Here Comes the Night

by Linda McDonald

  “That’s it,” Johnny said, nodding his head. “I guess I’m still not quite thinking right yet.” He touched his bandaged head as if to excuse himself.

  “You’re doing fine,” Edgars said. By then they were inside Dearmore’s office, and, with people cleared out, it was the first unobstructed view the detectives had seen of it. Horse walked closer to the safe door and examined it. “Doesn’t look tampered with.”

  Johnny nodded. “But I couldn’t be sure. That’s when I called it in.”

  Edgars walked to the open door leading from Buck’s office to the conference room. “Was this open when you got here?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said, “so I tiptoed across the conference room to Mr. Wesner’s door. Of course with this high dollar carpet you don’t have to worry too much about being heard.”

  “Was it open, too?” Horse asked.

  “It was pushed almost shut, but not completely closed. You know? I could see a crack. And the voices had stopped. That’s when I drew my weapon, had it at the ready.”

  “Go on,” Edgar said.

  “So I’m calling out, ‘Anybody there?’ and no answer. So I open the door slowly, I mean, I’m really being cautious here, even though I honestly expected to end up seeing Mr. Wesner there at his desk working, like he does all the time.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Horse asked.

  “Oh, sure, I’ve known him to still be here when I come in for the day shift, like I said.”

  “So you opened the door…” Edgars said, getting him back on track.

  “I tried to. But just as I pushed it open, somebody tried to close it on me. Then I got hit. Hard. I sort of staggered and got hit again. Then it was lights out. I never even saw them.”

  The detectives went over it several more times but Johnny couldn’t remember anything, except that he sensed there was more than one person in the office. “It all just happened too fast,” he finally said.

  “We’re trying to locate Mr. Dearmore,” Horse said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Mr. Dearmore?” Johnny thought a moment. “Yesterday afternoon. He walked out with me and Blanche at the end of the day. I saw him get in his car. Blanche was hurrying to the hospital for her sister. She was going into labor. Had a big old girl—over 10 pounds, I hear. Can you imagine?”

  “Which way did he drive?” Edgars asked.

  “I didn’t see that. I was walking Blanche to her car and telling her to call me when her sister had the baby.”

  “And you’re sure you checked Wesner’s office before you left yesterday afternoon?” Horse asked.

  “Absolutely,” Johnny said firmly. “It was 4:30 on the dot. All secure. He said he would be working late and he’d let himself out.”

  “You’ve been a big help,” Edgars said, handing him his card. “If you think of anything else, call me anytime, 24/7.”

  “At the hospital, I saw on t.v. what they’re saying about Mr. Dearmore. That’s just not right. He may be a little full of himself sometimes, but he would never leave a little gal hurt like that.”

  “I hope you’re right, Johnny,” Horse said. “He was one of my heroes, too.”

  Chapter 59

  Angie, subdued in a blue suit and low heels, sat opposite Louis Medlin, the uncomfortably overweight Funeral Director of Heavenly Rest Mortuary. Each time he shifted in his chair, he self-consciously pulled back down his gray suit jacket.

  If there had been anyone else to do this, Angie would not have been there. But Gordon had no family, one of the things that had made him a fine prospect when she met him in Florida. He was the last of his family of origin, his parents and siblings all gone.

  Angie had resisted his sporadic approaches about having children. She wasn’t about to get saddled with that while he worked nonstop from six in the morning until well after midnight. Her own mother had basically been a slave. If that’s what motherhood was, Angie wanted no part of it. But not starting a family had spurred the distance between Gordon and her.

  She could smell Medlin’s heavy cologne, a musky scent that made her wince.

  “Were you aware,” he asked, “that your husband had no pre-arranged funeral plans?”

  “No, not at all.” This made no sense to Angie. She would have expected him to micro-manage every last detail.

  “These things are sometimes a mystery,” Medlin offered gently.

  “He planned everything else in his life with…Why not his own funeral?” Angie asked no one in particular.

