“You know that doesn’t happen anymore.”
Frank did know—he just wanted to needle Terry. He stifled a smile when he saw that it was working. Terry Wellner was the town’s senior financial officer—Frank could never remember his exact title but knew it was a little grandiose—and had a reputation of being a little high-handed with the clerical staff. His ‘administrative assistant’—Judy Lambeth—had finally had enough of getting coffee and running errands and had raised hell in a conversation with Ed Cunningham, the mayor—who happened to be her second cousin or something. After that Terry had to get his own damn coffee.
Frank watched Wellner shuffle disconsolately back to his office and headed downstairs. Lori waved him down as soon as he hit the ‘station’—actually just a couple of dedicated floors in the cavernous town hall.
“Some guy hanging around outside the schoolyard.”
She handed him the slip with studied nonchalance. She’d been with the department a little over a year and was still a little under the CSI influence. It was wearing off fast, though. Frank squinted at the slip. She’d scribbled a quick note on it and her handwriting was nearly illegible. Frank looked up at her.
“What does this say?”
She made a face—he’d upbraided her—gently—only a couple of days earlier about her handwriting, trying to make her understand that shortcomings like messy handwriting could lead to misunderstandings and unintended consequences.
“Sorry, Chief—one of the teachers called it in and she was talking fast and...it was Adrienne somebody... here,” she reached over and snatched the slip back, trying to reconstruct her own handwriting, “Adrienne Simmonds—I think she’s new there. I never heard of her, anyway. I sent Wheelock over but I haven’t heard anything from him.”
Wheelock had been the previous chief’s last hire before Frank had arrived to take over, had somehow just made it through the probationary period before Frank got there. Frank had seen the type before, even in Pittsburgh—overzealous, to put it kindly. Frank had been away from his hometown a long time but he remembered how things worked. Everybody was connected to someone else, and arriving in town and immediately starting to fire people—especially local boys, even though he was, technically, still one himself—wouldn’t have gone over well. He kept a close eye on Wheelock.
“Nobody else around?”
“The schoolyard?”
“Here.”
“Oh—no,” she realized what he was getting at, “Johnny’s got a fender-bender a couple of blocks away and Brent,” she paused and then it came to her, “Brent called in and said he’d be late—one of his kids is sick.”
Never let it be said I don’t run a tight ship, Frank thought as he turned around and headed for the door.
3
Wheelock was feeling self—conscious and stupid. He’d made quite an entrance as he’d pulled the cruiser into the playground and slewed it to a stop, light bar flashing, at the base of the little hill that overlooked the school. He’d compounded that by taking his time getting up the hill, very aware that eyes in that school were probably on him and taking the opportunity to profile a bit as he approached the line of trees and brush that ran along the top of the hill.
Now he wished he hadn’t made himself quite so visible. He’d poked the sleeping form roughly with his stick, and immediately felt as if he’d disturbed a hibernating bear. He hadn’t recognized the guy in time—when he was lying down too much of him was obscured by brush—but as soon as the drunk lurched to his feet he knew who it was and knew he was overmatched. He fumbled for the name but came up empty. The guy was a friggin’ giant, and there was something about his eyes...Wheelock knew he didn’t have a chance in hell—short of pointing a gun at him—of bringing the guy in if he decided he didn’t want to go. He’d seen him around town, though—pretty damn hard to miss—and couldn’t remember him ever doing anything other than pawing through garbage cans and dumpsters. First time for everything, though—Wheelock knew if he got his ass whipped up here on this hillside in front of a school full of students and teachers it would be all over town within hours, maybe minutes. The nightstick suddenly felt small, inadequate. He thought of the Taser on his hip but so far the guy—Billy, that was his name, he remembered suddenly—hadn’t made a move or made a sound that could be construed as threatening. When he stood up—the man had to be six-five, maybe even bigger—that was threatening enough. Wheelock didn’t like his chances, so he found himself trying to reason with him, something he didn’t usually try to do with lowlife.
