Hard Ground by Joseph Heywood Page A

Bo?”
    â€œHell no, nor a girlfriend. I don’t like being chained down. Something about me scares women.”
    â€œYou mean you turn them off.”
    â€œHell, I get some every day,” he bragged. “Pound them cooters regularly.”
    He was totally gross and disgusting. “Yeah, what about today ?”
    â€œ Ever’ damn day,” he bragged.
    â€œDon’t bullshit me, Kokko.”
    â€œOkay, it’s been a while maybe, you know, with all the court shit and such you got me into, Turco.”
    â€œYou got yourself into it. How long exactly, a week, a month, a year?”
    â€œI ain’t been keepin’ count,” Kokko said.
    Lurleen Turco blinked and gasped. God, I can’t be this desperate. This is totally sick! I disgust myself.
    Detective Vincent intercepted her in the woods. “You get lost?” he asked.
    â€œMomentarily,” she said. “Kokko’s handcuffed to a tree over that way.” She handed the detective the two plastic bags. “I bought these from him. He and the evidence are all yours.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œAway, out, home”
    â€œBut it’s your bust.”
    â€œMy gift to you. How many people are here?”
    â€œThree hundred, and a hundred impersonators.”
    â€œEverybody makes the top one hundred, that the deal?”
    â€œBrilliant marketing, eh? Seriously, where are you going?”
    â€œHome.”
    â€œAlone? There’ll be a big party later today.”
    â€œCount me out.”
    â€œYou antisocial?”
    â€œMight just be,” she admitted, thinking all evidence pointed toward a lot more days in the dry spell.
    Over near the big top a voice blared, “All backup bands, ten seconds until the Group Elvis Anthem, say again, ten seconds.” Guns began to fire into the air, and Turco ducked instinctively and plodded toward her truck as the crisp morning air flooded with countless electric guitars and drums and three or four hundred voices singing more or less together “Any Way You Want Me.” And Lurleen Turco thought, At least I still have some standards.

Henry VIII
    The day ahead was the kind Amiziah Imus loved best: no complaints to follow up, no warrants to serve, no nothing, just strap his butt into the truck, pick a route, and go see what’s happening. And in thirteen years as a conservation officer in Marquette County—the biggest county east of the Mississippi, filled with ne’er-do-wells and violators of every stripe—Imus figured he’d seen it all.
    He called in service to Station Twenty in Lansing and to the county. The county dispatcher immediately asked him where he was.
    â€œLeaving my residence. Diorite.”
    â€œOne One Twenty-two, we’ve got a traffic situation on County Road 496 and M-28.”
    â€œWhat sort of problem? One One Twenty-two.”
    â€œSituation is all we know, deputy requesting assistance from a conservation officer.”
    â€œWhich end of CR 496, east or west?”
    â€œEast,” the dispatcher said.
    â€œETA five minutes.” Now what?
    When Imus reached M-28, he found traffic stopped and backed up to the horizon in both directions. He drove up the shoulder to a Marquette County sheriff’s cruiser and parked as a blue goose pulled in behind him. The problem was immediately clear: a black bear of no more than 120 pounds sitting with splayed legs in the westbound lane, sunning himself and enjoying the attention of people with cameras. Not too smart: Unwary bears invariably became deceased bears.
    â€œWhat’s his problem?” Imus asked the dep.
    â€œThey teach you guys to talk bear, eh.”
    Imus immediately concentrated on the animal but saw nothing obvious. “He hurt?”
    â€œHe ain’t much of a talker,” the dep said.
    â€œSometimes words aren’t needed,” Imus said.
    â€œTell me,” the deputy said. “I got a wife.”
    Imus