BIRTHRIGHT
SEASON ONE
CHAPTER ONE
September 19, 1999, 11:45 a.m.
Crashdown Café
"Maxwell, would you please stop doing that?"
Max's eyes dropped. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"So am I. Every time you look at her, you get this expression like a kicked puppy. It's embarrassing."
Max went back to his lunch, his eyes on his food.
For a change, Michael thought as the object of Max's interest swished by, arms laden with plates. It took only seconds before his eyes darted up and sideways.
"You're hopeless," Michael said sadly. "What do you see in her, anyway? Girls are useless."
"I'll be sure and mention that to Isabel," Max said dryly.
"Isabel's not a girl," Michael answered as Max's eyebrows rose. "Not the way those two are. Just look at that friend of hers, that other waitress. At least she's blonde on the inside
and the outside. Airheads, all of them."
"Liz isn't an airhead, Michael. And I seriously doubt she'd put up with anyone who is, so I'm thinking Maria isn't one either."
"Who?"
"Maria," Max said patiently. "The blonde waitress. She goes to school with us, remember?"
"Not really. And what makes you think Liz isn't an airhead?"
"She's got like the highest grade point average in our class,” Max said.
"So she's a bookworm. Big deal. Grades don't mean you're smart."
"Says the guy who's always failing," Max noted.
"Says the guy who's always pretending to be learning," Michael retorted. "We could learn that stuff with our eyes closed."
"So why don't you?"
"Because it's beneath me. It's beneath you too. You just haven't figured that out yet."
Max shook his head and went back to his lunch as Michael stewed silently about a pet peeve of his, that being his reputation as a loser. School was deadly boring, consisting of vast quantities of useless information disgorged by teachers into their captive audiences who were then obliged to spit it back in the form of homework and tests, which weren't hard, exactly, just time consuming. When he was younger and with the Guerins, he'd been willing to play the game, at least to a certain extent. But ever since they'd divorced and he'd been moved to a different foster home, he'd found it hard to care. His foster father made it hard to care about anything.
The sound of raised voices caught his attention. Two men seated on the opposite side of the diner were engaged in what sounded like the beginnings of a heated argument. "That's not gonna end well," Michael muttered.
"What isn't?" Max asked, his eyes still mercifully on his lunch.
"Those dudes having an argument."
"Who? I haven't heard anything."
No, you wouldn't, Michael sighed. Because he was the one who had the knack for honing in on conflict, who was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Maybe it came from watching the Guerins fight all the time, to the point where he could predict who would start the fight and when. Although that didn't explain his habit of sizing up every place in which he set foot, mentally cataloging the number of people present, their general demeanor, the number and placement of exits, and a host of other details which lined up in his brain like soldiers marching in parade. Why did he do that? He had no idea. It was like he was born knowing how to sniff out trouble. Maybe that's why he was so good at causing it.
Michael's self analysis stopped abruptly as Max succumbed to the lure of the bookworm and took another peek. "Great," Michael muttered when it became clear that he wasn't the only one who had noticed. "Now blondie's watching. And now she's telling Liz."
"They're just talking, Michael," Max said, glancing again.
"No, she's telling her you're staring," Michael said. "Wait for it....wait for it....."
Sure enough, after a brief conversation with blondie, Liz's head swung toward Max, who quickly looked away. "Nice, Maxwell," Michael deadpanned. "Very covert, very...."
He stopped, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "What's wrong?" Max asked.
"Those guys," Michael whispered. "They're about to blow."
Max glanced toward the men. "They are? Says who?"
"Says me," Michael answered. "We should go."
"Why? Is this because of Liz? Because if it is, I—"
A loud crash cut him off. Every muscle in Michael's body tensed as both of the men leaped to their feet shouting, the dishes one had just swept off their table in pieces on the floor. "Maybe you're right," Max whispered. "Let's go."
Too late. "Get down!" Michael ordered only seconds before one of the men pulled a gun. Screams echoed across the café followed by a curious sinking noise as those screaming dropped to the floor. All except one, that is. Liz Parker, the bookworm, the smartest girl in the class, stood gaping at the gunman, frozen to the spot.
The gun went off. Liz crumpled to the floor just as the men decided that hanging around probably wasn't such a great idea. They left in a big hurry with very few noticing, almost every eye in the diner on the girl on the ground....except Michael's. He was watching Max, who was doing more than just watching. He was vaulting out of his seat.
