My Town

6. What goes around

The reason for Cedar Clinic's stringent security measures became obvious to Romero as he turned his car onto Plantation Avenue. He could hear the protesters even before he saw the building, and he quickly realised what sort of a clinic it was. As he pulled up into an empty parking bay, angry men and women descended, bearing placards which claimed "God Hates Murderers!" and "Save Our Children!" and "Abolish Abortion!" He'd barely gone five paces towards the door when the crowd called out to him.

"I hope you've come to arrest each and every one of those murderers, Sheriff!" a man called out.

"It's about time the law looked into this place. God is with you, Sheriff!," a woman added, as others cheered her on.

Romero said nothing. He could see in their eyes the light of fanaticism. These people had a cause they believed in, and nothing would ever force them to stop their protests. In his opinion, too many people in the world spent too much time trying to tell others how to live. What would he find, he wondered, if he shone a light into some of their dark places? The self-righteous, he'd discovered long ago, were rarely as righteous as they claimed to be.

The inside of the reception area was quiet. The girl behind the desk looked up at him as he approached, and a smile appeared on her face. It could have given Regina's smiles a run for their money.

"Hello, how may I help you?" she asked.

He produced his badge, letting her eyes linger over it before putting away.

"Sheriff Romero. I have an appointment with Doctor Kelsey."

"Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to Doctor Kelsey's office."

The corridors of the clinic smelled of disinfectant, and as he followed the girl, trying not to sneeze at the pine-fresh smell, he saw rooms bearing small plaques such as 'recovery room one' and 'examination room three.' He didn't bother asking questions about the facilities or its rooms. Judging by Aimee's response to him on the phone, he suspected he wouldn't get many answers.

He was let into an office bearing Kelsey's name plaque, and when he stepped inside he found a pleasantly decorated room, full of plants, and an aquarium in one corner. With its comfortable beige sofas and paintings of hazy landscapes, it was designed to make people feel comfortable and at ease. All it did for Romero was make him wonder what dirty stains the neutral colours and carefully placed decorations were hiding.

"Sheriff Romero, right?" Doctor Kelsey asked, standing up from behind his desk to offer his hand. He wasn't a tall man, nor as old as Romero had been expecting. Probably not a day over forty.

"That's right. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Doctor."

"It's no problem." Kelsey gestured to the seat in front of the desk. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Romero desperately wanted to say 'coffee, black' but he suspected his sleeping habits wouldn't thank him for it. Instead he shook his head and took the seat as Kelsey continued.

"I hope the rabble outside didn't give you any trouble."

"On the contrary. They seemed to believe I'm here to investigate the clinic. Apparently, God's with me. Always good to know."

Kelsey shook his head. "I wish they'd just leave. They're an inconvenience and a nuisance. They think they're doing God's work by picketing my clinic."

"You disagree, I take it?"

"Indeed. In fact, I believe that I, along with the other doctors at the clinic, am the one doing God's work."

Romero felt one of his eyebrows rise up in surprise. "You do?"

"The women who come to see me are mostly determined to abort their babies, Sheriff. Before we carry out any such procedures, we ensure the women first undergo a session of therapy, and we try to talk them into alternatives, such as adoption. It doesn't always work, but sometimes it does. But when a woman's made up her mind, and nothing will dissuade her, she's going to find a way to have an abortion. Sometimes that might mean going to a dirty back-street clinic. Sometimes it means going online and googling the best way to do it. I've seen the results of self-attempted abortions—women left with severe internal scarring, sometimes rendered infertile—and I firmly believe that God never intended for women to have to resort to such methods."

"How many women do you treat each year?"

"Two or three per day, six days per week. It's not just women we treat, either."

"You perform abortions on something other than women?"

Kelsey gave a sardonic smile, and shook his head. "No. What I mean is, we're an inclusive service. When most people think of abortions, they think of single women or teenage girls who've given into pressure and not used protection. In actual fact, almost seventy percent of our patients are women who are married or already have families. Often, it's the decision of a couple to have an abortion, either because they can't afford another mouth to feed, or due to health concerns. We arrange counselling for couples, too, both before and after the procedure."

"And you performed this procedure on Beverley Watson?"

The doctor eyed him up, his eyebrows lowered into a frown. "Can I see your ID?"

"I already showed your receptionist, but sure." He handed his ID over and let the doctor study it at his leisure. Finally, Kelsey seemed satisfied, and handed it back.

