CHAPTER SIX
Memorial Day, 8:30 a.m.
Joshua pulled into the parking lot of Jigger Wood’s bait shop, enjoying the sound his bike’s tires made on the uneven gravel beneath him. He killed the bike’s engine, and looked up at Jigger, who was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of his shop. Jigger was strumming his guitar, surveying the dark, menacing clouds hanging low in the southern sky.
“Sky doesn’t bode well for the outdoor concert tonight, Josh,” Jigger announced as Joshua approached the porch.
The chief considered his friend -- the closest friend he had in Oakdale, maybe his closest friend in the whole world now that he was so disconnected from everything in his past. Jigger Wood was a lean and lanky man in his mid fifties. His once-dark hair was mostly silver now, and it flowed luxuriously down well past his shoulders. He maintained what seemed to be a permanent three days growth of beard, and he wore a perpetual smirk on his world-weary, handsome face. Flannel shirts and faded jeans were the only garments he ever wore, even in the hottest weather.
“Well, weather changes faster here than anywhere else in the country,” Joshua replied. “You know that better than I do. Even if we do have a storm this morning, it could be completely dry and clear by evening.”
“Or the storm may not come at all,” Jigger said. “Clouds could break up before they reach us. Mother Nature might just be teasing us. She can be an ornery bitch sometimes.”
“Guess that’s true,” Joshua said, climbing the porch steps.
Jigger moved his guitar so that the sound hole was closer to his ear. He started strumming a more upbeat tune, then, once he seemed satisfied, he resumed his naturally relaxed position. “So, you’re ridin’ like an organ donor today, I see,” Jigger observed.
“We used to call it riding like a squid,” Joshua said, running his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Some mornings, you just don’t feel like wearing a helmet, y’know?”
Jigger gave a thoughtful grunt, then nodded toward the motorcycle and asked, “You lookin’ to sell the Defender yet?”
“Never,” Joshua answered, shaking his head. “The FXDP Dyna Defender is the finest bike ever manufactured by Harley Davidson USA.”
“Those words could start a hell of a bar fight,” Jigger said, laughing lightly. “So, what can I do for you today, Josh? And don’t tell me you’ve become a fisherman overnight.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Joshua said, trying to sound casual. “I just wanted to ask you something about the concert tonight.”
“You comin’ then?” Jigger said, tuning the guitar now. “As you know, music is my real job. This bait shop is just a tax right-off.” He laughed again, then strummed a chord and sang, in his best broken Johnny Cash, “My em-pire of dirt…”
“Jigger,” Joshua asked, “Do you use dry ice in your stage show?”
Jigger leaned his guitar against the porch rail, brushed the steel gray hair out of his eyes, settled back in his chair and said, “Dry ice? What, you think we use fog machines and spinning rainbow lights, too? When’s the last time you went to a concert, 1978?”
“Dan Fogelberg was my last concert, I think,” the chief replied, ignoring the intended insult. “The year he released the Phoenix album.”
“I979,” Jigger said. “I wasn’t too far off.”
“Wait,” Joshua said, correcting himself. “I went to see Wynonna at the casino, just this past year.”
“Casinos don’t count,” Jigger said. “Besides, I’ll bet you didn’t see fog machines or laser lights at either of their shows. What’s your interest in concert stagecraft all of a sudden?”
Joshua seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he muttered, “I think there were a few lighting effects at the casino. Colored lights, maybe…”
Jigger stood up and said, “So… are you needin’ some dry ice? Is that what this is all about?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s about the size of it,” the chief answered him. “I need some dry ice.”
“Why didn’t you just come right out with it?” Jigger asked, marching into the bait shop, expecting Joshua to follow him. “I don’t use the stuff in my concerts, but I keep some on hand in the shop.”
“Why?” asked Joshua, close on Jigger’s heels as he loped across the wooden floors toward the back of the shop.
“Different things,” Jigger explained, raising his voice to be heard over the humming and bubbling of the minnow tanks. “Once in a while, some out-of-towner wants to ship a trophy fish back home. We pack it in dry ice to preserve it. It’s also good for makin’ homemade root beer. How much do you need?”
Joshua thought for a moment and said, “I’m not really sure. Five pounds, maybe?”
“I’ll just give you a cooler full,” Jigger said, opening the walk-in freezer.
“I didn’t bring a cooler…” Joshua stammered.
Jigger pulled a styrofoam cooler from a stack next to the freezer door. “I’ll give you one of these cheap styrofoam deals. I got a shitload of ‘em.” He shoved the styrofoam box at Joshua.
As Joshua took the cooler, he asked, “So, how much is this gonna cost me?”
“Not a cent,” Jigger said, steam streaming from his mouth as he stepped into the freezer. “Just do me a couple of favors.”
“What favors?” Joshua asked. “I don’t fix parking tickets.”
“No need for that,” Jigger said, laughing again. “I don’t drive anymore, remember? No, just come to the concert tonight.”
“Done,” Joshua answered, beginning to feel the chill of the frigid air. “What else?”
Jigger met his eyes and said, “I want you to tell me what the hell’s in that helmet strapped to your Defender out there. You’d never risk damaging that brainpan of yours without a good reason.”
Joshua almost objected, but after a moment, he sighed slightly and decided to trust his friend. And there, in the walk-in freezer of Jigger Wood’s bait shop, Joshua Cardiff widened the circle of his conspiracy as he shared the truth about the bizarre, flesh-and-bone cargo he was transporting.
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