Free Too Close to Home by Maureen Tan Page B

reached for the percolator and concentrated on pouring scalding-hot coffee into my mug. Trying not to burn my tongue, I slurped the first sip and kept sipping steadily as I made my way to the round oak table that was tucked into a corner opposite the stove.
    “Good coffee,” I said, sighing dramatically. “Thank you.”
    Chad laughed, but kept his eyes on the bowlful of eggs he was beating.
    “You might be a cop if—” he paused for a beat, then went on “—you wish caffeine was available as an IV drip.”
    The game was a familiar one, begun during the months when bed and breakfast were a shared activity. Chad had posted a list he’d found on the Internet to the refrigerator. You Might Be a Cop If… Within a week, the original list became so familiar that we’d begun offering variations. And that, like so many things we shared, evolved into good-natured competition. Unofficial rules dictated that a game period lasted for twenty-four hours and that quips—from the list or our own—had to be situation-appropriate.
    “I heard you come in,” I said as I settled down into one of the bentwood chairs. “You must have been exhausted.”
    Chad shredded some cheddar cheese into the eggs.
    “ Exhausted is an understatement,” he said. “When the call from the Fishers came in, I was just minutes away from going off duty for the day.” He grinned suddenly. “You might be a cop if your idea of a good time is a murder at shift change.”
    I stuck my tongue out at him, then laughed. Now he was two up on me.
    “Yesterday, even before the little girl went missing, the day’d already gone to hell. First thing in the morning, I dealt with a shitload of vandalism complaints.”
    As he spoke, Chad threw a handful of finely chopped chives into the bowl. They grew wild in the sunny field that lay between the back of the house and the forest, and Chad was fond enough of their mild, oniony flavor to pick them fresh.
    “Some kids in a pickup truck apparently took out most of the mailboxes along Route 3 near Iron Furnace. Probably with a baseball bat. I also got to spend some quality time atthe county courthouse, testifying against a shade-tree mechanic who likes fixin’ folks’ cars with stolen parts. His way of keeping the prices down for his customers, he said.”
    Chad paused as he dumped the eggs into a pan, then began pushing them around with a wooden spatula as he continued speaking.
    “After that, I made some traffic stops, arrested a guy for shoplifting cigarettes at Huck’s and helped out a couple of women who’d locked their keys in their car. So, business as usual. Until the Fishers called. And after that…” His shrug covered territory that didn’t need recapping. “Anyhow, when I finally left the scene and headed toward Maryville, I still figured I could make it back to my apartment, no problem. But I started drifting, closing my eyes just for a second or two, jerking awake, braking for deer that weren’t there…. You know the drill.”
    I knew it only too well.
    “You might be a cop if,” I said, “your favorite hallucinogen is exhaustion.”
    “Good one. I’d say the caffeine is kicking in.”
    “Speaking of, do you need a warm-up?”
    “Yeah, that’d be great.”
    In the midst of cooking, he’d parked his mug in an odd but momentarily convenient spot and forgotten about it. It was a habit that I’d always found entertaining. Now I suppressed my smile as he glanced away from the frying pan, his eyes darting around the room in a futile attempt to locate a mug that I’d spotted the moment I’d come into the kitchen.
    I didn’t want to risk his burning the eggs, so I waited only another moment before laughing.
    “Top of the fridge,” I said. “I’ll get it for you.”
    I crossed the room, rescued his mug and poured us both arefill, then sat back down at the table and reminded him where we’d left our conversation.
    “So you realized that, as tired as you were, the next accident scene you