"Beverley Watson was one of the thirty-percent," he said. "A single woman who'd found herself in an unfortunate position. I… understand she's passed away?" Romero nodded. "May I ask how?"

"She was murdered."

"I'm sorry to hear that." But the doctor didn't look particularly sorry. In fact, there was relief in his blue eyes. As soon as Romero saw the expression, the doctor's helpfulness now made sense. A woman dying after receiving an abortion would not look good for the clinic. It might even result in a malpractice suit. Murder took that possibility away."

"I need to know everything you can tell me about Beverley Watson," he said.

"Miss Watson came to us four weeks ago, requesting an abortion. She underwent the mandatory counselling session, but couldn't be persuaded to change her mind. As I understand it, she didn't want anybody to know about her condition, and carrying to term would have made her indiscretion obvious. I performed the procedure myself on Saturday November 16th. She stayed for observation overnight, and was discharged the following day. There were no complications, and nothing to suggest that Miss Watson regretted her decision."

"Why did you call her last Friday?"

"Part of our service," Kelsey said. "Aftercare. We check up on all of our clients one month after the procedure has been performed, to ensure they are in good health and, if requested, arrange extra counselling sessions. When I spoke to Miss Watson, she seemed happy enough with the service we had provided. She said that she didn't need additional counselling sessions, and that she was looking forward to moving on with her life."

"Did she ever mention a name to you? The father, I mean."

"No. And it's not our policy to ask." Kelsey sighed. "You have to understand, Sheriff, that not all of the women who come to us are comfortable with their partners knowing about this. I don't know whether Miss Watson's condition was the result of a one-night stand, or whether she was in a stable relationship, and I was happy enough not to know. She was clearly of sound mind, and confident that she was making the right choice. She was scared, of course—most women are, if they've never done this before. But she never mentioned names. I'm sorry. I can tell that's not what you wanted to hear. I hope you haven't wasted a journey here."

"Just the opposite. It's been… illuminating," he assured the doctor. Indeed, the more he was learning of Miss Watson, the more he was coming to understand just how little he knew about her. How little anybody knew about her.

o - o - o - o - o

By the time Romero returned to White Pine Bay, the town was cloaked in velvet darkness, it streets illuminated purely by the regularly placed lampposts. He rolled his car into the driveway of his house, and reached over to the passenger seat for the bag of groceries he'd bought in Portland.

Entering his house, he groped for the light-switch and quickly found it. From her bed beside the sofa, Clementine raised her head, watching him with a canine stare that seemed more wolf than dog. Romero would be the first to admit that he wasn't a dog-person, but Shelby's death had left him with more than one inconvenience. He'd once heard it said that there were no bad dogs, only bad owners, and he believed it. Animals were sensitive to their owners' moods. Even if it had been safe to rehome a trained police dog with a civilian, he would not have subjected anybody else to Zack Shelby's beloved canine companion. There was no telling what living in Zack Shelby's slave-house had done to the dog.

"C'mon, Clem," he said, and the shepherd-cross obediently rose and followed him into the kitchen. He opened the back door for her, so she could make use of the yard, and watched through the window as she snuffled around the plants.

The dog hated him. He knew it in his gut. She watched him as if waiting for him to turn his back, so that she could rip out his throat in revenge for her dead master. More than once, he'd considered taking her into the woods and shooting her, just so he wouldn't have to see that look of accusation in her eyes. He'd even gone so far as to actually walk her up to the woods, tether her to a tree, and point his police-issue handgun at her.

Then he'd realised that shooting her would be too easy. Too convenient. So he'd taken her back home, and he kept her around as a constant reminder of his own failures. Each time he saw her, it reminded him of how Zack Shelby had pulled the wool over his eyes. Every bark, every pant, was an echo of her master's voice, which spoke insipid lies. That Keith Summers could be involved in trafficking for the sex trade, he could believe. But never before had someone so thoroughly deceived him as Zack Shelby. Shelby, the golden-boy of the police force. The wholesome, corn-bred boy-next-door deputy everybody felt safe around. Romero had worked with the man for over ten years, and never seen him for what he was. A very painful lesson in trust, that had been.

Outside, Clementine barked, demanding to be let back in, and he opened the door obligingly for her. She trotted in, staring at him with her deep brown eyes, hating him but needing him as much as he hated but needed her. He never stroked her. She never brushed up against his legs, or greeted him happily when he returned home. She needed him to feed her, because nobody else would. He needed her to remind him that he couldn't ever trust anybody.

But the hatred was still there, and it went both ways.

