Jones had been working with Patrick Donovan the night that Gillan Beans phoned in that 911. George and Meredith Perenais had been out for the night at the bar along with a bunch of other regulars. The liquor had been flowing well, apparently, because comments began to fly about drinking with a “dirty witch,” and the fists had begun flying pretty fast. Gillan had screamed for George and Elden Spraig to take it outside, and they had, followed by a handful of men who’d been cheering Elden on. Then she’d called the police.
When Jones and Donovan pulled up in the squad, the two men were circling each other in the front parking lot, surrounded by the rest. Elden had picked up an iron rod from somewhere, and was swinging it wildly at George. Before they had stopped the car, Jones saw Meredith leap into the ring and grab hold of Elden’s head, but just as fast as she entered the ring, she was dragged out of it by two of the bystanders. As Jones and Donovan slammed the doors of the squad and moved in to break up the fight, the two men disappeared around the corner of Casey’s, with Meredith kicking and screaming in their arms.
“Get the girl,” Donovan said. “I’ll handle these idiots.”
Jones nodded, and cautiously walked around the side of Casey’s, gun drawn. There were no lights on this side of the bar, and Jones squinted through the shadows along the side of the building, looking for the men. Just as he reached the corner, he heard Meredith screech. As he rounded the corner, he heard one of the men laughing. The other said, “Let’s see if a witch looks any different underneath her cape than other girls. Maybe she’s got broomstick burns!”
Jones stepped around the corner to see one of the men—Gary Burton—holding Meredith to the back siding of the bar with one large burly arm, while he covered her mouth with the other.
Her eyes bugged out as she struggled and screamed beneath his hand in anger.
Meanwhile, Sid Coleman, Gary’s usual partner in crime, was pawing the girl and laughing. “Let’s take a look, shall we,” he said, and ripped Meredith’s blouse open to expose the silky swell of her breasts behind a white lace bra.
“That’s called sexual assault,” Jones announced. “You’re already in some shit here, and if you don’t want to get in any deeper, I’d suggest you let go of that woman. Don’t bother running, I know where you guys live.”
“Shit,” Sid said, as Gary released Meredith’s arms. She pulled her blouse shut as well as she could; Sid had popped a couple buttons. “We were only playing with her while Georgie and Elden was scrapping. We didn’t do nothing at all.”
“Tell it to the judge,” Jones said, and motioned them away from Meredith. “Go wait by the squad car and we’ll get this sorted out in a minute.”
“C’mon, Harlan,” Gary complained. “Really? We were all just having fun.”
“Yeah, that’s what it sounded like to me,” Jones said. “Go. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The two disappeared around the corner, cussing loudly.
Jones put his hands on Meredith’s shoulders. “Are you okay?” he asked. He could feel her trembling beneath his fingers.
“Yes,” she said, her voice on the thin edge between fury and fear. “Assholes,” she hissed. Then she pushed away and looked toward the dark. “But George . . .”
“Right,” Jones said, and let go of her. “Donovan should have settled that, but let’s go.”
Jones led her back around the dark side of the bar to the front parking lot. The sounds of fighting had died away.
But when they stepped into the glare of the one overhead spotlight above the door of Casey’s, Jones swore.
Officer Patrick Donovan lay on his back, unmoving on the ground. George was nearby, struggling to sit up. Elden, and the rest of the gang, had disappeared.
Jones sprinted to the spot, and knelt by his partner. “What happened?” he yelled at George. The other man looked groggy, and held his middle in obvious pain.
“He tried to step in to stop Elden,” George said, “but he was crazy, swinging that thing all over. He caught Patrick in the head; I don’t even think he realized he was there until he hit him.”
There was a dark red spot across Donovan’s forehead, and when Jones slipped his hand under his partner’s head, he felt something warm and wet.
“Patrick,” he said. “Patrick, wake up!”
“I don’t think he’s breathing,” George observed.
Jones put his head to the other officer’s chest and couldn’t find a heartbeat.
“Oh, man,” he whispered, and then looked up to see Gillan standing just outside the door of the bar. “Is he okay?” she asked.
“Call an ambulance,” he yelled back, and bent over Donovan to begin CPR.
Meredith watched silently as Jones pushed on Donovan’s chest and breathed into his mouth, struggling to shock his partner’s heart and lungs back to life. After a couple minutes, she whispered something to George, who stood up and walked back into the bar.
Then she put her hand on Jones’s shoulder and said quietly, but firmly, “Stop it.”
“If I don’t do this, he’ll die,” he said.
She shook her head. “He’s already dead. But you helped me. Let me try to help you.”
Meredith pushed Jones away and took over his spot, bending over the downed police officer to put her mouth on his lips. But instead of the violent, rhythmic motions of Jones’s CPR, Meredith appeared to almost be making love to the man, running her fingers down the sides of his head and chest, and breathing on his lips, while at the same time murmuring words that Jones couldn’t quite hear or understand.
When George came back holding her purse, she stopped her ministrations a moment, and reached in to pull out a small satchel. She unbuttoned Donovan’s blue shirt and placed a small carving of silver there. A circular ornament. Then she set other objects around the body in a semicircle around his head, before sprinkling a powder from the sack over his face.
“This is ridiculous,” Jones said and reached out to pull Meredith away. “He needs CPR!”
George grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him. “You have to trust her,” he said. “She knows what she’s doing. And this is probably his only hope.”
Meredith’s blouse hung open as she bent over Donovan, and she lifted the man’s limp hand to press it to the flesh between her breasts as she continued to chant in words that sounded strange and foreign. She straddled the officer then, and bent down to press her open chest to his, her open mouth to his.
Moments later, Donovan’s feet kicked. His whole body shuddered, and Jones moved in just in time to see Meredith’s mouth leave his, a thin trail of drool connecting them for just a second as she raised herself to kneeling, and Donovan’s eyes blinked rapidly as he gasped for breath.
“Jesus my head hurts,” he said. And then, “Meredith, what are you doing?”
Meredith picked up the circular silver ornament from Donovan’s chest, and finally Jones saw what it was. The circle was actually the body of a snake. A snake eating its own tail.
Meredith stood up and pocketed the charm. She put one arm around George, while holding her blouse shut again with the other.
“You helped me,” she said, staring unblinking into Jones’s eyes. “I won’t forget that.”
In the distance, the warning bleats of an ambulance broke the quiet of the night.
“Let’s forget this,” Meredith continued, bending down to pick up the other trinkets she’d pulled from her purse. “I am not going to press charges. It was all a misunderstanding. Just let it go.”
“But . . .” Jones began.
She shook her head. “I don’t want any more trouble,” she said. “I’ll make sure that this doesn’t happen again.”