Free Ripples by DL Fowler

in. Actually, before that—while my place was going up.”
    “You ever report this?”
    I look away. “No. It was nothing to get worked up about.”
    “But now you’re saying it is a big deal. That you went traipsing through the woods to your neighbor’s place in the middle of the night. Smashed his window with a flashlight. He says you threatened him.”
    “I didn’t threaten him. I told him I wasn’t going to stand for him abusing that girl.”
    “Mr. Chandler, as I’ve said, there’s no sign of any girl. And your story has some holes in it. At least your neighbor’s version makes sense.”
    I step toward the deputy. “A girl’s life could be at stake.”
    Carl cuts between us and clutches my arm. “Deputy, my friend here has been through hell the past few years. Let’s just step back and see if I can’t get him some help. In the meantime, I’ll keep him in tow.”
    “See that you do. And for the record Mr. Chandler, it wouldn’t matter if you played golf with God. You’re not moving into my county, throwing your weight around. Next time you haul me up here without solid evidence of a crime, I’ll stick you with felony filing a false police report. For the last time, there’s no girl.”
    Carl hands the deputy his business card. “Good day, deputy. Maybe if you give me a call, I can help clear up some things.” As the sheriff heads back to his car, Carl nudges me toward the French doors to kitchen.
    I stop in the doorway and spin around, meeting Carl eye-to-eye. “Me, harassing that bastard? That’s a crock. If this sheriff doesn’t do his job, I’m gonna ….”
    “Just get a hold of yourself before you ….”
    “What? Do something stupid ?”
    RJ
    Mercedes’ hideout is a couple miles from Uncle Eric’s ranch, tucked back in the trees at the bottom of the ridge. The hut overlooks a clearing about half the size of a soccer field. Beyond the clearing it’s chaparral and another large meadow. Of course, Mercedes hates the word “hideout.” She calls it home. Been on her own for more than two years. The old bastard she escaped from has probably given her up for dead.
    I slide off the stallion and unsaddle him at the usual spot in the woods, a quarter-mile from her place, half-way up the ridge. I slap his hindquarter to send him on—that’s her heads up I’m coming. When she sees him, the plan is she’ll sneak up near the top of the ridge and perch in a cluster of live oak to watch and see if anybody’s following me. After she caws like a crow I drop down and go inside where I sit and wait.
    Inside, the place smells like rotting wood. I pick up a book from a box in the corner. Today, it’s by some dude named Stephen King. Already been through all the hunting magazines and issues of Guns and Ammo . No idea where she gets this stuff.
    It’s taking a long time for her to come down off the ridge. The wait gives me butterflies. I put down the book and start fiddling with the pocket knife Uncle Eric gave me. Even taught me how to keep it sharp. Tote it around in my back pocket. It has a bunch of cool gadgets —one’s a church key. He says a guy should always carry a church key —never know when you’ll come across a bottle of beer that’s screaming to be opened—or a can of beans. I know Uncle Eric isn’t the greatest role model, but if you never knew your old man, and your mom pretty much abandoned you …. Maybe that’s why my face burns when I lie to him about this place. Told him an old coot lives here. Mercedes swore me to secrecy.
    Finally she sees fit to join me, and the gutted rabbit she’s carrying by the ears explains what kept her—dinner. She drops the critter in a bucket she uses for cleaning up, and hangs the crossbow and quiver on a nail in a wall stud. No wall board or insulation—just plywood siding outside, nailed to studs. The place gets bitter cold in winter, but she finds ways to manage.
    She offers me something to eat—most of her stuff, she scavenges from