Chapter 2

The order was ready at the diner, so the writer was gone only seven minutes. When he returned to the park, he found Doris sitting on the same bench which he and the old man had occupied earlier. He took a seat on the far end of the bench then sat the large white bag between them.

"So much for brown bagging." He motioned toward the bag as he spoke.

"Yes progress destroys yet another cliche'." She seemed proud of her witty response. The writer smiled, what he hoped wasn't his sarcastic smile.

"What did you order for us?" He asked it in fear. He was sure that lunch would be something green and leafy. Women tended to do that to him. Yes, he did carry a few extra pounds, so it might be called for, but still not appreciated.

"I have a very nice salad. They made the most delicious salads at the café. For you," She pulled a Styrofoam box from the paper sack. Since she had the Styrofoam bowl of salad out on her lap, it appeared that the new box belonged to him. "I chose the B L T on white toast. They make the best ones in town."

"Thank you for thinking of me. Most people would get me the salad. They think I could use the low calory lunch."

"The BLT was my compromise over the fatty burgers." She was serious.

"I wonder why that is?" he asked shaking his head at her.

"Why what is?"

"Why I bring out the mother in women. Everyone tries to take care of me, when all I really want is sex." He laughed making it a joke.

"Writer, I have a feeling plenty of women who want to give you that too. Hell, you never know I might be one of them myself."

"Since I have been in Small Town X, I have had a lot of promises." The writer shook his head gently. "Just to change the subject before I get into trouble, have there been many unsolved homicides here?"

"Damnit writer, you don't waste anytime at all. Whatever happened to small talk. You know it is kind of like foreplay."

"Oh well, I just thought you would want to get on with it. I can do small talk. Honest I can." The writer got quiet while he tried to think of something to say to the Librarian. "Nice weather today." She burst into laughter. It took him a second, then he joined in.

"Writer, give it up. You are never going to be a conversationalist. You just don't have small talk in you."

"No, but I am great at foreplay." He looked at her with a smile. It was his genuine smile not a contrived one. The writer had a large bag filled with contrived smiles.

"Okay writer, I will make you a deal. You ask your questions now. If you need more time, or you think of something later, the cost will be that great foreplay you are so proud of." Being so bold didn't bother her a bit. She was a little surprised that it didn't. After all it was the first time she had acted so around a man. She had a reputation as being a lesbian. It was just because she didn't put out for any of the men who asked. The truth was that she was not a lesbian. Doris was a far worse thing to be in Small town X, she was a virgin.

By the time Doris returned to her desk, the writer had learned a few things. In fact, although he promised to call her, he had no plans to do so. He had learned about all of any value he expected to pick up from the librarian. Not only that, her looks gave him an uncomfortable feeling. He felt as though he was on display. Almost like a horse in a show ring is on display. He smiled at the thought. He also mumbled that he hoped he fetched a fair price. He would hate to be judged a second rate stallion.

He thought about what he had learned as he drove to the campground. There were not a lot of homicides of any kind in the area. As far as the librarian knew all of them were solved. The latest one had been a police shooting, so it wasn't really anything that would interest him. According to Doris, the victim just went off her nut. Things like that happened from time to time, she assured him... He had a stray thought about that but it slipped past him as he looked up at the sound of screeching brakes. The near collision between two cars reminded him again about the tow service. He almost asked Doris but decided to ask Ranger Jane instead.

While the writer slipped into a shallow sleep, Ranger Jane dressed for her nights work. She was looking forward to getting out of the trailer and back to work. Her day had been spent with hit me hurt me. She loved having the little slut around, but she also became boring rather quickly. Jane had been able to run her off, but only when she began dressing for work. It had to do with, hit me hurt me's, hubby being out of town on business. The errant wife swore that her husband would kill her, if he found out about Jane.

"Hell, he might even kill you," she suggested.

