Page 43 of Small Town Beast

Back home Saverin found himself restless and awake. If he laid down he thought of Tanya. His cock went hard, his pleasuredammed up from earlier and nearly painful. He kneaded at himself through his jeans.I should have had her tonight…But better to wait.

Up and down he paced the room where he slept, touching himself, thinking of Tanya…Who, as it turned out, lived three miles down the trails in Bailey forest.

He could be back there tonight. Break the lock. Hold her in the darkness. Promise her anything just to have her arms around him again, stroking his hair.

To be inside her.

These thoughts of Tanya only grew more dangerous the longer he indulged them. So he did the best thing to stop thinking of Tanya, which to start thinking about Sam.

It was the third time he’d been in Sam’s room since the funeral. Things that crawled and scurried were establishing themselves here now but he could remember a time when Sam’s corner of the house had been full of life. He and Sam would thunder down these halls playing Cowboys and Indians, chased by Fang. Or when they had played darts with Roman and Rebel and Rain—Rebel won— waking up their Ma, who had a headache, and chased them all with the switch.

The room still appeared as if his brother had gone hunting and would be back any minute. But it had no air, like a tomb. Saverin loaded an apple box with books from his brother’s shelf and then carried the whole lot to his study.

The books had names likeOur Noble SouthandDiary of a Confederate. Some were very old.

Saverin settled into the easy chair built to accommodate men of his large-boned lineage, and picked the shortest read in the pile of Sam’s books. He turned it over and then set it down.

He picked up Tanya’s book and opened it, reading all through the night until a rosy dawn lit up the sky.

He didn’t sleep.He showered, shaved, and dressed. For breakfast he had coffee and a reheated biscuit. The urge to call Tanya was overwhelming. He repressed it. She would think him crazy, calling her up at the crack of dawn to rave about a book.

He had a mission that morning anyway. Saverin drove an hour down the mountain. He parked outside the Rowanville police station. Here his Uncle Hans had served as Chief for thirty years. While he waited to speak to the Lead Detective the pretty secretary brought him coffee.

She was the type he might have gone for before his accident. Blonde, curvy, sweet. Oversweet, maybe. He caught her looking sideways at his scars, trying to see if he was still attractive.

He didn’t have to wait long for the Detective.

“Mister Bailey?”

Saverins stood up and looked down at a short, plump man with combed-back hair and a shirt buttoned tightly over his rotund middle.

“Detective Skipper is the name,” the man introduced himself. “I’m told your Uncle was our former Chief?”

“Yes, Detective. He was. Thank you for meeting with me; I assure you I won’t be long,” said Saverin politely. The man had a lazy, wandering look that didn’t bode well.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to know how you’re progressing on Amari Weaver’s case,” Saverin asked the detective bluntly.

The Detective blinked. “Who?”

Saverin held out a newspaper clipping. He hadn’t expected much to begin with. But it jogged the detective’s memory, anyhow.

“I’m very sorry, Mister Bailey. We don’t speak with civilians on ongoing cases,” was the canned reply.

“But is there progress?”

“Of course not.” The detective chuckled.

“Why not?”

“If I had a dime for every little nigger boy that went missing — ”

“Every what?” Saverin said in a tone that made the fat little man jump.

“The –- you know.Them.I don’t lose sleep over those cases, Mister Bailey. The woman can always make more. Those people breed like rabbits.”

“Would you show me the case files?”

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