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SHELLEY LOOKS DISTURBED. I watch her eyes as they follow something, or someone, through the window and towards the front door until we hear a pounding.
“Shelley!” yells the Sheriff. “You got that stranger in there? Open up!”
Shelley hesitates. I want to tell her not to open it, in hopes he’ll go away. I’m sure he’s jealous, but I can’t speak a word and she goes to open the door.
The sheriff pushes himself in, like an arse, and tosses Shelley aside.
“You!” he says pointing at me and marches towards me.
Shelley cries as she grabs the sheriff’s arm that is reaching for the shackles hanging at his waist. “What are you doing?!”
The sheriff pushes her and she falls. As I reach towards her, the sheriff reaches to his hip and pulls out a gun. I know guns. I’ve seen them multiply in numbers and evolve as fast as humans have, but their purpose has not changed. All guns do are drown lads in their own blood.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he says and I know this drill. He’s shackled me once before.
Shelley is crying. “Pike, what are you doing?! He’s been with me the whole night.”
I’m just as surprised as she is but her words matter not, as the sheriff tugs hard at my arms, purposefully trying to hurt me as he shackles my wrists.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Shelley, but while your stranger was in the hospital I took the liberty of collecting some DNA samples and had Athena send them to the university where they do our forensic testing.” The sheriff yanks on the shackles to make sure they’re tight.
“So?” she asks.
“Our stranger’s hair matches one of the hairs on your parents’ boat we found anchored and abandoned at sea.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense. That was twenty years ago! My Aunt Cora said—”
“Your Aunt Cora lied,” snickers the sheriff. “She asked us all to lie to you when you were a child, but since you insist on harboring a potential criminal, I think you should know your parents’ boat was found in the company of another smaller paddle boat reportedly stolen. Neither your father or your mother, despite all our diving efforts, were nowhere to be found nor were there any traces of your parents, other than the blood we found along the deck determined to be your mother’s.”
I gulp. I don’t understand how the sheriff pieced together the story, but I do know what he is talking about. I also know why Shelley looks so familiar and how and why we are connected.
My heart sinks. If I had known and made the connection beforehand, I would’ve never chosen to behave like an angler—desperate to enjoy the trappings of a woman, especially this woman.
“We also found a strand of hair,” continues the sheriff, “that matches the one from your friend here.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’re lying. You set this up, Pike! You can’t arrest him because you’re jealous.”
The sheriff pushes me in the wheelchair to the front door. “Don’t flatter yourself, Shelley. You’ve certainly grown up to be beautiful, but you’re as loony as the rest of the women in your family.”
“Fuck you!” she cries and the wooden floor shakes as she stomps towards us, attempting to strike the sheriff.
“Cut this out right now,” he says as he blocks her, but she’s able to get in a good smack to his neck with the other hand. “Goddamnit, Shelley!” he shouts as he pushes her back forcing her to hit a wall, but it doesn’t stop her.
Shelley charges the sheriff again and I want to tell her to stop. I want to tell her to leave him alone. The sight of her in distress and using her hands to fight for what she wants is too familiar. She looks exactly like her father.
The gobsmacked sheriff takes another slap and if I don’t do something, she’s going to get hurt. If she’s anything like her father, she’s going to keep fighting and arguing until she gets what she wants and I can’t let her fight for me. I know she’s fighting for me, but I can’t let her go on like this. Not for me.
I look at the five steps of steep stairs leading down the front door and I lift myself off the seat of the wheelchair. I make an attempt to stand up; I can’t believe it—I’m on my two feet!
Wobbling as every muscle in my body, including my arms and back, work in unison to keep me upright, I hear Shelley shout. “Catch him!”
For a moment, I regret doing this; I’m about to land on my face and arms atop of a hardwood stairwell painted the color of the seashore. I hit the steps hard and my body stumbles down to the ground.
Pike shows no mercy for the pain I’m in. I taste blood in my mouth from piercing my tongue with my own teeth, but the pain of Pike pulling me up by my arms and the embarrassment of not being able to stand on my own hurts more than anything.
“You stupid fuck,” the sheriff states as he drags me across the dry rubble and towards the car. Opening the back door, he tries to lift me, but struggles. “Get in the car,” he says.
I see Shelley coming towards us. She’s screaming at the top of her lungs; I can’t even make out what she’s saying. Her hair is not as red, but she is as irrational as her father and my heart sinks deeper into my gut.
The sheriff tries to pick me up and I wrap my shackled wrists around his neck to help him as he loads me into the car. He shuts the door, walks around the enclosed metal carriage, and gets in as Shelley continues to spit fire. I think even the sheriff is afraid of the flames pouring out of her mouth.
“Pike, you fucking asshole! Get him out of the car!” she screams as she pounds on the door.
I see the sheriff work a few gadgets and knobs with his hands and a rumbling resounds, vibrating straight through the cushioned seat and into my bones. It has the same sound as speedy boats that have lost their sails. In truth, I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these—a car, but not under these circumstances. I’m sure a sheriff’s job is the same as it was back in the days before I had fins.
I’m sure I’m going to jail, but I hope I won’t have to face a hanging.
