Unearthed by Robert J. Crane

southern section of the county. Ninety-plus percent of the department’s calls came near Midian. It hadn’t always been that way, but lately …
    “Uh huh,” Pike said, and his tongue disappeared from where it had been pressing on his cheek, making him look like he had mumps. “Hmm.”
    Reeve stared at him, Pike stared back. What the hell was this about? “You know, we got problems around here …” Reeve started, figuring he’d begin with the obvious opener.
    “I know we’ve had our differences,” Pike said, taking his hands off his head. His legs came down off the desk and the man leaned his torso forward. “I know I’ve been a pain in your ass during the budget process. But your department and this county are hurting, and I’m not about to step on you while you’re down.” He finished, licked his lips, and settled back a little in his chair. “How can I help?”
    Reeve just sat there, stunned. Pike had a prick since day one; an uppity one at that. If there’d been a way to insert himself in meetings, he’d done it, and if there’d been a way to tut-tut about an expenditure, the bastard had spoken up to do so. This admission, in and of itself, made Reeve wary.
    Wary, but not jaded enough not to jump all over it. “We need more money,” Reeve said, shaking his head. “I’m trying to cover the county, but our incidents have—I mean, spiked ain’t even the right word for it. Our 911 call volume for major incidents is up 1,000%—no bullshit. I gotta send deputies out to investigate every single one of them, and we just don’t have the manpower.” He checked his watch, an old black digital model that bulged on his wrist. “On an average night six months ago, we’d get one call, and it’d be something minor. Now, on a good night, we get at least twenty calls, and you can flip a coin as to whether there’s a homicide or three in there somewhere.”
    “I was looking at the numbers,” Pike said, face inscrutable. “We’re averaging ten murders and/or unexplained disappearances a week right now. What do you attribute that to?”
    “Big number incidents,” Reeve said, pulling off his fishing cap and running a hand over his bald head. “That freeway thing pumped it up. The Crosser Street Massacre—”
    “Cute name for it,” Pike said.
    “Blame the local fish wrapper for that one,” Reeve said. “That was at roughly the same time as the freeway thing. Between the jogging incidents that followed, the disappearances … I mean, it’s a goddamned mess.”
    “Hmm,” Pike said. His eyes were piercing, dark. “And that missing deputy you got? Archibald Stan?”
    Reeve felt like someone waved a caution flag on that one. “He’s a person of interest in that business at the festival.”
    Pike stared at him. “You can’t find him?”
    Reeve hesitated then shook his head. “If he’s smart, he’s left town.”
    “I see,” Pike said. “So that’s a dead end?”
    “I think so,” Reeve admitted, though he felt like he had to drag it out. “I don’t know what he had going on at the Summer Lights, but I find it hard to believe he’s involved in this other … stuff. I mean, he could be, but …” Reeve ran a hand over his head again, feeling his fingers slide over the grease of a day’s sweat on his bald scalp, “… I guess I have a hard time imagining anyone doing what’s been happening here lately.”
    “Dangerous people out there,” Pike said, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you what I think’s happening.”
    Reeve felt his eyebrow raise involuntarily. “Please do.” … share your ignorant, shit-brick opinion. I could use some fertilizer .
    Pike went on without pausing. “Other counties see a rise in their crime rates like this, there’s no doubt what’s going on: meth production out the wazoo. You got drug gangs moving in from somewhere—maybe even international—and they kickstart the shit out of crime. You get gang-related killings, slayings, trying to get people to