No Ordinary Sheriff. Mary Sullivan
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about getting new stuff, but instead he remained subdued and wary as though he expected Cash to take it away. Or as though he couldn’t believe he deserved it.
“Those are yours, too.” Cash nodded toward a hat and gloves.
“I slipped some granola bars into the pocket of the jacket. There’s a twenty for lunch. Don’t lose it.”
Austin put on the hat and gloves. He cleared his throat and said, “Thanks,” with a small smile. Cash thought he detected a sheen in the boy’s eyes before he turned away toward the door.
Cash stopped him. “Does your mom go through your pockets?”
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“Best go spend that money at the diner now, maybe buy something for dinner, too, then hide it when you get home.”
It didn’t feel right warning a boy against his mother, but this was real life, not Leave it to Beaver. Austin had to look out for himself.
“I got a place in our shed where I keep things. Mom doesn’t know about it.”
“Good. Don’t think I’m going soft on you just because I’m giving you stuff. Next time I’ll have to charge you. Got it?” His stern “cop” voice seemed to make an impression on Austin.
“Yeah, I got it.” Cash could tell he did. Finally.
“I’ll see you later tonight.”
“’Kay,” Austin mumbled and left, the tips of his long hair sticking out from under his new hat.
Cash picked up the old jacket and searched the pockets for contraband. Nothing. Not a single thing, not even an empty gum wrapper.
Man, he hated distrusting Austin.
He didn’t believe that marijuana led to heavier drug use, but Austin must feel the heavy burden of his life. Any escape from the situation would appeal, no matter the source.
Cash had to find that source. Where had Austin picked up the marijuana?
Just out of curiosity, he emptied his own pockets. Keys. A wallet with enough bills in it to make him feel secure. Change. The remainder of a bag of cinnamon hearts he’d bought the other day.
Austin had so little. Pitiful. Just plain pitiful.
He threw on his jacket and ran out of the office after Austin.
“Hey,” he called, and Austin stopped and waited for him.
“Let’s go to Sweet Talk. I feel like candy. How about you?”
Austin perked up. “I like candy.”
In Janey Wilson’s candy store he ordered chocolates and whichever candies Austin indicated he might like. With a mom on welfare, Austin didn’t get a lot of treats in his hard life.
By the time they were ready to leave Cash had a replacement bag of cinnamon hearts for himself and Austin’s pockets were full to bursting. Now Cash felt good, as though he’d completed the job.
They strode to the door, Austin with the slightest of smiles. Man, it would feel amazing to see Austin really smile, or grin, or laugh.
The bell above the door tinkled and Cash looked up. He stopped. So did Austin.
Shannon Wilson entered the shop and, for a minute, Cash couldn’t breathe.
Her eyes took in every corner of the shop and everyone in it before she relaxed and concentrated on Cash.
Once out of cop mode, she looked as radiant as the sun rising on a May morning. She wore a short ski jacket and blue jeans tucked into slouchy boots, and that pretty blond hair in a ponytail again. She wasn’t a cop now. She was just a woman. All woman.
“Hey,” she said, and slid her hands into her jacket pockets. “Do you have a sweet tooth?”
For you. Stop that! “Yeah.” He put his hand on Austin’s shoulder. “So does my Little Brother. This is Austin.”
Shannon smiled and Cash could feel Austin hunch his shoulders. “Hey, Austin.”
Austin stood on his toes and whispered in Cash’s ear, “Can she come tonight?”
No, no, no. Cash didn’t want that, but Austin did.
“You want to invite her? Really?”
Austin nodded.
“Okay.” If that was what Austin wanted, he’d take the chance and ask. “Friday nights I take Austin to the movie theater over in Monroe. You want to come with us?”
He held his breath. Don’t disappoint the boy.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Cash glanced at Austin. He’d put on what Cash called his shuttered look.
She must have noticed it, too, because she said, “Can I take a rain check? I’m probably still going to be here next Friday. I could come then?”
Austin nodded, fast and hard.
When they left the shop, Austin was smiling, first time Cash had seen that in a long, long time.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARY LOU MCCLOSKEY ran her errands about ninety miles west of Ordinary where people didn’t know her.
Last week, she’d gone shopping one hundred miles east instead.
She picked up a couple of packages of a cold medication containing ephedrine at the local drugstore, showing a fake ID to make the purchase. She’d bought the ID from a biker. Since she was making meth for them to sell, they’d been accommodating.
Before heading home today she’d pick up more cold medication in a town ten miles west, also. She shopped different towns every week, miles and miles apart so no one could ever connect the dots.
That, along with what she ordered through her husband’s pharmacy and what she’d ordered online to be delivered to her parents’ old farmhouse, put her in good shape.
* * *
WHEN SHE FINISHED with her purchases, she didn’t head straight home. Instead, she drove to her parents’ farm. They were dead now, killed in a car accident two years ago.
They’d left the property to Brad in the will. Why? This wasn’t the 1900s. They should have trusted her to take care of this place just fine on her own. But no, they’d left it to her husband as though she were too dim-witted, too gently-bred, too female to be of much use. She would have loved having a piece of land in her own name.
She was the one with the brains. She was the one who’d excelled in school, who’d adored math, science, everything. But she was the one who stayed home to care for the children while Brad had a career, while the town looked up to him, while he made money and she went to him every week for handouts.
They’d raised her to be sweet, to be demure and supportive of her husband, but she was smarter than Brad.
Her parents had never seen that.
She stepped into the RV parked a dozen yards away from the house and turned on a light. A sense of satisfaction ran through her. She was a businesswoman. A clever one.
In the small narrow space, she’d made the sweetest little chemistry lab.
She’d seen photos of meth labs, had done a lot of research before building her own. In every photo the labs had been a mess. Not hers. Hers was clean and tidy and perfect, everything lined up exactly as it should be. Three large plastic jars with lids sat beside an eyedropper, coffee filters, glass dish and funnel.
Her ingredients were precisely lined up in a row along one wall. Iodine. Red phosphorous. Ether. Hydrochloric Acid. Sodium Hydroxide. Methanol. On hooks in the wall, she stored her clean tubing.
She placed her purchases on the end of