Baby Bones

By Donan Berg

In Baby Bones, Author Donan Berg's latest, newly elected Sheriff Jonas McHugh dashes up the embankment to avoid contaminating the skeleton with his vomit. On the day the Silver County, Iowa, Auditor certified his special election victory, Jonas would've never envisioned, in all of his thirty-five years, the challengesâ his K-9 partner eats poison; picket line violence strikes Jove Foods, a major employer; a Jove employee fishing discovers a skeleton with fetus remains; a booby-trap puts him on crutches; the coroner fears abortion vigilantism; and two women emerge as marital prospects for bachelor Jonas who lives with married sister.

The fledging sheriff can't afford to alienate a close-knit county electorate and must battle office personalities and four influential townspeople. Events intertwine to present obstacles to his solving a multiple crime spree. Any failure will expose him as ineffective, and doom re-election chances.

The twists and turns provide an exhilarating reader's page-turning ride, bumps included. More than a thriller, although it is that, Author Berg in his Third Skeleton Series Mystery adds compelling characters, any one of which could be your neighbor.

He's the author of previous five-star rated full-length murder mystery novels with romantic subplots, all of which involved different skeletons: A Body To Bones, The Bones Dance Foxtrot, and Abbey Burning Love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9780982085530

Donan Berg

Award-winning United States author Donan Berg tempts the reading world with First Place Gold Award romance, adventurous teen fantasy plus entertaining mystery, thrillers, police procedurals, and. from his first novel, A Body To Bones, entertaining mystery. "A winning plot ..." said Kirkus. "...Not only well written ... characters rich in depth and background.," wrote a reviewer.To quote another reviewer, Lucia's Fantasy World "is a captivating story ... and the author perfectly captures the innocence and imagination of the characters in the book." It joins Find the Girl, A Fantasy Story, for fascinating adventure filled with child-like imagination, friendship, magic, and sorcery. For 435 days, Find the Girl topped the AuthorsDen most popular book list, all genres. This chart-topping glory eclipsed both A Body To Bones and Alexa's Gold. The mystery and romance thriller, at separate times, both exceeded 100 days as Number One.A native of Ireland, Author Berg honed his writing skills as a United States journalist, corporate executive, and lawyer.The stimulating, page-turning bedrock, underpinning his twelve novels, explores the human drama of individual flaws and challenges before victory over a wide range of antagonists, outed to be societal monsters and/or deftly hidden. A dastardly scheme can be diabolical as in Aria's Bayou Child.His prior mystery, Into the Dark, brings intrigue front and center where unaccountable cash, threats, and societal ills bring twists and turns sprung with gusto. A thoroughly engaging Sheriff Jonas McHugh, first encountered in Baby Bones, Second Skeleton Mystery Series, adds a heightened imagination to grow stronger. Alexa's Gold, a five-star, new adult romance, combines a unique contemporary heroine and a thrilling mystery.Gold and five-star writing awards and reviewer accolades were on the horizon after he landed in the winner's circle four times at the Ninth Annual Dixie Kane Memorial Writing Contest. This bested his three awards in the prior year's eighth annual contest.The bedrock of his mystery writing is his three-part skeleton series mysteries: A Body To Bones, The Bones Dance Foxtrot, and Baby Bones. The series followed by Abbey Burning Love, Adolph's Gold, and One Paper Heart, his Gold Award romance.A reviewer of his short story, Amanda, notes that Author Berg offers a keen insight into couple relationships and a very clever ending.

Book preview

Stories

One

With ears alert, teeth bared, paws on dash, and raised ready-to-leap haunches tensed, Webster barked twice from the passenger seat into the night’s obscuring darkness.

E-a-s-y, boy. Sheriff Jonas McHugh’s callused forefingers tapped the Silver County, Iowa, cruiser steering wheel. Whatcha see, Webster? Jonas ached for this tedious rural patrol to end.

Could be nothing. Webster barked at rabbits and prairie dogs. The old cemetery a half-mile ahead attracted them plus rodents, deer, and whatever stray four-legged creatures ran the cornfields. Obscured secrets and prairie autumn night solitude no different this night than the patrol before the special September 2010 sheriff’s election that erased the word sergeant from egg-shaped badge.

