After the sheriff dropped off the tools, he found himself parked outside Mercy Hospital. He stared at the place where he said goodbye to the girl with the painted nails. She touched his hand and called him “Daddy.” He stared at the Charlie Brown tree for what felt like hours.
He fell asleep in the car.
God is a murderer, Daddy.
When he woke up, the sheriff was deathly ill. At first, he thought it must be the flu, but there were no aches. No pains. No swollen glands. If it was the flu, it was the weirdest God damn thing he’d ever had. Because a flu doesn’t usually cook your skin with a fever and spare the rest of your body everything except a little itchy part of your hand.
Either way, all the sheriff wanted to do was drag his bones home and rest. His grandfather had given him a great recipe for any illness. “Down a few shots of scotch, wrap yourself up in five blankets, and sweat it out. It’s hell for ten hours, but then it’s gone.”
The sheriff was about to buy the scotch when his cell phone rang. He looked down at the caller ID, hoping it would be Kate Reese. But it was dispatch. He shook himself alert and took the call. He’d told his deputy that he was down with the flu and to only call him in an emergency.
But the emergency had already started.
His deputy informed him that half of the department called in sick with the flu. To make matters worse, some librarian from the elementary school stabbed her husband. There were a couple of bar fights. Some car accidents. It was like the whole town woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
“We need you to come in as soon as possible, Sheriff.”
It was the last thing the sheriff wanted to do.
“On my way,” he said.
As the sheriff drove back to Mill Grove from downtown, he noticed how terrible the traffic was. It reminded him of Monday mornings as a boy. Whenever the Steelers won on Sunday, people would happily share the road. “No, please. After you, sir…” But if the Steelers lost, the only sharing involved middle fingers and honking horns. That’s how much the city loved its team. Monday morning traffic lived and died with the Pittsburgh Steelers.
But this was Friday.
And the Steelers were on a winning streak.
When the sheriff arrived at the station, his fever was unbearable. The sweat ran in trickles down his back. But any hopes of him downing a little Nyquil and grabbing a catnap were crushed the minute he walked through the door. He couldn’t believe how busy it was. Mill Grove was a nice little town. But one look into that room, and he would have thought it was the Hill District on New Year’s Eve.
For the next few hours, the sheriff dealt with everything from the librarian stabbing her husband to several car accidents involving deer. The minute he put out one fire, another would pop up. Robberies. Bar fights. Vandalism. The owner of the gun shop called to say he’d had a break-in overnight. The burglars didn’t even try to open the register. He wasn’t missing any money. He was only missing guns.
It’s like the town was going crazy.
The sheriff had seen enough to know that when things go south, death is usually around the corner. But luckily, none of the car accidents were fatal. The flu hadn’t killed any children or old folks. And while the deer might have totaled a few cars, no people had died. Not even the librarian’s stabbing victim. The knife sliced through his throat and vocal cords. Mr. Henderson would never speak again, but he was still breathing.
It was a miracle.
By the end of first shift, the sheriff was dead on his feet. It didn’t matter how much aspirin he chewed, he couldn’t get his fever under control. He had already given up hope that any lotion could make the itch on his right hand stop driving him crazy. He knew that if he didn’t get a little rest, he would be useless for the upcoming week. And he couldn’t afford to be sick the week of Christmas. So, he waited for a small dip in activity, then went to his office. He downed a shot of Nyquil and let the thick cherry syrup slide down his throat. He turned off the light, lay down on the couch, and closed his eyes.