INSIDE THE RESTON COUNTY sheriff’s station, Fred Jepson was wondering about the wisdom of having eaten a whole meat pie for lunch.
Mary Alice made them down at the café and he couldn’t resist them. They were huge—flaky pastry stuffed with meat and potatoes. Enough for two people, but he always ate the whole thing. Why let it go to waste? Why hurt Mary Alice’s feelings? And that chocolate cake she made? It was enough to make a grown man weep. He’d had to have a piece of that.
What Fred didn’t doubt was the wisdom of bringing in the McAdams boy. Ben was in the holding cell in the next room, eating the sandwich Fred had brought back for him. The cell had a cot, a sink, a toilet and nothing else. Worked out fine for the usual lawbreakers and the drunks who didn’t need to be on the road on a Saturday night. A little stark and scary for a twelve-year-old, but the kid had to learn a lesson about hurting other people, about obeying the law. Better to have him here overnight now for shooting Mrs. Crabtree in the butt with a stone from his slingshot than in jail for months or years down the road for a felony.
As the sheriff, duly elected by the citizens of Reston County, he felt an obligation to set the boy on the right path.
Fred snorted. Who gave their kids a slingshot anymore? Jim and Helen were pushovers. That kid of theirs got everything he wanted just by grinning and showing his dimples.
He leaned back in his chair and loosened his belt. That was a little better. He glanced around to make sure he was alone, though he knew that all but one of his deputies was on patrol or at lunch. Deputy Earl Flake was out back, tinkering with the engine on an old cruiser, sure he could make it run again.
The office receptionist, Anita Sturm, had decided the refrigerator in the break room was disgusting and was cleaning it out. When he’d peeked in earlier, she’d been half wedged inside the freezer, scrubbing to her heart’s content. Fred knew better than to get in her way when she was in a cleaning mood. He’d thoughtfully closed the door to the break room so she could work in peace and could say as many angry things as she needed to about the unsanitary habits of certain men she knew. He’d told her he’d answer the phone if it rang, but he didn’t expect any calls. The town was pretty quiet at lunchtime.
He unsnapped his pants and slid down the zipper just to give his gut room to breathe for a few minutes. He’d fasten himself up again as soon as he heard someone at the outer door.
He’d gained weight in the past few months. He knew it and he was going to do something about it soon, probably tomorrow. If he had to chase down a runner, he’d be screwed. His uniform was too tight and he could barely fasten his belt, even on the last notch, but he refused to buy a larger size. He was going to lose weight and get back in shape soon.
He returned to thinking about Ben. The boy was in the sixth grade now, big for his age and eager to play football. Football was a religion in Reston. Jim McAdams, Fred’s old high school rival, had been its deity during his school days. He wanted the same for his son.
Jim would have that if Ben didn’t end up in juvenile detention first. The family didn’t realize it, but Fred was doing them a favor by scaring some sense into their boy right now.
He was still considering that when the door to the outer office was thrown open, reverberating against the wall. Startled, Fred jerked upright. No one came in, but he craned his neck to see five kids scuffling in the dirt, fighting, clawing and kicking. Their howls echoed into the jail as they shrieked and tumbled.
Fred pushed his chair back and lumbered to his feet, forgetting about his pants as the weight of his utility belt dragged them down and they started to slip.
His horrified attention was on the kids. There was something wrong with their faces. Their features seemed to be smashed in. It was several seconds before he realized they were all wearing stockings over their heads. One kid had a pair of pantyhose over his, the legs tied up in a kind of crazy ponytail that bobbed on top of his head. Or her head. Fred couldn’t tell.
“Hey, what’s going on here? Stop that right now. You can’t be fighting like that.”
They ignored him, continuing to punch and kick as they howled and screamed, kicking up dust and knocking over a trash can. They banged up against the side of the building as they called each other names, the yelling so loud and crazy he couldn’t make sense of what they were saying.
“Stop! Stop!” Fred bellowed. He started around the side of the desk, forgetting about his pants, which immediately fell to his knees, hobbling him. He tripped and went down like two hundred and fifty pounds of wet cement, face-first. Instantly the fighting outside paused and he heard footsteps running toward him.
“Sorry, Sheriff Jepson,” one of them growled in an obvious effort to disguise his voice. “Just...just stay down, okay?”
“What? Stop. What are you doing?” Fred couldn’t get up and he couldn’t turn over because of the way his pants had twisted around his knees.
“Get the key! Get the key!” the kids were shouting in unison from where they crowded around the door.
He could hear one of them scrambling through the items on his desk, opening drawers and riffling through.
“I got it!” the kid shrieked.
Fred couldn’t tell who it was—who any of them were. He groaned when one of them crouched on his back to keep him down. Blackness was closing in on him. Mary Alice’s meat pie threatened to make a second appearance.
He managed to turn his head to the side enough to see one of the kids run toward the other room. He heard the rattle of the key in the lock of the holding cell. A moment later that same kid ran past with Ben in tow.
The boy was yelling, “Are you crazy? My dad woulda got me out.”
The kid who was pulling him responded, “Shut up and come on. We’re heading for the border. My uncle Lester’s been in jail for years and Grandpa says he’ll never get out.”
“I’m not your uncle Lester. How come you think you’re the boss of everybody?”
“I’m standing up for my friend,” the kid insisted. “You gotta think about your future. You don’t want to be a criminal.”
“I ain’t a criminal, and you didn’t let me finish my sandwich.”
“Oh, quit thinking about your stomach.”
“I don’t need you to—” Ben started to say but the other kid jerked him out the door.
Fred heard feet running away, and the one sitting on his back jumped up, freeing him. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he cursed.
His prisoner was in the wind.
Twenty years later
LISA THOMAS STARED at the row of pregnancy tests—six of them—lined up on the table in front of her like crestfallen soldiers who had let their leader go down in defeat.
“They’re all positive.” Gemma Whitmire, one of her best friends since childhood, sat beside her. Carly Joslin, her other best friend, sat, too, and scooted her chair in closer.
They