Thursday, July 26, 2012

“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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