Jane wasn't afraid of Hit me's hubby but she would surely lose her job if she killed him. After the slut's departure Jane decided it was time to break it off with her. How to do it would be a bit of a problem. Hit me, had been talking about how Jane was all that kept her going.

"Bullshit," Jane mumbled to herself.

Even though the sun was still bright at five, Jane began her patrol of the campground. She drove through just as the writer awoke from his nap. He almost flagged her down but decided to hold off. He did something that for him was unheard of. He began to cook his own dinner. Since he really didn't sell the books, and it was another week before his retirement check was deposited in the bank, he was going to be forced to be a little more careful with his money.

Most folks cooked on the wood grill furnished by the park. The only problem is that the wood for the grill was not furnished. The amount needed to cook dinner was about three bucks. That sounds pretty reasonable until you figured out that you couldn't turn off the wood after you finished. The wood burned completely, which, left one to spend three dollars more for the next meal. It was cheaper to eat at the rainbow steakhouse.

If he had done that, he would have gained about a hundred pounds. He chose a lesser approach. He bought a small propane burner ring. The cylinders were a buck. They could also be used for at least three meals, usually more.

"Hey writer, if I bring my own steak, can I have dinner with you."

"If you bring your own steak, me and my hamburgers are going to be embarrassed." The writer smiled up at the black car/truck with the Ohio seal on the door.

"In that case I will stop by with my burgers. What else you having."

"Don't worry I have enough for you. Just come on by in about twenty minutes."

"You sure?" The ranger didn't want him to bad-mouth her.

"Sure, this stuff won't keep anyway. My frig is way too small for it."

"Well I can't have any until midnight, but I got a couple of six packs and plenty of ice. I will bring them when I come back to dinner."

Ranger Jane was as good as her word. When she returned with the beer, she also brought coke for herself. Several of the other campers were cooking out. Everyone spoke to her, so she was forced to reply. With all the attention she had to keep her hands off the writer. That was more of an inconvenience than anything else. She was satiated, from her encounter with Hit me, hurt me. Still, she wouldn't mind having the writer wrap her in his arms again. He did that so well.

The writer and Jane sat at the wooden picnic table. The thick paper plate was filled with something under a layer of cornbread.

"This is some kind of Mexican dish isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, but I left out most of the spice for you. I figured you were spicy enough without the extra."

"Writer, I am going to have to read something you wrote. You got a pretty slick way with words."

"Jane, I wish it was so. If it were, somebody might want to publish some of the other books I wrote." He was washing down the hamburger mess with iced tea when he remember the tow truck question. "Jane, tell me, if a person breaks down around here at night who would they call for a tow?"

"Why Everett of course," she replied.

"I see, but what if it were a stranger. Whom would they call?"

"Everett has the only tow truck in the county after five. Everybody else goes to bed like sensible people."

"But would a stranger know to call him?"

"I see what you are asking. If Maggie Evans broke down on the road, could she have called Everett?"

"Yes, I suppose that is what I am asking." The writer watched as Jane gave it some thought. He could tell she was also deciding how much she should edit her answer.

"It is possible I suppose, but I doubt it. If it was early, someone would have seen her car stuck out there. If not that, then Everett towing her around on the hook."

"Okay, so if it was late enough that most people would have been asleep?"

"Then how would she get his number?" Jane had just asked the question going around in his mind. "I suppose she could have called that highway assistance number on a cell phone. Did she have a cell phone?"

"Hell Jane, I don't know. I will have to check."

"You also need to check to see if the roadside assistance number will give Everett's number for a tow."

"I suppose I do at that."

"Well I have a couple of more things to check on this round. You want to come to the house for a snack... or maybe to be a snack?" Jane gave him the wicked grin she had mastered. It sounded like as good a way to spend the evening as any. He could make the calls as well the next day.

"Sure Ranger, you want to swing by for me later?" He asked it knowing she would want to wait until after dead dark.

