Carlos da Silva—whose name was often confused with a famous Brazilian soccer player, Roberto Carlos da Silva—leaned back in his office chair. He placed his leather Ropers on the morning paper on his desk, enjoying his third cup of strong black coffee this morning. He yawned and looked tiredly towards the window on the second store. The storm was coming back, and with it, he sensed problems. He liked to be in early—before the circus started, so to speak—not that there was ever complete silence in his building. It was a small precinct, with only seven deputies, and more than once this last year, ever since the Gold Rush started, he’d had to borrow help from either the highway patrol or the police departments in other, larger cities miles away.

Before, when there were pretty much only lumberjacks and the folks who supported them living in Skull Creek, they could be dealt with; but ever since this ridiculous new Gold Rush had started, he knew he’d have to make some serious changes. He would need twice the number of deputies, that was one thing for sure. How he would handle the county commissioners and the mayor he hadn’t the faintest idea right now. They had, somewhat reluctantly, agreed that he could hire one more person this year as his chief deputy: Malik. Then again, that one person was as good as three, given his fearsome reputation.

For now, his mind was on a warm beach in the Caribbean with his wife and kids. Their annual trip would take place in December and would last a full month. He always looked forward traveling to his wife’s home on the island of Saint Thomas. Malik Washington would take over the office when he was gone. Malik was an experienced police officer he’d worked with on numerous cases, a former sheriff in a neighboring county who had some differences with the local politicians and had gladly accepted a position on Carlos’s force as his SIC. They more or less held the same rank, but Carlos was the older and therefore the senior of the two.

Malik’s nickname was The Enforcer, and he was respected and borderline-feared by anyone who knew him—an untouchable straight-shooter who had grown up in the worse slum in L.A. and worked himself up from there. He would be the first black deputy on this force. Carlos himself was half-Mexican and half-Irish, but the latter not many knew; they simply judged him for being a border runner from Mexico, just another privileged Latino.

There were two more Latinos working with him; Diego and Adrianna. Diego was a former Miami SWAT man who had also worked in L.A. as an instructor. Carlos had brought Diego with him when he became the local Sheriff three years back. In this town, the Sheriff was appointed, not elected. Adrianna had been with the force for less than a month, having replaced a deputy who’d retired and moved to Florida. She had an impressive résumé and was a retired Marine, having been injured three times on two tours of duty.

It wasn’t Carlos’s intention to bring in more ethnic people, as he had been accused of a few times. His want-list when hiring was very simple. He wanted the very best he could get, and he didn’t care about gender or skin color. Though perhaps he might have been a bit hasty with Adrianna. She was a bit short and petite, and definitely too good-looking for her own good. He had more than once heard wolf-whistles when she walked by—something he frowned upon. Thus far she had done an outstanding job, but he hadn’t seen her in any physical action to this day. He was a bit concerned, because what the average joe didn’t know was that people who work in the forest industry, especially lumberjacks —who normally created more than half the trouble in these parts—have one thing in common: they are all exceptionally strong.

But he wasn’t going to get rid of her for now, anyway, being shorthanded as it was. The other officers were all good, old-fashioned white boys, which was normal in a typical redneck county like this one. Lucy was the second female officer, and she liked women as much as any man. Then there was Dex, a young know-it-all bodybuilder. Bard, the old-fashioned giant cop, was also a lumberjack who sometimes helped his younger brother’s crew. Whitney from New York Police and also a K-9 officer. One of his best but least-liked officers in town was Takoda. He was a Lakota Sioux, and the irony with that was that his name meant friend to anyone. The reason he was less liked was because he would never, ever bend any rules whatsoever for anyone, adult or child. He knew the book inside out and he never made mistakes. He also held a master’s degree in criminal justice and a Ph.D. in psychology. Why someone with his background wanted to work as a police officer remained a mystery to everyone, and it wasn’t a popular subject. Last there was Montana, named after the state—a former park ranger who had decided to re-saddle and become a police officer. Montana had been a cowboy in his youth, and he loved going hunting, fishing, and camping. He wasn’t from this region but had lived here for well over fifteen years, and he knew the lay of the land best.

