Free A Living Grave by Robert E. Dunn Page B

collusion of the citizenry. Bikers wallow in the idea of being outsiders living apart from society. The Bald Knobbers, and all of the other various night-riding groups that our nation spawned between the Civil War and the First World War, were not outsiders. They were what masks allowed citizens to become.
    There was no damage to the house that I could see. I had either caught the biker just as he arrived or he was waiting for someone. Nelson, I would guess. I would guess also that he hadn’t been there to have a quiet chat about art. Nelson Solomon was a target of some nasty people. The questions were why and did he know more than he claimed?
    I left the house under the care of a deputy named Calvin Walker.
    â€œSo you’re gonna just stick me with babysitting a rich guy’s house?” Calvin asked me after I explained the situation to him.
    Calvin was not my best friend in the department. In fact, he didn’t like me very much at all. I resisted the urge to tell him how useless he was. Something I didn’t always do, to tell the truth. Another benefit of therapy.
    â€œYou’re not babysitting the house,” I told him, quite patiently, again. “The man who lives here was assaulted by one of these bikers yesterday. I don’t know where he is or why this is happening. You are here to make sure the bikers don’t come back before he does so they can try again.”
    â€œBabysitting,” he said.
    â€œCall it what you want, Calvin. Just do it.”
    â€œYou know what your problem is, Hurricane?”
    â€œI’m sure you’re dying to tell me, but you need to know something first.” I looked him hard in the eyes and took a step closer. “If you even think the word—period—I swear to God it’ll be the last thought you have.”
    â€œYou know, sexual harassment works both ways. You’re making a very uncomfortable work environment for me.” He presented me with the kind of grin Uncle Orson always referred to as shit-eating .
    That was the kind of thing I’ve had to deal with every day of my working life: Boys getting petty and wanting to test you every moment. There’s no way to pass, but every failure is tallied up and held against you. If I don’t play along, I’m a bitch. If I do, I’m a dyke. Go through channels and complain—well, that’s just something I’ll never do again.
    After a few more words I left Calvin and headed back to Forsyth to check in with the notes and calls I left the day before. On 160 I had passed the water tower and was coming up on Forsyth Hardware when I saw a familiar car. The girl sitting on the hood was familiar as well. Carrie Owens.
    I pulled in and parked alongside the same Chevy I had first seen her on.
    When she saw me she smiled, but it was a cautious smile.
    â€œHi, Carrie,” I said through my open window.
    She glanced at the storefront trying to see through the glass before she looked back at me and said, “Hello. I’m just waitin’ on Danny.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” I told her. “There’s no law against waiting.”
    Her smile eased up a bit and she said, “You’re not in the cop car.”
    â€œNo, not today. Does that mean I should show you my badge?”
    â€œNo,” she laughed. “I’ll trust you.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear it. Trust is important.” Then in a quieter, conspiratorial tone I said, “Especially between us girls.”
    She smiled again, but something about it was broken. Like she hadn’t gotten that it was a joke. Her body tensed and her lips froze, but her eyes were someplace else. I had said something wrong but I had no idea what. The faraway look in her eyes, though—that I had ideas about.
    â€œAre you all right, Carrie?” I asked her.
    â€œSure,” she said quickly. Her eyes came back with a new hardness to them. “Why wouldn’t I