Dust in the Heart

by Ralph Dennis

  Diane sat at a table there, in profile for him. A young man sat across the table from her. Good-looking. Dark curly hair, even bright teeth. One more look and Wilt backed toward the entranceway.

  It wasn’t the young man that stopped him. Handsome was a dollar a dozen. And he could get unhandsome fast if Wilt wanted to ugly him some. If there was reason.

  What Wilt saw stopped him. Diane had her left arm extended, her hand resting on the young man’s arm. And she was laughing. That she was laughing bothered Wilt as much as the hand on the man’s arm. The time he’d known Diane he’d seen very little laughter from her.

  One final look and Wilt turned and reentered the bar room. Kyle saw him coming and reached behind him for the Daniels bottle. Wilt shook his head. “And, on the other hand, some days strange titties bore me.”

  Kyle sliced through that lie. “Diane busy?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Second sight.”

  Wilt drained the glass down to the ice cubes. He tapped the glass on the bar. “See you.”

  “Stay around, Sheriff. Keep me company. It’s a slow night.”

  “Some other night.”

  “Sheriff, it’s not what …”

  “Screw it.” A wave and Wilt was through the door and into the parking lot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Wilt stopped at the Inside Out Lounge. It was one of the new “in” places where the singles spent their time. He had three quick drinks and watched the men and women bouncing around like the steel ball in a pinball machine. He considered coming on to a blonde a couple of stools down from him. The bartender knew Wilt and saw his interest and offered to make the introductions. But Wilt shook his head.

  By a little after eleven, he was back at his apartment. He checked in with the Station. Floyd said it was slow and under control. He undressed and fell into his bed. It was a drunk, deep sleep.

  It was a sleep without dreams.

  He awoke. The telephone was ringing.

  Or was he dreaming that the phone was ringing?

  He clawed at the phone on the table beside the bed. He fumbled, found it, lost it and heard it hit the floor with a bang.

  The alcohol fog lifted. The receiver was on the floor and it was still ringing. Therefore, the ringing wasn’t the phone. That wasn’t possible. He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the receiver. All he heard was the dial tone.

  Not the phone. He slammed the receiver on the base and grabbed his bathrobe. The lighted dial on the bedside clock gave the time as three-fifteen.

  The doorbell. He switched on the lights as he moved through the apartment. He put on the robe and belted it. The floor was cold. He realized he’d cut back the heat when he left the apartment and had been too drunk to remember to switch it on when he returned.

  “Coming,” he yelled at the door. He stopped and gave the thermostat a push that got the furnace rumbling.

  “What the hell is so important …? He jerked the door open.

  Diane stood there, wet and cold and shivering.

  “It’s raining?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you get so wet?”

  She shook her head. “Coffee. You have any coffee?”

  Wilt put an arm around her shoulders and drew her into the apartment. He put the water kettle on. He returned to the living room and found her standing over one of the floor vents. Her head was down, her eyes closed. He shook his head and went to the closet where he kept the towels. He found a large soft one.

  “Let me have your coat.” He said.

  He handed her the towel, she gave him the soaked coat. He carried the coat into the bathroom and draped it on the shower rod.

  The water was hissing in the kettle. He put in the filter and readied the drip pot. He threw a couple of handfuls of coffee beans into the grinder. A few seconds and the coffee was ready for the filter. He left the kitchen and went into the bedroom. He dressed in tan pants and a pullover sweater. He carried the robe into the living room.

  “The boots,” he said. He knelt and pulled them from her feet. He put them aside and pressed the robe on her. “Out of those wet things. All of them.”

  He returned to the kitchen and dampened the grounds, waited and then poured the water into the filter holder. He walked to the doorway. He found she had the robe on and the wet things were in a heap next to the vent. While the water settled, Wilt carried the wet clothing into the bathroom and added those to the shower rod.