"What are you doing?" Max hissed when Michael stopped him. "Let go of me!"
"Max, what are you gonna do?" Michael demanded.
But Max pushed past him. "Call an ambulance," he said to blondie, who was goggling in shock.
Holy shit, Michael thought desperately as Max went for Liz. Was he really going to try it right here, right now, in front of all these people?
Max bent over Liz and ripped her uniform open, settling that question. "Oh, my god!" breathed a woman with black lipstick as the crowd surged forward to see better.
"Hey, get back!" Michael ordered, throwing up his arms to block them. It was too late to stop Max from doing something idiotic, but maybe he could cut down on the number of witnesses. Everyone was staring, their eyes as wide as dinner plates as Max bent over the girl on the ground, touched her, seemed to crumple over her.....
"Is he okay?" black lipstick asked.
God only knows, Michael thought desperately, every second he stood there seeming to take forever. Max had healed small things before, but never anything this large. He had no idea if Max could even do that.
Or if they'd survive it if he did. "Keys! Now!" Michael barked as a siren blared in the distance, wondering if Max was even capable of responding or if he'd have to carry him out of here. Power did that to you, drained you of energy. But Max promptly reached into his pocket and tossed him the keys; Michael bolted for the door, practically vaulting into the jeep and jamming the keys into the ignition. The jeep roared to life and he slammed it into gear, pulling up just outside the Crashdown's door.
C'mon, c'mon, he thought impatiently when Max wasn't instantly there.
Times up, Maxwell. Time to run.
And run Max did, flying out the diner's door and into the jeep's passenger seat. Michael roared off, tires squealing, so intent on getting out of there that he only caught a glimpse of the girl with long dark hair and a large red stain on her front who watched them leave, wide-eyed.
***************************************************
Valenti residence
Swish
Jim Valenti blinked as he pulled the curtains aside, the morning sun blinding him.
Make that "almost morning", he added sheepishly after glancing at the clock. 11:45 a.m.? Jesus, that was late. Ever since he'd started taking weekends off, or trying to, anyway, it seemed he'd been reverting to teenaged behaviors. Maybe it was true that you actually became more like the people you lived with.
The carpet was scratchy under his feet as he padded toward his son's bedroom and carefully cracked the door open. Kyle was sound asleep as he usually was at this hour on a Sunday, sprawled in one of his famous ungainly positions that looked dreadfully uncomfortable but apparently wasn't. Sleeping till noon....God, but that brought back memories. When he'd been a teenager he'd slept past noon at every available opportunity. It always felt decadent getting up when the sun was high in the sky and the rest of the world had been up for hours. "Getting up" didn't mean "waking up", of course; he woke up at the same time every morning, school or no school, with or without an alarm clock. His alarm clock had been the sound of his parents arguing, an almost daily occurrence in his house since the age of eight. On school days or during his summer jobs, his parents' angry voices floating down the hall or up the stairs had meant it was time to get up; days off allowed him to pull the covers over his head and roll over, waking up hours later when his father was long gone and his mother at least a little calmer. His friends had always complained about their alarm clocks, but at least theirs had had snooze buttons and batteries that could be removed or plugs that could be pulled, and if all else failed, you could hurl it across the room He'd had none of those options.
Valenti closed the door softly, catching a glimpse of the photo on the wall beside Kyle's bed just before the door swung shut. That picture had been taken when Kyle was very young, too young to remember the smiling woman on whose lap he'd been sitting, sunglasses perched jauntily on her head. Whenever he regretted being a single parent, whenever he felt like he'd failed his son by giving his mother the divorce she'd wanted, he reminded himself of what he'd spared Kyle by doing just that, all the arguments and the slammed doors, the accusations and the yelling. Having experienced both the noise of parents staying together longer than they should have and the relative silence of an early parting, he much preferred the latter. He could only hope Kyle felt the same.
The phone rang, and Valenti headed for the living room, stubbing his toe on the football pads left haphazardly on the floor. Cursing, he limped to the phone's cradle only to find it empty. And so the latest hunt for the handset began, a ritual now all too familiar in the Valenti household. It didn't help that two men tended to be messy creatures, which explained why he finally found the handset beneath a pile of laundry at the east end of the couch.
