CHAPTER 7 - Amon
I wake up on Tuesday morning with an idea. A very good idea. One that involves Rosie Harlow. In fact, this is such a good idea I nearly get up and get on it before I've even had my coffee. But I recognize this behavior—rash decisions typically precede bad outcomes in my experience—so I don't get right on it. I make some coffee and go out and sip it on the porch as I watch the men start bringing their dogs out of the kennel for training
This is my most favorite part of the day because I get to see the progress they're all making. Both with the dogs and themselves. And these men aren't the kind who want, or need, a babysitter. So now that we're several weeks into the program and they know exactly what to do with the dogs, it's just a matter of practice.
Some of the dogs are already very accomplished. But most are juveniles and puppies, and training them takes a lot of time. At first, I was worried because we didn't have enough dogs to go around so some of the men had to double up with a puppy, but it's working out just fine. I actually think they like working in teams. Collin's noticed it too, so this will probably be something we do going forward.
After my coffee I walk down the driveway and check on each dog's progress in person and give feedback. Every two weeks we put the dogs through a test and this is a test week. So everyone's working hard.
It's funny how a dog can make a person gentle. Every single one of these men came from the military. They are all killers. They are all dangerous. Some, before they got here, were drug addicts. Some were in prison. Some were homeless. But none of them are stupid and all of them understand that this is the best and only chance guys like them will ever get.
Maybe they take this opportunity and use it as a stepping stone. Get all the training, make us pay for it, and then take off for a better offer. Collin and I discussed this already, and it could happen. But we don't think it will. We think they'll stay and our investment in them will last years. Maybe even decades.
I watch the guys work the dogs, going to each group and offering tips and praise. And once that's over, I turn and start walking back down the driveway.
I'm just about to head up my porch steps to grab my truck keys when I see that stupid inspector sneaking off into the woods. I pause, wondering if I should follow him. I know Collin said to leave him alone, but Collin wasn't against us figuring out what he was up to. He just didn't want me to make things worse than they need to be.
Of course, we're all thinking that this inspection is just Charlie keeping an eye on us. But if that's really it, then why is he going into the woods?
The only thing out in the woods—aside from trails to run—is the shootin' range. But the inspector isn't heading in the direction of the range, he's actually heading in the direction of the old mine. And now I'm thinking… maybe he isn't here just to check on us? Maybe he's here for something that has nothing to do with us at all.
And maybe that all leads back to Blackberry Hill?
Am I jumping the gun with this conclusion?
Maybe.
But it is sorta weird that there's some kind of secret military base up there in those hills. Collin mentioned that he thought it was an underground base. I didn't get all the specifics about Lowyn's connection to Ike Monroe because that's personal and none of my business. But Collin did tell me that he thought there were tunnels up there and that Lowyn said she saw some kind of basement control room inside Ike Monroe's house.
I should follow that inspector. I should figure out what he's up to.
But as soon as this idea floats around in my head, I hear Collin's voice— just let the man do his job .
So fine. That's what I decide to do because I've put Rosie Harlow off for too long this morning already and I know that she's working in that little shop down in Bishop. So I push Sawyer Martin to the back of my mind and bring Rosie to the front.
Thirty minutes later I'm walking down the little pathway that leads to the Bishop Busybody and then I'm pulling open the door. A little bell jingles above my head and since I wasn't sure what to expect, I'm slightly fascinated about what I find inside.
An ancient printing press—I think. A desk. A counter covered in ancient printing paraphernalia. And, of course, Rosie Harlow.
She does a wild turn that makes her elaborate dress swish, and then gasps with her hands up to her heart. Like I scared her.
"Hey, Rosie."
"Amon! What are you doing here?" This comes out a little bit too loud and kinda frantic.
Which surprises me. I mean, it's not like we haven't been bumping into each other nearly every day for the past week. "I… just… thought I'd stop by."
Rosie takes a step backwards, kinda giving me the side-eye. "Any… particular reason?"
"What's wrong with you, Rosie?"
"Nothing. What's wrong with you?"
I narrow my eyes at her. Because she's acting weird. Like she's in some kind of trouble, but trying to act natural and shit. I shift my gaze from her to the room, looking for anything that might come off as suspicious. Then I reach for my sidearm, but of course, it's not there.
When Collin said he was gonna carry after that whole thing up on Blackberry Hill, I laughed at him. "This is Trinity County, Collin. Of all the places on the earth, this is the last one I'd expect us to be carrying heat."
He didn't care what I thought. He open-carries every fuckin' day. And right now, I wish I was carrying too.
"Did you just reach for a weapon?"
