENING STURGEONS
Chapter Two
by John L. Harmon
Miss
Miranda Whiffle perches pleasantly at her station, located behind the enormous
front counter of the Sturgeons Police Headquarters. She is the Sheriff’s office assistant and is
generally the first person one sees when entering the predominately brown
interior.
At 50
years of age, Miss Whiffle is as buoyant and engaging as her creamy blond bouffant-esque
hair. She happily passes out forms,
files paperwork, makes coffee, and performs other office chores. Do not mistake this woman for a throwback to
a bygone era; she is a giver, and more importantly, the oil which keeps the
Sturgeons Police Headquarters running smoothly.
Also, quite inadvertently at times, she is an eavesdropper from being
situated so near the Sheriff’s personal office.
Behind
that dark brown door, with the word SHERIFF painted on its frosted window, Ned
Dobson has just finished telling of the terrifying ordeal on Lake Pontoon that
ended with the apparent death of Bob Kinney.
A minute of intense silence follows, allowing for serious contemplation
from the listeners, including Miss Whiffle.
The kindly
gravel voice of the Sheriff soon echoes through frosted glass, “If you’ll
please excuse us, Ned, I must confer privately with the Chief Deputy.”
Miss
Whiffle, having been engrossed in Ned Dobson’s strange and horrifying tale,
hurriedly makes herself busy as the Sheriff’s door swings open. Sheriff Lawrence, grey-haired and attired in
beige, steps out and immediately approaches his bubbly office assistant with a
warm smile masking his massive confusion.
“Miss
Whiff, would you please bring Mr. Dobson a cup of tea?”
“No
problem-o, Sheriff Law,” Miss Whiffle favorably complies with the task of
assisting the ruggedly handsome Ned Dobson.
Sheriff
Lester Lawrence thanks his assistant and then silently leads his Chief Deputy
through the headquarters to the interrogation room. Once safely inside the flat, grey,
surprisingly not brown, room, the longtime Sheriff stares gravely at his
trusted second-in-command.
The
64-year-old man has been head keeper of law and order in Sturgeons for nigh
onto twenty-five years, due in large part to his generally agreeable
disposition. Over the years Sheriff
Lawrence has experienced many unusual crimes (one with a trombone) and strange
incidents (sometimes involving bananas), but never—NEVER—quite as bizarre as
the unbelievable tale just spewed out before him.
“Give me
your pad, Ben,” Sheriff Lawrence orders, holding out a hand.
“Yes,
Sir,” the young Chief Deputy Straker acquiesces, handing over his little black
notebook, with pen, in which he had been taking notes on the extremely odd
seeming death of Bob Kinney.
Flipping
through the crisp white pages filled with shorthand the older man finally
locates a fresh sheet. He writes a quick
note, rips out the page and hands the belongings back to their owner.
With a
steady, determined hand the Sheriff places the note on the bleak interrogation
table, along with his gun and badge.
Before Chief Deputy Straker can react to the symbolic gesture, his
mentor, his father-figure pats him on the shoulder with a farewell smile and
abandons him in the desolate room.
Chief
Deputy Benjamin Straker, all of 27 with buzz cut brown hair, stands dumbfounded
for a moment, but only a moment. He
grabs Sheriff Lawrence’s police possessions, along with the note, and gives a
purposeful, yet pointless chase. Reaching
the unoccupied front counter he stops short at the sound of emotional
suffering.
Beyond the open door of the Sheriff’s office
sits Ned Dobson bent over in a chair, hands covering his face, sobbing uncontrollably. Beside him is Miranda Whiffle, holding a cup
of tea with one hand while gently massaging his back with the other.
Ben
Straker glances at the note in his shaking hand. It simply reads, I resign, accompanied by
the sheriff’s loopy L’ed signature.
Focusing his attention back onto the tragic scene, choking down the tears, he perceives a coatrack positioned in the corner of the brown
office.
On top of
this tall, slender structure is Sheriff Lawrence’s personal police hat. Its rich wide brim calls the young man
onward, like a deep beige beacon, to an uncertain and potentially dangerous
future.
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Click CHAPTER THREE to continue.
Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,
JLH