Chapter 4 – Casey Shocks the Double R

Much to Casey's relief, the next few weeks passed uneventfully. Her position at Raining Cats and Dogs, Twin Peaks' no-kill animal shelter, kept her and Moogie busy seven hours a day, five days a week. It was a fun place to be sometimes, and of course it was nice to be able to take Moogie to work. She did anything and everything her bosses asked her to do, but when there was downtime she and her group of interns often 'socialized' pets waiting for homes. After almost two years of graduate classes in the rainiest state known to man, she found it somewhat ironic that her job description now included playing with kittens.

Much of her free time was spent in a more morbid pursuit, however.

She made sure she spent some time each day talking to Harold Smith, telling him stories, as the Log Lady had told her to do. At first it felt strange talking to a dead man, but lately she had started to feel some sort of kinship with Harold, imagining him as a misunderstood Boo Radley-type who meant no harm. Sometimes she would tell him about her day, about her coworkers and the shelter animals waiting for homes. Sometimes she talked to him about her childhood in New England, family vacations in Maine and Cape Cod. She thought maybe he would like hearing about that, as Hawk told her Harold had grown up in Boston. Other times, however, she spent telling Harold about the real reason she was spending a summer in isolated Twin Peaks.

"It destroyed him, Harold. He was never the same person after that. Everyone knows about the monster he became, but no one ever wonders what he was like before he lost his mind. He was my favorite uncle. He understood human nature very well, especially children. He knew what it felt like to be small and powerless." Casey paused to grab Moogie around the neck, rub his head. "Of course, maybe that's how he turned into Windom Earle, wife-murdering psychopath extraordinaire.

"No one really told us exactly what happened to Uncle Windom after he murdered Aunt Caroline. My father investigated it for as long as he could, but he died two years ago and all I have to go on are his notes and my uncle's journals. Those journals are scary, Harold. He was into really dark, evil things by then. And the thing is, that's not him. That's not who he really was. The man I knew as my uncle is either dead and gone forever, or buried deep inside a monster in an agony so deep I can't begin to comprehend it."

Was it just Casey's imagination, or was there a faint scent of flowers in the room?

"The FBI wants to pretend he never existed. Their investigation is a joke… all they want is to catalogue and destroy all evidence of him. They arrested my father and my grandfather for some of the things my uncle did because it was more convenient, we were easier targets, we could be put away and forgotten about. My father was fraudulently arrested for murder by the FBI at least twice, my grandfather at least once. I don't even remember how many times it happened. Thank god they could never make the charges stick, but it didn't matter." Casey pressed her lips into a straight line. "They tried to ruin our lives. They almost did. My father lost his job after that and no one wanted to hire him. Maybe the FBI had a hand in that, too.

"After that, my father and grandfather started a business as private investigators. And repo men. Never a dull moment." She smiled thinking about all the adventures her father had told her about when her mother was out of earshot. "One time the two of them repoed a trailer and didn't realize the skip – that's the person who skips out on their payments – hadn't actually vacated the trailer yet. They were usually meticulous about where the borrowers actually were at the time of the repo, but that one took them by surprise. They had the trailer hooked up to this huge six wheel truck, the kind you see horse trailers towed on, and the skip busts out of the trailer with a sawed off shotgun. That one's only funny in hindsight." She shook her head.

"The two of them taught me a lot about intuition, researching, investigating the small details that add up to the bigger picture. From what I can tell, there's this patch of woods called Glastonberry Grove that I need to go look at. It makes sense that Uncle Windom's cabin would've been up there. I have a map of the Grove from one of my father's contacts in Seattle. Been putting off investigating that for a while. I hate to waste a good Saturday or Sunday futzing around in the woods. I really should've learned to enjoy hiking by now.

"Hawk would be able to help with that. If I could tell him about this. Which I can't. If I could actually look him in the face, which of course goes without saying."