  He passed her and couldn’t see her face. The towel covered her head completely. The water had settled. He fixed two cups and added a strong slug of cognac to both of them. It wasn’t the way he liked his brandy. He didn’t like to think that all those fumes rising above the cup were, in fact, most of the alcohol.

  He handed her a cup. “Drink it fast before the booze gets away.”

  A swallow and she coughed. “Too strong.”

  “Drink it down,” he insisted. He sipped his. He knew he didn’t need it. Back in bed he’d be asleep in seconds. He gave her a close look. The brandy and the hot coffee had brought some of the color back into her face. “What brings you out on a wicked night like this, little Nell?”

  “You … you mule.”

  “Me?” Wilt backed away from her and eased down into a stuffed chair. “Why me?”

  “Because … because you’re so wrongheaded.”

  “You’re talking about dependable, steady John Law.”

  She stood on one leg while she held the other foot over the heat rising from the vent, “You came to see me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Or to see Rachel.”

  “You came to see me and you didn’t stay to see me.”

  “I saw you, lady.” He limped into the kitchen and grabbed the cognac bottle. He came back and poured a trickle into his cup and added about half a shot to hers. “You were busy.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.” Her lower lip trembled.

  He realized that she was a little bit more than chilled. She was high. “You have a few drinks tonight?”

  “I had more than a few.”

  “Why?”

  “You walked out without trying to see me. That hurt my feelings. You don’t think I have feelings? So I had a lot of drinks. I had as many as I wanted.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Kyle dropped me.”

  “That was smart of him.”

  “He said he didn’t want me to drive,” she said.

  He sipped his drink. The brandy overpowered the coffee. “How’d you get wet?”

  “Standing … outside.”

  “Why’d you stand out there?”

  “Well,” she flared at him, “I couldn’t come up here. You might be with a woman.”

  “If you couldn’t come up to the apartment, why come here at all?”

  It was getting stupid. He was sober but groggy. She was drunk but sobering up from the chill. Until he started pouring brandy down her again.

  “Why didn’t you stay and see me?”

  “I didn’t feel like competing for your time.”

  “Noble of you.”

  “I didn’t like standing there and watching you with another man. And there’s nothing noble about that.”

  “That wasn’t another man. That was Williard, my husband Jimmy’s brother. He heard about the divorce and came by to see how I was, if I need anything.”

  Wilt placed the cognac bottle on the table next to the stuffed chair.

  “I told him he didn’t have to worry. I was fine. I was being taken care of by a mean bear of a man. An upright man. That I thought this mean bear of a man might even love me.”

  He smiled. “I know this man?”

  “Do you know this …?” The cup shook in her hands. A violent wave of trembling and shivering racked her. The coffee and brandy splashed around her. She continued to shake and when she lifted her head, he saw that she was crying.

  He took the cup from her and put it aside. He put his arms around her a
nd held her with her face deep in his chest.

  “I’m so cold, Wilt.”

  “One cure for that.” He lifted her and carried her toward the bedroom.

  Her arms tightened around his neck. “Your poor hip.”

  “You’re not as heavy as you think you are.”

  He placed her in the bed and pulled the covers up around her neck. He stretched out beside her but on the outside of the covers. His warmth, even from outside, would warm her.

  “Aren’t you …” Her eyes flickered. She fought against the weight of her eyelids. “Aren’t you going to take advantage of me?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Poor man.” Her voice was so low he had to lean close to her to understand the words. “Poor man, I’m in your bed and I’m so drunk you don’t want me.”

  “Go to sleep.” He stroked her face.

  “I don’t want to go to sleep. I want you so much, you poor man.”

  “Go to sleep,” he said. “I think I love you.”

  “You do?” A child’s radiant smile moved across her face.

  “You won’t remember I said it in the morning.”

  “I will. I will.” Then she passed out.

  He stayed with her, against her, warming her, until he was sure that the worst of the chill was over. He tested her forehead and found no sign of fever. One last tuck at the covers and he carried a pillow and a couple of blankets into the living room. He slept the rest of the night on the sofa.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Her clothing was dry by morning. He placed them on the chair next to the bed. He had a shower and a shave. The noise didn’t awaken her. Before he left for the Station, he made a pot of coffee and had a cup and a half and left the rest for her.

