“My court order says this park is to be cleared and returned to pre-work order condition by five.” Chase looked pointedly at the CAT tracks gouged in the grass and the broken rhododendrons.
A crowd gathered from the neighborhood, milling around, coming closer. The cameras added them to their growing mass of footage.
The afternoon heat intensified. Chase’s temper rose closer to the surface. He struggled to keep it in check.
The crowd grew noisier, nerves frayed by tension, uncertainty, and the damned heat.
Sweat coated Chase’s back, like an extra clammy skin.
“Ain’t fair to tempt a man with work and a good paycheck and then yank it out from under him!” one of the crew called, stepping forward and brandishing his chain saw. Dense perspiration stains showed on his shirt beneath his safety vest.
An officer moved to block his path, weapon half out of the holster. He looked as nervous and frayed as the rest of them.
Please don’t draw that, Chase silently pleaded with his patrolman. Do you know how much paperwork has to be filed if the muzzle clears the holster? How many people get involved in reviewing that paperwork?
How many thousands would watch it on the evening news?
“I can’t afford to not cut this timber,” the foreman said, stepping around the CAT to face Chase.
“I’m sorry about that. I do understand. My men and I each took a twelve percent pay cut so we didn’t have to lay anyone off or have him go part time and lose his benefits. But the order to cut this timber came through illegal channels. It has to be investigated.”
“Who defines illegal?” the crewman with the chain saw shouted. He pulled the rip cord.
A gun fired. The man went down. His chain saw spun across the pavement. Bystanders yelped and jumped back, knocking into others.
More shouts and shoves.
The foreman’s fist flew at Chase’s jaw. He ducked and slammed an elbow in the man’s gut.
People cried out in pain and anger. Fists smacked and thudded. The chain saw continued to spin and roar.
The cameras rolled.
“I have had enough of this,” Chase ground out. He grabbed the foreman’s arm and twisted it up and back. With his other hand he reached for his cuffs. “You are under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent.”
“I got the right to work, dammit!”
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The foreman twisted and squirmed.
“Excessive force!” he screamed and dropped to his knees.
Just then, Dusty appeared across the lawn with Joe hovering behind her shoulder.
All the blaring noise faded from Chase’s awareness. He clearly heard Joe say, “Can you call a man that violent a friend? Can you trust him not to turn on you next time he loses his temper?” He took Dusty by the elbow and led her back inside the museum.
“Do you have anything to say for our viewers at home?” A reporter shoved a microphone beneath Chase’s nose.
Fuck off!
“No comment.”
Thirty-two
THE HOT AND HUMID NIGHT AIR pressed upon Dusty like a thick wet blanket, robbing her of breath and will. Few would sleep tonight in this uncomfortable, swampy air. She fought to take a deep breath before kneeling beside the broken rhododendron.
With all the timbermen in jail after this afternoon’s brawl, she had little hope of them restoring the damage their machines had caused. Someone had to fix as much as possible.
At least she’d gotten her park back for the Ball.
Carefully, she trimmed a bent branch, then sat back on her heels to see if she’d cut enough or too much.
The shrub seemed to bounce back and shiver, almost as if it felt a relief with the amputation.
“Wish I could recover so quickly,” she murmured.
“Why can’t you?” Thistle asked from behind her. Dusty didn’t bother to turn around. She couldn’t face her friend with tears streaking her cheeks and turning her eyes a miserable red. “Violence has never been a part of my life. It defines Chase’s job. Joe made me think about having to get used to that,” she admitted.
Thistle sat cross-legged on the grass on the other side of the rhodie. She trimmed the ragged end of a branch that had broken off. “Since Pixies set up marriage treaties and made the Patriarch Oak neutral ground, we haven’t seen much violence either.”
“But now Alder has closed off the Patriarch,” Dusty said. “A war could develop if he doesn’t come to his senses soon.”
“Yeah. He’s stupid. A great lover, but stupid, untrustworthy, a liar, and a cheat. Unless… Maybe he has a motive he’s keeping secret.” Thistle bent her head, hiding her face behind her hair.
“Do you still love him?”
Thistle studied the grass in silence for a long moment. “Sort of. I mean that mating flight was fantastic. Not just because of the best sex ever. Because of the mutual trust. We had a glowing aura. Everyone saw it and was amazed. That rarely happens.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Dusty asked. She moved over to a patch of mums just coming into bloom. Half of them lay dead, their promise of autumnal rust-and-orange blossoms stripped away.
If the fall flowers died, did that mean summer would never end? She hoped not. She’d had enough of the heat.
“I don’t know what to do about Alder. I have to think about Dick, too. I think if he and I ever had a mating flight, it would be even more spectacular. That’s not likely to happen. There isn’t a lot I can do about Alder in this big body,” Thistle said quietly. She looked longingly at the twilight shadows at the edge of The Ten Acre Wood. So close and yet so far away.
“If the barrier prevented you from getting into the wood, that must mean you are still a Pixie, in heart and spirit if not in body,” Dusty reassured her.
“Maybe.” Another stretch of silence as they worked to restore some of the damage. The lawn was a hopeless cause. But the flowers? Could even Pixie magic bring life back from the vandalism?
“What are you going to do about Chase?” Thistle asked suddenly.
“I don’t know. Something. I’m not sure what.”
“I expected to find you underground, hiding from reality,” Thistle said cautiously. Under her nimble fingers, three sword ferns resumed their upright posture. She squirted them with a mist of water from a little spray bottle she’d stored in her pocket.
“May I try some of that water on the mums? Some of them might revive if I put the roots back into the ground and give them a good drink,” Dusty mused.
“I’ll get the hose.” Thistle rose in a series of jerks and pauses, testing each motion before continuing. When she stood upright, she ambled off to the back of the building. She dragged the long, unfolding coil behind her like a pet snake.
“Hey,” Dusty yelled as a spray of cold water filled the air around her.
Thistle laughed as she pulled the nozzle trigger, spraying Dusty as much as the flower bed.
Dusty laughed, too, lunging to grab control of the hose.
Thistle giggled and ran away, carrying the hose with her. As Dusty got close, she turned and sprayed water again.
Dusty stooped and grabbed the hose, yanking it away from Thistle. “Turnabout is fair play!” she proclaimed as she drenched her friend.
Instead of running, Thistle spun, raising her arms high in pure joy. She looked like the little pink ballerina in the music box. Change the tutu from pink to lavender.
Dusty dropped the hose and spun in her own delighted dance. She hadn’t danced, really danced free and unfettered for the sheer joy of dancing, since the leukemia diagnosis.
Should she count the dances with Chase at the Old Mill last Friday night? His arms had held her captive and awestruck. But she’d danced, and gloried in his embrace and the movement.