When All the World Sleeps

by J. A. Rock

  Bel leaned back. “Hell. Hell, I’d kill myself.”

  “Thought about it. Or figured someone would do it for me. But I don’t wanna die.”

  Bel turned his head. “No?”

  “No. You think I ought to want to?”

  “Think whatever you like. Want whatever you want. Ain’t my business.”

  “Yeah.” They both stared out the windshield.

  Bel’s lips still throbbed.

  “I’ll come by,” Bel said. “Someone ought to be out there until we figure out who tried to torch your place.”

  Heat in his face again. Whitlock could probably tell it was bullshit. Not that it wasn’t a good idea to have someone out at Kamchee, but Whitlock would know Bel was volunteering. That he hadn’t been assigned or anything.

  “Probably best if it’s me out there,” Bel continued. “’Cause I already know what you got to do to yourself. You probably don’t want to have to explain it to anyone else. If something did happen, I mean, and whoever was on duty had to come in.”

  “You think anyone on your force could think worse of me than they do?”

  “I’m just saying I understand it. And I could help you, maybe.”

  Whitlock turned to him. “First of all, you don’t understand it. Not even a little. And second, help me? What the hell does that mean?”

  “You wouldn’t have to lock yourself up. If you tried to leave the cabin, I could stop you.”

  “And what if I got violent?” Whitlock shook his head. “I’m not gonna risk it.”

  “Hell, Whitlock, it’s kinda my job to deal with people who get violent, ain’t it?”

  Whitlock shook his head more vehemently. “Even a meth head’s got more sense than I do when it comes to knowing when to quit. If I’m asleep and you try to wake me up, I might fight and not stop.”

  “Then I’ll take the keys. I’ll keep ’em till morning, and I’ll let you out. That way you can sleep as long as you want.”

  Whitlock swallowed. Rubbed his forehead. “What’s in it for you? Don’t you have a job?”

  “My job’s working on this investigation. So I reckon that includes keeping anyone from killing you.”

  “Or you think I’ll fuck you once I’m asleep?”

  “What the fuck, Whitlock? I stay in the car, and you stay in the cabin.” Bel scowled. “Best offer you’re gonna get, so maybe you might want to think about it before you call me a fucking rapist.”

  Whitlock shrugged. “Not rape. I’d ask you for it.”

  “You ask me for it when you got less sense than a meth head, I’m gonna say no.”

  “You’d be the first.”

  “What about Kenny?”

  Why the fuck couldn’t Bel keep his mouth shut? Low blow, no matter what Bel thought of Whitlock. Whitlock’s jaw tightened and he took another breath before he answered. “Yeah. Guess I was s’posed to take that as a no.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Sorry.” Bel’s stomach clenched. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  Whitlock opened the door.

  “I’ll be there tonight,” Bel said.

  “If you got your heart set on it,” Whitlock muttered, climbing out and slamming the door behind him. He walked around to the back of the bar and disappeared.

  Bel struck the wheel. Then he turned the key and put the Volvo in drive.

  * * *

  “Ain’t you still on a day off?” Uncle Joe grumbled at Bel when he turned up at the station with coffee.

  “Yep,” Bel said. “You going out to talk to Clayton today?”

  “Yep.” Uncle Joe reached for his hat and rolled his eyes. “Come on, then, if you’re coming.”

  Clayton lived about fifteen minutes out of town. His father grew soybeans. They had a spot on a bend in the river, a nice place. The original farmhouse was set further back. When Clayton was in high school, his folks used to let him have parties in the old house. Bel had been too young to warrant an invitation, but Billy had gone a few times, and so had Jim. Those weekend parties were the talk of the school, except Bel never did find out what went on there. Probably nothing but a bunch of kids drinking and making out. By the time Bel was old enough to be going to those sorts of parties, Clayton had long graduated and the high school kids were back to hanging out in Harnee’s parking lot.

  A couple of dogs bounded out to meet them as they pulled up at the house. Mrs. McAllister followed them to the cruiser.

  “You here to talk to Clay?” she asked. Her face was drawn, old before its time like so many of the folk around the place. Wasn’t the first time the police had come looking for Clayton because of Daniel Whitlock. “He’s around back.”