Overall, Carlos’s force was small, but tight and loyal. Then again, the crimes in this county were mostly domestic violence and fights, especially on payday Fridays. Overall, it was a pretty quiet place, and Carlos intended to keep it that way.

He heard the sound of a cane striking the floor outside his office, followed by someone banging on his door with that very same cane. Carlos knew instantly who it was: his secretary, the one he had inherited from the previous sheriff, who had probably inherited her from the one before, and maybe the one before that. The morning routine had begun. Woman must have lived during the Civil War era, he thought. Aloud, he called, “It’s open. Come on in, Ruth.”

Nothing happened, but the knocking on the door intensified, a bit angrier this time. He knew the drill; rolling his eyes, he got on his feet. He put his coffee cup on the desk, and went and opened the door. A very old, slightly bent woman entered the room, ignoring him and going straight to his desk, where she placed a folder; then she stumped over to the windows and opened the blinds, followed by opening one of the windows. Without a word, she walked out; and as she passed his desk, she took the coffee cup.

“Hey, now, I hadn’t finished that…”

Carlos could only shake his head and smile as he watched the old woman moving through the room, towards her desk and its ancient typewriter. She sank down in an ancient chair, patched with enough duct tape to keep a Navy cruiser afloat. When he had insisted on replacing it with a new and better one, she had refused and given him The Stare, which everyone in the department knew to avoid as often as possible. The chair was probably as old as she was.

She started to type very slowly, and once in a while she scratched her chin. Her white hair she kept in a prim bun on the top of her head. Carlos shrugged and went back into his office. He’d look at the folder, containing reports from last night’s events, but not until he got another cup of coffee. He walked by her desk and opened the main office door; the top half glass, with his name on it in gold paint.

“People are concerned about that new Negro Terminator fella.”

Carlos stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the creaky old voice, completely at a loss for words and more or less in shock, still holding the door handle, not really knowing how to react or respond.

“Folks think he’s be gonna replacing you, they do.”

He turned around quickly, about to give the old woman a piece of his mind, but she completely ignored his body language and kept staring at the letter she was typing painfully slow when she continued, “Don’t go off half-cocked, now, Sher’ff. You know ‘Negro’ ain’t no racist word, like nigger or kaffir.”

“But why use it?” he demanded.

“He’s black, ain’t he?”

“Well yes, but…”

“So that makes him a Negro, don’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it does. You could call him African-American, though.”

“That’s some PC bull hockey right there, Sher’ff. Man ain’t no African no more than I’m a Polack ‘cause my granddaddy came from Poland. We’re both Americans.”

“What does that make me, then? I really am from Mexico.” He gave her a flattering smile, curious how she would respond to that one. On the inside, Carlos was preparing to erupt. He was too upset to think, so he headed back into his office just to sit down and rest. He wouldn’t slam his door shut and let the old bag get the better of him.

“A CILM,” she said thoughtfully as he was about to sit down.

“Say what?”

“A Confused Irish-Latino Man.”

Carlos eyes widened at her cheeky remark, surprised she knew his mother was Irish. Normally, this was as many words as Ruth would use in a month, and for that he had been grateful. Perhaps he needed to look for the shut-the-hell-up switch on the little old lady.

He almost fell back into his own chair. He calmed down and grabbed after his coffee cup, and then came to the realization it wasn’t there anymore. Dammit. He knew, or thought he knew, that Ruth wasn’t a racist, but sometimes she did say the most awkward things. Carlos decided to let the conversation go; he never held any grudges anyway.

He got back on his feet and headed towards the coffee maker downstairs. Sometime in the near future he was going to get his own coffee maker in his own office. One of those Keurig thingies. They sell ‘em at Walmart over in Elkton, he thought as he left the upstairs office, heading downstairs to a much larger, more typical police office landscape.

He walked into the kitchen and looked sadly at the empty carafe; to his dismay, he had to make more coffee, and no one liked his coffee. Hell, he didn’t even like it much. Cutting way back on the amount of grounds he usually used, he waited patiently. When it finished, he poured a rich-tasting cup. Not bad this time!

He was just about to take a second sip when the alarm went off in the speakers, shattering the silence. From the speaker came the voice of Betty Cramer—the receptionist who took all calls during the day shift.