"Hello?" he said breathlessly.
"Sheriff Valenti? Did I wake you?"
Damn! In the race to find the handset, he'd neglected to check his Caller ID, just assuming it was the station, which would have been worlds better than who it was. "No," he answered, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Cartwright?"
"There was an important matter I needed to discuss with you, Sheriff—"
"Important enough to bother me on a Sunday?" Valenti interrupted. "Look, I know my last check bounced, but that was the bank's mistake. I thought that was all cleared up."
"It is," Mrs. Cartwright answered, "and the late payment fee was deleted. This isn't about your father's account. It's about your father."
"What about my father?"
"You haven't been to see him in quite some time, and he's asking for you. Here at the The Haven, we take great pride in fostering the needs of our residents, and....."
Blah, blah, blah, Valenti thought as she droned on. Sophia Cartwright had been his father's case manager since he'd been admitted to The Haven back in '89 after he'd threatened Kyle's babysitter with a gun because he thought she was an alien. The Haven knew nothing about that, of course. Just like he knew nothing about the mysterious doctor whose signature had made it possible for his father to get into The Haven, the one who'd claimed to have known him. In the whirl of emotions he’d neglected to commit her name to memory, and he'd been afraid to ask, afraid to jinx his sudden good fortune.
"Therefore I would be derelict in my duty if I failed to inform you that nursing home residents thrive best when surrounded by friends and family," Mrs. Cartwright continued. "And given how long it's been since you visited—"
"Mrs. Cartwright, I really appreciate your concern," Valenti broke in, annoyed that the peace of his Sunday had been shattered and furious with himself for not checking the Caller ID. "But I really think that calling me on a Sunday morning is a bit over the top."
"Well, then, when should I call you?" Mrs. Cartwright asked, a faint note of exasperation in her voice. "I call the station, and you don't call back. I call your house, and I get the machine. This is the first time I've reached you after two weeks of trying."
"Have you ever considered that I'm not in a hurry to talk to you precisely because I get a lecture every single time we chat?" Valenti demanded.
"I'm not trying to 'lecture' you," Mrs. Cartwright said patiently. "I'm merely trying to—"
"Look, you and Dad both are going to have to realize something," Valenti said. "I'm his only son, so I'm the only one to field these calls. I'm also a single parent and the town sheriff. I have other responsibilities besides my father, and you're just going to have to accept that. Like I have to accept that I and I alone am responsible for my father, and I'll never make him happy even if I go up there six times a day for the rest of my life."
"I realize a parent's waning years can be trying," Mrs. Cartwright said soothingly, "but perhaps you could—"
"Perhaps
you could stop badgering me," Valenti said tersely. "The nature of my job doesn't afford me the luxury of trotting up there every time he wants me to. I hope you have a nice Sunday, Mrs. Cartwright, in spite of the fact that you've ruined mine."
Valenti
thwacked the phone into its cradle and leaned against the table, one hand over his eyes. God, but he'd just behaved badly. Not only had he hung up on his father's case manager, he'd also resorted to the dreaded phrase "nature of the job". His father had used that excuse constantly to explain everything from his work hours to his endless tromps through the woods hunting for aliens. It had been one of his mother's chief complaints, and to hear those words come out of his mouth now was nothing short of disturbing. He'd tried so hard not to follow in his father's shaky footsteps. Was it all for nothing? Was he destined to become his father anyway?
The phone rang again. Still mad at himself for having uttered that hated phrase, Valenti snatched it up and jabbed the button. "Yes?"
There was a long pause, so long it became annoying. "Hello?" he said sharply. "Say something, or I'm hanging up."
"Uh....sorry, sir," came a reluctant voice. "You know I wouldn't bother you at home on a weekend unless it was important."
Owen. "Deputy Blackwood," Valenti sighed. "I....I'm sorry. What is it?"
"There's been an incident, sir."
"What kind of incident?"
"A shooting, sir."
"A shooting?"
"Yes, sir."
"Someone fired a gun on a Sunday morning in my town?"
"Yes, sir. No one was hurt....at least, I don't think so."
Valenti blinked. "You don't 'think so'? What is there to think about? Either someone was hurt, or they weren't."
"Right. Well...I think you should come down here, sir. That's why I called you."
"And where's 'here'?"
