“Salvage? You think the barn was a ship lost at sea and the bag was cargo?”
“I don’t know, honest, Sheriff, we were just…there’s something else, sir.”
“Something else? What?”
“There was some money in the bag.”
“Money? How much and where is it?”
“We counted it and it was, like two hundred dollars. Me and Tommy split it.”
“Where is it now?”
“I think Tommy spent his, I got mine in my box.”
Ike looked at Darcie.
“He has a tin box with things he collects. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”
“Okay, Whaite, you just shuck out of that jacket and hand it over. It’s evidence. Rita, call the Dewcamps and have them bring in their son. Whaite, you get off to school now. I’ll decide what punishment if any you get later. In the meantime, you need to think about this, suppose that bag had been left there as part of a drug deal and suppose the people who were looking for it found out that it was you who took it? You need to think about what you did and what might have happened to you if the wrong people were involved in this.”
The boy and his mother left, he looking pale, she sounding off a mile a minute about what his father would think if he were alive, him once being a deputy sheriff and a town hero. Ike felt a little ashamed of himself for scaring the boy like that. He wondered what he might have said if he had any experience at being a parent. Probably the same thing—maybe worse.
“So now we know how the stuff we found in the barn got there and how it ended up in a pile on the floor. Question, assuming Darla went to the barn this morning and found her bag missing, what will she do next?”
Frank looked up and shrugged. He knew Ike was thinking out loud and didn’t expect an answer. He picked up an incoming call.
“Billy said that Leota Blevins also stopped at the barn. I suppose she wanted the bag as well and she didn’t find it either. So what is she thinking? That Darla had been there already and is on the loose? Probably.”
“Billy just called in. He said after she left the barn the Blevins woman parked outside Alex’s for a time and then went to her motel. She hasn’t come out.”
“So, she’s not looking for Darla. She never was. Is she after LeBrun? Lord, I hope not, she’ll get herself killed.”
Not as long as she stays in the motel.”
“Unless she’s been spotted and then, she might end up as bait to get to the girl. Why didn’t she just stay put in Virginia Beach?”
Chapter Thirty-five
George LeBrun—before he landed in prison for murder, attempted murder, false imprisonment, assault with a deadly weapon and a variety of drug-related charges, and before Ike had put him away for what everyone assumed would be fourteen forevers and before Darla Dellinger was born—had served as one of the more unsavory deputies on the late Loyal Parker’s staff. So corrupt had that administration been that the townspeople had finally reared up and persuaded Ike Schwartz to run for sheriff. Ike, with his law school background and government service about which they truly knew nothing, but suspected everything, appeared to be the only person strong enough to challenge an entrenched, corrupt, and potentially dangerous administration. Ike’s father, Abe Schwartz, had spent his entire adult life in Virginia politics. Retirement did not sit well with him and when he saw a chance to get back in the game, he pulled out all the stops, called in favors from both sides of the aisle, and steamrollered Ike’s opponent—the dirt-bag Loyal Parker. The campaign had been heated. It had been dirty, but in the end and, much to Loyal Parker’s dismay, Ike had been swept into office.
The election had not been universally celebrated. Small towns have traditions and hierarchies with ingrained biases which are willing to overlook obvious social pathologies rather than accept change. Within months of Ike’s first election, Picketsville’s mayor had begun searching for Ike’s replacement. He might have been successful in that endeavor had he found a candidate with a modicum of honesty and integrity. As it happened, he’d failed in that as well. Ike’s subsequent reelection four years later had not been as easy as his first, and still rankled the incumbent political machine. The difficulty attendant on those who shun ethical paths to exploit the perquisites of power is the inability to develop any semblance of a moral compass, an attribute which would allow them to sense virtues in others. Thus, these empty men and women, hot in the pursuit of power, even small-town power, will routinely gravitate to people like themselves. They never quite realize that people like themselves are the problem to begin with. The mayor had been shocked and then embarrassed when his candidate ran true to form, that is, he narrowly avoided a felony arrest for aiding and abetting and the jail time that would go with it.
When Ike first assumed the title of sheriff, his intention had been simple, to clean house, to send one hundred percent of those associated with the previous regime packing, set up a moderately efficient system of law enforcement, and then retire from public service. But his innate sense of fair play added to the constraints imposed on him by the town’s personnel policies meant he had to interview all current members of the office— deputies and administrative staff—and then justify any and all firings using the town’s personnel procedures. The exercise had turned out better than he’d anticipated, but was incomplete. He discovered a small core of deputies and staff who were ready and eager to join him in creating a modern and responsive sheriff’s department. To date, his trust in the handful he’d retained had been justified. However, Darla Smut’s appearance in town and the old wounds her presence evoked could call their newly minted professionalism into question. People could be forgiven if they wondered whether old loyalties and practices had been truly expunged or were merely lying dormant. Ike shared the concern as well. He’d never had to test their loyalty before—not like this.
