Mr. Moon unconsciously tapped out a drumbeat on the steering wheel with his fingers. There was little sense rushing even after hearing what Ms. Miller had to say over the radio. Whoever it was that Steve saw, they were likely gone in the wind now. On foot, but with the sense to keep away from the roads. A man and a woman. The man, tall and solid. The woman, slim with a ponytail. Having just slipped out of the Chief’s house, they would have doubtlessly been witnesses to the murder. That would fit the timeline. The question was, who were they?
A police officer was out of the question. Mr. Moon had been introduced to every surviving member of the Carlston PD by now. There were no women on the force and as for the men, while none could be described as completely out of shape, neither could they be pinned as the ‘tall and solid’ type. Perhaps another observer could have mistaken them for that, but a man of Steve’s abilities would not have mentioned those physical traits if they didn’t glaringly stick out.
Who else would have a reason to be in the house? A friendly neighbor? Possible but unlikely. No reason for them to hide from himself or Dag before the murder occurred. A family member? The Chief lacked a wife, as far as Mr. Moon could tell. His daughter, perhaps?
Then it hit him. The thought spiked through his mind like a bolt of lightning tearing through the sky.
The picture. The one hanging on the wall, featuring the Chief’s daughter… Cass? Yes. That was her name. Cass. If he recalled correctly, she had a ponytail in the picture. That detail hardly said anything at all on its own. Nothing but pure coincidence.
However, the pale blue Rambler Cass was leaning against in the photo told another story altogether. The car parked outside the station was the same model and color. It was as close to the front door as could be. What if the Rambler was hers?
The Chief’s house was barely visible now in the gaps between houses. From what he could see, both squad cars were where they had been left earlier, untouched. The cars were still sitting low to the ground, indicating the tires hadn’t been changed out. Mr. Moon wrenched the steering wheel sideways, drawing out a shrill screech from the tires as his car hopped a curb and trampled some petunias in his haste to get on the next street. His foot pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and the engine grinded away in protest of the sudden move.
Dag let out a grunt of surprise, one hand palming the grip of his Sig Sauer while his eyes darted sharply around the area looking for threats Mr. Moon might’ve seen that he’d missed.
“The car, the one at the station.” Mr. Moon said, a slight bit of irritation breaking up his usual steady voice. “If it’s gone when we get there, our third party is the Chief’s daughter.”
Dag’s eyes sharpened.
“She has the creature?”
“Or knows where it is.” Mr. Moon confirmed. “And is likely a witness to the Chief’s death.”
Dag clicked his tongue. The fact of that possibility being inconvenient if true was something they both could understand without putting it into words. In the very best-case scenario, that would mean the girl would follow them hellbent on revenge.
Worse case? She would be sly enough to get proof and expose them to the police, forcing the two of them to cause a bloodbath neither man wanted to happen. Such a thing would be messy, needlessly dangerous, and the very definition of unsubtle. Not to mention they would still have to deal with whatever Russians remained at that point. All in all, a mess only marginally better than ordering the Air Force to glass the town and pick the alien from the smoking rubble.
Within minutes the police station appeared in the distance. Dag and Mr. Moon both leaned forward in their seats, eyes straining to rake across the front of the building. Then they saw it.
Or rather, they saw what was not there. The blue car was gone. There were no other vehicles in the parking lot.
Separate, the pieces were nothing but a simple coincidence. Joined together, they were everything. It all fit together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. An unlikely puzzle, but a puzzle all the same. The picture. The car. The hairstyle. Ready access to the Chief’s house. A person important enough to the Chief that he would be willing to tell a baldfaced lie to a federal agent to keep her out of harm’s way. The blue car, abandoned around the time of the attack and now missing.
“Cass Thomson… and her mystery friend.” Mr. Moon muttered, temporarily pulling the car to the side of the road. “Where in the world are you?”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Cass threw her car into park, turned off the engine, and hopped out into the darkness of old Henryk’s barn. In the span of seconds, the creaky wooden building went from being filled with the rumbling of her car's engine, to the silence of an ordinary country evening. No sounds of cars driving around, or neighbors caught in cheerful conversation. Just crickets and frogs droning their songs with the night sky as their audience.
There was barely any light to speak of in the barn. Just enough that Cass could be sure she wouldn’t trip over a loose board, but still not enough to see even halfway across the building. The haystack where they’d stuffed the alien still loomed like a dark blob, sitting forgotten in a dusty corner like they’d never left it in the first place.
Cass turned away from the pile of hay. The creature within was important enough to kill over, but right now it felt like her shoulders were already being crushed under the weight of the day’s events. Mark’s heavy hand fell on her shoulder, but Cass ignored it, numbly walking out of the barn to the house. She wasn’t bothered after that, though past the infernal ringing in her ears, Cass could still hear Mark’s heavy footsteps behind her as the man slowed his ordinarily quicker pace to doggedly follow her into the house.
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The door creaked open, a lonely sound nearly drowned out by the croaking of bullfrogs. In the back of her head, a numb thought floated by that there had to be a creek or pond nearby, for the bullfrogs to sound this close. She flitted past the kitchen, pausing only to tug the pistol out of her pocket to lay on the table.
At this point, Mark finally split away, leaving only a few words hanging in the air.
“Hey. If you want to talk, I’m here.”