When Frank pulled the pickup into the schoolyard he thought first that one of the kids was up there with an adult. That didn’t make sense because Wheelock’s cruiser was stopped at the base of the hill that bordered the yard. Then he realized who it was. The contrast in size between Wheelock and Dancer was comical.
He pulled up beside the cruiser and got out, heading up the hill. It was steep, the grass a little slippery from rain the night before, and he was breathing hard by the time he got to the top.
“Problem?”
Wheelock looked embarrassed and relieved at the same time.
“He was...uh, hanging around, watching the kids,” Wheelock said disgustedly.
Billy Dancer abruptly turned and reached for the garbage bag. Wheelock looked like he was going to jump out of his skin. “Billy—don’t do that,” Frank had barely raised his voice but Billy froze immediately, “Just sit down over there, okay? I’ll talk to you in a minute.”
The big man obediently sat down. Wheelock looked at Frank incredulously, but Frank was looking back toward the school. He was pretty sure they had an audience, unless schools had changed a hell of a lot since he was a kid. He turned back to Wheelock, his voice going even lower so Billy couldn’t hear.
“I’ve got this. Right now I want you to just turn around, walk back down the hill, get in your car and leave. Nice and casual.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m trying to save you from looking like an idiot. Now do what I told you.”
“What about him?”
Frank kept his voice level and his stance relaxed. Just a conversation.
“He’s fine. Do what I told you.”
Wheelock gave him a sour look but did what Frank said.
Frank watched the kid walk down the hill, hoping for both their sakes that he wasn’t going to slip and fall on his ass. Wheelock made it down the hill intact and got into the cruiser, glancing reproachfully back at Frank and then pulling out of the yard. He spun his tires on the gravel on the way out. Frank sighed and turned back to the giant.
“I talked to you about this before.”
Dancer was still sitting on the ground. If somebody had thrown a tarp over him he would have looked like a tent. He rubbed at his eyes and looked up at Frank, abashed. He ran one massive hand across his eyes as if he was wiping away tears.
“What’re you doin’ up here, Billy?”
“Sleeping.”
“Uh-huh. Why here?”
“I was tired,” second time this morning somebody had looked at Frank like he was a moron.
“Billy, we’ve talked about this before. You can’t just lie down and go to sleep anywhere you feel like it. What were you doing up here in the first place?”
“I dunno...I was up here lookin’ for bottles and stuff and I just started watching the kids. They were outside, playin’, you know? I just like watching them.”
Oh boy. Frank’s knees creaked as he squatted down beside him to get closer to eye level—not that five eleven and one-eighty would intimidate him much. The man was big enough to have his own area code.
“Billy, that’s really the wrong answer these days.”
He looked blank, not getting it. Frank tried again.
“People see a man hanging around a school yard, they get the wrong idea. They think a man watching little kids might want to—hurt them or something.”
Even as he said it Frank knew that was unimaginable to Billy. A flicker
of outrage sparked in the murk of his eyes.
“I didn’t want to hurt them, Frank...I just like watching them play...” his voice trailed off, “I thought maybe I could play too.”
Frank suddenly flashed on the teacher’s reaction if she’d looked out the window and seen a giant, hairy mountain man gamboling in the schoolyard with a bunch of eight and nine year olds.
“I thought the teachers might be mad so I stayed here.”
Good call, Frank thought.
“And fell asleep.”
“Yeah.”
Frank looked down at his truck, a good hundred yards away. He should have driven right up to the base of the hill in the first place, but he’d been expecting somebody from the school to come out. If he walked Billy all the way back there it would be in full view of the kids, the teachers, you name it. Frank thought it over, squinted at the row of windows along the school, tried to see if they were still being watched. Of course they were.
“Where’s your truck, Billy? Is it around here anywhere?”
“It’s back at the house. You told me I shouldn’t be driving, remember?”
