Dancer's Rain

by Doug Sutherland

  Frank had been here before, once, in an abortive attempt to nail Langdon for trafficking. That had been a couple of years ago, not long after his arrival, when he’d been too inclined to take what his officers and town council said at face value. Frank had pulled into the yard with three other vehicles, a warrant, and five of his cops. Langdon had come out on the porch and smiled at them as if they were just guests arriving for a barbecue and a bonfire on the beach. They’d been there for hours and all it had accomplished was to convince Frank that Langdon was far too smart to keep anything incriminating anywhere near the place.

  That was then, this is now, Frank thought, reminding himself to keep his eyes open anyway. Langdon might be smart but some of his camp followers weren’t much more than dumb animals. He got out of the car. He didn’t go to the house right away, just stood by the car a moment and looked back across the road over the water. There was enough elevation in the yard that he could see a sliver of beach on the other side of the road.

  “Something I can do for you, Chief?”

  Stupid—nobody could have done that to him in Pittsburgh. Frank forced himself to turn around slowly, as casually as possible. The insolent grin on Langdon’s face told him that he’d seen the involuntary spasm of Frank’s shoulders at the sound of Langdon’s voice.

  Langdon had hardly raised his voice, just spoken loud enough to be heard. He was leaning against one of the posts supporting the porch roof. Not very impressive to look at—medium height, maybe a little shorter than Frank, and probably one-seventy soaking wet.

  His hair was cut neater than it had been the last time Frank saw him, but it looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days. Brown hair, brown eyes, good looking enough but he wasn’t going to be the subject of any photo shoots. He was wearing torn jeans and a white T-shirt, bare feet. If you tried to match up the physical reality against the reputation you’d conclude that there’d been a miscommunication somewhere. Except that from everything Frank knew about him the reputation was well deserved.

  It was the appearance that was misleading.

  Frank walked back up to the porch. He could see tendrils of smoke rising from the fire pit at the back of the house.

  “What is it you’re burning, Kenny?”

  Langdon chuckled.

  “Nothin’ much. Crap, mostly.”

  Frank walked casually up to the fire pit, looked at the trees that ringed Langdon’s cottage. He could feel Langdon’s eyes on him.

  “You should watch that this close to the woods,” he poked the embers with the toe of his boot. Looked like it had been one hell of a fire, “What kind of crap?”

  Langdon shrugged.

  “Brush, some old rags, an old rug—like I said, crap. I try to do it once in the spring and once in the fall.”

  It was hard to imagine Kenny Langdon as a puttering landowner. Frank looked down at the fire pit.

  “Should take that kind of stuff to the dump,” he glanced up again at the trees. Some of their branches were close. “You’re taking a big chance burning it here.”

  “Ya think?” Langdon smiled, completely relaxed. He gestured down the hill toward the Camaro, “That thing isn’t exactly made for hauling trash. You still haven’t said why you’re here, Frank. Social call?”

  Frank smiled back, no more warmth in it than there was in Langdon’s.

  “That’s Chief Stallings to you,” they held eye contact for a moment and Langdon shrugged again, a mocking smile on his face, “You know a young lady named Emily Simmonds?”

  Langdon furrowed his brow in a parody of earnest co-operation.

  “I know an Emily, yeah,” he grinned suddenly, “major babe.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “The other night, I think. A few of us were over at Saunders’ place shooting pool.”

  “What about Jimmy Nesbitt?”

  Just for a second Frank thought he might have seen a flicker of reaction from Langdon. Then it was gone.

  “I think he was around the same night...a lot of us were.”

  Frank nodded, glancing over at the Camaro.

  “That your car?”

  “Yeah. Want to buy it?”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Belongs to my girlfriend. “

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “You can look at mine. You want to look at hers you better ask her.”

  Frank walked over to the Camaro and looked inside through the driver’s window. Very clean—no fast food wrappers, no coffee cups, nothing. Langdon called out to him from the porch.

  “Go ahead and open the door if you want.”

  The back of Frank’s neck prickled as he heard the door of the cottage open and close. He glanced back over his shoulder. Langdon had gone back inside. Frank casually walked around to the other side of the car to get some sheet metal between himself and the porch. He opened the passenger side door but kept his eyes on the cottage. Langdon came back out and walked over, car keys dangling from his finger. He tossed them to Frank.

  “Open the trunk. Hell, take it for a drive if you want to.”

  Frank just looked at him.

  “I don’t think I need to do that, do I?”

  “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

  “Already told you. Emily Simmonds.”

  “Well, she’s not in there,” Langdon grinned.

  “Her mother had a run-in a few nights ago with a guy driving a Camaro. He was parked with Emily outside her house.”

  Langdon looked him straight in the eye, unperturbed.

  “Wasn’t me.”

  Frank held his stare. Langdon waved a negligent hand toward the house.

