Page 16 of Craving Silence

Not yet.

Chapter 6

Rick

* * *

The Kerrigan is jam-packed full by the time I get there.

I had planned to attend Stella’s funeral, but got called out to a disturbance south of town where the road crew is still working on the highway.

Sacha Levy, an ethical farmer who supplies the town with free-range meat, chickens, and eggs, got into a confrontation with the crew when he found them digging up a section of his land bordering the highway. It had turned into a straight-up brawl on the side of the road, and a concerned citizen passing by called it in.

I was sent out to mediate the situation, which took a hell of a lot longer than I’d anticipated. When I arrived, I found Sacha and one of the road crew on the ground, being tended to by a few passers-by. The remaining three of the crew were standing next to one of their trucks, eyeing me as I got out of the cruiser.

I wasn’t really surprised to find out the same guy who’d given Dana a hard time at The Kerrigan, a week or two ago, had been the aggressor once again in this conflict. He turned out to be the foreman on this job and, according to his crew, was a bit of a dick. I’d personally call him a lot worse than that. He’s an asshole and a bully, and pretty damn stupid as well, trying to threaten off Sacha—who is six four and built like a linebacker—by swinging a length of steel used to split large rocks. He got a decent lick in, putting a good-sized gash in Sacha’s skull, but not without sustaining some serious injuries himself. EMTs were called, who decided to take both men in to check them out properly and—with the help of Deputy Warren Burns—I spent the next while trying to sort through exactly what happened.

I’m still not clear on the situation. The crew wasn’t able to clarify what they were doing there digging up a section on the side of the road. All the guys could tell us was Doug Severin—their foreman—told them this was where they had to tap into and branch off some of the utility lines running below the surface of the road. When asked about work orders or plans, they claimed not to have seen any, and the only thing they were able to produce was a rough sketch with some coordinates and a few scribbled notes that meant little to me. None of them even knew who ordered the work, and said they usually just go where their foreman sends them. We were then pointed to Doug’s truck, which had a locked briefcase sitting on the passenger seat I badly wanted to have a peek in but couldn’t without a warrant.

Frustrated, we told the crew to stop work until this situation was sorted out and sent them on their way. Then I headed to the hospital to talk with their foreman, except he was already gone by the time I got there. He had simply slipped out of the hospital before they’d had a chance to stitch the cut on his chin or take his information.

Sacha wasn’t able to enlighten me, other than he’d been checking his fences and came across the crew using a small skid-steer to dig a hole in his land. He had no idea what they were doing there either. According to him, the foreman had refused to show him a work order or permit, and when Sacha took out his phone to call the sheriff’s department, he was hit with the steel bar, sending his phone flying and causing a large gash that left a flap of his scalp hanging over his right ear.

Doc Sharma had just ordered a CT-scan to see if there was any damage to his skull, and wanted to at least keep him for observation overnight. I left, not really any wiser—other than the confirmation this Doug Severin is a nasty piece of work—and I spent most of the afternoon trying to locate the guy.

“Long day?” Len asks when I squeeze in between Buck Wilson and Clem Tanek at the bar.

“You could say that. Do me a Rainier, please? And top these guys up.”

I jerk a thumb at the men on either side of me as I catch sight of Dana coming from the kitchen. Her eyes lock on mine across the bar and her lips form a silent “Hi” as she maneuvers through the crowd, sporting a couple of trays with appetizers.

I can’t believe she’s serving at her own mother’s funeral.

Len slides my beer in front of me and leans in. “Don’t try to wrestle those trays from her. She insists on doing this. If you ask me, I think if she stopped working, she’d take off running like a bat out of hell.”

I’m not a big fan of crowds myself, and I’m willing to bet the people in this pub far exceed what fire code would allow.

My eyes follow Dana around, noting the strain around her eyes, even as her mouth smiles and exchanges a friendly word here and there. I’m surprised, even after only a year or so in Silence, I recognize almost everyone in here. Even our mayor made an appearance, not bothering to hide his relationship with Missy Gentry anymore since his wife left him, and Silence, several months ago. Unfortunately, the moment the man catches sight of me, he’s on his feet, heading my way.