  He placed a clean cup on the kitchen table. It anchored a note.

  I knew you wouldn’t remember so I’ll tell you again: God, you’re great in bed.

  Almost fresh coffee in the pot on the stove.

  Let’s do this again on some dry night.

  It was almost nine when he reached the Station. Joe was already there. He’d relieved Charlie and was seated in Wilt’s chair as if testing it for a good fit. Wilt watched him for a time and finally said, “You’re going to have to cut back on all that exercise. You haven’t got the right spread back there yet.”

  Joe jumped, Wilt thought, as if he’d been surprised in the act of playing with himself. “Is that why it feels so uncomfortable?”

  “That and the job,” Wilt said. He peeled his heavy coat off. When Joe didn’t leave his chair, he sat in the straight-backed one at the corner of the desk. “Your friend, Amos, call?”

  “Not yet.”

  Wilt nodded at the telephone. “You mind if I use my phone?”

  Joe jumped from Wilt’s chair. There was a startled and even a guilty look on his face. “Hell, Wilt, I guess my mind’s …”

  Wilt smiled at him. “You got heavy thoughts in your mind?”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

  “Who said anything about kissing?” Wilt circled the desk and eased into his seat. He pulled the phone toward him. “So you had a date with Charlotte.” Joe nodded. “You get any sleep?”

  “Not much. She’s a tiger.”

  “Try to stay awake.” Wilt punched in an outside line and dialed the Police Station. The switchboard patched him into the Chief’s office.

  “This about Raymond Thorpe?” Amos asked.

  “Yep,” Wilt said.

  “It just come in on the printer.” There was the rustle of paper. “The sum of it all is that there ain’t nothing on any Raymond Thorpe.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not even a traffic violation. This one’s so squeaky clean he don’t sound like any prime suspect to me.”

  “Maybe it’s under another name,” Wilt said.

  “You got another name you want me to try?”

  “Not yet. The well’s dry.”

  “Call me if I can help.”

  Wilt heard the click as the connection was broken. He looked at the phone and eased it onto the base. He made his guess that Amos wanted one of those instant solutions and a closed case. The inquiry about Thorpe hadn’t reassured him.

  “You ask the lady the question I wanted you to before the action started?”

  “First thing,” Joe said. “Charlotte said she dislikes Thorpe because she thinks he’s using her friend’s infatuation to take advantage of her.”

  “How?”

  “He’s got the guest house rent free. He takes some of his meals with the Plowdens and he borrows money from both of them, from Jonathan and Missy.”

  “That all?”

  “One more thing. It wasn’t said in so many words. More like it was implied. The using might be acceptable if Missy was getting as much of what she’d expected of a young blood like Thorpe.”

  “In bed?”

  “That’s how I understood all this talking between the lines.”

  Wilt yawned and covered his mouth with a hand. He left the hand there. “Like I said, that’s a hard way to make a living.” The hand covered a smile.

  “Aw, Wilt, it’s not like that with me and Charlotte.”

  The boy was too thin-skinned. He got his feelings hurt. Wilt sent Joe off to serve papers so he wouldn’t have to watch him sulk around the office.

  After Joe left, Wilt asked Susie to get someone from Motor Vehicles on the line in Raleigh. While he waited, Wilt opened the notebook that Joe usually carried during an investigation and flipped pages until he found the right notation.

  Susie put the call through. The man with Motor Vehicles gave his name as Bob Goodman. Wilt wrote down the name. He read off the tag numbers they’d copied down at the Plowdens, the ones on Thorpe’s black BMW.

  “Your machine break down?” Goodman asked.

  “I need more than an I.D.”

  Goodman said he’d make the check and call back. The callback was standard: Goodman wanted to be sure the call really came from a Sheriff Drake in Edgefield. He’d be sure if he called the Sheriff’s Station.

