Keeper

by Michael Garrett

Tomorrow their lives would begin anew.

  8

  Sunday

  Day Three

  When he first heard the news, Sheriff Arnold was dumbfounded. The telephone receiver clanged loudly as he dropped it to its cradle; then he shook his head in disbelief and returned to his seat at the kitchen table. Sarah, the sheriffs wife of 26 years, stuck her face in the doorway, her hair a mass of curlers and bobby pins. Having finished breakfast only minutes before, Sarah stared at her husband with impatience.

  “Well—was that Thelma, Chester?”

  “No, darlin’ I’m afraid not,” he answered.

  Dressing for church, Sarah was awaiting a call from Thelma Ritter with whom she alternated driving to the Sunday service.

  “So, who was it then?” she asked.

  “Business,” he drawled.

  Sarah stormed away to comb out her hair. She had given up years ago on squeezing police information out of Chester. The man just couldn’t be broken.

  Sheriff Arnold raised a cup of steaming coffee to his lips and considered what he had just learned. The purse had been found lying open about a mile or so downstream from the accident site, void of any cash and, according to Deputy Hart, hidden behind a brush thicket. Everything in it was still damp. Had the purse floated from the wreckage to be found along the shore? Or could it have been taken before the accident, and discarded prior to Friday night’s heavy rain?

  It could have been found by a volunteer searching for the woman’s body. But women didn’t carry much money—usually not more than ten dollars or so. And the volunteers were, for the most part, conscientious. For them, the prestige of having found the purse would far outweigh the value of a few lousy bucks. It seemed unlikely that any of them would sacrifice fame and self-satisfaction over such a meager amount of cash. But to be safe, he would find out how much cash she was likely carrying. She could have had a shitload of money on her. Someone could have known about it. Admittedly, the idea was far-fetched, but at this point nothing could be discounted.

  Again he wondered if the purse could have been taken before the accident. If so, it suggested foul play. Hmmm. But it seemed too neat, too tidy. Still—could a clue have been missed at the accident site, something so obvious that it had been carelessly overlooked? No, he didn’t think so. But there was that damned flashlight the Gibbs kid found beside the Barnett woman’s shoe. The metal switch on the flashlight’s plastic base showed no indication of rust, so the flashlight had been dropped recently. He had believed the two objects were unrelated. Until now. Yes, when he thought about it, foul play simply could not be eliminated. The Barnetts could have picked up a hitchhiker, someone who knew the area well and who had conceived an ingenious plot to cover up the crime: Rob them. Knock the victims unconscious. Drive them into the creek, hoping their missing valuables would go undetected.

  But wait. Charles Barnett’s wallet was found intact. What thief would overlook sixty-seven dollars? The man’s wallet would have been the primary target. Robbery couldn’t have been the motive, despite the fact that the woman’s money was missing—if, indeed, she had been carrying any at all.

  The flashlight and shoe had been found together. Suppose for a moment that a crime had been committed, and that the flashlight was somehow connected. Why would it have been left behind in the dark? It must have been lost … unless someone’s hands had been needed to restrain a resisting woman. If the light had been pocketed, it could easily have fallen out.

  A sex crime? It seemed preposterous, yet all the pieces fit. The man’s body had been recovered, but the woman was missing. But such a scheme would require planning, and by someone familiar with the area. That would mean a local was likely involved. And Sheriff Arnold knew most of the folks in the surrounding communities on a first-name basis. No sex fiends or perverts around there, at least, not to his knowledge. But then, what about the construction crew? Whoever was responsible for leaving the old bridge unbarricaded could very well have plotted the whole thing.

  With a start, Sheriff Arnold stared at the telephone, its harsh ring blaring in his ear from the nearby kitchen counter. There were just too many possibilities.

  “I’ll get it!” Sarah called as she hurried into the room. “It must be Thelma.”

  The sheriff reached for his hat and tuned in to the conversation. As soon as he discerned that the call was not for him, he walked briskly out the back door and settled behind the wheel of his patrol car.

  Neither likelihood of foul play could be ignored. First, he would examine the purse and the area where it was found. Then he’d make a few inquiries as to how much cash Mrs. Barnett had been carrying. He would also review the personnel records of Arbor Construction Company.

  At long last! thought the sheriff with a smile at the rear view mirror. This could turn out to be a humdinger of a case—a chance to do some real police work for a change.

  A thin ray of sunshine broke through the otherwise darkened room and sent a streak of bleached light across Wayne Crocker’s bed. Lazily, he opened his eyes and focused on the particles of lint that drifted through the sunbeam above his head. Inhaling deeply, he blew out a burst of air and watched the microscopic filaments scatter. It was morning now, a night of broken restlessness having finally passed. After a quiet yawn, he grew instantly aware of the nervous tingle that burned under his skin. He told himself to calm down, that all was not yet lost. But on the opposite end of the trailer, sprawled across the sofa, lay a bound and gagged young woman who represented a major threat to his future.

  Pushing away the covers, Wayne stumbled to the bathroom, relieving himself and brushing his teeth, before he stepped through to the tiny living room. She was awake, and from the appearance of dark circles around her eyes, had slept little, if at all. Her hair was matted and oily, her face reflecting both fear and grief.

  Turning away without speaking, Wayne opened the refrigerator and retrieved a package of sausage and canned biscuits. He then proceeded with breakfast, humming a Beatles tune and ignoring her presence. Sausage patties sizzled in a cast-iron skillet, a splattering of grease popping out occasionally to sting his bare wrists.

  “I could have watched you die,” he finally said, just loud enough for her to hear. His eyes stared coldly ahead at a row of green canisters on a shelf above the stove. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “I could’ve watched that car sink. I could have minded my own damn business instead of ruining the rest of my life.”

  Nancy watched through tormented eyes. The gag around her mouth and chin was uncomfortable, but she had no desire to speak. Her muscles ached, her stomach was tied in knots, and she was so exhausted, the words of her captor hardly registered in her mind.

  Wayne flipped the sausage patties and checked the biscuits in the oven. A tear dropped from his cheek and hissed on the hot oven door. “I saved your life and you screwed up mine forever,” he said, his voice breaking.

  With a warm pot holder, he pulled the hot biscuits from the oven and slammed the door hard, his frustration with her growing.

  “I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do,” he sobbed quietly. “God, I wish there was a way out of this.”

  Wiping tears from his eyes, Wayne scraped two sausage patties and two biscuits onto each of two plates, then turned to face her. She stared blankly past him, and Wayne felt a sinking hollow sensation as his eyes met hers. It was a moment of lonely desperation that he knew she was feeling, too, but for vastly different reasons.

  Stepping to her side, he offered her a plate.

  “Sorry I don’t have any eggs,” he said, forgetting that her hands were tied and she couldn’t take the food. “Excuse me,” he apologized, and carefully loosened the strips of fabric that bound her arms and legs. Then he removed the nylon gag and raised her to a sitting position, again placing her injured leg to rest in the chair in front of her. Nancy sniffled, but otherwise sat in silence.

  “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be unwanted,” he said. “You’re attractive, you�
��ve always had guys chasin’ you. But I’m nothing but ‘Mr. Average', and on top of that, I’m not very outgoing. I never know the right things to say.”

  She ate slowly, but appeared to be listening as Wayne reflected on his social problems.

  “It really hurts to want something so bad, and have it waved in your face and then pulled away,” he continued. “I’ve had dates, but never a steady girlfriend. I guess I want one so bad, it shows too much.”

  He stopped to swallow some sausage, and then gulped a drink of orange juice. Her eyes met his accidentally and quickly turned away.

  “Nancy, I’m a decent person and I’ve never done anything wrong in my whole life. I want to settle down and raise a family, but I can’t seem to find … to find …” His voice broke as he choked on the words.

  “You’ve had love and affection,” he tried again. “You know how important it is. But just imagine how awful it would be if you were my age and you’d never had it.”

  He took a last bite of sausage and watched her chew a biscuit. Was he getting through to her?

  “I was wrong, Nancy, to look at you and take those pictures. I admit it, and God, how I regret it. But, please, put yourself in my place and try to understand the temptation. I would never have hurt you. I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity, and I thought you’d never know the difference. It was stupid, a big, big mistake. But what can I do? My future is up to you.”

  The next minutes passed quietly. Each continued to eat while avoiding the other’s eyes as the gentle drone of an airplane hummed far overhead. Finally Wayne spoke again.

  “I had no idea it would lead to this when I pulled you from that creek. I only wanted to … help,” his voice trailed off.

  Nancy stared blankly ahead. Physically and mentally anguished, she found it all but impossible to comprehend the meaning of his words. Now was not the time, and she sat as peacefully as if she were the room’s sole occupant. Wayne suddenly looked up and met her stare. Their eyes locked.

  “You won’t even speak to me!” he growled. “I saved your goddamn life and you won’t even talk to me!” He wrung his hands in exasperation, her expressionless face only irritating him further.

  “All right, if that’s the way you want it,” he snapped, fighting an urge to reach out and shake her back to her senses. “But you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not. And you’ll stay here with me until you can show a little compassion.”

  Fidgeting in his chair, he jumped to his feet and paced between the kitchen and living room. “And it won’t be easy,” he continued the tirade. “I don’t trust you, either, and I don’t intend to leave you free for one minute while I’m away. So you’d better get used to being tied up.”

  She sat without emotion. No tears. No response.

  Wayne pivoted and slammed the panelled wall hard with his fist. “God help me,” he moaned. “Please …”

  Again he told himself to calm down, that it really wasn’t her fault, only a cruel twist of fate. Slowly he regained his composure and faced her again. He had tried to reason with her, and had failed. Exhaling a pent-up breath, he managed to force a smile.

  “You look awful,” he said. “You need to get cleaned up.”

  Nancy winced at his approach, her hands clenching the blanket that lay across her lap. He stood directly before her and wrenched the protective covering away.

  “Your clothes are a mess,” he muttered. “I’ll find something for you to wear. But first you need a bath.”

  She sat spellbound. Wayne stared back impatiently.

  “You’ll feel better when you’re clean,” he explained.

  No response.

  Wayne threw up his arms in disgust. Hell, what did he have to lose? He had disrobed her once already for safety reasons, but it looked as if she’d hold that against him forever. Whether she realized it or not, she needed a bath. Stinking, disease-ridden creek water had dried all over her body and in her hair.

  What have I got to lose? he considered again. It was a hopeless case. He would give her a hot bath, then maybe she would feel like talking.

  Silently he led her to the bathroom.

  Sunlight sparkled across the water as Liz Farrell circled a small pond on her father’s pastureland. Just ahead a flurry of wings startled her as a covey of quail fled from nearby brush. Across the pond the bare drooping limbs of a weeping willow tree swayed in the wind. On countless occasions she and Nancy had climbed that very tree, their pigtails dangling to the ground as they hung suspended from their knees around a low limb. Life was so simple back then, Liz mused, carefully skirting the edge of the pond toward the tree, and remembering the many times she and her cousin squealed at the sight of a snake in midsummer. Beneath the tree she reached up to touch the thick limb she had played on most often—it seemed like it was only yesterday …

  Her childhood had been firmly rooted in the fifties, a decade that passed with little notice. Who could have known the turmoil and horror that lay ahead? A President lost to an assassin’s bullet, young men sent to fight a war that few believed in or understood. Riots breaking out all over the country. Every day the news had been more depressing—it seemed as if people had forgotten how to live. And for Liz, of course, her personal life had paralleled the national disasters. First she lost her good looks. Then a lover. And now a loved one. Normally, in times of grief, a person could depend on a lover or a friend for moral support. Liz Farrell suddenly had neither, and she found herself alone in a vacuum that her parents could hardly understand.

  A brisk breeze whipped the tawny branches into her face, interrupting a fresh flow of tears. Guilt gnawed at her for the self pity she was experiencing was almost as strong as her grief and she found herself torn apart by these uncontrollable emotions.

  How will I feel when I cross the new bridge and see the place where Nancy died? she wondered. When will the memories die?

