#5: Come on Down!

[00:00:00] Speaker A: All right. Now, Walter, what do you believe is the price of that pottery wheel? Just the pottery wheel. Tell me, Walter. 25. $25? Is that right? No. Now he'll move one step for every dollar you miss the price. Wait, wait. I like. I don't want to wish him bad luck, but I wish it had gone. That was Walter. That was not. You know. Do that again at home. At home they probably thought that was our tape, you know. [00:01:11] Speaker B: Jennifer Hale had a near religious devotion to the Price is Right. Every morning she pop a blank VHS into her recorder and tape entire episodes as if it were a ritual. She even whispered a little prayer that no emergency broadcast alert would interrupt the Showcase Showdown. The precinct had long stopped questioning the parade of video cassettes she lugged in daily. She slipped them into the VCR in the lobby. Its screen more static than picture, would hum to life with the sound of Bob Barker's velvet voice. The tv, perched precariously on a corner shelf, seemed to channel the show like a ghostly broadcast from another dimension where spinning wheels and neon numbers ruled the world. Visitors would step into the lobby and pause, caught off guard by the sight of Barker's grin and the echoey chant of Come on down. Her co workers had started placing bets on which contestant would overbid their wagers. Kept in a cigar box behind Jennifer's desk, Jennifer, ever the ringleader, ran the game with all the fervor of of a back alley bookie. If the mailman showed up mid episode, he had to wait until after the Showcase Showdown to deliver the envelopes. When the copier jammed, it jammed to the rhythm of the cliffhanger's yodeler. And when the precinct's goldfish died, some contestants final spin of the wheel seemed to slow for the occasion. Whether out of sympathy or sheer coincidence, no one could say Jennifer was somewhere in her 30s, though nobody could say for sure. Not even Jennifer. She claimed her birth certificate had been lost in a flood. She'd never left town. College had been a whispered dream, the kind that drifted away when her guidance counselor suggested she focus on more practical goals. High school had been a narrow escape, and her diploma still sat curled in its original mailing tube somewhere under her bed. Her hair was a curly sun bleached blonde, the kind of curls that seemed to grow wilder with each humid Carolina summer. She had a curvy frame, a testament to her deep and abiding love for sweet tea and homemade pie, and a voice as soft as a church hymn, though her words, when she bothered to raise them, above a whisper had the sharp bite of a snapped wishbone. Folks around town often said her voice could soothe a snakebite, but only if the snake was willing. For the past decade, Jennifer had been a permanent fixture behind the front desk at the Hickory Bend Police Department. She sat beneath a cloud of moth eaten ceiling tiles and the constant hum of flickering fluorescent lights. The desk, ancient and scarred, had formed a symbiotic relationship with her. The laminate surface had a Jennifer shaped groove where her elbows rested and the phone cord had long been twisted into a braid by her absent minded fingers. She managed the phones, shuffled paperwork, and filed complaints, most of which she marked as pending and filed directly into the trash. The officers treated her like part of the decor, a friendly ghost haunting the front lobby. She knew everyone's secrets, from Sheriff Hollis's Thursday night poker games to Deputy Crawford's questionable use of the evidence locker. Jennifer had a ledger somewhere in the drawers of her desk where she kept track of things that might come in handy. Favors, lies, and little bits of leverage, each written in her delicate looping script. When newcomers wandered into the station, they'd find her perched on her squeaky office chair, eyes half lidded, mouth wrapped around a red lollipop like it held the secrets of the universe. She'd greet them with a slow, syrupy smile in a voice that made even the hardest of criminals pause. There was an unsettling calm about her, like the quiet before a tornado. Some folks in Hickory Bend swore she'd always been there, like the clock tower or the old cemetery, a part of the town's fabric. Others claimed she'd only shown up one day, sitting at that desk, lollipop and all. And the old receptionist, Martha Something or other, was never seen again. Jennifer just shrugged when asked about it, her angelic voice curling around the words bless your heart, which everyone in town knew was Southern for try me. But no matter how much time