Chapter 12

Kris didn't know what he'd done in the past, as far as gainful employment, but he wasn't especially happy with the jobs available in a small semi-resort town during the off season. There was a need for a bag boy at the local grocery store. The single fast food burger joint in town had a help wanted sign in the window that was held there with yellowed, crispy tape that, five or six years ago, hadn't been either yellow or crispy at all. He knew, somehow, that making thousands per week stuffing envelopes in your own home was a crock. The daily newspaper that serviced Pembroke was a regional paper, really, and a lot of the ads were for jobs in other towns. He began to eye his pantry skeptically, thinking of ways to cut down on meals and stretch what had seemed like so much, only days ago.

Over the next two days he got visits from two more men that, as far as he knew, he'd never seen before. Both had been in the diner the night Lulu took him home, but he didn't know that.

One was a man named Tim Clark, who shyly extended a winter hat, quilted in a faded blue plaid on the outside, with fake fur on the inside that had once been white. It had ear flaps that would have tied up on top of the head or under the chin, if the strings were still there.

"Preacher said you was needing warm things," said the man. "It ain't much, but I'm getting a new one for Christmas from my kids. They don't know I know, so don't tell 'em, OK?"

The other was Gerald Witherspoon who handed over a tall pair of elk skin mukluks with a fur lining. They were beautiful and Kris was astonished.

"I seen you a couple of times," said the man. "You were wearing sneakers both times. Man can lose toes in this weather. I know. Lost two myself one time to frostbite. You take these and wear them. My Emma makes them." He stood there, looking uneasy.

"Thanks!" said Kris. "I'll pay you for them, when I find a job."

"No need," said Witherspoon, almost gruffly. "Lulu's kind of special to us here," he said.

Kris blinked at the sudden change of subject, but tried to keep up.

"She's a special person," he agreed.

"I mean we care about her," said Gerald.

"I'll tell her you said that."

"No!" yelped the man. "Fer pity's sake, don't tell her that. Just you remember we think a lot of her."

Kris suddenly realized what the man was dancing all around. People in town must know he was spending a lot of time with Lou Anne. They were worried about her, because he was an unknown ... a stranger.

"She saved my life," said Kris. "I think a lot of her too. I understand why she's important to this town. She's a good woman."

Witherspoon blinked a few times and then nodded. "Better be going."

"Thanks again for the boots," said Kris.

"Mukluks," said Gerald.

"Pardon?"

"They're called mukluks," said Gerald. "Came from Indians." He turned abruptly and stomped down the snow-covered walk to his car, where a woman was watching them from the passenger's seat.

Kris raised the mukluks in a salute to the woman, who he hoped was Mrs. Witherspoon, and smiled. She looked away.

Other than the relative outpouring of concern by the members of Reverend Hoskins' church, the only thing that seemed to be going well for Kris was the writing. He was pretty sure that was because he did almost all of it at Lulu's house, where her mere presence provided the hormonal atmosphere that seemed to feed the pap in his romance novel. That it was pap he had no doubt.

The scenes and the dialogue were all too predictable. It took very little imagination to come up with the flow of words that supported the ridiculous plot. The handsome, manly pirate had no trouble at all seducing the women he came into contact with. The women were drawn to him like bees to honey. What was laughable, as far as Kris was concerned, was that his crew of good natured ne'er-do-wells didn't seem to mind at all that only Sir Quigley got to bed the women, while they gathered outside the door to his cabin, to drink rum and wink and nudge each other as the cries of feminine delight came through the sturdy oak.

There had been a problem, at first. All the women seemed to resemble Lou Anne, when he first started. He solved that problem by picking women on the street and using their descriptions as the story developed. Another problem was that the story was getting more and more graphic, sexually speaking. He was beginning to have questions about the publishability of it, but the scenes that popped into his mind couldn't be denied. More than once he thought it was beginning to sound like porn.

On his fourth day after leaving the hospital another man knocked on his door.

"Hello," said the man, smiling. "I'm Greg Schaffer. I'm the general manager of WKDD radio, here in Pembroke. I heard you might be looking for a job."

Kris blinked. This was like some fairy tale he was caught in. He had a sudden thought.

"You don't, by chance, attend Reverend Hoskins church, do you?"

