Fiction: Larks Lake Road, Part I

A distinct aroma of egg rolls hung over the field. And shrimp. Definitely shrimp.

The fire department was pretty much done foaming the hulk of the VW Microbus by the time Ben got there. He knew immediately what VW it was and who drove it. Everyone knew this particular bus. It was a mint 1965 that the kid's parents bought for him, it had been in really good shape. In fact, they'd outbid a collector for it. Kind of a shame, really. Because the kid immediately took this classic, which had been straight-gas, and had a friend of his drop in a little diesel engine set up to burn biodiesel. By itself, this wouldn't have been a big deal, but his real sin had been what happened next: he invited all his pals over to his parent's house, and they painted the sucker. Went to work on it with Rustoleum spraypaint and Dutch Boy Kids Room and even that new stuff they sell for a hundred bucks a gallon or whatever that dries to a form a third-rate chalkboard. Ben knew all this because the kid's uncle ran the local newspaper, and they'd tracked the project as human-interest piece, including the painting party.

Just a travesty.

The little bus was sitting upright in a clearing, surrounded by overgrown apple trees about a quarter-mile from the road. This particular bit of property had been an apple orchard up until the late-90s, when the old guy that ran it died and his kids didn't feel like keeping the family dream alive at a 1% ROI was worth it when they could buy tech stocks instead. The clearing was not visible from the road in the daylight so it certainly wasn't normally at night, but the fire had evidently been quite spectacular and the neighbors called 911. This had been about 4:30 in the morning. It was now about an hour later and the dawn was beginning to break over the hills to the east. It was foggy and damp and chilly and Ben didn't have a coat with him, the Emmet County Sheriff does not usually have to be up and around before about seven, and he certainly doesn't go tromping around in overgrown fields this early. Ben less-so than most, even. Tall grass scared him, he was paranoid as all hell about ticks and Lyme Disease. He'd pave his own lawn if he could, so tall, wet grass was not ideal terrain for him.

He was not actually cut out for his job in any way, really. He was elected, of course, as were all Sheriffs in Michigan. The thing was, most of them had been leaders of some kind in law-enforcement in some way before being elected, Ben hadn't been. He'd been a regular old cop in Mackinaw City for a few years back in the 1990s, then had moved into charter boat captaining. He'd been elected in a special election last fall in a surprise turn of events, the old Sheriff had died at his post (Johann's Donuts) and the Emmet County Democratic Party needed a candidate, badly, and quickly. The Undersheriff was thought to be a shoe-in, until he went on record with the TV news people three days before the election advocating concentration camps for illegal immigrants. Ben won, with 50.5% of the vote. It was a conservative, often loony county, but they weren't quite ready to go there. Yet.

Life's funny.

He was there along with half of the fire trucks in the county, two Harbor Springs cops and one of his seven deputies, Deputy Vandenbrink. Deputy Vandenbrink was 28, had joined the Army on September 12th, 2001 three day prior to his 19th birthday, had been to Iraq twice and Afghanistan once and was, really, if we're being honest about it, a stupendous asshole. He'd spent the night shift cherrypicking DUIs outside bars and then hassling brown people in the Petoskey Wal-Mart parking lot.

“Sheriff!” He broke into a little sprint, “Sheriff, there's bodies in there!”

“'Bodies, Deputy? As in more than one?”

“Yes sir! Two sir! Sergeant Catson from Harbor's got a call into MSP to come check it out.”

Ben was not expecting bodies, although this probably had more to do with an early-morning brainhaze than logic, cars don't just turn up on fire in abandoned apple orchards. Of course there were bodies. The real question, the real pain-in-the-ass for Benjamin Roger Hallyard, Emmet County Sheriff, was whether or not those bodies were there as a result of some nefarious dealings or mere coincidence. Admittedly, if it had been one body, a single body, the latter would be more likely, or at least possible. But two bodies? Unless some really unfortunate carbon monoxide issues had ruined illicit trustafarian sexytime in one of the best-ventilated places on Earth, Ben was going to be here awhile.