passed, no one could quite recall if Jennifer was hired, inherited, or if she'd simply manifested out of the town's collective need for a soft voice and a sharp memory. And nobody dared ask. Not while Bob Barker's disembodied voice echoed through the lobby, narrating the eternal game of guessing the price of life's strange little prizes. The dispatch phone rang, its harsh mechanical trill slicing through the humid stillness of the Hickory Bend Police Department. Jennifer blinked, her blue eyes refocusing as if she'd just been pulled up from the bottom of a deep, dark lake. The glassy eyed stare that had held her captive for the last 10 minutes dissolved and she exhaled softly, as if grateful to be back on solid ground. Her hand moved lazily to the phone, her manicured nails clicking against the plastic receiver. She didn't rush. She never did. If the call was urgent, well, it would still be urgent in a few more seconds. Jennifer believed in letting life marinate like a slow cooked brisket. The world could wait. It always had. Good morning, Hickory Bend Police Department, she drawled, her voice like butter on hot cornbread. This is Jennifer. How can I help you all today? Probably another lost dog or a cat stuck somewhere it didn't belong. Maybe Margaret Wheeler calling in again about the suspicious van that was just the mail truck. But the voice on the other end? It was too fast, too frantic. The kind of voice that clawed its way out of the throat, raw and ragged, like it had been running through a nightmare and hadn't quite woken up. Jennifer's stomach tightened, a knot of cold, hard wire twisting in her gut. Her eyes flicked to the clock. It was almost eight, too early for trouble, even in Hickory Bend. Trouble usually slept in around here, rolling out of bed only when the sun was high. Excuse me. Her voice was sharper now, a blade pulled from a velvet sheath. She was still Jennifer Hale, still the sweet drawl in the soft curls. But the syrup had drained from her voice, leaving it thin and sharp like old glass. The voice kept going, words piling on top of each other, tumbling over themselves like drunks in a bar fight. She couldn't make sense of it. Something about a body. Something about Foxfire River. Static swallowed syllables whole, chewing up the story and spitting it back out in jagged bits. Hold on, she said, slicing through the chaos. She could hear her own breath in her ears, fast and tight, a metronome for panic. Please hold. She slammed the receiver down, the plastic rattling in its cradle. The sound echoed through the empty bullpen, a gunshot in the stillness. She hadn't meant to hit it so hard, but the moment was already slipping out of her control and she hated that, hated the way her hand trembled when she pressed the intercom button to Sheriff Rusty Hollis's office. Static. No answer. Just the low hum of the ancient wiring in the walls, whispering in a language only the building understood. Her pulse jumped, her heartbeat knocking against her ribs like it wanted out. Jennifer shot to her feet, her chair skidding backward, wobbling on its ancient wheels before settling into a slouch. She moved fast, too fast, her heels stabbing the tile with every step. The bullpen was a maze of empty desks and half hearted filing cabinets, the remnants of A department that had seen better days, if such days had ever existed. She weaved through the mess, her eyes locked on the only closed door in the room, the door to Rusty's private bathroom. The door he only shut when he didn't want to be disturbed, which was most of the time. She banged her fist against it, the sound dull and flat. Rusty, you in there? Her voice worn down by a fresh wave of dread. She could feel it curling around her ankles, a rising tide. At first, silence, then from behind the door, muffled and sour. Jesus, Jen, I'm taking a shit. Her shoulders sagged, relief and annoyance tangling together. She slapped her palm against the door, a soft, scolding thud. Rusty, this is important. Something's wrong. Something's always wrong. His voice had the consistency of day old coffee, bitter and lukewarm. There was a rustle of toilet paper, a grunt, and then the squeak of the lock. The door swung open an inch, and one bloodshot eye peered through the gap, watery and suspicious. What kinda wrong? He asked. The kind that makes the phone ring before eight, she said. The kind that makes my skin crawl. Rusty groaned, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and unpleasant. Fine. Gimme a second. Jennifer stepped back, her hands still tight, knuckles white. She turned, her eyes finding the phone on her desk. The line