King of the Horseflies by V.A. Joshua Page B

Name!? Boy!?”
    “Carver,” he screams as he’s balled up in the fetal position.
    “Wrong answer!”
    The sheriff picks him up off the floor and grabs him around the neck, slamming him against the cell’s back wall.
    “How about now? This jog your memory?” as he chocks him.
    The sheriff holds him there nearly a minute before letting him go. Carver gasps for air.
    “Nothing?” the sheriff asks. “Either you’re telling the truth or you’re hiding something. I’m leaning towards hiding something.”
    The sheriff and the deputy walk out of the cell together, both breathing heavily.
    “Hell, for all I care, you’re the king of the horse flies. We’ll get your prints in the morning and run ’em. No sweat. For now, lights out, stranger.”
    The deputy turns off the light switch as they walk out of the building.
    “Enjoy your night, stranger,” the deputy says sarcastically.
    Carver sits in the dimly lit room with blood still dripping from the top of his nose after being knocked out in the diner. He feels his nose to see if it’s broken; it’s not, but it hurts like a son of a gun. The room’s quiet except that he can hear the faint sound of a clock ticking and the occasional car driving by on the still wet street. He’s alone, just like he’s been for the past four months, walking every type of road that one can encounter. He’s slept in tunnels, caves, sewers, trees, underpasses, and cardboard boxes. He can add a jail to that list now.
    Carver hears scratching or the sound of something moving. Experience would tell him that it’s more than likely a mouse or some sort of rodent. The sound gets closer, but this time it’s followed by a squeak. Definitely a mouse. He keeps as still as possible in the hopes the rodent will make its way towards him. He slowly takes off one of his brown leatherette boots and angles it so the heavy heel is facing outward. The grayish mouse comes into view as it peeks its tiny head in front of the cell. It sniffs the air then bolts inside towards Carver. He takes a whack at the mouse but misses. He swings two more times before finally connecting.
    “Got you,” he screams.
    “ Let’s get out of here,” he mutters under his breath.
    He immediately manipulates the dead mouse so that it takes to the air and splits it in half. Mouse blood drips on floor next to the blood from Carvers nose. He directs it out of the cell then towards the lever used to open the cage. The mouse’s body wraps around the handle then begins pulling it towards him. A loud clank is heard as the cell door opens. He stands up, trying to stuff his foot back into his boot. Just as he walks out of the cell, the front door opens and the light comes on. It’s the deputy sheriff, Ricky. They lock eyes.
    “What the hell? How'd you?”
    Carver swings his arms towards the mouse wrapped handle and shoots it towards the deputy, covering both of his eyes.
    “ Ahhh, my eyes!” Deputy Ricky screams.
    Carver grabs his backpack sitting on the sheriff’s desk then bursts through the double doors of the station and is immediately illuminated by a street light. He looks up at the lamp as if he had just been spotted by a prison spotlight and the alarm just sounded. The sheriff sits in front of the station lounged back in his patrol car listening to Kathy Matteas’ “18 Wheels and a Dozen Roses.” He sees Carver step out of the building with backpack in tow.
    “ What the hell? ” he asks himself.
    Carver sees the sheriff fumbling inside trying to get out of the driver’s seat. He leaps down the front stairs that consist of eight or so steps and runs around the backside of the station. He hasn’t had to run like this since he was chased by a pit bull that jumped its fence. You would expect that sort of thing when you walk through the neighborhood alleys in the city of angels. Surprisingly enough, that was the only conflict he had to deal with walking through the violence infested streets of southern California.