Maggie was only a block from the middle school when she heard the emergency call about an allergic reaction. She’d been driving aimlessly through the streets of Sanctuary looking for something to do besides think about what had happened in that clearing. Switching on her lights, she peeled out as she raced to the school. Zipping along like this with sirens blaring and lights flaring was a rush. Twice in one week, she’d been able to light them up—for the intruder call and now heading to the school. It was rare anything in Sanctuary City warranted a code three response.
Last week, she’d actually brought the squad up to 70 mph going down Skyview Road when a drunken Clamper had stumbled into the Pair-O-Dice, ordered White Lightning, and then started breaking things when the bartender said they didn’t carry moonshine.
Like most Californians who didn’t grow up in Sanctuary, Maggie had never heard of a Clamper until she moved to the small mountain town.
Clampers were members of a fraternal organization focused on preserving the West. Rumor had it the group was formed to help widows and orphans of dead coal miners, as well as a way to rebel against the “stuffy” Masons and Odd Fellows. Many were loners who camped out in the woods of Sanctuary, living off the land and prospecting for gold. They didn’t usually bother anyone and were seldom seen.
Once a year, dozens of red-shirted Clampers swarmed the streets of Sanctuary for Gold Nugget Days, marching in the parade with their red tee shirts and suspenders and long gray beards they’d grown all year long in anticipation of the Gold Nugget Days Best Beard contest. Winner got a case of beer.
When her squad car squealed into the school’s big circle drive, a fire engine was already parked out front. Good. The paramedics were better equipped to handle a medical emergency than she was. She decided to stick around out front in case they ended up needing police help.
Maggie was staring off into space when she noticed a silver Mercedes convertible on her bumper. She gestured for the driver to go around. The driver, a woman with long red hair, giant dark sunglasses, and bare shoulders impatiently tossed her hair as she zipped past, pulling into the spot right in front of Maggie’s squad.
Whatever, lady. P.S. 1972 called and it wants its tube top back.
But then Maggie sat up a little straighter when she saw the girl who came traipsing out the door of the school and down the steps.
It was that girl who called 911.
The girl, who seemed taller and older now that she wasn’t crouched in a closet, wore a tight tee shirt and too short shorts. She looked like she should have a cigarette dangling from her red painted lips. Her dark hair hung over one eye, but Maggie still caught the glare the girl gave the Mercedes driver.
There was something about the girl that bothered Maggie. Something in her eyes that made Maggie pause. Something in the way she talked to the 911 dispatcher about an intruder in her house. A coolness, a calm that seemed far too mature for a twelve-year-old kid. She couldn’t quite figure out what it was about the girl that made her uneasy, but there was definitely something there.
It wasn’t until the girl slammed the door of the Mercedes and it took off down the road, that Maggie realized something else that bothered her—she was insanely jealous of the life that the redheaded mother and her daughter lived. Her snarky thoughts about them probably were a direct result of her jealousy. She remembered the girl’s father holding his daughter close and comforting her. Something Melody would never experience.