The sheriff suddenly remembered what he had done. He had started writing clues on his arm. At first, he used regular marker, but the sweat from the fever erased the trail like birds picking up bread crumbs. So, he had switched to permanent ink. The sheriff pulled back more of his sleeve.
David Olson is the name of the boy.
Don’t fall asleep again. Call Carl about the tools NOW.
The sheriff dialed the phone before he had time to think. After two rings, he recognized his friend’s voice on the other end.
“Carl, it’s me,” the sheriff said.
“What the hell,” Carl said in a groggy voice. “Do you know what time it is?”
The sheriff looked at the clock. It was 3:17 a.m.
“I know it’s late. I’m sorry. But this is really important,” the sheriff said.
“That’s what you said last time.”
“What?” the sheriff asked.
“You called me an hour ago.”
“I did?”
“Jesus Christ. How sick are you? You called me an hour ago to ask about those tools. I can’t keep doing favors for you. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake!”
“I know. I’m sorry. What about the tools?”
“Are you kidding me? You don’t even remember.”
“Just tell me!”
The sheriff could hear Carl giving him the finger on the other end.
“Okay, but this is the last time, so you better write it down. I gave the tools to my friend at the museum. The tools go back hundreds of years, but they aren’t typical for coal miners or farmers of those times.”
“What do you mean?”
“The tools were more of what a child would use. And that old two-by-four grey stone you gave me was not stone. It was petrified wood.”
The sheriff grabbed the pen and wrote furiously on his arm.
Tools belonged to children.
“So, that’s it. Last favor. I can’t keep doing this, especially now. My caseload doubled in a week.”
The sheriff stopped writing for a moment.
“What do you mean your caseload doubled?”
“Jesus Christ. Are we going to have the exact same conversation we just had?”
“I’m sorry, Carl. I’m just really sick.”
“As I said before,” Carl said, doing his finest impersonation of a sarcastic asshole, “there must be a full moon or something in the water because the whole city is either getting sick or going crazy. I haven’t been home in two days. My wife says if I’m not home for her mum’s Christmas Eve dinner, she won’t give me my Christmas present this year. I can’t lose that. It’s my only blow job all year.”
The sheriff smiled involuntarily.
“Well, I appreciate your help, Carl. You’re a good man.”
“Tell her that. Now stop calling me. Merry Christmas,” Carl said.
“Merry Christmas.”
The two friends hung up. The sheriff picked up the pen again and started writing. The itch spread over his hand. Screaming for attention, but the sheriff wouldn’t let it win. Not this time.
Stone was petrified wood.
Whole city either has the flu or is going crazy.
Just like…
When the sheriff woke up, it took him a moment to realize where he was. He was in the records room. Mrs. Russo was gone. He must have fallen asleep again. It took his mind a while to fight through the headache, but eventually he remembered that he was trying to figure out a connection to what was going on in town and that little boy…Ambrose’s little brother…what was his name again?
That name…that little boy…his name was…
The sheriff’s hand was terribly itchy. He aimlessly scratched it and realized that his uniform was soaked with sweat. Somewhere in the night, his fever must have broken. He moved to peel back his uniform sleeve and found a bunch of notes written on his arm in permanent ink.
David Olson is the name of the boy.
Don’t fall asleep again. Call Carl about the tools NOW.
Tools belonged to children.
Stone was petrified wood.
Whole city either has the flu or is going crazy.
Just like…
The sheriff moved his sleeve back and saw that the notes kept going and going and going.
Just like the year David Olson went missing. The last flu epidemic ended the day after David disappeared. Did David Olson stop the flu somehow? What did he do to stop it? Did he save us?
The sheriff got to the end of his arm. The writing stopped. Instinctively, he moved to the other arm. He loosened the wet uniform sleeve on his right arm. The writing was now left-handed, so it was sloppy. But it kept going.
Call Ambrose Olson!
The town is falling apart. You don’t have time for this shit.
The sheriff nodded to himself. This was ridiculous. He had more emergencies