"Dad?"
Valenti whirled around. Kyle was standing in his bedroom doorway, boxers askew and hair a mess. "I'll be there in a few minutes," Valenti said into the phone. "I just need to get dressed. Hold the fort, keep all witnesses there, and see to it that anyone who 'might' have been hurt gets looked at."
"Is something wrong?" Kyle asked as Valenti hung up the phone. "You sounded upset."
"Just some idiots stirring up trouble, and on a weekend, no less," Valenti said lightly. "Probably Crash Festival tourists who landed early. I'll take care of it. Go back to bed."
Kyle waited uncertainly for a moment before shuffling back to bed. Valenti heard the bed springs creak just as he turned on the water for a fast shower. Long practiced in the art of the quick exit, he was dressed and heading out the door only ten minutes later, buckling on his gun and shaking his head as he went.
The Crashdown? he thought skeptically. Since when did anything bad ever happen at the Crashdown?
***************************************************
Evans residence
Michael pulled the jeep into the driveway of the Evans' house, shut off the engine, and punched the garage door opener. The door rumbled open as he and Max sat in silence, the same silence in which they'd ridden all the way from the café, both staring into space, lost in their own thoughts. Well, make that Max who was lost in his own thoughts. Michael wasn't thinking, he was seething.
"Did I see what I thought I saw back there?" Michael demanded.
There was a pause before Max answered. "I don't know. What do you think you saw?"
"I thought I saw a girl get shot, Maxwell. I thought I saw her fall. And then....and then I thought I saw her standing on her own two feet just before we left."
Silence. Max stared straight ahead. "So....does that mean it worked?" Michael ventured.
Max hesitated. "Yes," he said finally. "It worked. At least....I think it did."
"You 'think' it did," Michael echoed. "Does that mean it did, or didn't?"
"I.....it did. It worked."
Michael felt his chest constrict. "Christ, Maxwell, it worked? You've never fixed anything that big before."
"I know."
"I didn't even know you could do that."
"Neither did I," Max whispered.
"But now we do," Michael said. "And we're not the only ones. You know who else knows?" He leaned in closer, fastened his eyes on Max. "The whole God-damned town knows because you did it right in front of them!"
Max looked away, his jaw twitching. "Honestly, what got into you?" Michael exclaimed. "What made you blast out of your seat and try out for Superman in front of a crowd?"
"Liz was shot, Michael," Max said tersely. "She might have died."
"Then she would have died," Michael said bluntly. "That's a hell of a lot better than
you dying."
"I'm not dead," Max retorted.
"Not yet," Michael corrected. "Just give them time. They'll catch up with you."
"Who is
they?" Max demanded in exasperation. "And besides, I dumped a bottle of ketchup all over her dress and told her to say she'd spilled it."
"Oh, you 'told her'," Michael said scornfully. "Well, that settles it, doesn't it? I feel so much better."
"I told her not to say anything—"
"I don't care what you 'told her'," Michael interrupted sharply. "What makes you think she's actually going to keep her mouth shut?"
"She will," Max said. "Liz won't talk."
"Forgive me if I don't share your confidence in the female of the species," Michael said. "We don't know she won't talk. She could be blabbering right now to whoever was driving that siren."
"She won't talk," Max said firmly. "I know she won't."
"You don't even know her, so you don't—"
"Michael, don't waste your time," Max said firmly. "It's done."
"Oh, it's done, all right," Michael said bitterly. "That's the one thing we can agree on. It's done....and so are we."
"What's done?" another voice asked.
Max hesitated for just a moment before climbing out of the jeep and stalking past his sister, who was standing in the mouth of the garage. "What's done?" Isabel repeated as Max went by. "Max? What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Max's voice called back, followed by the sound of a door closing.
Isabel's eyes swung back to Michael as he gave a soft snort. " 'Nothing'?" he said skeptically. "Wow. Kind of makes me afraid to ask what he'd call 'something'."
"What happened?" Isabel demanded in alarm. "Did something bad happen?"
"If you call getting shot 'bad', then yes, something bad happened."
Isabel's eyes popped. " 'Shot'? Max got shot?"
"No, Max is fine. For now."
Isabel's eyes raked him anxiously. "Then...you got shot?"
"No, I'm fine too. For now."
"Michael, stop horsing around, and tell me what happened!" Isabel exclaimed.
