Outsiders

3. Sweet-rot

Sully fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of iced tea and went out to the back porch to eat it. Heatwaves shimmered in the furthest distance, and the drifting wind brought with it the mineral scent of the soil, and that of the quiet pond at the back. No one else would have caught the latter smell, but it was clear as day to a werebeast's nose.

He was hungry, having spent all morning with his patch of crookneck squash, and had upended a glass one-litre bottle of cold water on coming it and drunk it empty.

Just before his teeth could sink into the meal, the rumble of engines met his ears. Cars this way past the edge of town meant visitors, good or bad.

Frowning, Sully stepped inside the cool shade of the old house, transferred the food into the humming refrigerator and walked out to the front porch where white paint was flaking off the boards and posts like ancient wallpaper.

Sheriff Lynen's cruiser pulled up outside followed by Oliver Raskin's blood-red Benz SUV. Sully's surprise at the latter's appearance didn't last long against the anger that swelled right behind it. He gripped the front post, digging his sharp nails into it, thinking, This is it, it's finally come down to it. Raskin's made his play.

Lynen got out, dressed in khaki and brown. He was just starting to spread at the waist and a second chin had started to hang. He stepped out from behind his door fast, blinking in the stark light, and Sully saw—because Lynen wanted him to see, he realized—that the Sheriff was wearing but not his belt and holster. Lynen wanted to de-escalate...but on what nature of social call would he have brought Raskin here?

The Benz's driver jumped out. He was a square-jawed former quarterback, six-foot-three and could have had a career modelling for bodice-ripper romance novels. He wore a blue shirt and jeans and hand-stitched cowboy boots. He slid his sunglasses onto the top of his head.

Burl Bodman stepped out of the passenger seat, slitted eyes level on Sully.

"Afternoon, Sully," Lynen said in a careful way. He approached but Raskin leaned on his Benz. "Wondering if we could have a word with you."

"Get off my property," Sully told Raskin. "Take your garbage with you." Sully's civility had lasted a good five seconds.

Blood flushed Bodman's thick neck. His hair was manicured low on the sides and had a curved part cut into the top. He wore a black shirt and the cuffs were folded above the elbows. His hairless forearms were covered with tattoos.

"Easy," Lynen said, and for a brief moment Sully thought he heard pleading in that obdurate man's voice. "This is on the level. You have my word."

Raskin had folded his thick arms and looked away towards the pond that the deer sometimes drank from, and said nothing. His face wanted to form the usual expression of contempt but he was struggling to keep it off, for some reason. Football had led Raskin to a scholarship, marriage to a state senator's daughter, lucrative deals in real estate and oil, a large cattle ranch, and various sports' club memberships, like at Cottonrose, where the only non-whites allowed on the compound served, cleaned or landscaped.

"Know this wouldn't be worth a damn," he said.

"He can't help it," Bodman said with acrid contempt and spat. "Why don't you clean this place up? Smells like a dead dog. Maybe you et one last week."

Sully took one step off the porch and a flinch twitched Burl's face and Raskin's hand darted through the Benz's open window for the shotgun in the gun mount next to the central console.

"Go ahead," Sully said and the growl in his werebeast's throat froze Raskin's hand to a dead stop. "Anytime you want to dance, I'm right here."

"Boys, stop it," Lynen said and looked a shade annoyed and embarrassed. "Sully, Brinsley Metcalf ran off with some antibiotics and stashed them somewhere."