Back in Illinois during September he would have spent Saturday afternoons on the couch with a light comforter lovingly placed over his legs. His dog nestled in the folds at his feet would listen with one eye open to the sounds of Dorothy cooking in the kitchen. Up north it would be a time for chili simmering on the stove, a gas stove, not one of these infernal electric fire hazards. Hopes and dreams. Shorter days and longer nights. A steaming cup of coffee that warmed your innards instead of provoking even more sweat.
Waves of heat rising from the hood of the squad disrupted the air as a reminder that the intensity of summer would not yield for at least another several weeks. Heat like this is humbling and slows you down. Cold has an energizing effect. And that’s when maniacs like Maynard emerge like rattlers from their rest, seeking warmth and full of venom.
“Officer requested at the high school,” came a burst from the radio.
Tom hesitated, hoping someone else would respond. Jesus, thought Tom, the high school is like an open campus penitentiary. Shame rose like the taste of copper from his throat. No reply.
“Tom, are you still out on Gulf Coast?”
“I’m here Annie, what’s up?”
A detectable frustrated hesitation on the part of the dispatcher spoke volumes.
“No trouble Tom, if ya’ll could just stop in and see Dean Reynolds.”
“Sure thing Annie. On my way. Over.”
Tom was relieved that law enforcement in Manaloosa had been on the forefront of the transition from confusing 10-codes to plain English. When he transferred from Central Illinois he found that only about half the codes had the same meaning. His fear of mistaking “available for assignment” for “officer down” further fueled his anxiety.
When not hanging out with Kenny at the Savory Café trading local gossip and exchanging a police presence for free food, Ferrell made frequent slow rounds past the Maynard place, hoping to serve as a reminder to Johnny of the need for good behavior. On occasions when the kid was out mowing the lawn or smoking on the porch Tom waved and Johnny waved back with a fake smile and a cloud of exhaled smoke. More than once Tom saw him in the side mirror as he passed flipping the bird and spitting aggressively. He pretended he didn’t notice but Johnny knew he did.
And if Tom was the angel on one of Johnny’s shoulders, the devil on the other was usually inside on the sofa, drunk or hung over and yelling at one of two cowering pit bulls. Greg was the Maynard brother not currently in prison, tasked with guardianship of his delinquent nephew.
“I know what’cher up ta Ferrell,” the elder Maynard shouted the last time Tom had seen him outside.
A call to the Maynard address would never be handled solo, not by Tom or anyone else on the force. The incident that earned Johnny’s father a life sentence had left two deputies dead and three injured. Greg had potential to become as unglued, and it seemed as if Johnny was in training.
Tom pulled off the dry grass at the side of the road with a quick flash of his colored lights and entered traffic. The high school was three minutes away.