Elliot Savant: A Free Fantastical Fable of Foster Flat Digital Short, Page 3

southern hicks."

  Elliot's movements began to slow as the drug started to take effect. Grunt removed the wadding from his mouth to keep him from choking on it.

  "Throw him in the bathroom for now. I'll change him in a couple of minutes." Gracie instructed as she pulled a couple of beers from the ice box. Grunt did as he was told. Before closing the door to the bathroom, he stood for a moment and studied the now docile child.

  "I'll never get used to watching him after he first gets his medicine. Look how alert he is. You could almost pass him off for normal."

  "Except that he still looks like a Cro-magnon man." Gracie snickered.

  "You know what I mean," Grunt replied, still looking at Elliot. "His eyes; they're so clear. I swear to you he's different after the medicine. It's like wherever he is most of the time -- wherever his thoughts are, for a while he comes back to his body."

  "If you don't beat all. Close the door and come get you beer," Gracie said.

  "Maybe his thoughts have been out there somewhere in time." Grunt continued as he closed the door and picked up his beer from the table. "Maybe that's why he can tell the future when he comes back."

  "Boy, sometimes I'm not sure which of you are the biggest idiot. Come on, help me put the damn silly outfit on him. The mark will be here soon."

  Dodger really had meant to follow his uncle's instructions and go straight back to the blue and gray trailer that had served as his summer home for the past two years. It had been his uncle's year-round home for over fifteen. It's likely he might have even forgotten about the kid in the back seat at least for a while. But as he left the tackle shop, he decided to take the back way home where the traffic would be less and the road smoother.

  He pushed himself along on his skateboard, taking potshots at beer cans and other debris in the gutter with the water pistol he always carried with him. As he did so, he found himself thinking more and more about what it must be like for the boy in the back seat and liking his thoughts less and less. There must be some way he could help the kid. No one deserved to live such a life, not even Mrs. Peterson. His fifth-grade teacher had proven to Dodger beyond a shadow of a doubt that time did indeed slow down at certain points in one's life.

  If only there was someone you could call on when you had a problem like this, Dodger thought. Like a Robin Hood but for kids. Maybe a cross between Robin Hood and Peter Pan. Yeah, that's it. You could hire the entire band of merry men at a price break depending on what your weekly allowance was. In a situation like this one, you could slip the friend you were helping off to Neverland, like a witness protection plan for troubled kids. Maybe, that's what he would become when he grew up. Someone needed to be around to stick up for kids. It certainly looked like a wide open market.

  The back way took him by a narrow road of rundown shops that had flourished until the new road had been cut through a few years ago cutting Foster Flat out of the mainstream of the rest of the world. Now, most of them were boarded up with for sale or rent signs on them. One though had recently had the boards removed and on the glass door were the newly painted words:

  P. I. (SLY) HOOD

  PRIVATE DETECTIVE

  Dodger kicked his skateboard to an abrupt stop and walked back to the store front. He stood in front of the glass door for several minutes, scheming on how he could take advantage of such a twist of fate. Dodger believed in fate. He had traveled home this way less than a week ago, and the entire stripe had been vacant; boarded up tight at a tick. But today, just when he needed the services of a private dick -- presto-- here appears Sly Hood.

  What a dorky name, Dodger thought as he opened the door and walked in. Well, beggars can't be choosers. He propped his board against the wall next to the door and looked around. The outer room was nearly vacant with only a rickety desk that seemed to bend under the strain of the thick stack of dust covered magazines that laid upon it. By the scuff marks on the floor it had obviously been dragged from the next room, the marks trailing under the door which was propped open a few inches by a brick. Dodger knocked lightly on the door before walking in.

  "Sorry, not opened for business yet." A slender, well-muscled man in gray denim pants and a polo shirt shouted over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the rusty nail that he was preparing to pound into the wall. Leaning against the wall at his feet was a framed diploma. It looked like to Dodger the frame had probably come from the local thrift shop and the diploma from the back of a book of matches.

  Dodger stopped a few feet inside the doorway and waited patiently.

  "I said, I'm not open for . . . " Sly stopped in mid-sentence as he turned and saw his visitor for the first time.

  "What you want, kid? Can't you see I'm busy." He turned back to his task and gave the nail a couple more wallops with the hammer.

