KnockOut

love, a little pain.
    He wondered if she knew what to do with that powerful weapon so close to her fingers. His two deputies were more than likely already over at Kandra’s Kafe chowing down on “All the Tortilla Chips You Can Eat,” today’s special. When Doreen had called him, he’d almost not come by, thinking about all those chips and the big bean burrito waiting for him. He could always count on Kandra to come through with the food when his wife was in one of her moods.
    Stupid lost tourist who needed some hassling, that’s what he’d thought. And now this. Now he had two FBI agents on his hands, this big guy whose nose needed to be broken, and the woman, probably the guy’s girlfriend. He could just pull them behind the gas station but it was too big a risk. The woman had already called the damned director.
    How could the FBI possibly know about Blessed and Whistler? He remembered that sheriff calling him about Blessed from somewhere in the mountains back in Virginia. He must have called the FBI. Damnation.
    The fed had asked him a question—oh, yeah, about Whistler. He said, the hot rage burning the air between them, “You’ll have to ask Blessed for Whistler’s address. I don’t know it. I never knew it, you got me?”
    “Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I probably will,” Savich said easily, and walked straight at the sheriff, making him hop to the side.
    Sherlock saw the flash of rage in the sheriff’s eyes when he realized he’d been outsmarted, and tried not to smile. They watched the sheriff walk inside the Quik Mart and lean close in to speak to Doreen. They waited. After only about a minute he came out, put sunglasses on his nose, climbed into his truck, and peeled out. She arched an eyebrow.
    Savich said, “Thanks for calling Director Mueller for me.”
    “You’re more than welcome. He was right there, as if he’d been waiting for me to call him.”
    “I must say, you sure got a hold of him fast. I’m impressed.”
    “And so you should be. We’re off to see Grace and Shepherd?”
    “Doreen said Grace wasn’t here either,” Savich said. “She could have been blowing me off—we’ll find out when we get to the Back-mans’.”
    Savich stared after the black truck. “Do you know, I don’t think Sheriff Cole and I are going to be best friends.”
    Sherlock said, “He’s afraid of the Backmans, and he hates you all the way to his steel-tipped boots. He really wants to kick your butt, Dillon, big-time.”
    Savich quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that might be fun?”
    “Yeah, for you.”
    Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.
    The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.
    “Why do you call them spooks?”
    The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”
    “Why do you think that’s true?”
    The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”
    “Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace Mrs. Backman?”
    “Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet— that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”
    A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”
    “My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Mi-chael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”
    “Do the Backmans go to your church?”
    “No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Taylor.”
    “Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice