All The Way Down

by DaveKearns

  I clicked the light off and went back inside. I walked over to the front door and looked at the street through the glass storm door. The lights in the houses across the street were on. People were coming home for dinner. Living their lives. I closed the front door and went back into the kitchen to get a drink of water. I was hunting through the cupboards for a drinking glass when I heard a car door close out front.

  I went to the living room and looked out the window. A black and white police cruiser was parked at the curb in front of the house and Sgt. Bullard was coming up the driveway, pulling up on his belt. I opened the front door and the glass storm door, stepping out onto the front porch before he could climb the steps. He stopped when he reached the steps to the porch. He had his hands on his hips and looked up at me.

  "Evening," Bullard said.

  "Evening."

  "We need to talk."

  "Fine," I said. I stood my ground, looking past Bullard to the squad car and the rest of the street. A woman walked her terrier past, staying in the middle of the street as if coming too close would contaminate her somehow. She was heavy and wore a dark T-shirt over jeans and white tennis shoes. She gave us an appraising look and then continued on.

  "Mind if we do this inside?" Bullard asked.

  I held the glass storm door open while Bullard went inside. The leather on his belt and holster shined with a mirror polish. I noticed that the bullets in his belt were silver like the ones the Lone Ranger used. Bullard stood in the middle of the living room, surveying the place like someone shopping for real estate.

  I switched on the living room light and took a seat on the sofa. Bullard went over to the fish tank and tapped lightly on the glass with his fingers. Angel fish and neon tetras whipped back and forth in the water at the front of the tank. If they could see his head through the glass they were probably terrified.

  Bullard turned from the tank and faced me. "I had hoped that I’d get here before you did. We need to process this house as a possible crime scene. Before we start that I have to ask you if you’ve removed anything from the premises or found anything you want to tell me about?"

  "Somebody broke into the house through a back window. I closed the window and tried to fix the lock. I guess that’s another one of those coincidences I keep running into."

  He gave me a flat, steely stare. "Can you tell if anything’s been taken?"

  I shrugged. "I don’t know what Brick had here, so no, I can’t tell you what’s missing."

  "I’ll look at the window. How long ago did you get here?" he asked.

  "Twenty minutes maybe."

  "Have you touched anything?"

  "Light switches, the window I told you about. I went into the bathrooms and out to the garage and looked at some of Brick’s tools."

  Bullard nodded to himself. "That’s good to know. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the autopsy report showed that there was more to your brother's death than we thought. The coroner thinks he may have been beaten in the last few hours of his life, but it was the crash that killed him. They think it’s possible he was unconscious when the truck went off the road at the quarry. We’ll never know for certain."

  I already knew about the autopsy results from talking to Dean out at the quarry. I just stared at Bullard. He looked uncomfortable and continued. "I know what you may be thinking. About how we haven't been doing our job, and I didn't take you seriously last night. Well, I'm taking this very seriously now, I assure you."

  I heard another car pull up in front and wondered if one of Bullard’s posse had come along to provide backup. Bullard uncrossed his arms and went over to the living room window. He gave a small wave to someone and motioned them in.

  "Okay, Mister Harper, I've got fingerprint people here to check the house as well as look for anything that could be related to what happened to your brother. We're going to start with that car in the driveway which was your brother’s, right? You can stay if you like, but it would be easier for us if you didn't. We might be here all night."

  The door opened, and a stocky woman in her late twenties came in. She had on a blue skirt cut to mid-thigh and a pearl colored blouse with dime-sized blue polka dots on it. Her hair was short and blond, and she wore low blue pumps. She held what appeared to be a large toolbox and the muscles in her arms strained against the weight. She set the box down on the carpet against the wall and smoothed her wrinkled skirt over her hips. Bullard broke the silence by making the introduction.

  "Officer Burroughs, this is Del Harper. Delorean I think his name is."

  I stood from the sofa as the woman offered her hand for a handshake. Her grip was firm and she said hello to me tonelessly. Bullard said "This was Sandy's night off, but duty calls." She gave Bullard a hard look. He smiled back at her.

  "I'll need the keys to your brother's car and the house," Bullard said.

  I dug the keys from my jeans pocket and tossed them to Bullard. He caught the keys and slid them into his shirt pocket.

  "Officer Burroughs will take your fingerprints so we can exclude those from what we find, and then give you a ride back to your hotel. Won't you, Officer Burroughs? And pick up coffee for four on the way back. More people are on the way, and we might be here a while. No sugar in mine, okay?"

  She ignored Bullard. "Could you step over here, please?" she asked me.

  We went into the kitchen and she laid her kit out on the countertop on top of a piece of plastic she’d pulled from a drawer of her kit. She took my prints onto a pair of cards, wrote my name on the tops of the cards, and carefully slid them into cellophane sleeves before putting them back into the fingerprint toolkit. She had baby wipes in the kit, too, and after I wiped the ink off my fingers we went out to her car.

  Sandy was driving a little four-door sedan which was immaculately clean inside. When we were rolling I told her where I was staying. She nodded without saying anything.

  "Sorry about your evening," I said. "I appreciate the taxi service. Seems like I can't keep a set of wheels for more than about thirty minutes since I got here."

  "I don't mind helping you out. I'm sorry about what happened to your brother." She pressed her lips together hard.

  We traded small talk on the way to the hotel. Her responses to my comments or questions were answered in single syllables.

  I could tell that she seemed angry, so finally I came out and asked "Have I done something to offend you?"

  She gave me a look before answering, estimating whether I could be trusted. "No. You didn’t do anything. It’s Bullard. He outranks me, so he takes every opportunity to embarrass me in front of other officers and civilians, too. He’s always calling me in on my nights off. In this case it makes sense, but frequently it's to cover for one of his friends who wants to go hunting or fishing." Then she pressed her lips together tightly before continuing.

  "A few months ago he put a sex toy in my purse while I was on duty. I noticed it was there because the purse was really heavy when I got it out of my locker. He’d put a big pack of batteries in there with it."

  I laughed a little, even though it wasn’t funny. "You’ve got to be kidding. And you’re sure it was him?"

  "Yeah. I’m sure. He’s in a different orbit than the other people I work with."

  "Can’t you go to his boss?"

  "Picture this," she said. "I tell Bullard’s boss that I’m being harassed at work. He asks me to show him the evidence. Do you really think I want to put that thing on his desk and ask him to do something about it? And I’ll tell you this: Bullard might seem like a good ol’ boy, but underneath all that he’s pretty sharp and knows how to work the system. Don’t underestimate him.

  "Recently he put a picture of me on the men’s bathroom door with a little sticky note that said ‘Sandy, this means you.’ I can’t even tell you about some of the things he’s done…

  "I've got a degree in law enforcement," she said. "I'm qualified to testify for the state in forensics and fingerprinting. And I've been a cop for
six years. But I'm tired of being treated like crap."

  "He sounds like he needs to have his ass kicked, hard."

  "I think I can kick his butt if I have to. I just didn’t want to get down on his level." I could see how well defined her forearm and neck muscles were. I thought that maybe if she was fast enough with her hands, she could give him a good fight.

  We were quiet in the car for a while. Then I asked how long she’d need to keep Brick's car.

  "Probably just a few hours if we don’t find anything. Longer if we do."

  "All right. Is there a place around here where I can get a rental?"

  "Sure. There's one not far from your motel. Why don't we see if they're still open?"

  We drove past a sporting goods store with bars on the windows. The car hummed along in near silence. The dials on the dash glowed green.

  "What's going to happen at the house?" I asked.

  "Well, first we're going to fingerprint the surfaces most likely to have prints. I left the kit there, so if Bullard can figure out how to open the case, he may be doing some printing now.

  "We’ll also search the house looking for anything that gives us a motive. My understanding is that Bullard assigned a couple of officers to interview people who were on shift at the quarry the night of the accident. See if anything comes up. It takes time, but we'll probably find something. This is a small town. Hard to keep anything a secret for long."

  I watched the houses and stores slide by. A few days ago I was trying to recover a bad loan made to someone who wanted to buy a copier franchise, buried in my own world. Feeling like I didn't owe anything to anyone. I liked it that way. Now I didn't know if I wanted to go back to that life. It didn't seem like I would be going home when I returned. I'd just be alone and buried again in tracking down one more bad loan.

  "Problem?" Sandy asked.

  I could see the rental agency sign up ahead, just past a donut shop.

  "I was just thinking about the last few days. It doesn't get much worse than this."

  She didn't say anything. The tires thumped over tar strips on the street as she pulled the car into the rental agency parking lot. The rental agency sign and the lights in the parking lot were still on. I could see someone working behind the counter inside. She left the engine running.

  "Well, thanks for the ride," I said. "I'm grateful for it."

  "Are you going to be around for a while?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Until this all gets sorted out, anyway."

  "Well, maybe we'll see each other again."

  "Maybe so," I said, and I got out.

  I rented a blue Ford Escort and headed back to the motel room, stopping on the way for take-out food. The smells of the food filled the car, and I had nearly finished the onion rings by the time I reached my hotel.

  I talked to myself as I pulled into the parking lot. "No flat tire, no shootings, and the car wasn't impounded by the police. I'm on a hot streak." I slammed the car door when I parked it outside my room. The car rocked on its springs, absorbing the force.

  For a change there were no messages on the hotel telephone when I got into the room. I ate dinner with the television on for company, and then lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I tried to make sense of the sequence of events of the last couple of days.

  The way I saw it, someone had beaten Brick savagely and then covered the beating with a wreck at the quarry. They would have had to either knock him out at the quarry or drag him there unconscious and then put him into the truck. That didn't make sense though. There had to be a lot of activity at the quarry when the accident occurred. Surely somebody would have seen what was happening to Brick. If it happened late enough at night, it seemed possible that there just weren't that many people there to witness anything, though.

  I thought about when I had the flat tire. There was something about those two guys in the Chevy that bothered me, but maybe I was imagining things. I turned off the television and undressed for bed.

  I killed the lights, sandwiched my head between the overstuffed pillows on the bed, and tried to shut out the noise from the trucks passing on the highway.

  Chapter Eight

  The room was brightly lit by the sunshine coming through the drapes by the time I was dressed. I had found a pair of clean jeans in my suitcase and pulled them on, and then tied on my jogging shoes. I put on a T-shirt and a long-sleeved green flannel shirt over it. I snapped Brick's watch on and ran a comb through my hair, then collected my wallet and car keys and went down to the parking lot.

  I headed north out of town on Highway 70, then east on Highway 82, following the signs towards Cloudcroft.

  The little rental car labored during the long uphill climb as I gained altitude and the air thinned. If I pressed the car to do better than 50, the engine just got louder; the car didn't seem to go any faster. That’s okay. The sun was out. Not a cloud in the sky. What’s the hurry?

  Over the next twenty minutes the terrain changed drastically. The desert scrub and cactus gave way first to small evergreens and rocky soil, then to ponderosa pine, finally to a dense forest of fir and pine. A few vacation homes were visible from the road, perched on seemingly inaccessible crests of the twisting hills pierced by the interstate. I was sure that the views from the houses were amazing.

  I reached Cloudcroft a few minutes before ten. I had expected to see more activity in the little town. Then I remembered that it was Sunday, and that a lot of people were probably still in church. I passed a small medical clinic, a strip of small businesses and western-themed bars, a gas station, and an LP gas distributor.

  I could see the goal posts of a football field beyond the short business district. To my right, a convenience store abutted a national park information building. I pulled into the convenience store parking lot and parked next to a tan pickup truck.

  In the convenience store, an elderly woman in a red fleece coat behind the counter told me how to get to the hotel. "Most of the roads on this side of the highway wind up at the hotel if you keep going uphill," she explained. "Just take this one," she pointed out the window behind her at the road. "It'll take you right to it."

  The road climbed a steep hill past apparently vacant vacation homes set back from the road in stands of Ponderosa pine, Spruce, and Douglas fir. Most of the driveways in front of the homes were empty, despite the beautiful weather. I kept the car in low gear and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. When I reached the crest I was treated to the sight of a manicured golf green cut from a huge stand of tall trees. A foursome on the fairway was setting up to fire at the green. Moments later I pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  The hotel was stunning, with walls of white stone and leaded glass. It looked solid, unshakable, and beautiful at the same time. The parking lot was nearly full of Cadillacs, BMWs, and new Jeeps. I went inside to a lobby that was warm and well lit. Beautiful rugs covered the floor in a deep red tone. A fire burned in a huge stone chimney at one end of the room. Even though it was summer time, the outside temperature was cool enough that I was glad I'd worn the flannel shirt.

  Two children ran laps around the furniture by the fireplace. I went to the concierge desk and asked to see Miss Villareal. A handsome woman behind the desk gave me a smile. She wore a plaid skirt and a heavy, peach colored sweater.

  "Are you Michelle's friend?" she asked.

  "That's right."

  "She said you'd be coming by this morning."

  I nodded. "Here I am."

  "Why don't you have a seat over by the fire and I'll let her know you're here."

  "Thanks." I found a heavy chair that was close enough to the fireplace to do me some good. I stretched out in the chair, closed my eyes, and let the heat wash over me. The warmth was like a drug. I could feel my muscles relaxing. Occasionally a pocket of sap in one of the logs would catch fire and a small explosion of noise in the fireplace would pull me back from the edge of sleep.

  "Hi."

  I opened my eyes. Michelle was waiting in front
of me in jeans, hiking boots, and a red down vest over a cream-colored button-down blouse. She looked like a model on her way to a fashion shoot in the country.

  "Hi," I said. "Been standing there long?"

  She gave me a wry grin. "Long enough to know that you snore."

  "Is that a problem?" I asked.

  "Only if you get lucky," she said. She turned on her heel. "Come on," she said. "I'll show you where I live." I held her hand as we went out of the hotel through the lobby doors.

  Chapter Nine

  We crossed the parking lot and walked up a small dirt road. The road led uphill past more vacation homes. Like the hotel, the homes had the appearance of being old but very comfortable and built to withstand harsh winters. I was glad that I had left the rental car in the hotel parking lot. I would have punched a hole in the oil pan trying to make it past the rocks in this part of the road. Finally, the road leveled out and became quite narrow. I saw Michelle's Jeep parked in front of a brown cabin. Smoke smelling of piñon drifted from the chimney.