Jonas clenched back molars. A left calf cramp signaled a drive too long without stretching.

Webster barked, right paw scratched dash, and guttural grrr flashed German shepherd teeth.

Save the dash, I’ll stop to see what upsets you.

A red glint flashed ahead. Jonas strained eyes until high headlight beams reflected on stationary unlit taillights near the cemetery gateway arch. He lifted the ball of right foot from the accelerator. Family lore had paternal great-great-uncle buried in this frontier cemetery. No marker existed, his father said. Jonas never looked.

Suspicious a single car would linger at two a.m., he slowed, stopped cruiser on the blacktop roadway twenty feet behind the vehicle and swiveled a mounted spotlight at the 2008 or 2009 Camry. Dealer plates. Mud obscured three digits.   No hazard lights flashed. Right thumb and finger reached, poised to shut off ignition switch. He gazed at Webster’s nose wet against the windshield. The barks ceased, but Webster’s body remained tensed.

Sheriff, office dispatcher’s voice cracked through the dash-mounted speaker. Fight outside The Last Drop. One shot reported fired. Aid requested.

Gunfire trumped Webster’s curiosity. Jonas flipped the turret’s flashing-lights switch and called out, Hang on, boy. When Jonas floored the accelerator pedal, the cruiser’s lurch flung Webster with a yelp drowning out any seat backrest cushion or supporting spring groan.

A left calf spasm ignored, Jonas keyed microphone. On my way. ETA twenty.

* * *

When the headlights first approached the cemetery, the hooded figure ducked out of sight behind a stone-cross monument. With a skittish breath, the figure arose and cleared lungs. Time to hurry. The law could return any minute. Stepping briskly, the figure’s shout of ouch, damn didn’t echo through the pitch-black motionless air, a widow’s shawl laid flat across the land. A hand truck’s wheel stuck, plunged axle deep into a hole. Damn prairie dog. A banged, pinched hand stung; shaken, two fingers throbbed. Righted, the weighted hand truck bounced forward to bump into a toppled broken limestone grave monument.

The figure lamented the choice to bury the remains of Timothy and his mother in this place. While beneficial clouds blocked the moon’s illumination and didn’t unleash rain, the frontier Mormon cemetery lacked defined walk paths between rock stacks and crudely chiseled headstones atop shallow graves, all perched on a bluff within hearing distance of Little Beaver Creek.

The intruder, allowing the finger pain to ebb, rested an arm on a four-foot obelisk memorial the Mormons dedicated in July 2010 to honor heroic 19th Century settlers who departed Nauvoo, Illinois, or European ports and never completed their trek to Utah or the Great Plains.

The figure’s repeated singular curse word floated through the noiseless air. A low groan uttered before hands tilted and lifted the hand truck around half-buried stones. The exertion ached lungs straining to capture breaths. Open nostrils inhaled the late fall flagrance of dying asters and graveyard prairie wildflowers. The earlier taste of tea long absent from a dry throat. A third curse, this one silent, preceded a penlight with dead batteries being stuffed into a front hoodie pocket.

In daylight, three days previous, the intruder’s single reconnaissance revealed scattered clumps of prairie grasses and thistles three feet high, gnarled, interwoven vines that obscured, but granted a fleeting peek at forgotten tombstones. As a prairie sentinel, sycamore trees marked the cemetery’s western boundary with a dozen irregularly placed stumps in a neighboring field.

That day the wind, swirling at times, lifted wilted summer black-eyed susan petals along with brittle tree leaves not crunched by animal paws or infrequent human footsteps. Remembered torrential summer rains had carved a jagged gully toward a bluff to expose the roots of a dozen trees. At the bluff, the silt-filled water cascaded to the creek below. The terrain made the burial decision easy—stop short of the sycamores.

