When He Calls (Moons of Nibiru - Book #1)

chpt - 29: weirder things

THE SHERIFF'S HOUSE WAS THE BAD side of the life of a bachelor. Blinds and curtains were drawn, but the sun made no effort in granting sunlight inside. The kitchen was clean, make no mistake, but it was because there was not enough food in the fridge and cabinets to stain a lot of dishes; there was just enough for a single man and a potential guest. As cliché as it was, there was more beer than food in the fridge. The house consisted of a bedroom which envied the Sheriff's office, because that was slowly becoming its master's new sleeping quarters; a kitchen where Sheriff Carl ate standing up; a bathroom where Sheriff Carl played this game with the mirror above the sink where it would show him his reflection and have him guess where the new wrinkle or grey hair ― or both ― had appeared; a small guest room that serviced more dust and cockroaches than people spending the night; a living room where stacks of papers and files covered the tables and chairs like snow; and finally a small bedroom that once belonged to his nine-year-old daughter, before his wife decided she needed space from Marbel and took her belongings with her; apparently that included their only child.

Sheriff Carl sat on his creaky three-seater couch in the living room, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and questions on the table in front of him. He'd been staring at the pictures of the two women who'd been brutally murdered: both of them were known oddities in Marbel. Add the sudden suicide of Peter Jones, and Sheriff Carl ignored coincidence. If these deaths weren't enough, there were a small number of people in the town who'd gone missing. Concerned townspeople knocked on his office door and told him of their loved ones who'd gone missing. All of them scared what happened to the children was happening again, but Sheriff Carl assured them that their missing loved ones had not turned to dust. He watched the news every night, and although he struggled to use his cell phone he kept himself updated with any information regarding this universal problem. As far as he knew, no one else had vanished into thin air since the children. This information did not help ease the stress feeding on the townspeople. Sheriff Carl promised he'd find their missing beloveds, but he doubted. The first thing that came to mind was that their loved ones either ran off to the city, where most Marbel residents had started moving to, or the town actually had a madman — or madwoman; Carl Baumann was no sexist — roaming the streets at night, breaking into houses and mutilating innocent people. If the latter was the case, then why start off with two old women claiming to be psychics? And why steer away from old women and go for people of any age? It was sick to know, but Sheriff Carl heard somewhere that serial killers had specific targets: whether it be young women, young men, children, people of a certain race or people of a certain age.

He hoped the latter was not the case; otherwise he'd have a panicking town to deal with. Panic was slowly rising, for sure, what with the newspapers headlining the gruesome incidents for all to see. And with the apparent 'Mayor of Marbel' only sending money to the town (his way of saying, "I am here for Marbel and its people!") while he was cosily living in Nebraska, Sheriff Carl was the only thing standing between Marbel and the chaos ensuing in the world. The second he saw smoke he'd hose down the growing flames.

But Sheriff Carl hated to admit that he had no idea what he had to do. He had not a clue how he'd 'save' Marbel from the rot ominously growing through the streets. His greasy face fell into his hands and he groaned heavily. He was to retire the following year, and he'd be damned before giving the town's current problems over to Deputy Dewey no matter how good a man he was.

So Carl Baumann had to solve these problems. Though he had no clue where to start, he just had to.

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Marbel had few fast food outlets, but the Crunchopolis was the fanciest yet greasiest of them all. It was a Marbel tradition to have your birthday celebrated at Crunchopolis at least once. It was a small building where people could order inside and eat their meals outside by the chairs and tables protected from the sun by wide umbrellas.