Michael grabbed the jeep's roll cage and hoisted himself out. "Two guys were arguing at the Crashdown. They had a gun, and one of the waitresses was shot. Liz Parker."
"Oh, my God!" Isabel breathed. "Is she okay?"
"She is now. Maxwell saw to that."
He brushed past her, heading through the empty garage which announced their parents' absence and into the house as feet scrambled after him. "Michael! Michael, wait! What does that mean?"
"Ask Max," Michael said shortly.
A hand grabbed him, spun him around. "Believe me, I plan to," Isabel said firmly. "But now I'm asking
you. What happened?"
Michael sighed and dug his hands into his pockets. There was no putting her off when she got like this. Isabel would hound you all the way to the ends of the Earth if that's what it took to get what she wanted.
"I told you: Two guys were fighting, one of them had a gun. The gun went off; Liz went down. And Max got up."
"Got up, and did....what?" Isabel asked warily.
Michael stared at the ceiling. "He fixed her, Isabel."
Isabel blinked. "Fixed...you mean....you mean he healed her? He healed a gunshot wound? Can he even do that?"
"I think we've settled that one, don't you?"
"But are you sure?" Isabel pressed. "Are you sure it worked?"
"She was down, and then she was up. Sure looked like it worked to me."
"But...." Isabel hesitated, swallowing hard. "Was anyone else there?"
"It was a Sunday afternoon at the Crashdown. What do you think?"
Isabel's eyes widened in horror. "So did anyone else see it?"
"Not 'anyone'," Michael corrected. " 'Everyone'."
Everyone. Isabel's mouth mouthed the word soundlessly as though unwilling to say it out loud as he pushed past her, heading down the hallway to Max's bedroom. Max was slumped on his bed, bent over, his hands laced behind his neck. "Max, is this true?" Isabel demanded in a brittle voice, having lost no time in following him. "Liz Parker got shot, and you healed her? Right in front of everyone?"
"Don't panic, Isabel," Max said. "It'll be all right."
"All right? All
right?" Isabel echoed incredulously. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Max said, fastening his eyes on his sister. "I saved her life."
"You're sure of that?" Isabel said. "What if you're wrong? You've never done anything like this before, so maybe it didn't work. Or even if it worked, maybe it won't last. Maybe—"
"Maybe she'll be dead?" Max finished. "Yeah, that would make it all better, wouldn't it?"
Brother and sister eyed each other for a moment. "Yes, it would," Isabel said finally. " I'm sorry to say it, but it would make it better."
"You're not sorry," Max retorted. "Jesus, Iz, how selfish can you get?"
"I am
not selfish!" Isabel exclaimed. "Do you realize what this means, Max? How is it selfish to not want what this means?"
"It doesn't mean anything, Isabel. I poured ketchup all over her and told her to say the bottle had broken. They'll buy it."
"You don't know that!" Isabel argued. "And even if they do, what makes you think she won't tell them anyway?"
"She won't," Max insisted.
"But how do you
know?" Isabel demanded.
"Because she won't," Max said sharply, rising from the bed. "Because I know she won't. Because....because she's Liz."
Michael watched sympathetically as Isabel's mouth dropped open.
He's got it bad, he thought. He'd had no idea Max was so far gone. And neither, apparently, had Isabel.
"Why, Max?" Isabel wailed as he stood at the window with his back to her. "Why would you do something like this? We never tell. That's the rule. We never tell anyone."
"I didn't tell her a thing," Max said.
"Don't you try that with me!" Isabel said angrily. "Showing involves telling, and you know it! And we never tell.
Never. So why now? Why tell now?"
Max sighed, a weary resigned sound that made it clear he was tired of the harangue. "Because she was dying, Isabel," he said quietly. "Because she'd be dead right now if I hadn't. I couldn't let her die. I just couldn't."
"But you could let us die?" Isabel exclaimed.
"Stop it," Max said firmly. " No one's dying, not Liz, not me, not you, not Michael. No one."
Michael shook his head as Isabel looked at him, pleading with him for support. He was on her side, but what difference did it make? Max was right about one thing—it was done, and there was no undoing it, either the healing or his crush. Isabel seemed to sense that too because she sank down on the bed, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.
"So who do you think will come for us?" she said faintly.
