Tussinland by Mike Monson Page B

possessions?” Fagan asked Mavis.
    “Well, I don’t know all the details. Tina left him to hook up with Mark Pisko after Paul quit his job at Turlock High School. She went a little nuts I think, was having some kind of breakdown. Her mother ended up filing some kind of motion to get full custody of their kids until they could go to court and sort it all out. As far as I know, Tina still hadn’t got them back. After about six months the house was foreclosed on and Paul just left everything behind and came here. That was six months ago. He was working briefly as a fry cook before he got injured.”
    “When we picked up Miranda on the DUI,” Plant said, “Logan was the passenger. We found syringes under his seat, but no drugs in the car. I guess she pled guilty to the DUI and got off on the paraphernalia charge. We’re pretty sure Mr. Swift is still involved in meth and heroin.”
    “Is that right, Ms. Fish?” Fagan said. He sat down on the bed facing Mavis and Miranda. “You and your boyfriend like to shoot up shit? You sure look like one of those skanks from down on south Ninth. I’d hate to be the lady cop that had to search your ass.” He looked at Plant. “God I hate fucking junkies.”
    “Detective Fagan,” Mavis said. She sat down next to him on the bed. “Miranda has been in some trouble, mostly due to her relationship with her mother and father. She’s doing real well now and I can assure you she is not on drugs. Not at all. Isn’t that right dear?”
    “Drugs are lame,” Miranda said. “Duh.”
    Fagan looked down at Mavis’ cleavage. As he stood up, he blocked the others’ view of Mavis and ran his right hand across both her breasts, and gave her right nipple a little squeeze. Mavis made a small squeaky noise and smiled.
    “Plant,” Fagan said. “Call into the station and put an APB out on Dunn and his vehicle. And mention he might be with Logan Swift.” He looked at Miranda. “I got a feeling he and this Miranda know something about what happened last night.”

TWENTY-TWO
     
    When they were nearly to Riverbank and both sides of the road had turned from car dealers and fast food restaurants to vineyards and almond orchards, Logan lightly jabbed Paul with the shotgun barrel and told him to pull over into one of the orchards on the right.
    “No way,” Paul said.
    “Just make a right and go in between the rows, Uncle Paul.
    Paul looked.
    “But there’s no room.”
    Logan cocked the triggers on the double-barreled gun.
    “I promise you there is room. Do it now.”
    Paul put on the brakes and turned. He tried to aim between the rows and not hit a tree.
    “What the fuck?” Paul said. Low branches hit the windshield and the side of the truck. He had to roll up his window to keep from getting struck by a piece of almond tree. After about a hundred feet Logan told him to stop. Dust and dirt flew and the truck’s metal shrieked from scraping branches. His stomach and chest struck the steering wheel and he had to put his hand out on the dash to avoid hitting his head on the windshield. This caused his back to spasm.
    “Shit,” he said. “My back! God damn it.”
    “Sorry, Uncle Paul,” Logan said. He put the shotgun on the seat to his right and reached out his left hand and put it on the small of Paul’s back, on the left side. “Is this where it hurts?” Logan kneaded the spot.
    “Yes,” Paul said. He was creeped out by what Logan was doing, but it felt pretty good.
    “Is that better?”
    “A little.”
    “Good.”
    “What are we doing? We can’t just sit here.”
    “Sure we can, I’ve hid out in these orchards all the time since I was little. You just got to watch out for dogs.”
    “Oh god,” Paul said. He looked. “I don’t see any.”
    “Don’t worry, if one was nearby you’d hear it.”
    “So what are we doing?”
    “You really do need to chill, man. We’re waiting for Randa to call. It’s all cool.”
    Paul leaned forward to let Logan really dig into his