Cass absentmindedly nodded. Her heart still felt like it was being crushed, but she still couldn’t bring herself to snap at the man to leave her alone. Not when he was just trying to help. Heading up the stairs, Cass pushed the bathroom door open and paused, staring blanking at the mirror in front of her.
There was a girl in the mirror. Cass didn’t recognize her at first. The girl’s eyes were tear-stained. Her face was lined with weariness, with disheveled hair formed into a ponytail barely kept in line by a ragged hair tie. A second passed. Dirty superhero pajamas, windbreaker, and ginger hair. Then the realization struck – it was her. It was just Cass’s reflection.
Cass let out a tired sigh. She shed her clothes and stepped into the shower. Anything to try and feel human again. The weight of the nearly scalding water was like a waterfall beating down on her head, but Cass didn't feel it. She closed her eyes, moving her head out from under the water to rest against the cool tile that made up the shower wall.
Then Cass let out a series of choked sobs that were barely masked by the sound of water crashing around her. She fell to the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest. She was never, ever going to see her father alive again. She was alone, now.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The next morning, the sun rose in the same spot in the sky it rose every morning. The same parts of town were dyed in the same warm hues. The same people woke at the same time to do the same chores, see the same people, and speak the same words they spoke every day.
Carlston was a small town. A lot of days were much the same. That was one thing Ralph liked about the small-town life. He didn’t need an alarm when he had chickens in his backyard. The rooster made sure to wake him up at the crack of dawn each day. Ralph didn't mind. Them eggs were good eatin'. What was that saying? A dozen eggs a day would make a man strong? He could only do half that much, but half was still some.
So, he would wake up every morning at the crack of dawn. Drink some coffee, then go out to grab whatever eggs were waiting for him in the coop. Usually there were far more than he could eat by himself, so a few would get turned into an omelet while the rest got carefully placed into a cardboard carton to be sent away to friends and neighbors as gifts given freely. After breakfast was taken care of, Ralph would always head over to the gas station. Usually not to get gas, surprisingly enough, but to see the lads.
Well, maybe the word ‘lads’ was a bit too young of a word to describe him and the rest of the old codgers that liked to meet up there and swap stories, but sometimes he liked to feel young. That was the privilege of the old, knowing the words to make themselves feel young again. Even if it was but for a few minutes before aching bones reminded a fella how many years his body had been chugging along.
By his count, about seventy. Good ol’ seventy-some years. Each and every one of them had been spent in Carlston. Well, maybe a few days in total were used up in some of the nearby towns. Variety being the spice of life and all that (not too much variety, just a wee bit).
Anyway, that was beside the point. Meeting up with the other old codgers each morning was a time-honored ritual for longer than he could remember. Usually the conversation would be light. Something like how the crops were going for those of them who were farmers, how Ralph's chickens were faring, or what their kids or grandkids were up to, etc. This morning, he was hoping to figure out what all those loud noises were last night. It was something odd, but the noises were coming from across town – too far for him to tell for sure what they were. Maybe some of the other old coots had a better idea.
All of that would be solemnly discussed over clutched cups of coffee, questionable gas station burritos, and the halfhearted glare of the cashier burdened with the knowledge that no, they would not be buying anything else, and yes, they would be puttering around all morning. Shucks, that lad behind the cash register would be happy enough later when Ralph lent him an old tux (worn by a much younger Ralph back in the day) next time the lad went on a date with his gem of a girlfriend.
The thing about Ralph, and where he lived, was that the gas station wasn’t within walking distance. Good thing he had a tractor. It would rumble along the streets, chugging and huffing loud enough to remind Ralph he was still alive, but quiet enough that ol’ Thomson wouldn’t have to pull Ralph aside for a boring conversation about noise ordinances and how most people don’t like to be woken up at the crack of dawn.
Ralph politely disagreed with that sentiment. Sure a guy would be a bit tired at first, but the chance to see the world in all its beauty, being graced with the morning sunlight, was a sight few things in the world could top. He was personally of the opinion that the sight was enough to give a man a different view of life itself. Still, the Chief was a good man. There was merit in heeding his words.
Not only that, but there was something about riding a tractor down the street that made it better. Maybe it was the gleam of the paint under the sunrise, shining so much that it almost covered up the rust spots he kept forgetting to fix up. Or could it be the sheer simplicity of the machine, compared to those fancy sports cars the youth liked to rip around the back country roads in? The slow speed of his vehicle sure was nice. Left plenty of time for a man to enjoy the morning air being mixed with the smell of diesel fuel.
His tractor turned the corner with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. The gas station bloomed into view… and Ralph’s eyes widened.
“What in tarnation…” He whispered to himself, the words nearly drowned out under the ‘put-put’ sound of the tractor’s engine.
It was a bloodbath. His body tilted, unable to keep his balance on the simple iron tractor seat out of shock and horror. He threw the gears of the tractor into neutral and stumbled off the machine, his old heart thundering at what felt like a thousand beats a second. Body parts were scattered across the concrete. A boy lay still, a rubber gas hose still wrapped around his crushed neck.
Another kid was motionless on the ground. His body was deformed in the middle, like someone had tried to physically snap him in half – and nearly succeeded before they got bored of the job.
Any further observations were lost to Ralph as he deposited the half-digested remains of his omelet onto the street, with some of it splashing onto his work boots.
There was not a single living soul in or around the gas station other than Ralph.