Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 47
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Constables met us in the terminal, confusin’ me a bit. Figgered they’d be a bit thin if they were off lookin’ for Thomas. Then I noticed a few of them had patches, the kind that attach with Velcro on their arms, from different jurisdictions, so either Papa or the Chief called in some help.

The troll that leaned near as I approached him, explained they were here for crowd control. Crowd control? He didn’t elaborate. Turned and led us through the terminal. His buddies hurried forward formin’ a phalanx around us. We were gettin’ a lot of double-glances.

There were a lot of folk on the sidewalk and spillin’ into the parking lot, clearly visible from the main lobby. A few waved signs. Most just wielded concerned expressions. What?

As the double sliders opened us to the fresh mountain air, the clashin’ sounds of the crowd reached us. I studied the breadth of the congregation, sorta evenly split it seemed, angry biggots on the left and maybe Birs supporters on the right. Don’t know why any of this became a Birs issue. I’d have to think about that.

I connected eye-to-eye with many on both sides as I lingered for a few moments, allowing Ezra to get ahead of me. I gave a few I know well to my right a nod. One in particular to my left looked away, then down, when I studied him for a sec. I’d interviewed him for a job once. Only average grades from the Hamlet’s little college, if I recollected correctly. Glad I didn’t hire him.

The trolls leadin’ us didn’t have to resort to any kind of physicality to get us to our waitin’ cars—official Hamlet vehicles—which was odd. Expected only Papa, maybe, in his personal SUV.

As Ezra and I slid in the opened back, I noted Papa sittin’ in the front passenger seat. A troll constable at the wheel.

“Welcome home,” Papa muttered, as though he intended the irony.

I thrust a sideways thumb out, gesturin’ at the crowd moseyin’ about our three-car parade, and wrenched Papa a huh? look.

“Go figger,” he said with a shrug.

“Any news?” Ezra asked.

Papa gave the troll behind the wheel a meanin’ful glance.

The bull cleared his throat. “We’ve got five miscreants at the station, for questionin’.”

The constables, I’ve noted many times, are very wired into whatever sentiments are floatin’ about the Hamlet, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if they had a page in a ledger listin’ the local antisocial fools who might get behind a bloviatin’ ignoramus overly impressed with his own mental capacity, more like, the lack of—ready to bring in for, whatever.

I waited for a bit more from our driver. And what about Thomas?

“There was a suggestion raised in the office,” the constable finally continued.

“Yeah, and,” Ezra hissed. Clearly not feelin’ full of patience.

“About leveragin’ a somewhat unorthodox method of drawin’ information.”

“Spit it out, fool,” Ezra growled. Not good to let an ogre hen get angry with ya—even for a troll bull.

The troll nervously searched for Ezra in his rearview.

~ Ezra ~

I immediately thought it was a idjiotic idea, but how long could it take. Not like scourin’ the woods in one particular direction or another would accomplish much. The Range ain’t a tiny place. Can’t see ten feet in any direction off a trail for the thick forest.

I could appreciate the constables didn’t want to put me in a stressful environment—or maybe they thought I might wrench the head off one of their miscreants. That would prolly entail some difficult explanations to someone. Nasty paperwork.

I sat down at the little stainless steel table, on a stainless steel chair that had to weigh as much as one of Grandpapa’s favorite bovine bulls, across from the first ogre bull, manacled to a latch on the shiny table a dragon would never be able to breach.

He sat on more stainless steel, but a short bench I think bolted to the floor, which meant he wasn’t gonna lean back and get comfortable. I may have recognized him, prolly from school—since my life exists now closed inside a kitchen, which I arrive at many hours before the typical Hamlet resident has their first cup of tea.

He clearly recognized me. His eyes went wide. Forehead wrinkled. Jaw clenched, pinchin’ his tusks tightly, as he wrenched a look at the constable who quietly leaned against the wall next to the door without ever sayin’ a word when we entered the claustrophobic closet.

“Why’s she here?” the miscreant hissed at the constable.

The constable didn’t say a word. Just continued lookin’ straight ahead, arms crossed, as though he read writin’ on the blank wall across from him. I got it. Make the bull as uncomfortable as possible. The constable prolly stood there less to learn new stuff, than to keep me from harmin’ his miscreant. The threat of it was good, just not the reality of it.

So my presence was supposed to get this bull talkin’ about stuff he wouldn’t say to the constables. Purely out of idjiotic, stinkin’ fear.

Was I supposed to ask a question? The constable didn’t give me any direction or advice. All he had said was, “Let’s see what happens.” For a troll bull, wasn’t very chatty.

So I just studied the bull across from me. Kinda pretty blue-green eyes for a miscreant. Didn’t take great care of his tusks, though—coulda used a serious buffin’. Nothing out of the ordinary with his build. Not a scrawny do-nothing. Dreadlocks hung in larger masses, not very cared for, frankly. Dressed like the average ogre on the street. Long sleeve flannel shirt under a leather vest, jeans. I think Ike owns a pair of jeans, though can’t recall him wearin’ anything but cargo shorts. Surely, in the middle of winter. No, don’t think so.

A name came to me. Oh yeah. He was grade nine when I was grade twelve. Never had an elective with him. But I remember he’d been tossed from a basketball game Ike had dragged Kriz and me to. For unsportly behavior, if I remember correctly. Figgers he’d end up manacled to a stainless steel table at the constable’s station.

“I’m not sayin’ a word,” the bull grumbled.

I growled. Impressed me. In the tight little room it made all the stainless steel vibrate. Sent a bit of a tickle into my butt. Another day I might have laughed.

“I didn’t do nothing,” the bull said. Tred, I’m pretty sure was his name.

I remained motionless. Practiced a good hen glare. With my two cousins, I’ve had plenty of practice glarin’.

Tred looked back at the constable. “I wanta lawyer.”

I asked him what side of the Plains he thought we were on. In the Range, law is all about council and clan leader fiat. Miscreants don’t get bailed out for narcin’ on emselves.

I didn’t sense a hint of motion or emotion comin’ from my friend the constable. I continued glarin’ at Tred, but my mind started imaginin’ my fists rippin’ parts of him off. Could club him good with his own arm. Maybe a bit more growl vibrated the stainless steel. Nah, definitely did.

“Really. Didn’t do a thing.” A whimper trailed.

“But ya know something, Tred,” I said.

“Gret,” he corrected me.

Tred, Gret, tomato, tomata. It irritated me some that he’d think I cared what his name was. “One day ya’re gonna be on the street, where the constables can’t protect ya.” Maybe I shouldn’ta suggested that. We were prolly bein’ recorded.

Questionin’ his future wasn’t necessarily a personal threat, or leveragin’ Birs connections. In the Range, authorities tend to not notice the actions of an odd vigilante—if they remained discreet. I continued glarin’. The bull’s glances at the constable picked up.

We continued the silence game for a good five minutes. Maybe I started decidin’ this was a waste of time. And I had to repeat this four more times? Allowed my growl to grow. A bit like rock against rock now.

“Maybe I heard some guys talkin’ at Lew’s,” he finally said softly.

~