Like the hum from the high voltage line that skirted the city and carried power west to Covington, old corruption long thought dead and buried, but now front and center, resonated through the minds of the town’s old-timers. Ike had to consider whether any of the men, and women—shouldn’t forget Essie, as unlikely as that might seem—might be trying to cover skeletons they thought were long buried but which could now resurface like Karl’s dead mobster.
He could eliminate Essie and Billy from the list. George had tried to kill them once already and the likelihood either still harbored any residual loyalty to him seemed impossible. Given LeBrun’s reputation as a bigot and a racist, Charley Picket could be removed from the list as well. Whaite Billingsly died LOD a few years back and that left only Jack Feldman and Harry Doncaster. Ike realized he would need to watch them both. Doncaster’s possible involvement could be set aside for the moment. He had taken vacation time and now lay basking in the sun in the Outer Banks at a place with the unlikely name of Duck. But why had Feldman, quite uncharacteristically, volunteered to help search for the girl? Jack’s efficiency reports were like a Dalmatian dog: spotted. Entries stating he showed a “lack of initiative,” and “frequent unexcused absences,” and “occasionally demonstrates poor judgment.” If he’d stayed connected to LeBrun, the answer was obvious. Suddenly, he’d become a cop concerned with the welfare of a girl once mistreated by his coworkers and perhaps even by himself? Ike had assigned Feldman a sector to search that included the park land area around old Route 11 where it led into town. That should have kept him away from the barn and Alex’s Road House and hopefully away from what Ike assumed would be the girl’s more likely hiding places.
Ike had no idea where Darla had disappeared to, no one did. Worse, he hadn’t an inkling which direction she might have bolted. Frank thought the girl would head west as fast as she could. If Frank was correct, she could be out on the highway thumbing rides or halfway to Chicago by now. The state police had a BOLO on her. If she tried the highway now, they would find her and he’d know pretty soon. If she’d caught her ride before t
he general call-out, he doubted they’d ever find her. If she’d been scared off the highway for some reason, like her bag gone missing, the chances of her being found were better, if only slightly so. Darla had survived in an environment that would have killed a lesser person. Clearly, she was not stupid.
Ike wandered to the shiny new coffee machine and started the thing gurgling and spitting, then promptly forgot it and walked back to his desk. If the girl wasn’t already in a semi cab heading out on the turnpike system, she’d gone to ground nearby. But where? The skills she’d learned in the journey that took her out of Picketsville in the first place would be in play again, only this time she was older and smarter. She would stay invisible and remain that way until a window opened and then she’d be gone for good. He wondered whether he’d ever find her. He also wondered if he wanted to find her. It was a fleeting thought, but one with a small measure of merit, at least from the girl’s point of view. Of course, the time might come when she would want to be found.
Ike hoped she’d failed in her attempt to catch a ride out. Hoped she would hide somewhere local and wait until things changed. If she lurked in the area she might make her move as early as nightfall when the darkness would allow her to move around more easily. But where would she hide until then? The hay barn? It was just possible Billy missed the significance of the Blevins woman’s visit to the barn. What if Leota Blevins had not gone there to search for her at all but to supply her? What if it was the librarian who had been hiding her all along? He told Rita to find Billy and send him back to the barn. When he got there, he was to lay back and wait for backup. Then he had her dispatch Charley Picket to the barn as well. If the girl was in there, they’d have her.
***
Darla had misjudged the time it would take to reach her destination. Almost an hour had elapsed before she edged into the trees that bordered the church parking lot. She searched for signs of activity. Two cars were parked near the door that led to the church office. She guessed one must belong to that snotty secretary and the other to the preacher. Low brush lined the edge of the graveled area and she sat cross-legged behind one with the little white flowers that smelled like perfume. Honeysuckle. She remembered that. The moss-covered ground felt damp but soft and comfortable. She waited. The first pangs of hunger arrived about noon. She remembered she had not eaten since the night before. Still, she didn’t move. She’d been hungry before, many times. Back in the times her mother had sunk deep into the nuttiness of her meth life, she’d often gone without food for days. She’d subsisted on the meth head’s diet—sugary soft drinks and Cheetos. This little bit of going hungry wouldn’t amount to much. Somewhere in that church building she would find a refrigerator, a pantry, and something to eat. They probably had a stove in there, too. If she wanted to cook up something, she could. She wouldn’t, of course. People in churches were pretty careful about their stoves. Leota had told her that once. She couldn’t remember why. They would probably notice it if someone had messed with it. She didn’t know why she thought that either. It was more than likely something her mother told her back when they were making the rounds of churches looking for handouts. Preachers were always a soft touch. Darla would stand behind her mother looking miserable—easy to do. She was mostly always miserable anyway and then the old lady would go into her story which was usually some crap about her having cancer or shit like that. At the moment, she couldn’t be sure when she heard it. Things like that happened to her lots of times—when she couldn’t connect the whats with the whens. Something to do with the brain chemistry crap the docs always talked about when she got looked at.