Casey and Hawk hadn't spoken since the day she came into the sheriff's station. The awkwardness of that night burst afresh in her mind every time she thought about it, yet she found herself searching him out whenever she was in town. She was often in the Double R at lunchtime or the Roadhouse on Friday and Saturday nights, usually with her coworkers but sometimes by herself. Sometimes she would see him first, during the Double R's busy lunch hour, or in a booth at the Roadhouse, and feel privileged at having a moment to enjoy him, without his knowing, before having to turn away to avoid discovery.

Being stared at came with the territory when you were surreptitiously investigating the whereabouts of your psychopathic serial killer uncle while trying to complete a Master's degree, and Casey was no longer bothered by locals sizing her up in public; but there were times she'd feel eyes on her while she was doing something no one should've been interested in watching. Like touching up her lipstick in the rear view mirror. Or answering the phone when it was her turn in reception. Sometimes she would swivel her head in the direction of the stare, just to see if she could catch whoever it was in the act. Usually it was a coworker lost in thought, or Moogie just waking up from a nap; but once in a while she'd spot the back of a brown sheriff's deputy jacket and a pair of long legs in brown Dickies.

She sighed and looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be up there somewhere. "We lost Aunt Caroline and Uncle Windom a long time ago, and that wound never had a chance to heal. You probably know the feeling, Harold."

She flipped on the television, hoping to forget her problems for a bit. Besides the evening news, Invitation to Love was all that was on. God, I hate this show, she thought.

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Hawk pressed Casey against the wall and she wrapped her arms around him, letting her inquisitive hands travel to his weapon belt. She found the pair of police issue handcuffs he kept there at all times, the metal icy and unyielding. "Where's the key?" she murmured, nipping his earlobe with her small white teeth, her fingers working the clasp on the cuffs.

"Where you can't get at it," he growled, a carnivorous look in his eyes. She giggled and he kissed her hard and deep, forcefully penetrating her smiling mouth. He pushed his knee between her legs and felt the heat there. Casey moaned into her pillow, sunlight beginning to filter through her bedroom curtains. She mauled the pillow with both hands, moaning now because she knew she'd been dreaming. Goddamn it, that's the second time in a week and a half I've had a dream about that schmuck, she thought. And he never does get to use those cuffs on me, either. She pulled the covers over her head for a moment, then got up to get ready for work.

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It wasn't Casey's day. She'd already talked to Leah once for forgetting to push the night button on the phone but she'd done it yet again, creating more work for whoever had to answer phones that day. Then she'd found out right before lunch that Jessica had decided to just ignore the 22 voicemails logged the night before. Her recurring dream didn't help. She left for the Double R with Teresa and Mickey at noon, hoping a slice of peanut butter pie might cheer up the rest of the afternoon.

The diner seemed more crowded than usual. Casey and the girls had to sit at the counter, which she always hated because there was no controlling who was sitting on either side. Today, Casey happened to be sitting next to Bobby Briggs, Twin Peaks High School's former QB. Mickey whispered that her cousin's friend bought pot from Bobby, but still couldn't keep her eyes off him. Teresa, lucky enough to be seated next to a trucker intent on his meal, kept leaning over to get a better look - or just trying to get him to notice her cleavage, Casey thought. She rolled her eyes and just hoped Bobby would keep his mouth shut. He had a reputation for hitting on the interns and Casey knew she wouldn't be able to ignore his comments today.

"I think he's looking at me," Mickey whispered, tossing her hair back and furtively applying lip gloss.

"Nuh uh," Teresa hissed, smiling like the Cheshire cat. "I think he's looking at Casey."

"T, you have an evil streak," Casey murmured, hoping she was wrong.

Their plates came and the waitress lingered over placing Casey's down, staring lustfully at Bobby and biting her lip. He raised his eyebrows and mouthed "later" to her.

The minute the waitress's back was turned, Bobby covertly turned his attention to Casey and purred, "Have I seen you somewhere before? Roadhouse, maybe?"