  Medlin just shook his head, then, “I can show you a range of plans. Perhaps we should start there.”

  She nodded and pretended to peruse a few of the most expensive burial plans, then quickly pointed to the one at the top.

  Medlin could barely contain his excitement at selling the platinum of services. “An excellent choice, Mrs. Wesner. If this all looks fine, you need only choose the casket and order the flowers.”

  “Order a large casket spray of white roses and a couple of standing arrangements. All white. White flowers were the only ones he liked.”

  “Very good,” Louis said. “Perhaps you might like some particular songs?”

  “He didn’t like music, really,” Angie said. It was one of the things that annoyed her most about him. He never wanted it playing when he was at the house. Even when they had guests. “The usual standards will be fine,” she nodded.

  “Shall we look at caskets then?” Medlin stood and ushered her into the display room. They gleamed like polished steel, with pale tasteful tints and shirred velvet linings.

  In the course of a minute, looking at the 15,000 dollar casket in which she was about to bury Gordon Wesner, a wave of remorse washed over her. Her mouth and jaw trembled so hard she was sure she couldn’t speak. With no warning, guilt flooded through her.

  Somehow she managed to say, “The mahogany one.”

  “Men like that one. I’m sure he would be pleased,” Medlin offered with a small polite smile.

  “I hope so,” she said, and was a little surprised to find that she meant it.

  Chapter 60

  Erika was treated by an off-duty EMT who happened to be mingling with the onlookers outside the bank. He made her drink a bottle of water and some orange juice. Even though he had honored her contention that the fainting spell was just a fluke, he still went over the obligatory warnings about being dehydrated and hungover and how it was hardly a recipe for steadiness.

  The EMT’s girlfriend had returned from a vending machine somewhere with a cinnamon bun for her, and Erika wolfed it down. After assuring her good Samaritan she felt steady, Erika walked back home to change for the trip to the Police Station.

  As she entered her tiny apartment, she was startled by the mess Tony had made searching the place. She could only sigh. If this was the price to be rid of him, it was worth it.

  The first thing she saw in the bedroom was that the locked drawer in the nightstand had been jimmied open.

  “Dammit,” she said and checked the contents. She knew the money would be gone—at last count, more than three hundred dollars she’d saved—but she had been suspicious of Tony’s slippery fingers for awhile. That’s why she had started locking the drawer.

  Then she remembered the envelope. Erika looked around, frantic. She found it where he had tossed it away on the bed and held it close to her chest for a moment. It was too late for that dream, yet a part of her still clung to it.

  Erika took off her O.K. Corral pink uniform and pulled on a black top and pants. In the bathroom mirror, her face stared back a sickly white, eyes drawn and bloodshot. She put some eye drops in and brushed some bronzer over her cheekbones, but had no energy to do anything more.

  When Erika stepped out into the morning air, she smelled the familiar aroma of manure and heard the distant whistle of a train. Cattle headed to the slaughterhouse. As she trudged to the bus stop, she wondered if she was one of them.

  Chapter 61

  Trisha had always been cur
ious about the bad boys who ran around on their bikes in leather jackets, who smelled a little like engine oil. And this Tony had actually flirted with her, like she wasn’t just some pimply-faced kid from Eakly, but a real woman.

  She dropped his chili dogs on the table and the extra big order of French fries. She cooked everything just right, dogs good and hot, fries crispy. She hoped he’d notice. “Here ya go.”

  He looked up at her with bedroom eyes, like the food didn’t even matter. She had never been this aroused so early in the morning. But she ignored it and tried to take care of business.

  “You ready for a refill on that Dr. Pepper?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Tony said, “if you’ll come back and help me eat these fries.”

  “I’m supposed to be workin’.” She didn’t want him to think she was easy. She might not be the prettiest girl in her little school, but plenty of boys had told her they would like to get in her panties. She saw how they looked at her.