  He was in a shed working on a tractor when they found him.

  “Sheriff,” he said, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “Officer Belman.”

  “Got a few questions for you, son,” Uncle Joe said.

  “This about Whitlock?”

  “S’pose so. You wanna tell me where you were last night?”

  “Just riding around town, you know.”

  “You have anyone with you?”

  “Just R.J. and Brock.”

  “You go out to the Kamchee Woods?” Uncle Joe asked. “Maybe head out there to pay Whitlock a visit? Spook him a little?”

  Or try to kill him. Bel kept his face impassive.

  “No, sir.”

  “You threw cans at him the other night on Main,” Bel said.

  “There a law ’gainst that?”

  “Littering,” Uncle Joe said placidly.

  Clayton stared at Bel. “You heard what he said to me.”

  “Yup. And I heard what you said to him,” Bel replied.

  “You keep any gasoline in your truck, Clayton?” Joe asked.

  “Sure,” Clayton said. “So’s most everyone.” He grinned. “Heard someone lit his place up. Serves him right.”

  Uncle Joe rubbed the side of his face. “Can’t have people going around taking the law into their own hands, you understand?”

  “Yes, Sheriff,” Clayton said. “Maybe whoever done it wasn’t really breaking the law. Maybe they was sleepwalking.”

  “Maybe,” Uncle Joe said, his face betraying nothing. But Bel, who’d known the man his whole life, knew that Uncle Joe was pissed. At Clayton and his smart mouth, at all this shit starting up again, and probably at Daniel Whitlock for daring to stand up in court and claim something as stupid as sleepwalking. Played everyone for a fool, that did. “Okay, Clayton. You think of anything, you let me know.”

  “I will, Sheriff,” Clayton smirked.

  Bel scowled at him and followed Uncle Joe back to the car.

  “Lying asshole,” Bel muttered as he slammed the door shut.

  Uncle Joe looked across at him. “Well, of course he’s lying. That’s what people do, Little Joe. Cops ask ’em questions, and they lie.”

  Daniel Whitlock hadn’t lied, Bel thought. Sounded like one though: “I wander around like I’m tweaked out. I go to Harnee’s. I cook. I fuck.” Bel rubbed his face, aware of the heat rising there. Is that why he’d kissed the guy? Because he was good-looking, and because he said he fucked? It had been months since Bel had gotten anything more than a hurried blowjob in a dark bathroom, and maybe the thought of Whitlock wandering around town looking to get laid was too much. All of Whitlock’s crazy sleepwalking shit aside, why did picturing him chained up on a bed also feel like a damned invitation?

  Here I am. Do what you want. I can’t stop you.

  “So, on Main the other night,” Uncle Joe said. “Anything that didn’t make it into your patrol log?”

  “No. It was Clayton who started it.” Bel filled Uncle Joe in on what had happened. Didn’t add the part about Whitlock apparently waking up in his car. Definitely didn’t add what he and Whitlock had done in his car this morning.

  Bel stared at the rows of soybeans as Uncle Joe drove back toward the main road. “When . . . when Whitlock got bashed, did you see him?”

  “Yeah.” Uncle Jo
e sighed. “Real mess.”

  “Maybe if Kenny had gone to jail for that, maybe he’d still be alive.” And maybe Whitlock would be a victim then. Not blameless, not exactly, since he’d been the one who came on to Kenny, and everyone knew what Kenny was like—but not a killer either.

  “Maybe,” Uncle Joe said. “Except Whitlock refused to say what happened.” Bel looked at him and Uncle Joe grimaced. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t like that.”

  Bel had seen it before in action. The way the cops talked people around. Hell, he’d done it himself. If you want to make a complaint, I’ll do that for you. You’re gonna have to come in and make a statement, maybe more than one. Then you’ll have to go to court. Don’t know how long that will take, and he’ll probably only get a fine. You want to think about it for a bit? We can always do it later.

  Only for small stuff, Bel told himself, for bullshit complaints. But who was he to judge that? Wasn’t so crazy to imagine someone would have thought Daniel Whitlock’s bashing was a bullshit complaint.

