really do?”
“I really do.”
“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”
“I have some idea. Now, show me where you saw this thing.”
Chapter Three
While I drove behind Roy, I sent a text message to Detective Sherbet’s super-secret cop hotline.
Queen of Strange, huh?
Yes, texting and driving is bad. Unless, of course, you are an immortal with reflexes that even a cat would admire.
At the next light, I got his reply. I imagined his fat, sausage-like fingers picking out the words on the keypad, and giggled. He wrote: I thought you might like that, Laugh Out Loud.
It’s LOL, Detective. You don’t spell it out. I wrote back, my fingers a blur over the keypad. And I’ve been called worse.
As the light turned green, I got his next message: What do you think of his story?
I think he saw something.
I do, too. Roy’s a good guy. Salt-of-the-earth type. Hardworking. Nothing to gain from this.
Except some added tourism? I suggested.
Mostly he’s received ridicule from friends and family. Not worth the extra coinage. Plus, he does pretty well on his own. Doesn’t need bullshit like this complicating his life.
Do I complicate your life, Detective?
Just help him. And it wouldn’t hurt if you looked into the missing boys.
A two-fer, I wrote. Or a three-fer.
Something like that. His story really checks out?
It does, Detective.
You saw it? he wrote back. Like in his mind?
I did, I wrote. Like in his mind.
So, there’s really something in the lake?
I think so.
Holy sweet Jesus.
Laugh out loud, I spelled out, still giggling at the detective’s faux pas. Now get back to work and quit texting. Your fingers are probably tired.
They are, he wrote. They really are.
We drove past rundown strip malls nestled between newer strip malls, past old homes nestled between newer housing tracts. A lot of the city of Lake Elsinore is hilly. In fact, one hill is a doozy, and seems to divide the city in half. Upon that hill sits some bigger homes with fantastic views of the lake. The homes don’t exude wealth or abundance. It’s as if they just happened to be big, and just happened to be parked on the hillside.
Many of the homes sat on multiple acres of heated, scrubby, useless land. Only the heartiest of shrubs and twisted, sad trees eked out an existence here. And all within view of this shimmering, blue lake, truly an oasis in this desert outpost.
We followed a main road that curved around the lake. Cars along here drove much too fast, as if eager to get around the big, wet shimmering roadblock. I got the feeling the lake felt unappreciated.
I followed Roy’s old Ford truck with its missing tailgate. I wondered how useful a truck could be with a missing tailgate. As I followed, I stole glances at the glittering surface as often as possible, appreciating the hell out of it. It was just so unlikely in this dusty, forgotten, superheated city. But there the lake was, proud and magnificent and sprawling, and just owning this place. Hard not to love and admire Elsinore’s unlikely hero.
We peeled off onto a side road, then another side road, winding down closer and closer to the lake. The vegetation went from scraggly desert brush, to dense lakeside foliage. Reeds and long grasses slapped at my van. Eucalyptus trees grew in abundance. I think the proximity of the lake had something to do with that.
The road ended in a parking lot of sorts. On one side was a grouping of lakeside cabins, and on the other was a beautiful Victorian home fit for a vampire. The home was nestled among the eucalyptus trees and a smattering of oaks that seemed to have forgotten they were in a desert. I felt as if I had pulled up into another world, far removed from the baking asphalts and tailgating cars and decrepit shopping centers. I could see why Roy loved this spot, and why he never wanted to leave, and why he was seeking help. There was, I suspected, no way in hell anyone was scaring him away from this idyllic, and
“I really do.”
“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”
“I have some idea. Now, show me where you saw this thing.”
Chapter Three
While I drove behind Roy, I sent a text message to Detective Sherbet’s super-secret cop hotline.
Queen of Strange, huh?
Yes, texting and driving is bad. Unless, of course, you are an immortal with reflexes that even a cat would admire.
At the next light, I got his reply. I imagined his fat, sausage-like fingers picking out the words on the keypad, and giggled. He wrote: I thought you might like that, Laugh Out Loud.
It’s LOL, Detective. You don’t spell it out. I wrote back, my fingers a blur over the keypad. And I’ve been called worse.
As the light turned green, I got his next message: What do you think of his story?
I think he saw something.
I do, too. Roy’s a good guy. Salt-of-the-earth type. Hardworking. Nothing to gain from this.
Except some added tourism? I suggested.
Mostly he’s received ridicule from friends and family. Not worth the extra coinage. Plus, he does pretty well on his own. Doesn’t need bullshit like this complicating his life.
Do I complicate your life, Detective?
Just help him. And it wouldn’t hurt if you looked into the missing boys.
A two-fer, I wrote. Or a three-fer.
Something like that. His story really checks out?
It does, Detective.
You saw it? he wrote back. Like in his mind?
I did, I wrote. Like in his mind.
So, there’s really something in the lake?
I think so.
Holy sweet Jesus.
Laugh out loud, I spelled out, still giggling at the detective’s faux pas. Now get back to work and quit texting. Your fingers are probably tired.
They are, he wrote. They really are.
We drove past rundown strip malls nestled between newer strip malls, past old homes nestled between newer housing tracts. A lot of the city of Lake Elsinore is hilly. In fact, one hill is a doozy, and seems to divide the city in half. Upon that hill sits some bigger homes with fantastic views of the lake. The homes don’t exude wealth or abundance. It’s as if they just happened to be big, and just happened to be parked on the hillside.
Many of the homes sat on multiple acres of heated, scrubby, useless land. Only the heartiest of shrubs and twisted, sad trees eked out an existence here. And all within view of this shimmering, blue lake, truly an oasis in this desert outpost.
We followed a main road that curved around the lake. Cars along here drove much too fast, as if eager to get around the big, wet shimmering roadblock. I got the feeling the lake felt unappreciated.
I followed Roy’s old Ford truck with its missing tailgate. I wondered how useful a truck could be with a missing tailgate. As I followed, I stole glances at the glittering surface as often as possible, appreciating the hell out of it. It was just so unlikely in this dusty, forgotten, superheated city. But there the lake was, proud and magnificent and sprawling, and just owning this place. Hard not to love and admire Elsinore’s unlikely hero.
We peeled off onto a side road, then another side road, winding down closer and closer to the lake. The vegetation went from scraggly desert brush, to dense lakeside foliage. Reeds and long grasses slapped at my van. Eucalyptus trees grew in abundance. I think the proximity of the lake had something to do with that.
The road ended in a parking lot of sorts. On one side was a grouping of lakeside cabins, and on the other was a beautiful Victorian home fit for a vampire. The home was nestled among the eucalyptus trees and a smattering of oaks that seemed to have forgotten they were in a desert. I felt as if I had pulled up into another world, far removed from the baking asphalts and tailgating cars and decrepit shopping centers. I could see why Roy loved this spot, and why he never wanted to leave, and why he was seeking help. There was, I suspected, no way in hell anyone was scaring him away from this idyllic, and
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