Page 5 of Inside Silence
“There you are. You turned off your radio.”
Shit. I did when I called Hugo, not wanting any interruptions, but I forgot to turn it back on. I immediately reach for the radio clipped to my duty belt and turn the dial to the on position.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
“KC took a domestic call on Quarry Road.”
“By himself?”
KC Kingma is a good deputy—one of my younger ones—but I still would’ve preferred he not take a domestic call alone. We generally pair up for calls like that since they involve more than one individual and can be very unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous. Especially when there is only one deputy to try and control the often volatile situation.
“We’re shorthanded, and with Hugo bolting out of here and you incommunicado, there wasn’t anyone else to send after him.”
I’m already on my way back out the door when she calls after me.
“Dozer called it in. It sounds like Ben is on a tear again.”
Oh, great. Ben and Wanda Rogers are what we call frequent fliers, who live in a modular home just outside of town, and Dozer Combs is their neighbor. Ben is an angry drunk, which he is often, but since he lost his job as a long-haul trucker after I pulled him over for driving under the influence about six months ago, it’s gotten progressively worse. This is not the first call this month.
I groan when I pull up and see KC ducked behind the driver’s side door of his vehicle, sidearm drawn. On the small porch of the house, I can see Ben stalking back and forth, waving his hands. One of them is holding a nasty looking gun.
Just what I need on a Friday afternoon.
Nate
* * *
I take another sip of beer, walk over to the sliding back door, and step outside.
The house was in decent shape, but the backyard was sorely neglected by the previous owners. Maybe tackling that is a better outlet for my frustration than pacing around the house, waiting for my stubborn daughter to come out of her bedroom, where she barricaded herself the moment we walked in the door.
Kids, man. I don’t know.
When she first came to me, I’d taken her to see a therapist recommended by the social worker. The woman suggested Tate might need some help processing her mother’s death, but it was clear after a couple of sessions she wasn’t engaging. She wasn’t with me either. Wouldn’t talk about her mother or much of anything else, for that matter. Although I’m probably as much to blame for that.
I was far from prepared to take care of a young teenage girl, living in an apartment that suited my solitary lifestyle just fine, but was not really suitable for her. That’s when I started wondering if it might not be better to get a fresh start somewhere.
Here we are, a trip down memory lane for me, but a fresh start for Tatum. A safe place, where people will keep an eye out for her, should I fall down on the job. I scoff at the irony. Yet, Tate is still not communicating. Still not letting me in, and I’m scared shitless I’m already fucking up, and we haven’t even been here two weeks.
Yard work proves to be therapeutic, and by the time I have weeds yanked, the soil turned in the beds, and what passes for a lawn mowed, I’m feeling a lot better. Even a little accomplished.
Working with my hands has always been an outlet for me, hence my chosen profession. I was a pissed-off teen, and physical labor was a way to stay out of trouble. Those hands have been able to build me a good living over the years. A solid reputation for quality work. But I’m a long way from Las Vegas and I don’t think my reputation stretches quite this far.
I need to get my hands on some work. I’m not hurting for money, but I can’t sit by idly. I’m better when I’m busy.
I glance over at the stairs when I walk into the kitchen, hoping perhaps Tate has surfaced, but I can hear the muted sounds of Taylor Swift coming from her bedroom. After a lifetime of listening to rock, my ears took a little time to adjust to the perky sounds of the pop diva. I’ll never admit it, but the music may be growing on me.
I wash my hands at the sink and check the fridge in search of inspiration for dinner. That’s another thing that I’ve had to adjust to. I don’t mind cooking when I’m in the mood, but since Tate moved in with me, it has become more of a chore. Especially since she’s so damn picky and if she doesn’t like it, she just won’t eat. It scares the crap out of me, I’ve read about eating disorders and I don’t want my daughter to fall victim to that. It’s probably not something I can control with my cooking anyway, but I’m not taking any chances.
Tate likes Asian foods and it looks like I may have the makings for a decent pad Thai. I pull out bean sprouts, peppers, carrots, green onions, chicken, and an egg. I’ve barely started chopping when the doorbell startles me. Wiping my hands on a towel, I head for the door.
“Savvy?”
I realize too late I probably should call her Sheriff Colter instead of her given name, which rolls off my tongue with too much familiarity.
“Sorry to disturb,” she mumbles, the ball cap with her job title embroidered at the front of it pulled low, obscuring most of her face. “Rowan told me you bought the old Miskin place.”
If not for Grace and Gloria Miskin—the two sisters I grew up living across the street from—my childhood would’ve been nothing but bad memories. They looked after me when no one else did. Unfortunately, I lost touch with them after I left town, and apparently Gloria passed away and Grace moved to a care facility, but when I saw their old house was up for sale, I couldn’t resist.