was still open. The little red light blinked, a heartbeat in plastic. Whatever waited on the other end of that line was still there, tangled up and static, waiting for someone to pick up and listen. You've gotta hurry, she snapped. A pause, then Rusty, sounding suspicious. Why? [00:11:29] Speaker C: Jennifer swallowed, breath still uneven. [00:11:31] Speaker B: It's Bo Harley, she said. Silence longer this time. Then the toilet flushed. Rusty emerged a moment later, buttoning his pants, yanking his shirt into his waistband with the grace of a man who had long given up on tucking anything improperly. He patted his belly, soft, familiar, unbothered. Beau Harley, he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. I thought that kid was away at college. Jennifer stared at him. It's winter break, Rusty, he grunted. All right, so what does he want? She hesitated. Not long, but long enough. Something happened, she said, voice lower now. They found something. Rusty squinted. What do you mean, something? Jennifer inhaled sharply. A body, Rusty. That got him. He stopped mid tuck, froze solid. His hands hovered awkwardly at his waist, like his brain had momentarily abandoned all motor function. A body. Yes, a body, she snapped. A human body. Dead. Expired. No longer breathing. Send him to my office. He's on the phone, Rusty. Rusty sighed. His hand moved through his thinning hair, a tired gesture that only made him look older, more worn down. He had the demeanor of a man whose best days were not only behind him but had probably been stolen from him by a slow, insidious rot. All right. Transfer it to my office, then. Jennifer gave a stiff nod. She turned, her heel biting into the cracked linoleum, and bolted toward her desk. Her heels clicked, each step a punctuation mark, a staccato rhythm to the low hum of the overhead lights. She almost made it. Almost. Her foot caught the edge of a. [00:13:29] Speaker C: Trash can, the kind with a broken pedal and a lid that never quite fit. The metal clanged against the floor, a sound too loud, almost deafening. Trash spilled everywhere. Styrofoam coffee cups, crumpled receipts, used tissues, and a rogue ketchup packet burst underfoot, bleeding red onto the pale tiles. Jennifer stuttered to a stop, her body twisting halfway, arms twitching at her sides like a marionette with tangled strings. Instinct screamed at her to fix it, to crouch down and gather the mess. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as if she could hold the whole world together if she just clenched hard enough. Jen. Rusty's voice cut through the tension in her brain, a low, irritated huff. The call. She shot him a look, a flash of blue eyes and a tight, strained smile that suggested her patience was a thin thread, frayed and ready to snap. Then she looked at the trash, the mess sprawled across the floor like the guts of some small plastic creature. Her mind raced, torn between the need to clean up the disaster and the reality of the phone call, Bo Harley's voice still waiting on the other end of the line. The call won. Jennifer stood back up and ran, her shoes skidding slightly on the tiles, a smear of red ketchup following her path. She sprinted down the hallway, breath short, chest tight with something halfway between fear and adrenaline. The phone was still off the hook, his plastic cord coiled on the desk like a snake, the red light blinking in a slow, accusatory rhythm. She snatched up the receiver, her voice slipping into the honeyed drawl that had gotten her out of more trouble than she cared to admit. I'm back. Transferring you to Sheriff Hollis now. Her fingers flew over the buttons, the old switchboard wheezing to life. She forced the call through to Rusty's office, then leaned against the desk, her hands still wrapped tight around the phone, knuckles white. Her pulse thudded in her ears, a drumbeat to the unsettling quiet of the lobby. Behind her, the trash can lay on its side, the remnants of its insides slowly spreading out like a crime scene. The ketchup stain had already started to congeal a dark, sticky patch against the white tile. It looked like blood. It looked like a warning. Jennifer closed her eyes, just for a second, and breathed. When she opened them again, the room was the same, but something about it felt different, like the edges of reality had been sanded down to points. She let go of the phone, the plastic warm and damp from her grip, and straightened up. She knew it was going to be a busy morning. Hell, things will be twisted for the next few days, maybe weeks. She would deal with the mess she created later. If there was a later.