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Officer Peter Gumption turned from the sno-cone stand
to see his partner, officer Lyndon Carter, doubled over clutching his ribs. He hurried over, his flabby limbs
flailing, and arrived with his face red and puffy from the short burst of exertion.
After his encounter with Mr. Sockforahead some months ago, he'd undergone a psychiatric evaluation. It was recommended
he be transferred to a position that allowed him to `get out more.' Thus, he left his job as evidence room desk
clerk, spent several weeks at Police Academy on a refresher course, and was reassigned as a beat cop. So far he'd
found it invigorating, and the doctor was pleased with his progress. Even so, he was still awaiting the truncheon
he'd requested. A condition of his probationary reassignment was that he wasn't allowed any weapons. He had,
after all, shot an officer in the foot. The fact that a sock-puppet had pulled the trigger was neither here nor
there.
"Lyndon, are you okay?" he asked. "What happened?"
"I feel wretched admitting it," said Lyndon. "A little kid stabbed me with a butterknife! Luckily
I'm only bruised, but if it'd been sharp..."
"Why did he do that?"
"I've no idea. I saw him running down the street with it, and asked him what was up, when -- hey, you know
what's funny? He had a sock puppet on his hand."
Peter dropped the sno-cones he was holding.
"What's up with you?" said Lyndon.
"Did he stab you with his free hand, or the one with the sock-puppet on? Think carefully."
Lyndon frowned.
"Let's see... it was his left. That was the free one."
Peter rubbed his face. Overreacting, he thought. It couldn't be Sockforahead. Could it? The evil sock-puppet
could control more than just one hand. And how much will-power would a kid have?
"Which way did he go, this kid?"
"Up the street," said Lyndon, pointing. "He dropped the knife over there."
Peter picked it up. There was no blood on it, so at least no-one had been too badly hurt with it.
"We'd better go after him. I have a bad feeling about this."
"You sure you're okay?" Lyndon straightened up. "You look pale."
"Let's just hope I'm wrong," he said, reluctant to elaborate on the sock-puppet's history.
Just now a man in swimming trunks limped over. He was pale and flabby and looked more suited to selling insurance
from the inside of a suit.
"Officers, have you seen a small boy with a sock-puppet and a, oh - I see you have the knife."
"The boy your son, is he, sir?"
"Yes."
"He stabbed an officer -- my partner here -- with this knife."
Lyndon displayed his bruised ribs.
"I'm very sorry, officers. I don't know what's gotten into him. Since he picked up that sock-puppet off
the beach he's been acting very strange."
Off the beach, thought Peter. He looked down the beach to where the very pier he'd driven off all those months
ago jutted from the shore.
"We have to find your son, and quick. He's a great danger to himself and others."
The three of them made their way up the street. There was no sign of the boy. Peter was filled with apprehension.
A sick feeling steadily rose in his stomach.
"He could be anywhere by now," said Lyndon, wiping sweat from his brow. "Let's split up."
Peter bit his lip. The last thing he wanted them to do now was split up. He started to shake.
"All right," he said at last.
For more, visit the Author's Web Site at: The Manitou's Lair
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