Darla knew there would be a bathroom with soap and towels in there, too. The most important thing, she thought, if the church had been put together like any of the other old buildings in the area, it would have a crawl space somewhere. Unless it had been covered over with Sheetrock or like that, it should be big enough to hide her for as long as she wanted to stay hidden. That and a supply of food meant she could hole up in there, like, forever. If not? Well, this place right here was pretty good and who’d go looking for her in the bushes around the church? Just as long as she could get some supplies and it didn’t rain too hard.
A police car drove in off the street, circled the parking lot, paused for a moment, and pulled out again. She shuddered. She was pretty sure she recognized that particular cop. She shrank back a few feet, deeper into the safety of shadows fighting the urge to stand up and run—run like the wind as far away as possible.
Chapter Thirty-six
Ike’s e-mail appeared at the top of Ruth’s inbox. It had had been there for days, begging to be read, accusing her of procrastination or worse. She’d ignored it. Doing so wasn’t a matter of her putting off tackling a necessary task. She’d intentionally skipped over it because in the past an e-mail from Ike would likely contain a raunchy joke he’d picked from Lee Henry, or a lewd suggestion, or a bit of Percy Bysshe Shelley he’d remembered from Freshman English Lit. As this was one of her busy times and as she had not felt like being regaled, scandalized, or wooed, the message remained unread.
All of which explained why Ruth did not find out about the date she had for Monday at the church until the Thursday preceding it. She nearly fell off her chair.
“Agnes,” she yelled, “get in here.”
Agnes Ewalt had served Ruth as her personal secretary—administrative assistant, the HR director insisted she now be called—for more years than either would willingly admit.
Agnes flew through the office door ready for combat, to make a call to 9-1-1, or to apply emergency first aid. “What happened?”
“It’s Monday.”
“No, it’s Thursday. Yesterday was Wednesday, you remember because—”
“I know that.”
“You do? I thought you said it’s…what’s the matter?”
“Ike and I will be at Blake Fisher’s church on Monday for the ceremony.”
“You’re getting married? On a Monday? Who gets married on a weekday?”
“You’d be surprised, but in this case we are already married. We’re putting on a show like a pair of trained seals to keep the county happy.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand. You’re married. How come I didn’t know that? What about your health insurance and—”
“Never mind that now.”
Ruth explained the events in Las Vegas, their subsequent need to have some sort of public acknowledgement, and the fact that Ike had arranged a compromise service with the Reverend Fisher.
“And you didn’t know he made the arrangements? Why did he wait so long to tell you?”
“He didn’t. It’s my fault. I have been ignoring his e-mails for, I guess, forever and that bad habit just jumped up and bit me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Stand by and I’ll call you.”
Agnes left to retrieve the local phone book assuming she would soon be calling caterers and florists with urgent requests for some consideration in the light of a last-minute call for their services. There were vendors who valued, indeed depended on, the university’s goodwill and who could be persuaded to perform the near impossible if called upon.
Ruth couldn’t really get on Ike’s case for not giving her enough time. She’d said ASAP when he’d asked her when she’d want Fisher to do the deed, assuming he’d do it at all. Like a good public servant, he’d trotted down to the church and done his part and notified her. Not counting what was left of today, she had something less than four days, three to be on the safe side, to arrange for food, drink, flowers, a place for a reception/party, invitations, and to clue in her mother. She tried to steady her nerves, failed, and launched into full panic mode. She called Ike.
“I’m in the middle of a man-hunt…make that a girl-hunt, woman-hunt. Can’t talk now,” he said.
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Schwartz, or there’ll be n
o honeymoon this side of the next Ice Age.”
“Not hanging up. So, what’s the problem?”
“What’s the…I just opened your e-mail about the church thing. It’s only four days away. How in the bloody hell do you think I’m going to arrange all the stuff that needs doing?”
“I sent that to you the day I fixed it up with Fisher. Why are you in a stew about it now?”
“I just opened the damned thing.”
“You just now read the message? What were you—?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay, I won’t. So, what stuff still needs to be done?”
“You’re kidding, right? Ike, we need to provide for food, a party, invitations, parents, the lot. You can’t slap a thing like this together overnight.”
“It’s not overnight, Ruth, it’s at least three overnights. What is the biggest thing that needs doing and I’ll take care of it.”
“You will. Hah! What did you tell me about Y and X chromosomes? Okay, the reception or whatever we’re calling it. That’s food, booze, venue, the whole works.”
“How about a string quartet noodling Pachelbel’s Canon in D as well?”
“Why not?”
“Okay, except for the string quartet and Pachelbel, consider it done.”
“Sure you will just like that? Listen, brats, beer, and a polka band in the sheriff’s parking lot is not acceptable. This do has to have a little class, if not for the Neanderthals who work for you then for the—”
“The academic pussies who work for you. I got it. It will be nice enough for them, not as upscale as a MOMA reception, but nice, and townie friendly for the rest of the world. No fear.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have an alternative. What else?’
“Invitations.”
“You’re kidding. I don’t know about the ivory tower and its protocols, but down here in the world of grits and gravy, I need only tell four people about what’s on tap and everybody in town will know inside five minutes. Why don’t you post something on the faculty bulletin board? Better, have the payroll people slip a note or something in their envelopes.”
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