Ch. 18 / Pt. 1 : When They Wear the Mask
Virgil slammed a palm on his alarm clock radio. He’d hit the snooze button too many times to stop for breakfast at the diner, that morning. Groaning himself off the mattress, he rubbed his sockets in an effort to stir life into them. He met limited success. Shuffling into the restroom of his ranch-style home, four bedrooms and one-and-a-half baths, he turned on the lights and squinted at the mirror. Shaving could wait another day, he decided. The salt-pepper scruff, more salt than pepper every year, had grown out into whiskers.
He brushed his teeth semi-consciously. The water ran hot. Steam vapored up against the mirror.
He felt wrecked. Putting the toothbrush on the sinkside, he leaned into the mirror. Tired bags bloated his lids. His ex-wife had given him the name of an under-eye cream a dozen times but he always forgot it. The brush rinsed, he turned the faucet knob to ‘cold.’ He splashed his cheeks and eyes, the chill quenching some of the burning-throbbing ache pitting his sockets. Wiping the water away, he walked to the kitchen pajama-clad to make breakfast.
Coffee percolated. Eggs sizzled in a pan. Virgil stared out of an over-sink window at a green back yard that rolled into undeveloped land. Though invisible from his vantage, the undeveloped span stretched only a mile or so until it rubbled into rocky beach and descended to Atlantic tides.
When the old phone rang, he didn’t jump. It speared the near-silence that had settled around him once his brain had backgrounded the frying eggs and trilled its pitch high and sharply, but he didn’t jump. Setting the spatula down, he sighed. Picking up the handset from its base, he didn’t bother squinting at the tiny-fonted caller ID in any attempt to discern who might have called him so early, either. Instead, he merely answered, “A’yeah?”
“Chief,” Detective Donaldson gruffed on the other end. “We’ve got bad news.”
“When don’t we,” Virgil said, not as a question. “So what’s it this time?”
“There was a, uh…a clash between some of our boys and some squatters.”
“Jesus Christ. How bad?”
“Six hospitalized, two of ours, but luckily nobody got killed.”
“‘Luckily?’”
“Yeah,” Donaldson grunted. “Luckily.”
“Anyone critical?”
“What?”
“Is anyone in critical condition?” Virgil’s heart pounded in his temples, his voice raised without him telling it to.
“No,” Donaldson answered. Then, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I wasn’t there, alright? I’m just the guy making the call.”
Virgil turned off the stovetop, the eggs crackling and sputtering in the pan, and carried the handset over to the eat-in table. “Tell me someone at least found something, something substantial.”
“I wish I could,” Donaldson said.
“Goddammit…”
“We’re expanding the search today, checking some of the abandoned buildings and smaller farms north of the highway. Maybe we’ll find something there.”
“And what about Squatter City?” Virgil asked.
“What about it?”
“When the story gets out—”
“So don’t let it get out.”
“Say that to me again,” Virgil snarled, making a threat on instinct alone.
“Sorry, sir,” Donaldson replied a moment later. He cleared his throat. “I think we should just pull some guys up for OT and have them, uh, peace-keep on Lafayette and Grant. Problem solved.”
Virgil’s scalp boiled. His face tightened into a sneer.
“Suppose it might come to that,” he said.
“Yeah. It might,” Donaldson agreed.
Virgil hung up, expression still lined, lips still curled.
To hell with all of it.
He put the handset in its cradle, fetched a plate from a cupboard, and plated his lukewarm eggs. He took five deep breaths, replaced the pan on the heater, and carried his breakfast to the eat-in table. He smoothed his face out and worked his jaw. Sighing heavily, he carved open a yolk with the side of a fork.
He needed a plan.
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