  "I'd say by the looks of things, you can't afford to turn down your first case," Dodger replied.

  Sly swatted the nail one last time and bent it flat against the wall.

  "Damn. Now, see what you made me do. What do you want?" Sly turned and tossed the hammer on the desk next to him. The desk appeared to be the twin of the one in the outer office. Four folding chairs rested against the front of the desk, their gray surfaces polka-dotted with white paint. They obviously came with the office; the white paint matching the office walls.

  "You're new in town, aren't you?" Dodger asked as he opened one of the chairs and sat down.

  "Oh boy, a real Sherlock Holmes. Maybe I should hire you as my partner."

  "No thanks, I'm not looking for employment at present. Besides, I'm interested in hiring you. You interested?"

  Sly studied Dodger for a moment before answering. "Sure kid, what you going to pay me with, your lawn mower money?" Sly slid the hammer to the side and sat on the corner of the desk.

  "Well, this case may not pay much but it'll make your reputation in town if you solve it. Consider it good public relations."

  "Right kid, just what I thought. Beat it, I've got work to do."

  "What if you could expose a major scam, one that included corrupt city officials?" Dodger asked not moving from his chair. He found the words falling from his mouth. His imagination was at its best when he didn't know ahead of time what he was going to say.

  "Yeah? What about it?" Sly asked after a few seconds.

  "It involves kidnapping, child abuse and maybe more. You could make a real name for yourself. You'd have clients pouring in here in less than a week."

  "Yeah? And what's in it for you?" Sly asked, watching Dodger closely.

  Without hesitating, Dodger replied, "I'll get my brother back."

  Sly continued to look intently at Dodger. After a couple of seconds, he picked up the hammer and walked over to the wall with the bent nail. He pulled the nail out with the claw end, studying it for a moment before tossing it in the trash can.

  He turned back to Dodger and stared at him for several seconds. Dodger did not move a muscle but returned a steady gaze. "Oh, what the hell." Sly finally said, breaking the long silence. "That was my last nail, anyway. Give me the scoop."

  Dodger leaned forward in his chair and filled Sly in about the strange man who had come to his uncle's house and had left with his brother in a black Caddy with Illinois license plates.

  "Why haven't you gone to the police?" Sly asked.

  "I think they're in on it too. I heard my uncle speaking to someone he called Kenwood. Later, when I went down to the police station to get help, I noticed the police chief's name was Kenwood."

  "Why would your uncle do such a thing?"

  "I think my mom put him up to it. You see, my dad is dead. He was quite wealthy but when he died, he left most of the money in a trust fund to take care of my brother."

  "How about you? Didn't he leave any money for your mother and you?"

  "Sure, but my mom spent it months ago. It wasn't a lot, not in comparison to the trust fund. You see, my brother is . . . well, he isn't all there. He needs a lot more care than
I do. So, most of the money is in the trust fund. My mom can't touch it. My dad's attorney, his old college roommate, controls the trust and he's real careful about how it gets spent."

  Sly thought about what Dodger was saying, then smiled. "But if your brother were to have an accident . . ."

  "That's right. The trust fund would revert over to my mom to take care of me. She's afraid it'll get all used up on Elliot before he dies."

  "Elliot? That your brother?" Sly asked as he took a notepad from his hip pocket and jotted down the name.

  'Yeah. Listen, you're going to help me, aren't you? You see why I can't go to the police. I can't trust anyone else. You're it."

  Sly chuckled. "Kid, you can't trust me either. You'll make out a lot better in this world if you don't trust anybody, got it? But in this case, you're probably right. You gotta trust me 'cause I'm your only hope. Of course, you could just let this guy do away with your brother. Sounds like you and your mom would be a lot better off."

  "No!" Dodger screamed as he jumped up from his chair. "I don't want to live with my brother's life on my conscience. You've got to help me."

  "All right, take it easy. I'll give it a shot. Shouldn't be too hard to find a vintage Cadillac like you've described. You said it had a trailer hitch on it?"

  "That's right and on the door were the words, "Fortunes from the Future, Pasguill Ill." Dodger replied.

  "Well, let's start by checking out the trailer parks around here. If they haven't already