(To go back to Part Five, click here)

After she saw Kerri to the door, Trena returned to her room. Her framed collection of Brazilian postage stamps caught her eye. She remembered her grandfather, who got her interested in philately, and grew sad that she never would see him again. For about a year after Larry dragged Trena and her mom into the Witness Protection Program, she picked up a new stamp here or there, when her mom could take her to a show. Without a buddy who shared her interest, her own waned. Now the pride of her collection, featuring images of Brazilian football stars, sat atop her dresser behind a can of hair mousse and a box of tampons.

For a second time, because Larry couldn’t resist getting back into crime, Trena left behind everybody she had worked so hard to befriend. She was allowed no contact with anybody from either of her previous lives. Ronnie, the person she had known the most briefly, was the person she wanted to see, and now she had a plan.

——-

Susan was confused. Not since the night he saved Ronnie’s life had the U.S. Marshall spoken to her. She pulled the small wad of Nicorette gum from her mouth and smashed it over the rim of her water glass.

“So, you just decided to call me and see how I’m doing?” she asked.

“Yes, Ms. Batson. Well, you and Ronnie, of course. It is Ms., right?”

“Sure is. We’re fine.” She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t ask, and considered carefully each query.

She pulled off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, grabbing the inside corners of her eyes to clear out the crust. It was getting late and her body had shifted into sleep gear.

“Before I answer any more questions. What was your name again? Your real name.”

“Sorry about the ruse at the hospital, Ms. Batson. I was trying to remain incognito to avoid involving you or your son. Name’s Anthony Puligi.”

“Thanks, Mr. Puligi. You saved my son’s life.” Susan said.

“You’re welcome. If you’ll pardon me, I must admit I enjoyed that excuse to use my fighting skills.”

“As I said, I’m grateful. How may I help you, Mr. Puligi?”

“We call to check in on people we feel may have garnered unwanted attention from organized crime,” he said. “Your son’s run-in with one Larry Outhouse, for instance.”

“You mean when that piece of shit smashed up my son’s face?”

“That incident, yes.”

“But my son had nothing to do with Larry and whatever he was doing. Besides, Larry’s dead. Is there still some reason we should be worried?”

“Has anyone contacted you or your son regarding Larry Outhouse or his dealings?”

“Not me, and I’m pretty sure Ronnie would mention it.”

“Have you noticed anyone watching you?”

“No, but I probably will now.”

She wanted the Nicorette back in her mouth.

“Has Ronnie spoken with Larry Outhouse’s stepdaughter?”

Susan hesitated. Ronnie had received that comment, and a chat invitation, but they still didn’t know for sure that Trena had sent either. She remembered liking Puligi at the hospital, once she got past his persona called Gary. She pried the wad of gum from her glass and shoved it in her mouth.

“You there?” Puligi asked.

“Yes, sorry. I’m chewing gum. No, Ronnie hasn’t spoken to her since the day she left the hospital here in town.”

“Well, if she makes contact, please let me know.”

“Sure. I have your number on caller ID.”

But I’m not going to use it.

——-

After failing to reach the girl named Trena, David had to talk to somebody about what was happening. The problem was, he had no clear idea himself. He could picture it clearly. “I’m pretty sure these guys are bad. Proof? Um, no. No proof. I just don’t feel right about them.”

In his former position as computer support technician for the City, he had met and made friends with all the detectives, dispatchers, and the Chief. When he had a question, they always were glad to help.

Could he get in trouble if he told them what he had done? He thought about this as he drove home from Louise’s house. Gray limestone hillsides carved out by dynamite loomed above him and his tiny Civic hatchback. A few scraggly trees somehow had found purchase on a cliff ledge. Nature really doesn’t give a shit what we do.

David couldn’t afford to adopt that attitude. Instead, he needed to consider what would be worse — remain silent and risk the girl and boy getting hurt, or squeal to the cops and risk getting arrested. With the added perk, of course, of having his major joints rearranged by the big man.

Sweat on his brow, he took the exit for the police station.

The station was brand new, thanks to the community’s burgeoning growth sparked by retail conglomerate Wal-Get’s decision to locate its headquarters there.

“Hey, David, how’s it going?” asked Trish Lanham, beat cop. Her voice was high-pitched, with a strong feminine lilt, not the stereotypical voice portrayed in films and TV. David always had a bit of a crush on her.