"Look, Clem," he said, pulling out a tin of food from his brown grocery bag. "I got you some tripe to go with your kibble. You're going to like this, but if you shit all over my carpet tomorrow, I swear I'm going to take you out back and empty a barrel into your head. Don't think that I won't."

She watched him.

He stuck the kettle on to heat whilst he dished out her food and watched her wolf it down. When the kettle began to whistle, he took it off the stove and reached into his grocery bag once more. The box he brought out said Chamomile & Vanilla on it. Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead drinking herbal tea, but the woman in the stupid herbal store he'd spotted in Portland had sworn that it would help him to relax and sleep. So he put one of the bags into a cup, poured hot water over it, and added milk. Then he realised you weren't supposed to add milk, threw it all away, and started again. By the time he'd finally got it right, Clementine had retreated to her bed to gnaw on a lamb shank bone he'd brought her from the butchers, and his home smelled like a sweet factory thanks to the vanilla in the teabags.

Kicking off his shoes, he took his cup of potpourri smelling tea to the sofa and switched on the tube, flicking over to the news. There was little of note. There was still trouble in the middle-east, Obama was still allegedly ruining the country, and a woman in Maine claimed to have seen Jesus in a pawn shop. Nothing that affected him, or White Pine Bay, and very little that could actually be classed as news. Today, Obama was destroying the world. Tomorrow, another president would be doing it. Today, Jesus frequented the pawn shops. Tomorrow, it would be Elvis. As for war in the East… the Red Horseman had been riding since the beginning of time. Romero had seen him, once, in White Pine Bay, and had driven him out. Now, he didn't care where War rode, as long as it wasn't here.

He sipped his tea, if you could even call it that, as he didn't watch the non-news, accompanied the the sound of Clementine gnawing on the lamb bone. If dogs are supposed to be man's best friend, he thought, I'd hate to see what they'd be like as our worst enemies.

Cats, he felt, were the way forward. He'd had a cat, as a child. Tiger, the thing was a called, a ginger tabby only slightly smaller than a bobcat, and probably fathered by one. Tiger had been a monstrous beast, a terror who hunted everything from small birds to large coyotes, but at least you knew where you stood with him. For about an hour a day, he let you stroke him, hold him and play string-ball with him. For an hour a day, he was a typical house cat. Then the predator took over, and he disappeared into the woods to terrorise anything stupid enough to get in his way. And you knew that as long as he was being Tiger the house cat, during that one hour, you were safe. You didn't expect anything more, and he didn't give anything more. Cats didn't need letting in or out, they didn't need you to feed them twice a day and clean up their shit after them. They took care of themselves, and let you pretend that you had a part in that.

Dogs weren't like that. You couldn't keep them outside all the time, but you couldn't keep them inside all the time either. You had to pay attention to them or they destroyed your house. You had to walk them and bathe them and get them chipped, because dog owners had to be responsible. And though Alex Romero considered himself one of the most responsible people around, he didn't like being forced to serve an animal every day. Not for the first time, he wished Shelby had owned a cat.

When he felt his eyelids beginning to droop, he put down his cup of potpourri and made his way up the stairs. Stripping down to his underwear, he dumped his uniform in the laundry basked and crawled into bed. The cool sheets greeted him, but they soon warmed to his body. This was one of the things he missed most, about his wife. The way they would curl up in bed together, sharing body head, letting the blankets warm to their skin as they held each other in the moments before sleep took them.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel her still, in the moments before sleep. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, feel the warmth of her breath on his neck as she snuggled close to him, her arms insinuating across his body. And sometimes, he even thought he could smell the spicy-sweet scent of her perfume clinging to the bedsheets. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, and let the sandman take him…

Brrrrrring brrrrrring. Brrrrrring brrrrrrring.

Opening one eye, Romero glanced at his alarm clock. 23:12. Not even midnight, and his sleep had already been disturbed. Reaching out, he picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

"Romero."

"We need you at the dock." Gil's voice was quiet but insistent, offering no pleasantries. Immediately, Romero was awake.

"What's happened?"

A moment of silence. Then, "We shot someone."

An image flashed through Romero's mind, of a shock of red hair and a pale face, cold grey eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. "Who?" he demanded.

"Don't know. A stranger. He's got no ID, but he was armed."

"Why are you bothering me with this?"

"He's still alive." Ah. That explained why Gil hadn't just disposed of the body. "I want to know what he's doing sneaking around my property."

Romero sighed. It would have been much easier if Gil's people had just killed the man. Unfortunately, most of them were very good shots.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said.