I glance over at Rosie. "Huh?" I'm distracted by my heightened sense of alert and lack of firearm.
"Amon, I would like you to leave."
I look around, nodding. Then I wink at her. "OK. I'm going…" But I'm not going. I'm slowly and silently sidestepping so I can get a peek around the counter.
"Amon!"
"I'm leaving." But I'm not, I'm just saying that so whoever is hiding out in here, trying to make her make me leave, will think that I am.
Rosie makes a sudden movement, which kicks in my extensively honed self-defense skills, and suddenly she's coming at me with a fancy umbrella. I deflect, grab the umbrella, and toss it aside.
Rosie gasps, screams, and then I'm whirling in place—really wishing for that fuckin' sidearm—trying to figure out where the intruder might be hiding in this tiny little space. Rosie makes a dash for the door, swishin' right past me, opening it up, and rushin' through it.
I ignore her and keep looking for the cause of all this drama.
But now that said drama is over, it is very clear that there is no one here but me. I go outside, shaking my head, and find Rosie Harlow rushing through her little gate like a bat out of hell.
"Rosie!" I call. "What is goin' on?"
She turns—well, everybody on the street turns. Even a couple of horses look our way—and points at me. "You're stalking me!"
I point to myself as well. "What?"
"You've been popping up at all my jobs. Which is fine, I guess. It's a free country. But sending me those letters, Amon? It's creepy."
"What letters? I don't know what you're talking about. And I'm not stalking you! We just seem to frequent the same places."
She plants her hands on her hips. "Oh, so you didn't mean to come into my shop this morning?"
I sigh. "Well, yeah. Today . But not all those other times. And I haven't sent you no letters."
Rosie lets out a long breath, then suddenly becomes aware of all the attention we are garnering from the good people of Bishop. They are all open-mouthed staring at us because we have created—in the words of old-timey people everywhere—a spectacle. Which is highly frowned upon when one's downtown is a stage filled with actors just trying to do their jobs.
Even though Rosie is on the other side of the gate, I extend my hand in her direction. "Come back inside, for fuck's sake. Whatever you think is happening, I'm not a part of it."
She eyes me suspiciously one more time, then the people and horses, who are still watching her, and lets out an exasperated breath. "False alarm, people!" She calls this out brightly, letting all the busybodies know that the show is over. Then she gathers up her skirts and swishes her way back through the gate, past me, and back inside.
I tip an imaginary hat in the direction of a group of men, begging their pardon, and follow her back inside. "Should I leave the door open?" I ask, annoyed with her and the scene she just made. "Since you obviously think I'm some kind of pervert."
Rosie walks over to her desk, collapses into the chair, and lets out a dramatic sigh. "I'm sorry. It's just… I've been getting letters and you've been everywhere this past week and… well." She sighs. "I'm rattled, that's all. So I jumped the gun, I guess."
I grab the only other chair in here and drag it over next to her desk. Then I sit down. "Start over, OK? What the hell is going on?"
Rosie starts from the beginning and tells me about the first letter that was sent to McBooms while showing me the one that came here. When she tells me about the other one that came to the Revenant diner, her paranoia is understandable.
"And they're all in code, Amon! Like… military things or… homeschool."
I can't help but crack a smile. "Military or homeschool, huh?"
She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Whatever. Make fun of me, if you want. But it's weird! Someone is stalking me!"
Someone is stalking her. And they're doing it in a very strange way. "Can I have the worksheets?"
"What for?"
"To run some forensics. I've still got good DC contacts for that sort of thing. I can send it in and see if they can find anything."
Rosie nods, folding the one she's holding back up and setting it on the desk in front of me. "The second one is in my purse. And the third one is at home. What kind of forensics are you gonna do?"
"Fingerprints, for sure. But we can do DNA, ink, and paper analysis as well as check it for chemicals. Some of that might take a few weeks, but we can get fingerprints in a couple days, I suspect."
"Oh, that sounds complicated, Amon. Maybe I'm just being stupid. Does it really deserve all this attention? Maybe someone is just trying to sell me homeschool curriculum and I'm completely overreacting?"
One of my eyebrows cocks up. "What is going on with this homeschool thing?"
"Well, it's kinda popular these days. There's always a couple articles about it in my mommy magazines. They like weird shit like this."
"OK. Well, I'll take your word on that. And if that's what it is, fine. There's nothing to be worried about. But don't you think that if someone was trying to sell you homeschool books they'd have put the name of the company on the paper? So you could look them up or whatever?"
She chews on her lip a little, then sighs again. "Yes." Her eyes go all serious now, getting wider and worried. "It's not homeschool stuff, Amon. Someone's sending these things to me on purpose."