  “Tell ya what, Chief—come on in and take a look around. I’ll give you a cup of coffee or a beer or something.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned around and walked inside again. Frank shrugged and followed him in. He knew after an offer like that that he wouldn’t find anything, but there was no use letting Langdon know he could be bluffed.

  Inside was much as he remembered it. The door led directly into the living room, with an eat-in kitchen just beyond, a window over the sink looking out over the lake. A narrow stairway on the left and a wood stove in the center of the floor divided the kitchen and living room. He recalled how surprised he’d been the first time he’d been there, how neat it all was. It still surprised him. The air even smelled like disinfectant. Langdon saw the expression on his face.

  “I clean this place up about once or twice a year,” he looked like he was enjoying himself, “trouble is when I do it I go a little nuts.”

  Frank just nodded.

  “What’ll it be, Chief? Coffee or beer?”

  “Nothing for me. But thanks.”

  “Go ahead upstairs if you want to look around.”

  Langdon headed for the refrigerator. Frank hesitated, then went up. There were only two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Frank got to the top of the stairway, mindful of the fact he was alone and he might find himself in a very bad situation if Langdon was playing him. Sloppy, just like he’d been outside.

  There was a small landing at the top, the empty bathroom directly in front of him and two bedrooms to the left and right. The bedroom door on the left was open. Frank stayed to that side, his eyes on the closed bedroom door across the landing. He took a quick glance over his shoulder at the open bedroom and lightly pushed the door all the way open. It rebounded softly off the wall. There was no door on the small closet in the back corner. A couple of shirts and a pair of jeans were hanging from a horizontal bar. Otherwise it was empty. Frank moved quietly across the landing, staying to one side. The other bedroom door was closed but not latched. Frank stayed to the left so he had a sightline to the stairway at the same time. He heard footsteps downstairs and watched as Langdon crossed from the kitchen back into the living room. He didn’t even look up. Frank pushed the door open.

  This room was bigger than the first. An old double sleigh
bed was pushed up against the wall directly across from the door.

  He’d forgotten about the other car. The girl who owned it was lying asleep on the bed, a single sheet and an old duvet pushed up only as far as her waist. Her full breasts rose and fell slowly with her breathing and her ribcage tapered away to a flat, tanned stomach.

  Langdon was grinning at him when he came back downstairs. Frank hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt. Langdon gestured toward the kitchen counter.

  “Sure you don’t want that coffee now?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Anything else I can do for you, just let me know.”

  “I know you’re having fun with this, Kenny, but if you’ve seen either one of them I want you to tell me. She and Jimmy—they’re an item, right?”

  Langdon’s grin grew wider.

  “Lucky little bastard. Half the cocks in town are after her.”

  “But not yours.”

  “Didn’t say that. Just not right now.”

  Langdon watched Stallings drive away. That solved one problem, but it didn’t do anything about the bigger one. He’d been too busy dealing with his immediate issues to give any thought to what had actually happened there, and why.

  He was pissed off at himself, especially since it was his own fault. He went to a lot of trouble to keep his activities away from home, but that had changed now. At least there hadn’t been anything else there that Stallings could use as an excuse to look more closely. It hadn’t been easy to look unconcerned, though, especially when Stallings had gone up to the fire pit.

  One way or the other the Nesbitt kid had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone had come in there specifically looking for Kenny Langdon. The more dope he sold and the more territory he encroached on the more people he pissed off—no doubt about that, but Kenny had been careful about how far he moved and how fast.

  Not careful enough, though. Somebody had come in there looking for him, mistaken the Camaro for his, and taken out Nesbitt in the dark. It was obvious, the only thing that made sense. Kenny looked around him. There was a sudden BANG and he started, his heart going into a jackhammering overdrive, then settled down when it was followed by several others—just someone boarding up cottage windows a couple of cottages away. Another few days and he’d be the only one left out here for the winter. He didn’t like the possibilities.

  27

  Adrienne was reeling, stunned by what she’d read on her daughter’s computer. Her first impulse was to find Frank and beat the hell out of him, even kill him. He’d betrayed her, come close to fucking her daughter in her own house—and like an idiot she’d turned to him for help in finding her when he might be the reason Emily was missing in the first place.

  She was even more angry at herself—if that was possible—for allowing any of it to happen. She’d spent most of her adult life taking charge of situations—both her divorce and her professional life had taught her that much. She’d ignored all of that with Frank, lost time allowing herself to depend on the actions of a small town police department to find out what had happened to her daughter. Incredible.

  While she was furious at her daughter the woman she was desperately afraid for her daughter the child. As angry as she was she still couldn’t bring herself to believe that Frank had anything to do with Emily’s disappearance—but at the very least he’d lied to her by omission, never hinting at what had happened. She couldn’t trust him on any level. She picked up the phone.