  Hearing movement, Liz raised her head and saw a brown rabbit scurry along a path and into the brush, followed close behind by two tiny bunnies. Liz smiled, remembering her love of animals and the comfort they had always brought her. She thought about her cat, Sparky, and how her pet depended on her.

  Maybe I’ll quit my job and go away to school. Start all over again. Make new friends to replace the ones I’ve lost.

  Drying her eyes on the sleeves of her blouse, Liz brushed off the dead weeds clinging to her skirt, and began the short walk back to the house, her spirits much improved.

  With a gloved hand Sheriff Arnold dropped the waterlogged purse and its contents into a wrinkled A & ? grocery bag. The surrounding area along the creek lay covered with dry leaves so whoever had rummaged the purse had left no footprints. There was, however, a curious design etched in the nearby mud, which might or might not have some bearing on the case.

  “Ol’ Jesse will be sorely pissed when he finds out he missed all the excitement,” exclaimed Deputy Hart from the rear of the sheriff. “I bet it wasn’t fifteen minutes after I relieved Jesse’s guard duty that the Bates kid came runnin’ up, hollerin’ about a purse he’d found.”

  Sheriff Arnold rose from a crouched position and stretched. The new deputy had been on the force less than six months and the sheriff already knew that hiring Hart had been a mistake. Their opinions clashed more often than not.

  “Why the hell was that kid out here so early?” asked the sheriff. “It must’ve been barely daylight.”

  “That’s right,” Hart answered, and spat on the ground. “Hell, these kids are all thrill seekers. Ain’t nothin’ this exciting ever happened around here.”

  The sheriff rubbed his stubbled cheek in deep concentration. Something didn’t seem right.

  “There’s a house right past that cluster of pines over yonder,” Hart said, pointing east. “Or a shack is more like it. Anyway, I watched the place while I waited for you, and you might have known who lives there—niggers.”

  His tone implied an automatic connection with the purse and the Barnett woman. Sheriff Arno
ld glanced in the indicated direction, then slowly shook his head. “So?” he responded, his blood suddenly boiling. “You’ve got a lot to learn, rookie-boy. Why don’t you just tell me how that proves anything?”

  The deputy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his blushing face. “Well, sir, you see … I … uh …"he stammered and looked past the sheriff. “All I meant was, we ought to question them.”

  “You’re damn right; we’ll interrogate them, and anybody else around here,” Sheriff Arnold exploded. “But we don’t have one ounce of evidence that could implicate anybody. Hell, we don’t even know if there’s been a crime! Use your head, goddamn it!”

  Hart backed off as the sheriff continued to unload on him. “Besides, I know who lives there,” the sheriff roared. “I’ve known Preacher Mason most of my life. When I was a kid my daddy hired him to help in the fields. Preacher and I picked cotton side by side for weeks. And I’ll tell you one damn thing. There ain’t no finer man around, colored or white.”

  Deputy Hart was aghast. Was his boss actually a nigger lover? It hardly seemed possible!

  “I’ll talk to Preacher,” the sheriff said as he pivoted in the direction of the house. “You get back to your post.”

  Hart was fuming as he paced upstream. The sheriff had no right to talk to him that way. Shit! How humiliating—to be reamed out over a damn nigger. Nothing worse was hardly imaginable. Quickening his pace, Hart kicked at an outcropping of driftwood. Stupid sonofabitch sheriff, he thought. You ain’t fit to be a proper lawman, just like I’ve known all along. But you’ll be sorry. I’ll get even with you and your nigger friend.

  Swirls of pubic hair danced in the warm bathwater between Nancy’s legs. She sat motionless in the bathtub, staring into space, and undaunted by the presence of her captor who had carefully eased her into position. Her injured limbs had stiffened further and grown almost numb and she hardly knew who or where she was.

  Wayne glanced at the mounds of suds beneath the flowing faucet, then traced her figure with his eyes. It was flawless. She had yet to speak this morning and he wondered if she was possibly suffering from shock or some type of withdrawal. Later today, he promised himself, he would visit the local library to learn how she should be treated.