That meant Billy had been walking for miles, for a long time, doing what he thought Frank had wanted him to do. In one of the bizarre juxtapositions not uncommon in small towns, Billy and Frank were neighbors. They both lived on a rural stretch of secondary road just before the end of the town limits, Frank first in an old farmhouse, Billy in a more dilapidated version of the same thing only a couple of hundred yards away. Frank knew that it had been left to Billy by his deceased aunt and uncle and it had been deteriorating ever since.
“I only meant if you were drinking again.”
Frank looked at Billy and realized that Billy probably had been—the night before. It just hadn’t worn off yet. Another good call—there were a lot of so-called upright citizens who hadn’t figured that phenomenon out yet, assumed that residual alcohol in their bloodstreams would magically disappear overnight.
“Yeah, Billy, I remember. You’re right. Look, I need you to do something for me, okay?”
“Sure, Frank.”
“I’m going to go back down to my truck. I want you to stay here and wait for me, okay?”
Billy looked at him, clueless. Frank tried again.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m gonna drive back here through the school ground,” it was just gravel anyway, the big all-weather tires wouldn’t hurt anything, “right to the bottom of this hill. I’m gonna stop the truck right down there,” he waved directly down the hill, “ and as soon as I stop I want you to come out of there and just walk down and get in. Nice and slow.”
Billy lifted the garbage bag.
“Can I bring these with me? They’re worth a lot of money.”
“Sure—you wait here—no, don’t stand up, stay right where you are until I pull up down there.”
Frank left him and walked down the hill to the truck, still conscious of the audience he had in the school. Frank thought of driving the truck straight uphill, directly to where Billy was, but the hill itself was grassy—a grassy knoll, Frank thought—and he was afraid the truck would slip and slide on the way up, chewing up the hill in the process. He decided to stick with what he’d told Billy. The guy had enough problems, no need to make a show out of nothing.
Inevitably it was a bit of a show anyway. Frank pulled up at the base of the hill and anyone looking would have seen Billy explode out of the underbrush and gallop toward the truck, the garbage bag swaying in his massive hand, and get into the cab beside him. Frank sighed as Billy settled into the seat beside him, the passenger side of the truck cab actually dipping under his weight.
“That’s good, Billy—unobtrusive.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. You stay right here in the truck, okay?”
Billy nodded, although he looked a little puzzled. Frank figured he’d better have a word with the teacher who had called it in, let her know that the menace was past.
She beat him to it. Frank was about to open the door when he saw her coming, her mouth set in a grim line. Frank hit the button for the power window, noticing how tall she was. An F150 is a pretty big truck, and most of the time he’d have to lean out and down if he had to talk to a woman standing on the street. She was good looking, maybe in her mid or late thirties, and he was careful to look her in the eyes. She got right to the point, no pleasantries, nothing.
“Do you need me to fill out a statement?”
Frank paused long enough to give the impression that he was considering it.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, ma’am,” Frank could see she didn’t like the ‘ma’am’. It was hard now to find something to call some women that they wouldn’t take offence to. She looked like she was one of them, “Billy here didn’t mean any harm.”
She cocked her head at him, something in her expression conveying skepticism and contempt all at once.
“So this gentleman is a friend of yours?”
She drew out the ‘gentleman’. Frank was very conscious of her standing on one side of him and Billy sitting on the other.
“I know who he is, ma’am, and I can tell you for a fact he doesn’t mean any harm,” he could tell she wasn’t buying it, “and I’ve already told him it isn’t, uh, appropriate for him to be around here.”
“So that’s it?”
“Yes ma’am, that’s it,” Frank tried a down home smile, something he was trying to get the hang of again after all those years in Pittsburgh. It didn’t work. She didn’t look like the down home type. He was conscious of Billy’s huge form squirming beside him on the front seat.