  By the time she returned with his soda, he was already on his second chili dog. “Everything taste okay?” she asked.

  “Real excellent,” he said.

  “Okay. Just thought I’d check.” Reluctantly she started to move away. He stopped her by putting down his chili dog and lightly grabbing her by the knee.

  “Come on, Trish, you can sit down with me. Nobody else around.” He rubbed his hand further up her leg, then looked down at it. “Uh oh, look at that. I got some chili there on your leg.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.”

  “No, here.” Looking into her eyes, teasing, he slowly lifted her leg up onto the seat beside him, until her bent knee was even with his eyes. Then he pushed her skirt out of the way and leaned back to look up her leg.

  “Wow,” he whispered and whistled.

  Trisha was so turned on she moaned. No boy at high school was this sexy.

  Then Tony leaned his head into her thigh and licked up the spot of chili.

  “Oh. Oh my god,” she mumbled.

  He moved his tongue higher on her leg, then leaned back with a grin. “Could I ask you to do something?”

  Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded.

  “Would you show me your breasts?”

  Most guys just fumbled for your blouse, but this one was polite. He asked first. Instead of saying no, Trisha was surprised that she looked outside. Nobody in sight. Heat rushed through her body.

  His voice was so low she could barely hear him. “You know you want to.”

  Heart pounding, she shyly pulled down her top.

  “Oh yeah,” he encouraged her.

  Then she pulled down her bra.

  He groaned lightly when he saw them. She just stood there, feeling a little awkward as he looked her over.

  “Oh Trish,” he whispered finally. “They’re perfect.”

  After a moment, she started to pull her top back up. “I feel silly.”

  “No, don’t. Come on, we’re going to have some fun now.”

  In a flash he was all over her. He swatted away the napkin dispenser and salt and pepper and laid her on the formica tabletop. It was hard but she didn’t mind. He had her bra off before she could take a breath.

  Outside, a couple of trucks roared past.

  “What if someone comes in?” she panted.

  He ripped off her white cotton underwear.

  “Here, like this,” he said, pulling her up and then bending her over the table and roughly spreading her legs.

  “Oh. That hurts,” she cried.

  He acted like he didn’t hear her, and was inside her before she could take a breath.

  She cried out in panic and tried to look around at him. He pushed her face back down on the table.

  Her eyes flashed with fear. It had gone bad so fast, but it was too late to stop it now. He breathed heavily as he pounded his body into hers, each thrust an angry stab at the world.

  Trisha felt herself go numb. The only thing to do was lay there and stare out the window at the flashing OPEN sign. A noisy cattle truck lumbered past.

  Finished, finally, out of breath, he pulled up his jeans. He sighed and grinned. “Now that’s what I call fuckin’.”

  Trisha rubbed her mouth and tried not to show anything. She bent and picked up her ripped underwear as she scuttled back into the kitchen to get away.

  A minute later she heard him belch as he got up. “Thanks, Trish,” Tony hollered through the kitchen window. “I’ll be back real soon for some of that soft-serve.”

  Trisha felt a chill run through her body as he drove away. She looked down at his unpaid check, smudged with chili, and cried.

  Chapter 62

  Edgars and Horse had found Mickey Mullin at the hospital and were talking quietly in a row of chairs at one end of the ICU Waiting Room. Mickey was still shaky, but dry-eyed and helpful.

  “Now can you remember anything more about who was inside the Mustang?” Edgars asked. “You saw two people.”

  “Right. A white guy with dark hair and a woman. Her hair was weird colors. Or maybe I was seeing things.”

  “Weird,” Horse repeated. “Like, was it light in color, or dark?”

  “I guess kind of dark. It was just a glimpse.” He sat a moment, wrinkling his forehead trying to remember. Then he looked up. “You know how some girls color their hair with Kool-Aid?”

  “Kool-Aid?” Horse shot Edgars an incredulous look.