"Let me stop by when I finish my rounds." She gave me that smile again. I felt like that mouse. The one who can't quite get away from the cat.

True to her word, Jane came for him around midnight. They began shedding their clothes upon entering her trailer. It was only a short distance from the door to her multi purpose bed. It was the design of the manufacturer in any case. She might have used it for many things, but the writer was sure that not all of them were what the builder had in mind.

They made it to the bed with very little covering them. Jane had panties but no bra. He had his boxers but they were on the way off, as he sat on the edge of the bed converted from the dining booth. Jane and the writer made love in a fever. She was a most demanding lover. She guided him through the things that would please her. She cared little for his pleasure.

"I know men writer. You always take care of yourselves in the end. I just want to make sure you don't forget me in the process. Doesn't that seem fair to you?" She answered in response to his question about it. It seemed fair, and even if it hadn't, he was too exhausted to care.

He sensed her leave for what might have been her final round before sunup. He definitely awoke when she slipped into the bed beside him. The writer drifted quickly back to sleep even with her hand surrounding him. Even in his sleep drugged mind he knew that it as a sign of getting old.

"Writer, wake up," He felt someone shaking him. He smiled at Jane thinking that it was either time to leave or that she was ready for another round. The smile was false bravado. He was not sure that he could perform again so soon.

"Damn it wake up writer, I got to go and you better come with me. Something is on fire in the park. Come on damn it."

"Son of a bitch," He said as he suddenly moved from sleep to being wide awake. Dressing was easy. The writer slipped into his pants then pulled on the dirty shirt. It was still damp from the muggy night before but it didn't matter. Ranger Jane didn't realize how fast he could move. He was dressed before her. He was also out the door so that she could finish as quickly as possible. The writer saw the glow in the night sky, coming from what had to be the park. There were also sirens heading down the park road. He had a dread in his gut. He had no idea how he knew, but he was absolutely sure that it was his camper.

The ride to the park was nerve wracking. Jane was a terrible driver. Worse still was the dread of what he would find. The glow was gone from the sky when they pulled into the campground. It didn't matter they followed the lights from the volunteer fire department's truck. The burned out shell of his van looked pretty bad. He knew from past experience, that it would look just as bad in the daylight. He looked at his watch and found it to be five a.m.

"What time were you through here last?" He asked it as Jane pulled to a stop.

"My last round was at two. I was due to make the final one at six."

"Wonder how the fire department got the word?" He asked it looking at her.

"I can check. I expect it was a 911 from a camper's cell. Someone will be rushing up to tell me what a good citizen they are any minute."

"Well don't wait, ask around would you. Somebody must have seen or heard something." She nodded. The writer followed her around as she talked to the firemen who were busy packing up their equipment. It was a 911 call for sure. Their call came from the county operator

The Ranger and the writer began talking to the other campers. To a man or woman, their response was the same. "The sirens woke me. It was like daylight here the flames were so high. Must have been that electrical cord running to the camper. That thing never looked safe."

After he heard it ten times, the writer found the fire chief. "I own this pile of junk. Do you have any idea what started it?"

"Not at the moment, but it started from the back. It could be electrical. We were damn lucky that it was a weekday. The park was pretty empty. If anyone had been parked around you, they would have gone up with that gas tank. Some of them are going to have been scorched as it is.

The writer took a quick look around before the firemen did anything much to the scene. The glass of the broken liquor bottle stood out like a sore thumb on the asphalt. Most of it was gone, but the parts hanging to the Jim Bean label were still intact. He showed it to the fire chief.

"It probably got blown out of the trash can over there."

"That is my trash and trust me, I don't drink Jim Bean."

The fire chief shook his head as he evidently decided to ignore him. He was probably right to ignore the writer, odds were that the fire was started by the unplugged electrical cord. With that thought the writer turned angrily to walk to the bathroom.

To his surprise, but not amazement he found a note scrawled on the mirror. 'Writer go home' it read. Even the note didn't stop him from using the bathroom. When he finished, he took another long look at the mirror.

