LAST EPISODE: after a wild dog attack on the town hall meeting, Golden Years Body & Mind Development Group LLC sold their vision for a sprawling complex on the remote summit of Mount Costo to the locals of Sternum Island. It certainly helped that they’re promising to dump all kinds of cash all over the island! Money may talk and bullshit may walk, indeed – but Doug really had to go and pick up his kids. THIS WEEK: Constable Sweetland has a job to do, and Doug better not get in the way.
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DOUG NAVIGATED HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD, TOWARD THE MAIN DOORS. The discussion faded. Outside, Doug sucked in the fresh air. He was about to put up a “No Job Too Small!” poster on the noticeboard outside the town hall, when he saw Constable Sweetland’s empty police truck parked just a bit further down the main street. The driver’s door was open and the truck’s sirens flashed silently, red and blue light circling around the empty street.
As Doug approached, Sweetland emerged from Orchard Lane. He was leading July, who was now in handcuffs. Sweetland towered over her, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her to the police truck. A thin trail of blood trickled down the front of July’s face. The forearm of Sweetland’s sleeve was shredded and bloodied as if Ramses had attacked him.
“Hey! Constable Sweetland!” Doug closed in on the pair. “What’s happened?”
“Please stand back, Mr Shasta,” Sweetland responded, his hulking figure loomed, dark eyes jittering around to give Doug a brief glance.
“I’m afraid I’ve had to arrest Ms Straitemore due to her obstruction in the carrying out of my duties. I’ll make a report imminently. But in the meantime I must ask you not to interfere.”
“Jesus,” Doug exclaimed. “What happened to your head, July? Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry, Doug,” July replied, “I’m fine. Ramses got away. I got too close. They’re…”
“Ms Straitemore!” Sweetland put his hand on July’s head and pushed her into the back seat of the truck. “Refrain from communicating with Mr Shasta.” Sweetland slammed the door shut, then circled around to the driver’s side.
“What do you mean, July?” Doug yelled through the window.
“Mr Shasta,” Sweetland shouted over the hood of the truck. “If you want to communicate any further with Ms Straitemore, do so through the proper channels.”
“What do you mean? What’re the proper channels?” asked Doug.
“Either through telephone or in-person at the compound, during office hours. You can find all the relevant information online.”
“We’ll get you out!” Doug shouted through the window.
“Don’t let this madman catch Ramses!” July shouted back.
“Ms Straitemore. I have warned you,” Sweetland growled as he fired the truck up. Doug could see Sweetland’s black eyes staring at him through the rearview mirror, burning.
“Dr Hubble needs to look at both of you!” Doug shouted over the revving engine.
July kept trying to tell Doug something, but the sound of the engine drowned her out, her words muffled through the window. Sweetland gunned the truck and it lurched forward, its spinning tires spraying gravel up into the air.
Doug stood in the middle of the road, watching the police truck drive off up the hill, sirens flashing silently into the forest, the bright yellow paper of his “No Job Too Small!” poster crumpled in his hand.
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