Untitled Project 79 - Chapter One

When Cooper Dewitt woke up on Saturday morning he didn't remember the item that he had purchased from Downtown Hardware in Smithville. He didn't remember hiding it beneath the porch in a brown paper sack with the receipt crushed limply underneath the item either. What he did remember was that he was awake - for one more day at least - and that Ellie was still dead.
It wasn't that he expected that not to be so, but that when the dreams came, as they had last night, the morning seemed almost surreal. The first few moments that sleep began drifting away like an abandoned oar seemed to be played out like a game show or a carnival concession with the high nasal tone of the carnie asking "Is she or isn't she? Is she or isn't she ol' coop' ol' boy? Is she dead or is shes alive eh?" The cold empty expanse of sheets nearest to the closet answered that question of course. Ellie was dead.
Of course fifty-eight was no spring chicken - which is how old Ellie had been when she passed - fifty nine in August if she could have held on another two months. But it wasn't old age that stole her, unless you counted cervical cancer as an Old Person's Disease. Coop did not. Old Cancer was nondiscriminatory and stole whomever he wanted, whatever age they might happen to be.
Cooper lay beneath the quilt for a few moments longer, staring up at the abstract pattern of stucco on the ceiling, then sighed and swung up and around so that his eyes looked into the bathroom and his bare feet sat on the floor.
As he peed he thought about going down to Cherry's for a cup of coffee. He hadn't been in a while, maybe two weeks. He should go and catch up on the local gossip. It was his obligation as a bonafide old timer. Yes, that's just what he would do, he thought, pulling Cooper Junior back into the cramped confines of his underwear. Might do him some good to be around some people.
Will it bring Ellie back though? The voice, like an annoying boss that micromanaged your work said. Ah, so your awake too, Cooper thought. Well, hello old friend. I thought I might actually get through pissing before you began your daily rant. But, apparently not. Well then, while your here you might as well say it all. What's on your mind?
The voice was silent. Apparently, that one thought - that one question - was all that had been on its mind. "Well then," Cooper said aloud, washing his hands at the sink. "I wash my hands of you."
After drawing on a pair of cowboy boots over his overalls and half tucking in a brown button down, Cooper hooked his car keys over his index finger and stomped out the door.

** ** **

Deputy Sheriff Kathryn Booth took her black boots off of the duty desk quickly as she saw the large frame of Sheriff Vincent Newburn come up the steps. He was six three, and about 300, although she was just guestimating - she had never asked what he weighed or how tall he was. He was dressed in the same uniform that she was - olive green uniform shirt with Cook County Sheriff patches on both arms and a pair of tan cargo pants fitted with a leather Sam Browne belt that held all of the usual accessories. The only difference was that the star pinned above his pocket was gold while hers was silver.
"Morning Sheriff," Kat said, as the flimsy screen door squeaked in protest. Vince clumped over to her and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He rubbed it on the desk where her feet had been and looked at her in a sad, calf-with-no-mother kind of way.
"Leaves black marks," He said rubbing a few more seconds for good measure.
"Sorry Sheriff." Kat hid a little smile as he moved past her to his own desk. Couldn't get one past Sheriff Newburn, that was for sure.
"You let Harvey out yet?" Newburn asked from behind her.
She swiveled her chair to face him. "Nope. I wasn't sure if Shaggy Jensen was gonna press charges on him for cold cocking him."
Newburn snorted. "Shaggy Jensen is too afraid that we'll find his pot stash he hangs out too long with the law. Go ahead and wake him up, give him some joe and get him out of here."
Harvey Cotter was a regular at the Cook County jail. He was one of those people whose disposition tended to decline with each additional beer he consumed, so that after four or five he could be called a downright son-of-a-bitch. When he was sober he was just as nice and polite as could be however. Kat wondered, not for the first time, why he didn't just give up the bottle.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This chapter is not complete. However it's all I have time for right now.