Obviously the fire bomber knew he hadn't killed the writer. Whether that made a difference to him was not clear. He might have been waiting for the writer to leave, or it might have been a lucky break that the writer had been gone. The writer supposed that whoever tossed the bomb had waited for him to leave. He didn't think anyone would have the balls to write that note after he threw the bomb. He also didn't believe he or she would have wasted the note, if the writer was meant to be dead. It would be a dead giveaway that the fire was no accident. What to do about it was another matter entirely.

The writer gave the message a couple of minutes thought. Since he didn't need a police report for his car insurance report, he took the coarse paper towels from the dispenser. He wet a couple of them, then he removed the message. He was more than a little surprised to find it was written in soap. It didn't take a great deal of searching to find a nub of soap. Some camper had left the tiny bit laying by the sink. Strange, he thought, but did not pursue it.

"So what are you going to do writer?" Ranger Jane asked the question as he returned. She did have a look of concern on her face. He knew her only slightly but felt she had her own situation in mind somehow.

"I am going to find my telephone, then I am going to call my insurance agent." He thought it sounded logical.

"You might want to wait a bit." Ranger Jane looked at her watch. "It is a little before 6 a.m. Your agent might not be in the office."

"Oh no, the son of a bitch advertises twenty-four-hour, nationwide claim service. I am about to see how real that is."

"Chief do you need him anymore?" Ranger asked it with a serious expression on her face. She didn't fool anyone. Everyone in the county knew Jane would screw anything that walked.

"Just one more question. Where were you when it caught fire?" The writer squirmed not at all sure that he wanted to involve Jane.

"He was with me," The Ranger said it without batting an eye. She obviously had nothing to fear from the fire department report.

"Fair enough," He handed the writer a card. "Have your insurance company call that number tomorrow. I will have filed a report with the Sheriff by noon."

"Thanks Chief," the writer said. The writer was about to speak to the ranger but instead he opened his cell phone. He dialed the highway patrol emergency response number.

"Ohio highway patrol roadside assistance," the voice informed him.

"Yes, I have had a car fire. It is out now but I need to have the car towed away."

"Is the car blocking traffic sir,"

"No ma'am it is well away from the road." The ranger watched curiously.

"Sir, you may call this number. It is the only tow service open all night." She read him Everett's number. "Or you can wait till in the morning, there well be several others available then."

He thanked her, but did not make the car just then. Instead he turned to Ranger Jane.

"Writer, you are welcome to stay with me tonight. You can even use my car tomorrow, but that is all. I am sorry, but the park does not allow me to have any long term guests." The writer could tell she was lying, but he didn't mind, since he had absolutely no intention of staying with anyone. It was half a freedom issue and half a desire not to endanger anyone else. Odds were good that he hadn't seen the end of the pyromaniac.

"It is a good rule. I need to at least rent a car tomorrow. For that I do need you to drop me in town, otherwise I should be fine." He smiled at her, as he watched her peel the uniform from her body. He couldn't find the enthusiasm to make love to her. He did manage to hold her and pet her to orgasm. Jane was a demanding woman, but he knew that already.

Later that morning the writer rented a five-year-old four door sedan. The only used car lot in the car rental business had no vans. The choice was the larger sedan or a tiny econobox. It was his desire to meet Everett so he called him for the tow. Everett took the burn-out to his salvage yard to await the insurance company claims agent. He was also going to get a visit from the writer, but other things had to be taken care of first.

The writer had never thought much of his camping experience. Oh he loved the camping bit, but he felt the cost of the van space was too much for his budget. He had put too much into the camper conversion not to use it. Since he was free of the albatross, he had other plans.

He had no doubt that the insurance company was going to pay off on the van, so he began looking for a vehicle immediately. Replacing the van was going to be both an easy task and a pure mother, the money part was easy at least. When he left home, his banker had arranged automatic transfers between checking and savings. His only problem, and it was a problem, was to find a car he wanted, at a price he thought fair. He had bought the van at a wholesale auction. It was one of the many cop perks.