“That isn’t good enough,” she said flatly, as if that ended it, “If you aren’t going to do anything about this I want to prefer charges.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he cracked the door handle, pushing the door open a fraction and then holding it there. Even that slight movement startled her and she grudgingly stepped back. Frank got out of the truck even more gingerly than he had with Jenkins. She was nearly eye level with him. He stepped around her and a few feet away from the truck, wishing he’d thought to raise the window again before he got out. She looked annoyed but followed him.
Billy tried to hear what they were saying but he couldn’t make it out. He knew the lady was mad and that she wanted to get him in trouble. He wasn’t sure why he bothered people, even when he hadn’t done anything to them, but he knew he did. He knew he was big and that scared people sometimes, even though he didn’t mean to. He couldn’t help being big. Other people just made fun of him. People made him sad.
He looked over his shoulder, out through the back window of the cab, and he could see them standing there. They looked like they were arguing.
Frank watched Billy out of the corner of his eye and hoped he’d stay put.
“He’s been around here for years and I can assure you he’s harmless,” Frank told her, careful to keep his voice down so Billy wouldn’t hear. He left out the ’ma’am’ this time.
She still looked skeptical. Frank had the feeling he was the hired help and she was...his superior. She sighed, her exasperation coming across loud and clear, and glanced toward the school windows, probably mindful of the havoc her students were creating while she was gone.
“All right, officer—”
“I’m the chief here, ma’am. Frank Stallings,” he stuck his hand out.
“Oh,” she reluctantly shook hands with him, very formally, no smile, didn’t offer her name, “Well, I’m the new kid in town and I’ll defer to...I just don’t want to see that man here again, is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
She looked blank for a moment and then just turned away and headed back toward the school. Nice meeting you too, Frank thought. He caught himself watching her walking away and then got back in the truck. Billy anxiously watched him get in.
“I’m not your friend any more, Frank?”
“Gimme a break, Bi
lly. If she thought we were friends she’d have wanted to put you in jail for sure.”
That shut him up. Billy didn’t like jail. He’d been there before, back when he didn’t have a place to live and before his aunt and uncle had found him again. He’d never done anything bad, just been taken in a couple of times because he’d been around the wrong people when the police showed up. Once, one winter, he’d even been glad to be there, because he’d been in Minnesota and if he’d stayed outside he would have frozen to death.
Jail was noisy, and he didn’t like noise. Sometimes in the middle of the night all the lights would come on and he’d hear swearing and the clanging of doors as they brought someone in. Usually the person would be drunk, yelling and screaming, and that would just cause more noise as the other prisoners yelled at him to shut up. Every time it happened Billy would hold his breath, hoping he wouldn’t have somebody brought in to share the cell with him. Most of the time, of course, that’s exactly what did happen and then Billy would spend the rest of the night turned away and curled up on his bunk. Sometimes the new cellmate would start talking to him and Billy wouldn’t say anything, just stay turned away and hope that he’d stop. One guy had even hit him once, in the back when he was facing the wall, trying to get his attention. Billy hadn’t moved, not until the guy had hit him again, and then all he had to do was unfold himself from the bunk and stand up and the guy had stammered something about being sorry and then he’d shut up.
Things were different now. It had only been a couple of years since his uncle had passed on and then his aunt had passed away only months after that. They’d left him the house—a kind of generosity he’d never known before and could hardly comprehend existed. It wasn’t a big house, but it was theirs free and clear and they left it to him. His aunt, once she’d known she was sick—he didn’t want to believe it and really didn’t until the day of her funeral—once she had known she was sick she had to explain to him that when she was gone he didn’t have to leave. It took a while for him to understand that.
He’d sat alone at the front of the church, hearing people come in behind him and whisper to each other. He’d been in church before with his aunt and uncle, knew people would start singing sometimes, stand up at others, pray at others, but he was alone at the front and couldn’t watch what they did or when so he got it all wrong at first. He heard the whispering behind him when he stood up once when nobody else did. After that the minister, Reverend Murray, tried to help him, making little motions with his hands to show him when to stand up or when to sit down.
Dancer's Rain Page 2
