Harry Truman doesn't like to complain; he supposes it's hard on the people of Deer Meadow, too, having almost their entire sheriff department arrested on federal charges. Still, it makes his days longer. The emergency elections can't come too soon.
(He's been working with one of the few apparently honest deputies, a man named Chadwick, and it looks like the votes are going to swing his way. Should be a change for the good.)
Harry ought to get home. He needs a shower, and maybe something solid to eat. The dinner Chadwick takes him to in Deer Meadow looks like salmonella on legs to Harry, although maybe he's just spoiled. But his headlights lead him to the Bookhouse anyway.
He lingers in the doorway, looking into the quiet woods that the Bookhouse backs on. Or maybe faces. Guards, anyway. Quiet, now. There's that, at least.
The stairs that lead down into the library aren't designed for stealth; neither are his lawman boots.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-08-27 08:39 pm (UTC)(He's been working with one of the few apparently honest deputies, a man named Chadwick, and it looks like the votes are going to swing his way. Should be a change for the good.)
Harry ought to get home. He needs a shower, and maybe something solid to eat. The dinner Chadwick takes him to in Deer Meadow looks like salmonella on legs to Harry, although maybe he's just spoiled. But his headlights lead him to the Bookhouse anyway.
He lingers in the doorway, looking into the quiet woods that the Bookhouse backs on. Or maybe faces. Guards, anyway. Quiet, now. There's that, at least.
The stairs that lead down into the library aren't designed for stealth; neither are his lawman boots.