Now in the darkness, the figure heard the hand truck’s wheel crush a can that presumably quenched a beer thirst. An outstretched hand touched a curved handle on a unique stone urn. The urn marked an end to the zigzagged journey from the wrought iron cemetery entrance gate. The figure lowered the hand truck back on its handle. A handful of fallen leaves tossed absentmindedly into the air. With a foot poised on the steel of a short-handled shovel, the figure sighed and drove the sharpened, square-edged blade into the earth. Heavy clay dirt and a clump of weeds broke loose, and, with a heave, the shovel blade contents began a pile to the left.

With constant exertion until the blade scraped a coffin, a grave-depth excavation five feet long and thirty inches wide existed next to the stone urn. The intruder, breathing hard, squatted in front of the hand truck, strained, and grunted. Two gloved hands reached and encircled the plastic bundle to adjust loose plastic and reattach bungee cords. The figure grappled with the bundle, a final rope tie released, and the unburdened hand truck thudded backward to the ground. Human groans and grunts escaped into the air to accompany the bundle’s twisted journey toward the awaiting hole. With a final deep breath and a push, the bundle flopped to the bottom of the thirty-inch grave.

A glance into the night revealed no returning headlights; the figure’s edgy emotions anticipated it would only be a matter of time. In the distance an animal’s mournful howl, closer, the flutter of an owl’s wings.   The salty taste of forehead sweat trickling onto parted lips.

With a cotton cloth, the figure patted brow moisture and swiped sweat droplets from the nape of the neck. Exhaling a repeated heavy sigh, the figure hoisted a laden shovel and tossed previously dug dirt into the hole. Clay and small pebbles splattered across the plastic of the deposited bundle. Wherever the sound traveled in the all-encapsulating air, it didn’t bounce back. The figure kept flinging shovels of earth undeterred by any sound or silence.

For a final action, the shovel blade edge smoothed the dirt level. Hiking boots stomped dug out weed clumps back into the earth atop the buried bundle. The figure strode with an air of confidence out the cemetery entrance. Neither the heavens nor the prior law enforcement vehicle interrupted. In time no one would recognize the disturbed ground near the urn. The intruder slammed the Camry trunk lid closed with hand truck and shovel stowed. The car with a scrubbed license plate, minus tools, returned to the dealer’s lot. A successful overnight test drive completed.

First daily, then weekly, bypassing January and February, the unofficial gravedigger scanned the newspaper and listened to local television news for any cemetery happenings report. Nothing. Wintry snow swirls pirouetted until the faltering breeze deposited it as a powdery ground blanket.

The warming March sunrays regenerated new weeds and prairie grasses. Virgin growth, interlaced with last year’s weathered stalks, would hide the added remains. Envisioned snow patches beneath the sycamore shade evoked a memory sense of normalcy. The confident graveyard intruder, unafraid of discovery, bought bachelor’s button seeds to scatter in the urn for summer blooms.

* * *

Sheriff McHugh eased dripping cruiser into a visitor spot nearest the Jove Foods headquarters public entrance. Patrol buddy, Webster, had barked the three blocks since the car wash.

Quiet, Webster. At the command, the two-year-old German Shepard lowered haunches onto the front passenger seat. There’s no person or rabbit outside. Good, boy.

Jonas buttoned left shirtsleeve. A laundry pickup ticket for large short-sleeve summer uniform khaki shirts tossed yesterday into a console cup holder. He preferred thirty-five inch sleeves. The cloth hid the left forearm boyhood scar.

He gazed at his Plymouth’s grill reflection in the metallic glass finish of the double doors. Jonas paid attention to Jove Foods and its employees, an influential block of votes for the upcoming fall countywide election. No special vacancy election like he’d won six months previous.

Five minutes early, he’d canceled all morning commitments to respond to a telephone call from Jove Foods Human Resources Vice President Melanie Stark. He grabbed Webster’s lease and donned regulation wide-brimmed brown hat. Webster leaped past the steering wheel. The push of Jonas’s finger on the key fob locked the riot equipped, special edition Plymouth.

C’mon, boy. Time for good behavior. Heel.

VP Stark on the telephone mentioned an employee strike. He questioned the urgency with no visible picket signs of a confrontation within view. He bent sideways to pet Webster’s upright head at his right thigh. Jonas elevated gaze past vehicle’s hood, cleared the front fender, and marched four paces toward the headquarters door. He squinted at the dark blue hard-shell canopy.

