Page 69 of The Nook for Brooks
“Not very skilled when it comes to anything outdoors,” Sheriff Garrett finished for me. “We know. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“Of course we will,” came a voice we all knew, as Aunt Bea stepped under the floodlights like she was taking up position under her spotlight. “That poor cherub is a sitting duck out there, which is why I’ve come dressed for survival!”
With a catwalk twirl she flaunted her zebra-print dress, thigh-high black leather boots that gleamed under the floodlights, and a matching black-and-white striped turban with a headlamp fixed to it.
“You’re dressed like… a zebra?” Sheriff Garrett asked.
“Now that’s why you’re the law in this town, your deductive skills are second-to-none. And although you might be asking why I’m dressed thus, the answer is simple. Zebras wear stripes because the moving pattern confuses their predators. When a herd runs at the first sign of danger, the motion has a dazzling effect. Hence the reason why a group of zebras is called a ‘dazzle of zebras.’ If I encounter any predators out there, I shall move in a dazzle—” She moved quickly back and forth to demonstrate. “And escape with all the grace God intended.”
Sheriff Garrett stared for a beat, then handed her a flashlight. “Just try not to dazzle yourself into a ravine.”
Moments later, four more men I hadn’t met yet hurried toward the ever-growing group.
“We came as fast as we could,” one said.
“Any news yet?”
Harry shook his head. “We’re just getting organized for the search.” He realized I didn’t know the men and introduced me. “Cody, this is Mitch and Gage, and Clarry and River.”
I waved an anxious hello, when Clarry gave a sad whimper.
River wrapped his colossal arm around him. “It’s okay, babe. I know you’re scared for Brooks, but he’s gonna be fine.”
“I think I’m going to name an ice cream in his honor,” Clarry said, sniffing back tears. “I’ll call it Pogo-Cocoa-Where-Did-You-Go-Go.”
Moments later I saw Bud and another man arrive.
“What the hell is Brooks thinking?” Bud said, his friendly smile now a panicked frown. He realized I hadn’t met the man with him and said, “Cody, this is my boyfriend, Pascal. Pascal, this is Cody.”
“Ah, the Australian. I hear you want to change the name of the world-famous croissant to a ‘buttered boomerang!’Blasphéme!”
“Oh, that wasn’t my idea. That was—”
“We’re here! Present! The Larsons are reporting for duty! Even cousin Connie’s here.”
As if on cue, Ronnie and Lonnie came hurrying toward the group, followed by a blonde woman in her thirties—cousin Connie, I assumed—wearing flared jeans and a tie-dyed sweater.
Ronnie and Lonnie were wearing matching reflective vests like emergencies were part of their everyday life.
“We’ve come with positive vibes,” Lonnie announced. “And the hope that Brooks hasn’t been abducted by a serial killer who plans to use his skin as a body suit. Isn’t that right, cousin Connie?”
“Absolutely.” Connie had already sidled up beside Benji. “If we use our combined energy fields and allow our auras to merge,our collective powers of positive thought will guide Brooks home safely.” She turned to Benji and grinned. “Whaddaya say, cuz? You ready to merge auras or what?” She then gave him a wink and a good slap on the ass. “Namaste, babe.”
Benji rolled his eyes. “Connie. Please don’t start.”
Bastian squeezed the tension out of Benji’s neck. “Let her get it out of her system. It’s like the weather. It’ll pass.”
Connie side-stepped up to Bastian, squeezing a bicep approvingly. “Don’t be so sure, cuz-in-law. I’ll be channeling your frequency next. I can practically feel your chakra moving already.”
Like a teacher trying to settle an unruly classroom, Sheriff Garrett clapped his hands. “Alright people, can I please have your attention. As far as we know, Brooks left the store sometime before five p.m. That means he’s been in the woods for at least four—”
Suddenly the sound of a whistle split the air.
Everyone flinched then turned to see Maggie approaching with a confident stride. She was decked out in military issue camouflage, complete with a whistle pressed between her lips and a rucksack rigged like a snack vending machine with zip-lock bags of puppy chow pegged to the pack, swinging to and fro as she marched toward us.
At one point she spat the whistle out of her mouth—saved by the cord hanging around her neck to which it was attached—and plucked a bag of puppy chow from behind her like she was Sarah Connor reaching for a sawn-off shotgun.
She opened the bag…