  Uncle Joe shook his head. “You think I wanted to let those boys get away with bashing Whitlock? I don’t give a good goddamn that Whitlock’s a f—that Whitlock’s gay. If those boys had smacked him in the mouth for what he did, fair enough, but it was beyond that. Way fucking beyond that.”

  Bel nodded.

  “Was the prosecutor who wouldn’t touch it, not without a complaint. Not in an election year.” Uncle Joe shook his head and turned onto the road back into Logan. “So, that truck you saw last night?”

  “What about it?”

  “You sure you didn’t get a look at it?”

  “I already—” Bel clamped his mouth shut. Had a sudden feeling that wasn’t what Uncle Joe was really asking, and didn’t know how to respond. Wondered how sure he’d have to be that it was Clayton before he lied about it under oath. Wondered if it was something he could ever feel comfortable with, even if he knew it was Clayton.

  “Well, maybe it will come to you,” Uncle Joe suggested after a while.

  “Yeah,” Bel said, his heart thumping. “Maybe.”

  They didn’t talk the rest of the way back.

  * * *

  Daniel was trying to choke down a late dinner when Belman arrived. He heard the gravel crunch in the drive and shoveled down the last few bites of his cereal, then put the bowl in the sink and hurried outside. “Hey,” he said when Belman got out of the car. He tried not to sound too enthusiastic.

  He’s not here to pick you up for prom, asshole. He’s here to watch you chain yourself to your bed and then sit in your driveway and make sure you don’t try to murder anyone.

  Not to mention that the last thing Belman had said to him was that awful comment about Kenny Cooper. Yet here was Daniel bounding out to greet him like a dog.

  Belman nodded. “Hey.”

  “You can come in.” Daniel moved back as Belman stepped onto the porch. He was a couple of inches taller than Daniel, and his shoulders were wider. Daniel liked that. Belman looked like a man with real power. Not a Kenny Cooper—overweight but still strong, too fucking strong—or a stringy rat like Clayton McAllister. Belman didn’t have to try to look tough. Daniel held the screen door for him and followed him inside. “It’s, uh . . . not the cleanest.”

  Idiot. Yeah, the whole almost-burned-down thing made a bit of a mess.

  He watched Belman gaze around the room.

  “I have your bolt cutters.” Daniel picked them up.

  “Thanks.” Belman took them, still glancing around. “Cold in here.” His gaze fell on the AC unit. Fifty-seven degrees.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Guess I’m used to it. Keep it pretty cold in here. The ice melts slower.”

  Belman didn’t say anything.

  “So, uh.” Daniel shifted. “I’ll just change, and then I got some spare cuffs, and . . .” Just like that, Daniel was rigid with fear. Couldn’t hardly breathe. Because what if Belman was playing him? What if he meant to drive off with the keys, leave Daniel chained to the bed? A sick practical joke.

  Fuck. He’d been so stupid.

  “What’s wrong?” Belman asked.

  Daniel’s throat was dry.

  Belman wouldn’t. He could lose his job.

  He’s off duty. And who would blame him for doing it? The other cops would probably love it.

  “Whitlock?”

  Daniel turned. “I need you to promise me something,” he said fiercely, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

  “What?” Belman asked.

  “Promise me you’re staying.”

  “Staying?”

  “Out there, till morning. That you’re not leaving, even for a little while. It might seem funny to you, but it won’t be funny to me, and if you’re gonna do anything like that, then just go home. I’ll use the ice locks.”

  Belman stared at him. The kind of look you gave a crazy person.

  “How do you know you’re not just crazy?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Whitlock. I’ll be right outside.” Belman wasn’t smirking. He just looked a little confused.

  Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you.” He grabbed a pair of flannel pants and a T-shirt from his closet, trying not to feel self-conscious. “You want a drink or anything?”

  “What happened to your feet?” Belman asked by way of response.

  Daniel glanced down. His feet were still cut up from his walk from Master Beau’s. Daniel hadn’t checked his email since the fire. He wondered if Master Beau even cared what had happened to him. “Took a walk.”