Good morning, Sheriff. Melanie Stark stood in hazy canopy shadow two steps outside the tinted seven-foot glass entrance doors that allowed unadorned head a twenty-inch clearance.

Webster barked. Jonas tugged the leash taut. He heard an entrance door latch snap shut.

Ms. Stark. Fingers on the brim, he tipped hat forward. Please excuse Webster. He didn’t appreciate our long nonstop patrol ride from Elba this morning.

Breaking out of shadow, a creamy complexioned face gazed at Webster’s every twitch; arms along statuesque torso ended with flat hands pressed lightly against sides. They’d met two years previous and eight months ago attended a Kanosh Chamber of Commerce breakfast. Since then they’d not said more than hello when passing on a town street.

Ms. Stark bent forward at the waist, left hand, palm up, extended. She uttered an unenthusiastic Nice boy, nice dog. Her right hand shifted to press against lower stomach.

The gray-striped pantsuit with its unbuttoned jacket brought forth vivid Jonas memories of VP Stark at the chamber meeting. When she rose to speak, an unfastened tailored jacket allowed the frilly multi-hued bodice lace to explode forth in kaleidoscopic color. Each full cycle of inhales and exhales fluttered into a new heaven and earth design image. He lost track of words spoken. The county auditor seated to the left poked an elbow into his ribs, leaned next to left ear, and whispered, Could be a nice conquest for a single guy like you.

Jonas, no matter how attractive Ms. Stark, couldn’t have acted upon any romantic desire. The campaign for sheriff required constant full effort and not alienating unionized Jove Foods workers. Today, she wore a pantsuit without the eye-catching ruffles beneath a cloth coat. Red lips drew his gaze from the white blouse. Her dimples, then and now, intriguing, matched with a smile.

Webster growled.

Jonas jerked Webster’s leash, closed right fist hit tensed thigh. Don’t worry. I’ve got him.

She stood erect, rebalanced on short black heels. How’ve you been since the breakfast?

Fine. Busy. He gazed at Webster after feeling the leash tugs subside. Gripping the leash for a better hold, he scratched Webster’s head. Normally the dog would rub a lower jaw against Jonas’s leg in response, but Webster wasn’t that relaxed today.

If fate smiled on him, she’d replace Jove Foods President Barry Chesterton as his official contact. However, he couldn’t dare wish for an up tick in warehouse vandalism or theft complaints. Jonas gazed at the ground. After the awkward silence of repeated glances, her throat clearing followed by a whispered yes indicated she expected him to say more.

Not much new. Could you explain what couldn’t be said on the telephone?

Let’s move away from the entrance, Ms. Stark suggested in words clear and authoritative. We can talk freer at the picnic table. Her draped cloth coat fluttered.

Jonas spotted the picnic table. The west breeze a chilly March reminder buffeting left cheek as they walked twenty yards. He wasn’t surprised no individual sat on attached wood plank benches. Webster lagged. At the table, a standing Jonas gazed at Ms. Stark. You were vague about this feared strike? There’s no strike activity I see except words ‘No Scabs’ painted at parking lot entry.

Not much except... Ms. Stark’s right hand fingers touched a table bench. He heard the whispered word gross escape under her breath. As she stepped toward him, a right heel sunk into the grass that surrounded the picnic table. Her knees wobbled but she righted herself without his assistance. With balance and footing restored, a slight smile parted glossed lips. Jonas retained control of Webster. Ms. Stark glanced past shoulder, and paused as a sedan, forty yards away, entered the parking lot. Feminine blue-gray eyes returned their upward gaze at him. The union’s rejected company proposals. If the strike’s going to happen, it should be in a week.

You didn’t need to summon me out here for speculation. He focused lowered eyes on her, careful to keep gaze from wandering below shoulders. What you told me has been in the papers.

Webster growled and strained against the leash as Ms. Stark again extended a left hand. Jonas, by the collar, jerked Webster back. The German shepherd taxed right bicep strength.

Papers speculate. I’m more reliable. Manicured right hand red fingernails hovered above a jacket button and then she buried slender digits and palm in a coat pocket.