The man looked a little pained, but nodded. "He suggested that you seemed to be a bright young man, who could solve a little problem I've had for some time. We run taped programming at night, but someone has to go in and change the tapes, and there's no one there to keep an eye on things. I can't pay you a lot, but it should help out, a bit."

"I don't think I have any experience in that area," said Kris.

"I can teach you everything you need to know," said Shaffer. "My wife would be most appreciative if I didn't have to get up twice a night and run down to the station. I understand you're an author. We have the most up to date computers at the station, and I would understand completely if you were to pursue that vocation while you weren't busy with station business."

It seemed too good to be true, but Kris didn't feel like he could look this particular gift horse in the mouth. If things didn't work out, he could always quit.

"I'll give it a shot," he said.

"Excellent," said Shaffer, beaming. "Be at the station tonight at eleven. That's when we do our last live newscast, or at least when we've BEEN doing our last newscast. I may have you give news updates during the night, or at least weather updates, between tapes. If we can get somebody to sponsor them, I can pay you more."

He decided not to tell Lou Anne about it, in case it didn't work out. He usually left her house around eleven anyway, and that night he simply drove to the station instead of going home.

His new job was so simple it seemed surreal somehow. All he had to do was keep an eye on the equipment, which involved reading dials and looking at lights. The programming was all on tapes. He had to stop the tape at prescribed times, to give news and weather updates, but that was it. The night programming was a syndicated show, that had its own announcer already on the tape.

It had a lot of advantages. First off, as Shaffer had said, there was a computer there, so he could write while the programming played out. It also put him on the same basic schedule as Lulu, for which he was very happy. He'd gotten used to having her review his writing. Her comments were remarkably insightful, and more than once she'd pointed out ... and then solved ... a problem he hadn't noticed at all.

It was easier to adjust his schedule than he'd thought it might be. He wondered if he'd had a night job in the past that he couldn't remember. He went to work before Lulu, and got off before she did, too. He almost always ended up at The Early Girl for breakfast. He didn't "fit in" there, yet. He was still an outsider. But that was OK, because sitting alone in a booth let him read over the printout of his night's work, while it was still fresh in his mind. Scribbled notes to himself between the lines would be processed later that evening, at Lulu's quite often, and that would have it fresh in his mind for continuing the story at work after that. Plus, her flirty behavior always had him primed to write "the good parts," when he was alone and his boner wouldn't embarrass him.

Things were working out much better than he'd thought they would.

Life went on for Mitch Connel, too. He still thought about Kris fairly frequently. He'd sat with him at breakfast a time or two, while the man looked over sheets of print that were from his book. He was obviously able to create pages and pages of text, assuming he didn't just use the same ones every day for show. Kris wouldn't let anyone but Lulu look at them. She'd come by, pick up a page, her eyes scanning rapidly down it. She might point to something and make a comment that was always cryptic, to Mitch, but which usually had Kris hitting his forehead with one palm and saying, "Of course! Thanks, Lulu."

Mitch was still certain that Kris was hiding something. He just had no idea what it was. He was also sure it was something that didn't have anything to do with the car that was still under the ice. It was obvious no one else had been involved in that accident. The insurance company was still stalling on getting the car out of the river, even though they now had Farmingham's social security number.

It was no big deal, really. There were no incidents or unsolved crimes in the region that seemed to be tied to the stranger. At least nothing Mitch could identify.

Detective Harper plugged the ear buds into his ears and tried to act like he was doing something completely normal. Technically, he wasn't supposed to have the tape he was putting in the portable tape player. The original was FBI property-evidence, technically, though it would never be used in court. It was rare for a recorded interview to be played for a judge or jury. The constitution ... and the defense attorney ... demanded that the actual witness be questioned.

Defense attorney's hated the recordings intuitively. They were usually made when the investigation was still fresh and the witness, or suspect, in this case, was still high on the emotions created by the incident. That emotion was clearly audible on the tapes, if they were done right. Listening to a victim's sobs could tear your heart out, if you weren't used to hearing that kind of thing. And the casual lies of a suspect, later proved to be lies, often made them sound like soulless, uncaring bastards ... which most of them were. Defense attorneys didn't want a jury to hear either kind of damaging evidence. They much preferred making the victim tell the story so many times that they just sounded dead and uninterested when the jury was listening. If done right, the crime would sound like it was no big deal, even to the victim. And the suspect had to be coached ... trained to speak ... or you didn't put him on the stand at all.

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