“Jeezus Howard Hughes Christ!”
Chili said in tired exasperation. “I
swear I jus’ don’t know what we’ve got goin on around here all of a damned
sudden. Port Tim used t’ be such a
nice-n-peaceful town. Bad voodoo’s
whaddit is…bad voodoo.”
Twenty-two
years in the Pacific Northwest as a lawman –
sheriff’s deputy and highway patrolman, finally ending up as the Port Timothy
chief of police – and Charles Hilliker still had a drawl that made him sound
like a freshly-landed tourist from a sultry climate. A long-misplaced Cajun, bits of Louisiana clung to his
raspy voice with the tenacity of cold molasses – especially when he let his
frustration show. No matter, he knew the
lay of the land in and around his jurisdiction better than any lifelong
resident. He leaned back in his swivel
chair and ran his troubled fingers through the mass of graying black curls
piled atop his head as if massaging into submission the spikes of blood
pressure that were racing straight up through the roof of his skull.
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