He discreetly asked about. He found that there was an auto auction open to the public. His luck seemed to be holding, the auction was that same night. It was not at all unusual for the sale to be on a week night. The sale to dealers, where he had bought the van, had been held on a Wednesday night. The sale near STX was open to the public, it was unusual, but a few auctions were open to John Q Citizen. His luck ended right there. The auction was in a slightly larger town about thirty miles away.

After looking at every available car in Small Town X, he decided to make the trip. The auction was held at night for a reason. Sellers loved the dark because it hid so many flaws in the cars. Since it was summer, the sale was being held in the evening light. Not as good as pure darkness, but still better than full daylight, if you were a seller.

The writer registered as a non dealer buyer. He was forced to put up a five-hundred dollar deposit in cash. He had expected it, since he called ahead to get the details. The writer didn't keep much cash on hand so he had visited his bank for it. At the same time he moved another two thousand over to the checking/ debit card account.

He walked the large parking lot filled with cars, mostly on the brink of being worn out. He was looking for a jewel mixed among the gravel. He had a lot of company in the search. It appeared that the sale was a popular one. The others walking about, seemed for the most part to be immigrants or sharp traders. The immigrants were trying to avoid being cheated, and the traders were looking to buy for resale. The traders would drop from the bidding early. Most likely they were the sellers come to shepherd their cars through the sale.

The writer picked out four cars. He had come to buy something good on gas to use in his travels. None of the four was a van. He had decided that the cost of van camping outweighed the benefits. That might not be true in the giant motor homes, but the minivan camper had been less than cost efficient. He paid the same price to park it as the larger motor homes. It was however useless for anything but sleeping.

Cars arrived while the sale was in progress. He promised himself that he would not bid on any car which he had not inspected prior to the sale. The dealer, who had taken him to the sale where he bought the van, had repeated that bit of advice over and over.

Three of the four cars were sold when he broke his own rule. The previous cars had gone for several hundred more than he felt they were worth. They all went to immigrant families. He felt, as though it was going to prove to have been a long drive for nothing.

The immigrants seemed to choose the powerful, flashy asian cars. When the small underpowered Metro convertible came on the block, it didn't get any interest at all. The body had dents and the top had a rip. He had watched it drive up to the door. He even spoke to the driver, but then he had spoken to several of the drivers. They never said much about the condition of the cars. Occasionally they would let him know the condition of the transmission or clutch in a given car. The little yellow metro looked pretty beat up but it also seemed to run well enough. The inspection the writer noted was current.

When the little beast went onto the block, he was the first bidder. You could tell from the look on his face that he hoped the observers didn't know something about the car that he didn't. The auctioneer got down about as low as the writer thought likely, before sending the car around again. His first bid was five hundred dollars.

The auctioneer pretended to be incensed. Truth was he didn't care. It was just a job to him. The second bid came from a dealer. He was bargain hunting just like the writer. The dealer and the writer went back and forth till the dealer gave up. It was one bid before the writer told himself he would have given up. He had it set in his mind, that he would not pay a thousand dollars for such a ragged out car. He bought it for nine hundred and fifty dollars.

He gave his name and bidders ID to the clerk. He could have gone inside the building, to join the long line of immigrants waiting to pay for their new cars, since he had no way to get it home, he didn't bother. The rules gave him until five the next day to settle up on the car.

The Rent-a-wreck sedan made it back to Small Town X but the writer had his doubts. It was running a little hot. He had expected it to blow at any moment. The writer mumbled, "I will be glad to get this wreck back to the car lot."

When he hit the city limits, his other problems closed in on him. It was typical that his mind had prioritized the problems. When he solved one, others would become first on his list. "I don't have anywhere to stay, or any clothes to wear tomorrow. I have been in the ones I am wearing for two days, that seems to be plenty." He said it out loud because that was the way he thought when alone.