Women in uniform had no particular power over him, but Trish wore it very well. Through the drab, angular khaki he could see her femininity. Her breasts gave the top shape without looking “Reno 911″ and not even Harrison Bergeron’s tailor could have hidden the round shape of her ass.

“Great. Where’s Kevin Butcher?”

“He’s in his office. Come on back.” She punched a red button on the wall. A nearby door clicked as its electromagnetic lock lost power.

David walked past Jennifer, the Chief’s secretary, who sat there poring over a training tome entitled Forensics Photography in the Field. He remembered her telling him that she wasn’t cut out for desk work, and that she had enrolled in a course to help her reach another level. Among other things, it would teach her to photograph bludgeoned heads in low light situations.

He grimaced, then said, “Jennifer, glad to see you’re still serious about being a cop.”

“Oh, hey, David. What’s up?” She spoke with the tone of a starched-shirt businessman.

“Just going to see the guys who catch the bad guys.”

Four detectives sat in cubicles. Unlike the scene depicted in most TV shows, partners didn’t sit at desks facing one another. Instead, there were partitions and lots of talking over them in raised voices — three male, one female.

Butcher saw David. “Help! I can’t find the ‘any’ key,” he said.

David suppressed a groan. That joke was funny when Homer Simpson used it, but some people didn’t know when to let it die.

“Hey, Kevin. There’s something I need to tell you.”

——-

His grandfather in the passenger’s seat, Ronnie drove his mother’s Buick Century along the town’s main east-west thoroughfare. Clubs in the trunk, they were on their way to the Placid Pines Country Club for a friendly round of 18.

While he admired the Century’s smooth ride and respectable V-6, he didn’t like that he was guaranteed no second looks by girls. Who am I kidding? I don’t even get first looks in this thing.

He could see it now: “It’s not my father’s Oldsmobile. It’s my mom’s Buick.” Yeah, that’s smooth, man, real smooth.

At a red light, he checked the rear view mirror. In it appeared a shimmering silver Audi A8, brand new. He read the license plate aloud, “Too much for you,” keeping lip movement to a minimum.

“Excuse me?” Grandpa said.

“Nothing. Just that guy’s custom plate.”

“Ronnie, I hope you’re careful with sex,” his grandfather said.

A bit stunned, Ronnie took it in stride. He was accustomed to fatherly talk from the old man, who evidently thought that without a father, Ronnie needed someone to run him through the birds and bees spiel.

“Yes, Grandpa, always.”

“Good. You know, there are ways besides intercourse to satisfy your biological urges. Heavy petting, things like that.”

Ronnie’s stride couldn’t quite step over that one. He wanted to just stop the car, get out, and catch the nearest bus home. Had his mom told Grandpa he was obsessing about Trena?

“Um, sure, Grandpa. I know. Don’t worry.”

They hit the course, and Ronnie hit the ball — way too many times.

He was not focusing on the game at all. Besides his attempts at mind-over-matter to tune out the cold, his thoughts kept returning to Trena, and he felt he should be doing something to contact her instead of wading into brier patches to find errant golf balls. That morning before they left, he tried unsuccessfully to contact her over chat and e-mail.

He also considered the advice the stranger had given him, and tried to imagine what kind of trouble Trena could be in. Was “goob2berdy” somebody from the U.S. Marshall’s office just trying to protect Trena’s identity? Some mobster set on making life hard for him and Trena?

Determined to find out, he found comfort when they teed off on number 10. Although the back nine was much more difficult than the front, there were a number of groups behind them. That meant more dropping and finishing out with a new ball instead of wading through weeds and nettles only to hit the next shot from behind a tree.

Back in the parking lot, Ronnie unstrapped their bags from the cart and heaved them into the trunk. His back protested as he lowered the old man’s bag. “Grandpa, you sure you’re carrying regulation?”

“Not one extra club in there, I assure you.”

“Yeah, I assure you,” Ronnie muttered under his breath.

They headed out, again with Ronnie behind the wheel. The clubs clinked together in the trunk as he drove too fast over a speed bump. Grandpa wordlessly shook his head. As he waited to turn left, Ronnie looked in the rear view mirror.

There was a silver Audi A8. The front plate read, “2much4u.”

(to be continued)