“Sheriff, 10-67 at Paul Harris camp! Urgent!”

Carlos put down the coffee cup on the kitchen counter, cold fingers running down his spine. Goddammit. A death report was always top priority. Probably another lumberjack accident, he thought, sighing. Sadly, it would be the third this year alone, and he was glad the lumbering season would soon be over. But the damn storm was back, and that could be a problem. Those logging roads were hellish in these conditions. Normally, he’d send someone else on something like this, but he was still frustrated from having to deal with Ruth. He decided some fresh air was better than anything here at the station.

He walked calmly into the open office space, and saw Diego typing on his computer, while Betty sat at her desk opposite the counter where visitors normally stood. She looked very concerned, and listened to the call intently.

“Who’s out there?” Diego asked.

“Lucy’s on her way back from finishing her night shift, and Bard has already gone home. I was just about to go on this one.”

Betty turned around in her seat and held her hand over the microphone attached to her head set. “He says it’s a murder. Paul says it’s a murder,” she said, shocked.

“So Mr. Harris thinks he’s a coroner now, does he?” Carlos muttered to himself out loud as he headed towards the entrance with Diego in tow.

Betty looked at the receiver, concerned, and hung up. “He sounded very shook up, Sheriff. He said that the body is hanging on something, and then the call was cut off.”

“Could be the storm. Try and reach him again while Diego and I get up there. Separate cars, Diego—and Betty, keep a lid on this one. Also, I want you to call in the next two deputies on your list. Something tells me we’re going to need them. Diego, no lights or sirens, comprende? If the man is dead, he’s dead.”

Just as he spoke the words, an ambulance flew by outside on the main road, with lights flashing and sirens wailing, followed by not one but two Highway Patrol cars.

In the first car he recognized a girl named D’Lancy, an Asian woman he wanted to hire; behind her was her boss, a true redneck who should never have been allowed to carry a badge: Ethan Jones, old and very experienced, as well as a good old-fashioned bigot and proud of it.

Betty informed him, “The paramedics are on their way, and so’s the Highway Patrol. Since the base camp is off one of the mountain roads, I thought…”

Carlos felt very tired all of a sudden, watching and hearing his plan of stealth going up in smoke. Great, before we even get to the place, the entire town will know about it. He said in a calm voice, “Okay, Betty, but please don’t send anyone else for now. The storm is back, and it’s only going to get worse.”

With those words, a large fire rescue truck thundered by, also with lights flashing and sirens wailing.

“Um… I didn’t call them,” Betty cringed.

Soon Carlos and Diego were following the circus with their own vehicles, both with flashing lights and sirens, because by now some civilians in their person vehicles had decided to tag along. They had to zig-zag between a few cars and trucks while honking their horns. Carlos almost rear-ended Diego more than once. Suddenly, a Lincoln Town Car passed them on the wrong side.

“Great, that’s all we need—the stupid newspaper reporter,” Carlos muttered, watching the black Lincoln keep driving on the wrong side, trying to cut in line. He reached for the radio microphone. “Diego, see what you can do to get that crazy reporter off the road,” Carlos ordered through the police radio.

“Will do.”

He saw Diego speed up, turning onto the wrong side of the road, chasing the black Lincoln with lights flashing.

The rain intensified, and so did the storm. Dark clouds rolled like giant waves over the sky, and the wind showed no mercy. The tree tops swayed in unison, like a ghost army on the march. Branches, mud and dirt flew in the wind, mercilessly battering anyone and anything in their path. The rumble of thunder echoed in the sky as lighting exploded along the enormous mountain ridges.

The visibility was very poor, and Carlos slowed down, watching all the others vanishing into the rain. “Fools,” he muttered; and as he eased on his brakes, his car started to aquaplane and skid towards the left lane. He immediately put the car in neutral and carefully eased it back onto the right land, just as an eighteen-wheeler flashed past, loaded with timber and loudly honking its horn. He regretted having ordered Diego to go after the reporter at that moment. He just knew, with a certainty born of experience, that something bad was going to happen.

A call over the radio from Diego answered his paranoia, “Accident at Deadman’s Curve, acci…”

The radio went silent but for the static.