You testing me? Jonas arched back and gazed straight past the undulating eyelashes into uncompromising eyes. Is that what this is? Left free hand rubbed warmth into both facial cheeks.

No, no. Of course not. Her eyes fixated on him, not retreating.

He broke their stare first.

She glanced at Webster. You have your dog long?

Jonas squared six-foot-two frame. A shrug released upper body tension without lessening the bicep and forearm strain Webster created. Since a puppy.

I’ve a cat. Perhaps he senses that?

Don’t know. Jonas stifled further speculation. He didn’t need to expound on his having adopted Webster twenty months ago as one of four pups rescued from an abandoned well on the vacated Hans Westerberg farm. All present that day knew the pups hadn’t tied closed the gunnysack weighted with the concrete block. Efforts to identify the breeder proved futile.

Ms. Stark appeared bored; eyes lost welcoming twinkle, and tongue erased a smile. Jonas scanned the parking lot. Was his presence merely part of an unvoiced Jove Foods orchestration? The presence of law enforcement sometimes employed as an implicit threat to others. He could find productive things to do. A tingle of blood into numbing fingers caused him to release one loop of the leash wrapped across right palm. Webster lurched forward.

Ms. Stark raised both palms outward.

Webster extended, front paws off the ground, snapped at Melanie’s waist high left hand.

Jonas jerked looped right hand behind buttocks and dropped to right knee. He grasped Webster’s jaw, and, with two hands, forced the dog’s teeth together.

Gazing skyward at Ms. Stark, pasty facial skin matched white blouse color.

You okay? I’m sorry. Jonas kept hands clamped on Webster’s head.

Believe so. Don’t see blood; feel no pain.

Stay here. I’ll be right back. Jonas lifted Webster’s forty-four pounds into both arms and hustled to parked cruiser. He flung Webster onto rear passenger seat without removing the leash.

He jogged to Ms. Stark collapsed on the picnic bench. Torso quivered as if weather freezing; a bowed head stared at a front bottom jacket corner. Jonas recognized delayed shock. A half-inch cloth tear and wet dog saliva evidenced where Webster’s canine struck. Higher would’ve likely gashed hand flesh. Leaning forward for a closer look, he hesitated to close outer coat. I’m really sorry. Don’t know what came over him. He’s only jumped at a person upon my command.

No big deal. No emotion piggybacked the three words. The fabric fell from her hands.

Did he break skin? Jonas knew he’d have to write up a report. It had been his grand idea to add a dog to the four-person force. Now this. Webster and he attended K-9 training classes in December for two days a week for three weeks. Officially a K-9 trainee, Webster provided good company on lonely, county patrols. Jonas fenced sister’s backyard to permit Webster to romp. Now, he struggled. Without a response, again he asked, Did he bite you?

No. Emphasis added when she shook head. Teeth snagged suit jacket, that’s all.

Please let me write you a check. Just tell me how much. He tried to sound extra contrite. Any negative incident would hurt him in the upcoming full term re-election race. Why, if Webster sought to attack someone, didn’t the mutt chomp on a Saturday night drunk without family? Why select a bigwig at the county’s biggest employer?

That’s generous, but not necessary.

Jonas sighed, shifting weight from left foot to right, hoping worst had passed.

Leave the dog in your car. I’ll give you the premises tour promised on the telephone.

She stood; removed both outer coat and jacket. Traces of pink color graced cheek sides. He gazed into dull eyes before she averted his gaze. He didn’t know whether to stay close to her side or walk behind should she stagger or collapse. He tried to do both.

Within six steps, she slipped the jacket back on followed by the coat, which she buttoned.

You sure. Prepared arms halfway flexed, a fireman ready to catch a jumper.

It’ll be fine. She twisted in his direction. I’ll give you the short tour. The one we refer to as the Cub Scout tour. A wry half-grin appeared. You have any questions before we start?

He shook head no.