  He hurried to the bathroom with his sleep clothes and shut the door. Changed quickly. Brushed his teeth. Grabbed a pair of leather cuffs out of the bag under the sink, plus a combination padlock. Took them out to the main room. Belman was standing next to the bed. Daniel swallowed, ducked his head, and walked over. He’d walked that way to Marcus sometimes, head bowed, flogger or ropes or paddle in hand. He set the cuffs and lock on the night table.

  “I’ll just . . .” Daniel pulled back the covers and swung into bed, pulling the comforter quickly over his body, as though he were naked.

  “All right.” Belman picked up the lock. It was brand-new, still in the package.

  “Combination’s on the back. Don’t tell me what it is. Just hold on to it.”

  “There’s no key?”

  Daniel glanced at him. “No. You can let me out in the morning using the combination.”

  That way if Belman left, Daniel still had a chance. It might take a while to try every possible combination, but Daniel would eventually get out.

  Daniel held still while Belman put the cuffs around his bruised wrists and locked them. He worked quickly, efficiently, as though he was afraid of letting his hands linger on Daniel any longer than necessary. He held on to the package with the combination on it. Set Daniel’s phone within reach. “You text me when you wake up tomorrow. I’ll come in and let you out.”

  “All right,” Daniel said. He tried not to look at Belman. If he looked at Belman, he’d think about kissing him. If he thought about kissing him, he’d remember how pissed he ought to be at him. His cock stirred, and he shut his eyes.

  “Whitlock?” Belman’s voice was soft but still gruff.

  Daniel opened his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Sleep well.”

  Daniel almost laughed. “Thanks.”

  Belman turned off the light and clomped back out onto the porch. He shut the door behind him. And Daniel lay there alone, trying to get to sleep.

  * * *

  Bel had been on plenty of stakeouts before, but none of them quite like this. For starters, he was off duty, alone, and missed having someone to talk to. And usually the person he was watching didn’t know he was being watched. And usually Bel wasn’t imagining that person chained to a bed.

  Bel tried to think about something besides Whitlock chained to the bed. He glanced at the empty passenger seat next to him and remembered Whitlock t
here, the feel of Whitlock’s lips against his, Whitlock’s soft whimpers. The heat of his breath. Fuck, he was gonna have to sit here all night with a hard-on if he kept this up. He had to think about something besides Whitlock. He started texting Dav, not telling her where he was, and they got into a discussion about some show they both liked, and that killed some time.

  Near midnight, he took a walk to stretch his legs and take a piss.

  Something rustled in the undergrowth nearby, and Bel shone his flashlight around but didn’t see anything.

  He sat on the hood of his car and stargazed for a while. He’d always liked that. Peaceful.

  Got back in the car when he found himself staring too much at cabin, thinking about the cuffs around Whitlock’s wrists.

  Listened to some talk-back radio until it pissed him off. Went searching for music instead.

  Around 1 a.m., Bel’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, and his breath caught. It was like a horror movie—a text from Whitlock.

  Why’s that so weird? He’s not dead, he’s sleeping. Or supposed to be.

  Bel looked at the text. It read: Jeksfeiejkdd.

  Bel glanced at the dark cabin. Was it possible Whitlock was texting in his sleep?

  Another text minutes later: ,sfn,jflemewm!!!

  Belman was troubled by the exclamation points. Were they intentional? Was Whitlock trying to ask for help? Belman looked at the cabin again. Whitlock wasn’t screaming or anything. Belman didn’t want to go into the guy’s house without being asked.

  A third text read: ssselspsss Hel!

  Another exclamation point. And Hel, which could have been an attempt at either help or Bel.

  Except Whitlock didn’t call him Bel. Did he? Bel didn’t know how Whitlock thought of him.

  In the next few minutes he received a barrage of texts, none of them particularly coherent. Bel finally got out of the car, walked quietly to the porch, opened the screen, and rapped on the door. No answer. He turned the knob and pushed it open. Whitlock was lying facing the door, his eyes glinting in the darkness. Bel flipped on the lamp. Whitlock blinked. The expression on his face wasn’t one Bel could read. Whitlock clutched his phone in one fist.