  “I don’t see anything odd about the registration,” Goodman said when he returned the call. “He bought the BMW in Raleigh. The papers on it are good.”

  “What you have on Raymond Thorpe’s license?”

  “He had a New York permit. Took the test and passed it here, got his North Carolina license.”

  “When was that?”

  “May, this year.”

  Wilt thanked him. He’d run out of questions. He had another cup of coffee and leaned on the counter in the lobby and talked to Susie while he decided what his next move was. In the end all he could see was one open avenue.

  “Susie, get me Special Agent Harriman at the district office of the F.B.I. in Raleigh.”

  Harriman said, “Of course, I remember you, Sheriff.”

  “I thought you might.” Wilt lit his first Chesterfield of the day. “I need some information. This could concern a suspect in the child-killings over here. That’s why I need the facts.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Sheriff.”

  Wilt walked through it slowly. The name he had. The job Thorpe had with Wiegard & Timmons. The fact that Thorpe’s old driver’s license had been from New York. To this he added a fairly long description of Thorpe.

  “What do you need?”

  “Anything. Everything. Don’t cull it at all.”

  “I’ll push it as urgent,” Harriman said.

  Wilt wasn’t fooled. This wasn’t a new Special Agent Harriman. The visions of sugar plums, the chance to steal the credit for a big and important bust, still danced in Harriman’s head.

  Usually the credit-hogging bothered Wilt. This time something turned over in him and it didn’t matter anymore. He’d trade away more than the credit if he could prevent one little girl from having to suffer that ordeal and that awful death.

  Wilt dialed the phone at his apartment at noon. There was no answer. Which meant she’d left or she didn
’t want to answer the phone at his apartment. It was a no-win situation. A mistake.

  There was a minor wreck on the Raleigh highway, a mile or two outside the city limits. Wilt sent Joe to investigate it. By the time that was closed out it, was after three.

  He sent Joe to the grammar school to make sure all the kids boarded their buses. And while Joe was there, Wilt wanted him to was to talk to each of the drivers. He was to tell them that Sheriff Drake held each of them accountable. They were to watch for strangers at the bus stops. If they had to, to ensure the safety of the children, they were to take each little girl by the hand and walk them to their doorsteps.

  Special Agent Harriman called around four. “I ran the check you wanted, Sheriff.”

  “Find anything?”

  “There’s nothing on Thorpe in the Bureau files in Washington.”

  “That’s no help.”

  “The New York state license was valid. Thorpe has no record there.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Some people have neat lives.”

  “That must be it,” Wilt said. “A neat life.”

  It didn’t smell right. It smelled of rotten fish and dirty jock straps.

  Wilt stalked the office until his hip complained and bitched at him. He sat in his chair and lit a Chesterfield and blew smoke rings at the closed window.

  He had Susie put through another call to Bob Goodman at Motor Vehicles. Wilt explained the favor he wanted – all the details on Thorpe’s New York license.

  Goodman wanted to be sure it was really important. He wasn’t supposed to use the long-distance lines unless it was a big, important matter. Otherwise, his boss came down hard on him.

  “You read about the two child-killings here in Edgefield?”

  “This is about that?”

  “Yes,” Wilt said. “It is.”

  Goodman said he’d call back just as soon as he got through bothering New York.

  Goodman called back at a quarter of five.

  “I’m on overtime now,” he said.

  “Think of it as your good deed.”

  “I had a long talk to the guy in Motor Vehicles in New York. Some odd business there. Thorpe had a new license. It goes back only to April. That’s a month before he traded that in for a North Carolina one. I asked if there was anything in the file about Thorpe having a license from another state before he asked for the New York permit. He had no record of that. There’s a blank in that part of the form. Here’s how it looks: one day there’s no license and the next day there is. And one more fact. They keep copies of the written exam. In this case they can’t find the exam, only a notation that Thorpe passed it. No score or anything.”