She explained Jove’s central Kanosh warehouse employed four hundred persons. The employees distributed dry, fresh, and frozen foodstuffs to one hundred thirty-six owned and leased stores in three Midwestern states contiguous to Iowa. He nodded for he’d memorized and peppered last year’s law and order election rally speeches with Jove Foods statistics and how good jobs complemented safe streets. He tried not to be distracted by the three-year-outdated facts she enunciated, which didn’t negate the company’s strategic importance to Kanosh’s economic viability. A lengthy strike interruption would devastate the town and the county he grew up in.

Have you designated entrance and exit gates? He halted step as she paused to unbutton coat and again uplift the jacket to inspect the tear ringed by moisture.

Yes. In a day or so we’re going to white stripe the asphalt to present a clear demarcation between our lot line and public property. She pointed to where the conversation-interrupting car had entered. We’ll close off two or three of the specialty warehouse gates. Limit deliveries to daytime hours. The truck gate with the guard shack should be the main picket location.

You know we can’t prevent pickets, only police against violence. His voice erupted strong and authoritative, right hand cupping left elbow of arms folded across chest.

We know. My call today designed to give you a heads-up.

Ms. Stark hesitated; stare riveted to the cruiser as she skirted the rear bumper. As they resumed, he positioned body to block her view of Webster’s nose pressed to a rear side window. He needed to think of something positive to salvage this visit, break the lingering tension. Jonas swiveled head left and right searching for a reason to put his vehicle out of sight.

Does that gate lead to the shipping docks? She bobbed head. I’d like to see those. Once I’ve seen the physical layout. I’ll expect you’ll stay in touch.

Most definitely.

Maybe give me information before the daily paper.

Emerging stare registered infinite degrees colder than an iceberg’s core temperature. Follow me. Ms. Stark marched forward.

Jonas hustled to walk side-by-side as she explained matter-of-factly to an attentive mind the height of cyclone barbed wire fences and rail spur length leading to the multi-block warehouse complex. The information’s neutrality didn’t square with right hand often covering mouth. He would leave unsaid he scheduled an office internal planning meeting for later that afternoon to review strike violence control guidelines. Jonas squinted at truck trailers and employees hustling past raised loading dock bay doors. No repetitious vehicle or people pattern presented itself as he gazed across expansive asphalt paved yard to what looked like a car wash, only bigger truck-sized doors.

If you’ve seen enough, Ms. Stark interrupted.

His head-to-toe scan of Ms. Stark with arms folded across chest and nylon-covered toes in open-toed heels curled inward blatantly broadcasted the answer she expected.

Yes, I think so.

I need to get back inside where it’s warmer.

Of course. I can refresh my memory with the assessor’s Internet site aerial map. Jonas retraced steps to a fence gate that led to the front parking lot. With head cocked sideways, he watched Ms. Stark stroll toward metal stairs he presumed entered the warehouse. An imprisoned Webster’s low-pitched barks erupted across the parking lot as Jonas slid into cruiser’s driver seat.

* * *

The eight a.m. Monday morning sun escaped between two billowy clouds to warm Noel Henderson’s face. He stood idle in an open Jove Foods warehouse bay door waiting for a yard spotter to maneuver a fifty-three foot trailer for unloading. Despite aching muscles, and less than normal sleep before night shift start, he welcomed the extra two hours of overtime pay.

Mr. Henderson. The high-pitched feminine shout startled him. Within twenty seconds he heard his name repeated, Mr. Henderson.

From afar he recognized the gray, pinstriped suit of VP Stark. She, since last month, had become a daily vision. When within two steps of him, he watched her stretch shorter five-foot-four body vertically and walk on tiptoes as she tried to engage him face-to-face. Standing six-foot-one, Noel’s downward gaze noticed the front bottom jacket corner appeared ripped.

May I speak with you a moment?

The constant hum from banks of outdated overhead fluorescent tubes intermingled with braking and bumping sounds of near and distant forklifts to make words hard to decipher. With whom? Right hand set invoice clipboard on a loaded, wrapped pallet.

With you. Are you on the clock?

Yes, ma’am. Foreman ordered three of us to stay and help unload the extra trucks. He gazed at still emotionless facial expression. She unbuttoned jacket. To his unobstructed view, the lacy white blouse frills framed deep exposed cleavage, enough to make him uncomfortable. He heard a digestive tract gurgling from within. A yearning for a crate to sit on went unfulfilled.

