jonaswilder (jonaswilder) wrote in lechance, @ 2008-09-11 03:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | jonas wilder, mercedes hammermill, plot |
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Jonas sat leaning far back in his rickety, but comforting wooden chair, behind the desk that served as his space in the Sheriff's office.
He rocked back on his chair, a bad habit that his Father always warned would lead to injury. His Father probably would have also had something terse to say about the large tumbler of Whisky that was currently sitting on the desk in front of Jonas. And during working hours too.
Jonas exhaled gustily several times, thumbing and flicking the telegram through his fingers, numbers chasing in circles around his head. It just didn't add up. 35.6438 and 1211897, what on earth did they stand for? Map co-ordinates, numbers to a safe? A code? Telegraph number? Jonas was coming up short on answers, and this was getting more urgent the longer the Sheriff was gone.
The Sheriff had bitten everyone's head off yesterday, but it'd just been written off as general irritation at the additional workload that had been piled their way over the last few days. The earthquake had unsettled everyone, and the Sheriff and his deputies had been kept busy, with folk worrying over the slightest creak and noise about their properties and businesses.
The Sheriff hadn't been seen since about 1.30pm, heading east out of town. Jonas had asked around when the Sheriff couldn't be found for his customary tea and biscuits at 3pm sharp. The Sheriff was always strictly punctual, a fact that Jonas had found out repeatedly to his chagrin, as Jonas wasn't the sharpest of timekeepers ever. So it was highly unusual for the Sheriff to have not left word with anyone as to his whereabouts, and it was now 5.30pm.
Jonas sighed in frustration, and let the chair tip forward. He stood up, and drained the contents of the tumbler. He called Digger over, and the dog padded out from his usual spot under the desk. Jonas lifted his suede duster and hat off the coat stand, and put them on as he headed out.
Out on the street, he wondered whether his horse would be settled enough to ride yet, or whether she was still too spooked from the earthquake. All his animals had been rattled by it, he'd had no eggs for breakfast this morning either. He was still debating whether to go round to check on his horse in the paddock over the Ilen River bridge, when he saw someone approaching.
He lifted his hat in greeting, "Good afternoon, trust you are well?" he called over.