He drove the overheating sedan back onto the highway. He did manage to make it to the Wal-mart store in the next town. There he spent a hundred and fifty bucks on clothes. It became obvious that even at Wal-mart, you can't get much for a hundred and fifty bucks.

Two pairs of cotton work pants, three sport shirts, two bags of underwear and a bag of socks took up the whole buck and a half. The complete purchase filled only four of the little blue plastic bags.

He almost decided to check into a motel near the Wal-mart. He didn't only because he wanted to stay in Small Town X. He knew his pyro was there. He wanted to be close just in case anything came to him. He didn't really expect that it would.

Even though it was very late, the one motel with twenty units was still booking rooms. He entered the office to find the place smelled of curry. Not an unusual thing even in those days. The middle-aged woman with almost pure black hair, save the one silver streak running down the middle of her head, came to the desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a heavily accented voice.

"Yes, I would like a room for tonight." He said it with a smile.

"How many people?" She was all business. He expected she would have used the same tone no matter what his attitude had been. I wasted a perfectly good smile, he told himself.

"Just me and I will be leaving in the morning." She gave a fee twice that of the campground. He paid it with his Visa card. The room he found to be adequate. The bed and the shower were nice he had to admit. Just as he drifted off to sleep, he realized that his cell phone battery could not be charged. The charger had no doubt melted along with the van. He made a mental note to call his insurance agent the next day, so that he could check on the claim.

As he dressed for the day, he had plenty on his mind. It was actually a nice feeling to have things that needed doing for a change. He knew only one other person who did not work during the day. He called Ranger Jane yet again. The writer figured she owed him. He smiled knowing it was crap but it sounded good.

"Oh Jane, I need a favor. I bought a car over in New Philly, at the auction last night. I need a ride over to get it. You can drive this piece of crap that I rented if you like."

"Okay writer, but we have to go right now. I need to get back."

"Why don't we meet across from the town square? We can leave your car there." He expected her to be driving her old beat up Honda. The state truck could not leave the park. The writer went to the café for breakfast while he waited

"So, I hear you got burned out last night?" Juanita the waitress asked.

"Night before but Yes, my van caught fire, terrible accident."

"Sure are a lot of accidents around here lately." Juanita was not smiling he noted. "So what is with you and Doris?"

"Why, are you writing a book too?" He asked it with a great smile. He didn't intend to hurt her feelings.

"Come on writer, this is a small town. You might as well give it up." Juanita was far from offended she seemed to be enjoying the interaction with the smart mouthed writer. He was, for sure, enjoying it.

"Tell you what Juanita, you get me another piece of toast and I will tell all." The writer grinned at her again. Since they were being overheard by everyone in the place, he was acting.

Juanita slammed the toast on the counter as her part of the act. "Now spill it," she demanded.

"She told me the fastest route to the hospital in case of food poisoning." The place broke into laughter. Even Juanita laughed.

"I never thought there was anything between you two. She is a lesbian you know, not that there is anything wrong with that. When I look at my old man, I wonder if I made the right choice." The customers again broke into laughter.

"You know we probably should ask him that," the writer suggested. The place again broke up.

"We could get a cover charge if you came in more often," Juanita said only a little sarcastic.

The writer kept looking out the window as he answered. "Sure put some hand bills up all over town." In the middle of his sentence he saw Jane drive by the diner. She parked in a long term space, near but not in front of the hardware store. "Well ya'll I got to run, see you." With that the writer placed a five on the counter, then left the café.

He drove his car over to Jane's Honda. "Come on hon, let get a move on, if you are in a hurry." He said it through the open window. Jane worked her way into the car. The writer pulled away from the curb immediately. During the drive to the auction site he explained about the heating car. He also told her to keep an eye out for him. He had no idea what kind of condition the little car was in.