"Yep," I agree. "And that's dangerous. But don't you worry, I'll take care of it."
She exhales, her shoulders relaxing. "Thank you." Then she smiles at me. "I'm really sorry I overreacted. But I had just started putting it all together a few moments before you walked through my door, so?—"
"It's understandable. Do you want me to stay while you work? Because I will."
"No." She says this, but it's not a firm no. "I'll be OK."
"How about I leave, but come back when you're done and walk you to your car?"
Her gray eyes go bright. "You'd do that for me?"
"Sure I would."
"Because you're courtin' me?" She smiles here, so I know we've changed subjects now and we're on to lighter banter.
"I might be."
"Did I just ruin it by throwing a scene?"
I turn my head, laughing a little. "Nah. You're fine. Forget about all that for now. When do you leave work?"
"Oh, I only stay a couple hours. Then I go to McBooms for the afternoon."
"Well, how about I grab some breakfast at the inn, come back here in two hours, and I'll be your chaperone. Sound good?"
Rosie nods. "Thanks, Amon. I'm being a big pain in your ass today and you're handling it quite well."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Then I get up, open the door, give Rosie Harlow one more look over my shoulder, and leave.
The Bishop Inn is just a couple blocks away and when I get there it's not too busy, so I bother Jessica, part owner and front-desk manager, for a notepad and pen and then take a seat in the dining room near the window where I still have a good view of Rosie's place.
I hadn't planned on spending my whole morning in Bishop, but I'm concerned about these letters she's getting. More concerned than I let on. Stalkers are unstable people. They come in a few types, all of which I'm familiar with since Edge specializes in political clients. People stalk others for three reasons: Rejection, predation, and ideology.
I very much doubt that Rosie is being stalked by some anti-Revival zealot. It's more likely that this is a past boyfriend. If it's not a past boyfriend, then it's a predator. Which is the absolute worst kind because they are not actually interested in Rosie, but how Rosie makes them feel, and that makes them unstable. At least the other two reasons for stalking are understandable.
Predation is… well, a hunt. Which makes the stalked nothing but prey.
At any rate, I'm gonna get to the bottom of it. And while I do that, I'm gonna make her an Edge client.
Now that that's over, I turn my attention back to the original reason I came into Bishop this morning in the first place. Which was to insert myself into Rosie's life by writing up a personal ad.
I look down at the empty pad of paper, trying to get my thoughts together. Robust and Hearty is my baseline, but when a man decides to court a woman, he can't just give his baseline. He needs to amplify that shit.
So I begin, startin' and stoppin' dozens of times over the next hour as I pick at my breakfast. I am not a writer, let alone a poet, but eventually I am content with the words I have managed to string together.
Jessica gives me an envelope with the Bishop Inn logo on it on my way out, and as I walk back over to the Bishop Busybody , I seal it up with my note inside.
Rosie is standing at the printing press wearing an apron when I arrive. Her hair's a little bit disheveled and her brow is glistening from effort, even though all the downtown shops have AC—this one included.
Historical accuracy only matters if people are comfortable. No one likes to be too hot and no one likes to be too cold. That was a lesson this town learned early. So Bishop said yes to the air conditioners the same way Disciple said yes to garden-party fashion.
It's not authentic, but no one cares.
"I'm just about done, Amon. Give me fifteen minutes."
"Take your time." I lean on the counter and place my envelope in front of me.
Rosie glances over, squinting in suspicion. "What's that? You didn't find another letter?—"
"No, no." I put a hand up. "This one's from me. I just wrote it while I was having breakfast."
Rosie's furrowed brow straightens right out and she smiles. "You wrote a letter? To me?"
"Well, kinda."
"What's that mean, Amon?"
"It's…" I grin. Because it's clever. Not just a little bit clever, either. But like actually fuckin' clever. "It's an ad. I want to place an ad."
Rosie laughs. I don't even think she means to, it just comes bursting out. "Here?" She points to the ground. "With the Bishop Busybody ?"
"That's right."
"You do understand we don't do ‘help wanted' here?"
"I do."
"We don't do ‘for sale' either."
"Rosie, I promise, it's publication appropriate."
She laughs again, then starts wiping her hands on her apron as she makes her way over to the counter. "You want to put in a lonely hearts ad?"
"Yep." I'm trying my best to keep a straight face, but it's not working out for me. I'm grinning pretty big.
She picks up the envelope. "Can I open it?"
"Please do. I hope I have made the deadline because I would like it to be in the next issue."
Rosie unseals the envelope, pulls out the piece of notepaper, and gets a wild smile on her face as she reads.
When she looks back at me, I'm someone else.