Oh lord, Casey thought. Not today. "No. You haven't." She stared ahead, sipped her water and took a vicious bite out of her sandwich.

"Don't be that way with Bobby, baby. I know I've seen you and that skirt before. That's pretty short to wear to work, isn't it?" He leaned in and smelled her neck, exhaling hot air on the nearly translucent skin there. "I bet you've gotten a talking-to about that skirt before."

Other customers at the counter were starting to stare, and snigger at her obvious discomfort. Casey slammed her fork down and glared at Bobby. "Let me spell this out for you. Leave me the hell alone."

Bobby's nostrils flared. "You see that waitress over there?" He pointed at her, delivering plates to - was that a group of sheriff's deputies? Casey's eyes scoured the booth and her eyes met Hawk's at exactly the same moment. Chills ran down her spine, and she resented Bobby's intrusion all the more.

"I've been fucking that waitress for ten months straight. Go ask that waitress if I'm worth fucking behind her husband's back. Ask her how Bobby makes her feel good all night long. Go ask Shelley if I'm worth mouthing off to, baby. You might learn a few things about me." He licked his lips and nodded in Shelley's direction.

Casey could see Hawk starting to get up out of the booth, and decided interacting with Hawk was more trouble than dealing with Bobby. "Can I ask you a question, little boy?" Her voice rang out loud and clear throughout the diner, and she had everyone's attention.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"I know you can hear me, I'm sitting right here." Casey's voice was sweet and demure. She opened her eyes wide and tilted her chin down a little. "Has that ever worked?"

Bobby stared at Casey for a full ten seconds before throwing his hands in the air and demanding, "What? Has WHAT ever worked?"

"Trying to pick up girls with lines like 'go ask that waitress if I'm worth fucking behind her husband's back'." The diner collectively gasped and went completely silent as Shelley's plates crashed to the floor. She ran to the kitchen in tears. Bobby wiped a hand over his face and followed after her, yelling Shelley's name.

"Oh shit, Casey," Teresa whispered, a smirk stealing across her face. "Ferris Bueller, you're my hero."

Casey could feel the stares of everyone in the diner. No way is this going to end well for me, she thought. I can't leave Twin Peaks yet, I haven't investigated Glastonberry Grove, and I still have another two months of my job to get through. Casey had forgotten the most important rule her father taught her: boldness had consequences in a small town.

"About time someone told her what a sleazebag he is," someone said from the corner. Singular voices from different booths made their agreement known in the sort of chorus that leads either to a parade or a lynch mob.

Another voice piped in. "Shelley didn't deserve to find out like that. And her poor husband dead and everything." A threatening buzz started to fill the diner. Casey's anxiety became a cold sweat. She wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow her whole.

A man in a matching khaki shirt and pants stood up from the deputies' booth and came to stand next to Casey's stool. The buzz instantly dissipated. His curly hair and pretty brown eyes made him look younger than he really was. "Can I ask your name?"

Her voice came out tinny. "My name is Casey."

"Casey, I'm Harry S. Truman. I've been Sheriff of Twin Peaks for almost fifteen years now, if that means anything. I have to say, I'm not sure if what I just saw was bravery or stupidity, but whatever it was, you must have a steel pair under that skirt. I'm not sure if you realize what you've just done, but I'll tell you one thing, I've got half a mind to deputize you right here, right now, on the spot."

The goodwill inspired by Harry's speech turned to laughter as Hawk silently came up behind Harry, making a show out of unpinning his deputy badge. Was it just her imagination, or did he make sure to sweep his fingers over her wrist as he placed the star in her hand?

Casey looked down at her palm, her heart marching to a tune she was familiar with, and kept her face stoic as she handed the badge back to Hawk. He cocked his head and everyone went quiet again, listening for their exchange.

"I can't accept this."

"Why not?"

"It's got your name on it." Raucous laughter broke out in the small lunchroom, but Casey hardly paid it any attention. Hawk was smiling at her, and it felt like an oasis in a desert.

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