“We just don’t know what kind of damage it’s doing to our stuff—or to your place,” Dan told Troy, clearly no stranger to the art of negotiation.
Troy turned to Jordan. “Sheriff Burke, are you going to stand by and let taxpayers’ property get torn up by local wildlife?”
“I’m sworn to protect the lives of anyone in my county, whether they pay taxes here or not,” said Jordan. “As for your property, I suggest you take it up with your insurance company.”
For once, the Cashmores didn’t weigh in, but instead watched Troy to see what he would do next.
“As someone who pays your salary, I find that answer disappointing,” he told Jordan. “But I don’t intend to employ you much longer.”
He winked at his renters. “Watch this,” he said, and strode into the house.
Jordan could feel the eyes of the Cashmores on him, their continued silence suggesting a disappointment that he hadn’t resisted Troy’s challenge to his authority. A bear encounteranda fistfight would have been an even better story to tell their friends. But even though what Troy was doing was stupid, there was no law against it.
Pans banged inside the house as Troy shouted, “go on, get out of here! go on, git!”
The country twang was a nice touch.
There was more banging, a few heavy thumps, a moan of distress—Jordan was pretty sure it was the bear—and the clatter of a thrown chair. Then a muted crunch.
Shedding crumbs of safety glass, the bear scrambled over the railing of the back porch, performed an ungainly belly flop into the bushes, and quickly disappeared into the trees.
Troy emerged triumphantly from the back door and casually chucked the frying pans onto the porch like a gunslinger tossing his smoking pistols.
“See?” he said, arching an eyebrow at Jordan. “No big deal.”
“I’m glad you’re safe,” said Jordan through gritted teeth. “I’m also glad I don’t have to radio for an ambulance. That could have gone another way.”
“If Iwerea local voter, I know who I’d want for sheriff,” said Lena, as Troy almost visibly swelled with pride.
“Just remember it’s not all chasing bears out of rentals,” Jordan told him. “Next time it could be a tweaker with a gun.”
“Or even worse for you, it could be a raccoon!” chuckled Troy.
As Troy, Dan, and Lena all yukked it up, Jordan searched his mind for a comeback. He had never been particularly quick with words.
Then his radio crackled with a call from dispatch.
“Sheriff, there’s been a multivehicle accident on Highway 41 with probable fatalities,” said Gracia. “Sending other units, but you’re the closest.”
Jordan was behind the wheel before she finished. The Airbnb trio shrank in his windshield as he floored it in reverse. He was sorry he couldn’t stay to watch Lena’s face as she realized the bear had plowed through the closed side of the sliding doors. All kinds of forest creatures were likely to come in.
Actually, that was guaranteed.
THREE
CARA
That woman’s so fake, she’s got Botox in her DNA.
—@defpoetryslamama
Cara climbed over the sagging barbed-wire fence, snagging the sleeve of her jumpsuit, and jogged into the dry, brown grass. She had no idea whether she was headed north or south, east or west, but it didn’t really matter as long as she got far away, as fast as possible, from the acrid smell of burning oil and rubber, and the sight of twisted metal, shattered glass, and broken bodies. She felt awful that the elderly couple who’d been decent enough to stop would see such gore but was thankful poor Bree wouldn’t leave this earth alone.
Realizing she couldn’t run inland because she’d end up in the front yard of a farmhouse, she sprinted parallel to the highway, moving from one sparse stand of trees to another in side-cramping bursts. Once past the house, she turned away from the road and jogged until she reached a rocky rise surrounded by dense brush. Panting and thirsty, she crouched to catch her breath.
Sirens blared nearby. More sounded in the distance.
Pushing on, Cara bushwhacked until her progress was stopped by a steep drop-off. She couldn’t scramble up the rocky hillside or she’d be plainly visible. There was no time to turn back and head in a different direction. The only viable option was to drop down twelve feet or so—she hoped it was only that far—into the streambed below.