"No one's coming for us," Max said.
Michael looked out the window. "You hope."
***************************************************
Crashdown Cafe
"Need me for anything else?" Valenti asked.
"No sir, we're fine," Hanson answered. "We've got a pile of statements; Owen is just finishing up the last two. Turns out there was only minimal damage to the café, and Jeff said insurance should cover it, no problem."
"Good," Valenti said. "If I shake a leg, I might make it home before Kyle gets up."
Hanson shook his head, grinning. "Teenagers. Don't remember ever sleeping that late when I was that age. Do you?"
"I remember wanting to more than I got the chance to," Valenti said. "Hope the rest of the day is dead boring for you."
"Me too, sir. Enjoy your Sunday."
"Sheriff, wait!" a voice called just as Valenti put his hand on the door. "Wait!"
Valenti turned around. A man and a woman were charging toward him like they were being chased, which they were; Owen Blackwood was hot on their heels, looking madder than a hornet. "Sheriff, I'm sorry about this," Owen said, flustered, an oddity given that very little flustered Owen. "Mr. Trilling, Miss Kattler, would you
please stop bothering the sheriff and let us follow procedure? You've given your statements, and I took down every single word, word for word. Your comments have been noted."
"And we've already talked," Valenti said. "What's the problem?"
"The problem is that no one's taking us seriously," the woman declared.
"About?"
"Sheriff, that girl was shot," the man said firmly. "You weren't there, but we were. We know it. We saw it. She didn't just fall, she was shot. And then that boy went up to her and....did something to her."
Valenti looked at Owen, who rolled his eyes. "Mr....Trilling, was it?"
"Larry," the man said quickly. "Call me Larry. And this is Jen."
"Larry, then," Valenti said. "I know I wasn't there when the shooting occurred, but I also know that Miss Parker wasn't injured when I arrived. And you know that too."
"That's exactly the point," Jen said in exasperation. "She
was shot, and then she
wasn't. Doesn't that interest anyone, even a little bit?"
"And what about that boy, the one who ran out?" Larry interjected. "Doesn't anyone want to know who he is?"
"Or the other one, the one who held us back," Jen added. "They were sitting together, and that girl who was shot knew them. I know she said she didn't, but you saw her face, Sheriff. You know she was lying."
Valenti looked at Owen, who shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir, but it looks like the girl fell, and the boy was just concerned about her. She said she broke the ketchup bottle—"
"No, no, she didn't," Larry said firmly. "The boy broke the bottle."
"We saw him," Jen nodded vigorously. "He broke the bottle and poured ketchup all over her."
"Now, why on earth would he do that?" Owen demanded.
"That's what we'd like to know!" Larry exclaimed. "And I'd think you'd want to know too!"
"So why didn't anyone else mention him doing that?" Owen asked. "Everyone else said he just bent over her. You're the only two who said different."
"Well, then, why did he run?" Jen asked. "Why would he run away?"
"Any number of reasons," Owen answered. "Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he has feelings for this girl and doesn't want her boyfriend to know. These are teenagers we're talking about. Could be anything."
"Perhaps this isn't the best place for this conversation," Valenti said as Larry and Jen began erupting again, steering everyone toward the back as Owen shot him a sympathetic look. Wouldn't be the first time he hadn't been able to leave when he wanted to, and it wouldn't be the last. The door closed behind them, and Valenti put on his best concerned law enforcement face.
"Mr. Trilling, Miss....."
"Kattler," Owen said.
"Miss Kattler," Valenti finished, "I appreciate you taking the time to give us your statements and voice your concerns. I really do. It's responsible citizens like you that make this great democracy of ours what it is. Now," he continued as the two beamed at him, "I need to ask you something. Do you feel Deputy Blackwood honestly recorded your observations of this incident?"
"Well....yes," Larry allowed. "But he doesn't believe us."
"I'm not asking if you feel he believed you," Valenti said. "I'm asking if you feel your statements were recorded accurately."
Larry and Jen exchanged glances. "I....we....guess so," Jen said uncertainly.
"You 'guess so'?" Valenti echoed. "Does this mean you feel Deputy Blackwood did
not faithfully record your account of the shooting this morning?"
Caught, Jen gave an impatient sigh. "Yes, he recorded everything we said," she admitted, "but—"
"No buts," Valenti said firmly. "If you're satisfied that Deputy Blackwood recorded your observations accurately, then you're done here. The incident is still under investigation, and you have my word we'll take your account of events into consideration, just as we will everyone else's accounts as well."
Larry and Jen exchanged another set of glances which made it clear that they knew where their observations would fall on the witness spectrum. Behind them, Owen Blackwood was giving them a satisfied
told ya so look which he promptly dropped when he glanced at his boss. Granted these two were just tourists in town for the Crash Festival, that bane of his father's existence and, to a lesser extent, of his. But even alien crazy thrill seekers deserved at least a basic level of respect in his town, and he'd see to it they got it, even if their behavior would be the butt of jokes around the coffee pot for days to come.
"So no one's interested in the fact that a bullet was never found?" Larry asked.
" 'Never' is too ambitious a word for something that happened a couple of hours ago," Valenti answered. "We're still investigating the scene. We'll find it."
"No, you won't, because it went into the girl," Jen muttered.
"It's all in your statements, right?" Valenti asked as Owen nodded vigorously and waved the papers in his hand. "Then I'll read them myself, and you'll hear from me if I have any questions."
"You should have questions now!" Jen exclaimed. "A girl gets shot, then gets....'unshot', and nobody wants to know why?"
"If she was shot, why wasn't she bleeding?" Owen asked.
"She was!" Larry said in exasperation. "I tell you, she wasn't moving until....."
Damn it, Valenti sighed inwardly as Larry and Jen took off again. He'd been trying to wind this down, and here his own deputy had gone and fanned the flames again.
".....and then he bent over her for a good solid minute or two, put his hand on her right where she was shot, and—"
"What?"
Larry and Jen abruptly stopped talking. "What...what?" Larry asked.
"You said the boy went up to her," Valenti said. "You didn't say anything about him spending a couple of minutes bending over her or touching her."
"Yes, we did," Jen said deliberately, plucking their statements from Deputy Blackwood's hand. "In here. Our statements. You know, the ones you haven't read yet, but promised you will?"
"So what exactly did the boy do to her?" Valenti asked.
Jen looked ready to continue castigating him about their statements, but was shushed by a look from Larry, who wasn't about to squander the sudden gift of Valenti's attention. "The friend he was eating lunch with tried to hold him back, but this kid pushed him out of the way and went up to the girl on the floor," Larry said intently. "He opened up her uniform—"
"With both hands, just
ripped it open," Jen added dramatically.
"Yeah, ripped it," Larry agreed, "and then he put his hand on her and just..."
"Just..... what?" Valenti asked.
"Just....held it there," Jen answered. "While we all stood there, and watched and waited. He just bent over her and held his hand on her....kind of
pushed it into her stomach, almost....and then she moved. She was absolutely motionless, Sheriff, and then she moved."
"And then he broke the ketchup bottle and poured it all over her, and he and his friend hit the road fast," Larry added. "And the girl just stood up...."
"And she was fine," Jen whispered.
"It's all in the report, sir," Owen broke in. "I wrote down every word they said, just the way they said it. I even—"
"Deputy, do we have a copy of last year's high school yearbook at the station?" Valenti asked.
Owen blinked. "Yes, sir, we do. But—"
"Good. Have Mr. Trilling and Miss Kattler look through it and see if they can identify the two boys they saw. Let me know if they recognize anyone."
Valenti walked out, ignoring both his deputy's stunned expression and the triumphant expressions on Larry's and Jen's faces. Tomorrow he would say that all he'd been trying to do was make the tourists feel listened to so they would shut up and go away. If giving them this one last task and refusing to so much as wink at his deputy made them feel vindicated, so be it. A small price to pay for peace and quiet and community relations. He would say that...but he'd be lying. Because the real reason he'd assigned that one last task was that his mind had fastened on a single word, repeating over and over in his mind like a broken record.
Hand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll post Chapter 2 on Sunday, July 18th, which will get us back on our regular Sunday schedule.
BRIVARI: "In our language, the root of the word 'Covari' means 'hidden'. I'm always there, Your Highness, even if you don't see me."
I’m just borrowing these wonderful characters to amuse myself. And hopefully you.
I'll post Chapter 5 on Sunday, August 15.
)
Fortunately we all know when he goes and how, so we have that to look forward to!