The line went dead, and Romero hauled himself out of bed. This time, he didn't reach for his uniform. Tonight, he was wasn't the Sheriff. He was something more than that. Something less than it. Tonight, he had to be the man he'd never wanted to be.

o - o - o - o - o

The cloudless sky was lit by the silver light of the half-moon, and the stars which shone with an almost impossible brightness. It occurred to Romero, as he pulled up outside Gil's dry-dock, that the celestial bodies were the only true witnesses to everything that occurred. During the day, the sun saw all that happened in the light of its golden rays. By night, the moon and her tiny silver companions bore witness to events that most people never saw.

Ask humans what had happened, however, and you got a thousand different stories, each one an ephemeral memory that could be influenced by external sources. The advent of CCTV was helping to remove such ambiguity, but the inhabitants of White Pine Bay had taken an almost Luddite stance as far as CCTV was concerned. Sure, maybe cameras could help make their lives safer. But at what cost? They didn't want their lives to be recorded for later viewing, not even if it was in their own best interests. In a small town where everybody knew each other, they considered such intrusions an unnecessary evil.

Gil was waiting as Romero pulled up. The large warehouse where he housed boats under repair or construction was a front for Gil's main business, as an intermediary for those growing and those buying large quantities of weed. Hired by the families who owned the land on which the crop grew, Gil had been doing this job for almost as long as Romero had been doing his.

"Alex," Gil said, with a slight, respectful nod of his head.

"Gil," Romero returned. "Where's the victim?"

"I resent that term," Gil told him, nodding to a nearby sign. Keep Out. Private Property. No Trespassers. "I think of him more as a perpetrator. After all, you don't ignore a dozen warning signs without good cause. I think this guy was looking for something."

"What?"

Gil shrugged. "Don't know. He's unconscious. But Fabian's had a look at him. Says he'll probably live."

"Show me."

He followed as Gil led the way into the dock. The sweet smell of cannabis filled the air, and Romero wrinkled his nose. He'd never cared for the stuff. Didn't trust it. Anything which altered your frame of mind was to be avoided. People who smoked it claimed it helped them to relax. Romero didn't want to relax. He just wanted to sleep, and the hippie shop lady said chamomile would do that. Who needed weed?

A body was lying beside the Lucky Lady, the boat most recently towed in for re-keeling. Four or five of Gil's people were lurking, some openly, some in the shadows, but they stepped back as Romero approached. They knew him by sight, and they knew better than to ask questions in his presence.

Kneeling down, he examined the man who'd been covered by a blanket. The guy looked around thirty, thirty-five, and had a facial shadow of stubble over his jaw and chin. He'd been shot in the shoulder, but it appeared to be a clean wound. Like Gil said, the man would probably live. That in itself would cause complications, because the people who grew the pot, and those who bought it for distribution, didn't take kindly to trespassers. Gil was well within his right to shoot anybody who ignored the warning signs around the premises.

"Who shot him?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," Gil said, and Romero let the matter lie. Gil was right. It didn't matter who had shot the man. Whoever it was clearly knew what they were doing. They'd avoided a fatal shot. "I want to know what this son of a bitch was doing on my property. We can keep him here, but we don't have the facility to treat gunshot wounds. I thought you should know about it."

Romero nodded. "Alright. Have one of your men drop him off outside the hospital. I'll get Moore to wait there and take him in. I'll post an officer outside his room until he regains consciousness. Then I'll question him."

Gil had only to glance at two of his men, and they were moving forward, shouldering their guns to pick up the injured man. Like well-trained dogs, they were. Perhaps Gil would like to take on Clementine…

"I appreciate you coming out here," Gil said, as Romero cast his last thought aside. Gil probably wouldn't feed her properly. Hungry dogs made more vicious guards. "Sorry to have to drag you out of bed."

"Next time, tell your men to aim a little more to the left."

"Don't worry," Gil said. His face took on something of a scowl. "I'll be having words with them about this."

"This isn't a good time to be a stranger in White Pine Bay," Romero told him. "The sooner your trimmers are gone, the better off everyone will be."

"New Year," replied Gil. "They're contracted until the New Year, and then they'll be gone."

"I'll hold you to that."

He left the warehouse by the same route he'd come in, watched by Gil's people, their guns lowered. The stranger really was lucky to be alive, and if he gave the right answers, he'd continue to live. For now, Romero had bigger problems than someone sniffing around Gil's place. He still had a killer to catch.