  Edgars smiled at how out of touch the older detective could be with young people. “Yeah, greens and purples, strange colors that you can do at home.”

  “That’s it,” Mickey said. “It was maybe a dark purple like?”

  “That’s a good detail then,” Horse encouraged him. “Purple all over?”

  “Uh, maybe streaks?”

  “That’s good, real good.” Edgars was impressed. A lot of people who’d been through an experience such as the boy had would be falling apart and useless.

  “Anything else come to mind right now?”

  Mickey shook his head.

  Edgars tipped his head toward Horse, a nonverbal signal that he was done if Horse was. Horse nodded back and Edgars put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “That’s all now, son. We appreciate it. You can go back in to your family.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mickey stood up quickly and started back into the waiting room.

  Horse followed the boy’s back as he walked away. In his years in homicide Horse had seen too many decent people caught up in tragedies not of their own making. Lives ripped apart, ruined. Sometimes he would talk to them a year or more after the worst day of their lives and often find their faces still drained of life, smiles worn into wrinkled foreheads, the world just another day to be endured. There was no predicting who might weather the storm, either. It was a grim equalizer. Horse wanted to see Mickey make it out.

  Mickey turned back to them from the doorway.

  “Something else?” Edgars asked him.

  “I just remembered—oh, it doesn’t matter, probably,” Mickey answered.

  “Son, anything could turn out to be important,” Horse said.

  “I just remembered the music blasting from the Mustang,” Mickey said. “It was an old Steve Earle song. Copperhead Road.” His eyes brimmed with tears.

  Edgars walked to him and squeezed his shoulder. “You did good, Mickey. You did real good.”

  The boy nodded, ducked his head, and hurried in to the others in the waiting room. Edgars and Horse put their heads together.

  “The description of the driver could be Dearmore,” Horse said. “I just don’t get what the hell he was doing on a country driveway. Especially if he was running from the bank.”

  “And why abandon the car there? It was dark, the car still runs. Why not ditch it a hundred miles from here if he was on the run?”

  “Yeah,” Horse agreed. “Reads more like some stupid punk.” They were silent a moment.

  Edgars’ cell pinged. It was an officer on the local desk. He put it on speaker. “Edg
ars. You got something for us?”

  “Maybe. Thought you might want to know that Angie Wesner was arrested last night for public drunkenness and assault.”

  “She was in jail?” Edgars asked.

  “Yep, but bailed out within a few hours.”

  Horse jumped in. “Where was it?”

  “Crazy Horse Saloon, Cowtown’s finest.”

  “Thanks, can you shoot me the arrest report?” Edgars said.

  “On it right now.”

  They clicked off.

  “Wow. This woman has been within shouting distance of the bank for the last 24 hours,” Edgars observed. “And then this morning. You ever see a wife show up across the street from where her husband just died?”

  Horse just grinned. “Not without knowing something about it.”

  Chapter 63

  Del Walker poured half a finger of bourbon into his morning coffee as he watched the local news on the R.V.’s big screen. Vivian was putzing around in the kitchen. She never really cooked, but always arranged ahead of time for their caterer to cook travel meals for them, all with strict attention to what froze well and could be microwaved to such perfection that it was like coming fresh out of a skillet.

  “Del, we’ve got omelets, asparagus and brie, with fruit and pommes frites, or…” Vivian’s voice trailed off as she looked in the freezer.

  “Omelet’s fine, sweetie,” Del answered back.

  A few minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen with two steaming plates and a mug of coffee for herself.

  He got up to take one of the plates from her and then pulled her chair out. “Thanks, darlin’. I love it when you cook from scratch.”

  She gave him a weak smile. They sat down and ate in silence as the weatherman went over the forecast at the top of the program.

  His wife looked particularly sallow and old this morning. He knew from past experience that one of their trysts gone wrong, like last night’s, could spiral her into an indefinite depression. If things went well, she could float on a cloud for days, but this wasn’t going to be one of them.