I’m curious. Did you attend the union’s meeting yesterday? She glanced behind and to both sides. You weren’t scheduled to work. I checked.

No one lingered or lurked within earshot to his knowledge. I don’t know...

Mr. Henderson. May I call you Noel?

Okay. He shifted weight to left leg.

Well, Union President Dino Vikolas spoke up for you when you were hired. She buttoned the two jacket buttons to cover bosom cleavage. I assume you’re friends and I’m not here to destroy friendships. If there’s any turmoil between the warehouse workers and the company, Mr. Vikolas couldn’t alter your job standing. You must guard your own interest.

He failed to understand what she meant. Seniority controlled job assignments. The union contract spelled that out. Neither he nor Dino had personal control any which way. Noel sighed.

She stepped forward and back. Two fingers fidgeted with a jacket button.

He whispered, Yes, I was there. He shifted weight onto right foot.

A loud crack caused both to flinch. Noel, by instinct and with the hope VP Stark would depart, ran to the adjacent bay door to observe damage. He saw none. The spotter unhooked yard tractor and waved before departing. Noel unlatched the trailer’s rear door and heaved it upward. As the door rolled up on its tracks, he saw the closest two pallets had tipped inward.

VP Stark stepped to his side. Visit me tonight at my house, say six o’clock?

I don’t know. His stomach knotted. Guys snidely called her an octopus, and he didn’t want to become entangled. Besides, male or female, she wore a suit, and work buddies issued a caution not to trust any company executive. His body shift resulted in their being face-to-face.

I’ll make sure there’s wine, spaghetti, and garlic bread for two. Fingertips again hovered to undo a second jacket button. A loaded forklift zoomed by.

I don’t know... Stomach uneasiness gurgled at the back of his throat.

Melanie’s released jacket flapped wide to expose previously flashed cleavage. His eyes focused on a freckle below her throat. He began to feel like they starred in a cheap drama until the body warmth generated within rotated gaze to the forklifts.

Noel, what can it hurt? If you’re worried about others seeing you, don’t.

He gazed above her head. I’m not. Really not. I might have plans. He sorta lied. He didn’t have plans except to go fishing. No big deal not to fish. He could fish any day.

My home driveway’s long. Park behind the house. Knock on the kitchen door. I’ll expect you at six. She pivoted and departed with jacket sides fluttering.

He should have declined. His silence likely made Melanie expect him. He’d probably regret it if he honored her invitation. With a left leg swing, Noel straddled a forklift seat. He’d decide after he unloaded this last truck. What punishment could she inflict if he failed to show?

* * *

Jonas, after a detour to lock Webster into sister’s backyard, arrived last for the strike preparation meeting in the Sheriff’s Office main interrogation room. The chair to the right occupied by Deputy Bonnie Walsh, the newest member at two years. To his left sat a ramrod Sergeant Paul Anderson and across the table from Jonas the craggy face of Sergeant Elmer Cannon.

Jonas gazed into Sgt. Cannon’s eyes. If the union strikes, it will mean long hours requiring physical ability to respond at a moment’s notice. This will be a great challenge for all of us. Jonas harbored doubts about Sgt. Cannon. Four years previous an escaping robbery suspect’s bullet had broken Elmer’s left thighbone. Surgery helped, but the leg never quite recovered.

Don’t you worry about me, Elmer said. If I can handle a sick grandchild for twenty-four hours, I can be a nursemaid to whiny strikers.

Didn’t say you couldn’t. Tried to emphasize it would be a challenge for all. Jonas sensed the other two waited for Paul, former sheriff’s selected heir apparent who bypassed special election.

You forget these are our neighbors? Paul asked.

Of course not. I’ve a meeting scheduled with Dino, union president, to put emphasis on our neutrality and urge nonviolence.

I’d be careful trusting hotheads like Bill McNamar, Paul said.

We needn’t make snap decisions. Let’s see how it plays, Jonas replied. While Jonas didn’t challenge Paul possessed the strength the