  The mayor didn’t inspire confidence. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, had the easy, casual manner of somebody who—hell, he looked like somebody’s kindly uncle. Probably, Adrienne thought, an impression he cultivated. He met her at the door of his office and showed her to a small sitting area in a corner, then sat down across from her in an overstuffed leather chair in front of a bookcase. He was treating her with exaggerated courtliness.

  Actually Ed Cunningham was treating her like a live grenade. Her call had been put through to him by Julie, his assistant, although he usually forgot and called her his secretary—she had put the woman on hold, then walked into his office without knocking and warned him in advance, an unreadable look on her face. Then she did something he’d never been able to figure out with the phone console on his desk and handed the phone to him. The phone conversation itself hadn’t taken long—what had amounted to a demand that he see this Simmonds woman in person.

  Now he had to keep reminding himself to look her in the eyes. It wasn’t easy. Given the situation she had described to him on the phone, she looked far better and more composed than most mothers he knew would have appeared in similar circumstances. There was a slight redness around her eyes and if she’d bothered to put on any makeup it was subtle. She was wearing a well-tailored, expensive navy blue jacket, business cut, over a matching skirt. He thought that a bit odd, that she’d gone to that kind of trouble with her appearance when her daughter was missing. She shifted in her chair and he was conscious of her skirt riding up high on her thighs as she crossed one elegant leg over the other.

  He did something completely unnecessary with the paperwork on his desk—she looked like the kind of woman who’d write some kind of harassment complaint or letter to the editor if she felt his eyes on her too long. Then he remembered who he was and that she was in his office, on his turf.

  “Ms. Simmonds, I understand your concern—I have children myself.”

  She dismissed this comment—it sounded lame, even to him—with a sideways flick of her eyes.

  “Mr. Cunningham, we don’t have much time here. My daughter is missing and I—I don’t think I can really rely on the police.”

  Cunningham’s eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly.

  “And why is that, Ms. Simmonds?”

  “Look, Mr. Cunningham,” she could feel her self-possession leaving her and from the look on his face he saw it as well, “I just don’t think I can trust them.”

  He just stared at her for a moment, trying to put the components of that statement together. Until her phone call he hadn’t heard anybody was missing, for one thing. Not, he reminded himself, that he should have at this stage. Finally he found his voice.

  “That’s a broad statement, Ms. Simmonds. Are you talking about the entire department or somebody in particular?”

  “I’m talking about Frank Stallings—he is the man who’s in charge of your police department, isn’t he? That makes him the man responsible for the investigation.”

  Then she told him all of it.

  It started to rain suddenly, and rain hard. Watts and Dunning got caught in it, a long way from the truck. They were still cutting wood, not wood for the mill this time but firewood for themselves. Dunning wasn’t sure, but he thought they’d strayed onto Dancer’s land, or more correctly the land Dancer’s aunt and uncle had left to him. Watts couldn’t have cared less whose land it was. Wood was wood.

  “Fuck this,” Watts growled.

  He shut off the chainsaw and looked over at Dunning, about ten yards away and still cutting. Dunning was intent on what he was doing and it took him the better part of a minute to realize Watts was standing there staring at him. He looked up, then bent his head and shut off his own saw.

  “You dumb fuck,” Watts told him, gesturing at the downpour, “You’d keep on cutting right through this, wouldn’t you?” The rain was so heavy he had to raise his voice to be heard.

  Dunning just smiled back, sheepish. It didn’t look like he understood, even soaked as he was. The sound of the rain was a dull, incessant roar. Watts shook his head.

  “I’m gonna get out of this shit.”

  Watts turned around, stepped over the deadfall he’d been cutting, and kept walking. Dunning watched him for a moment, then picked up the gas can by his feet and hurried to catch up.

  The place hardly deserved to be called a cabin—old, neglected so badly that it looked like it was becoming part of the forest again, moss creeping up its walls.

  B
ut it had a roof. Probably leaky as hell, but impossibly the rain had gotten even harder and a roof of any kind was better than not having one at all.

  “When was the last time you were out here?” Dunning asked. Watts had an uncanny sense of direction in the woods and it had taken them only five minutes of fast walking, Watts in the lead, never looking back once, before they came to the old hut.

  Watts shrugged, looking at the old beaver dam that sat on a small pond a few yards away. The dam looked to be in better shape than the cabin.

  “Maybe when I was a kid. We were out here drinkin’ and the old guy,” he meant Dancer’s uncle, “came out and put the run to us.”

  Dunning would never have admitted it, especially not to Watts, but the idea of bursting in on Billy Dancer—or even worse, the other way around—had scared him a little.

  “Think he ever comes out here?”

  “Dancer? How the fuck should I know? Probably. His land now, maybe he comes out here and jerks off once in a while.”

  Watts pulled his jacket up over his head and started walking toward the hut, not bothering to see if Dunning was with him. Watts never did, not with anybody. He’d go where he was going to go, and if someone wanted to follow that was fine. If they didn’t, then fuck ’em. Dunning hesitated, then followed, the way he always did.

  Watts stepped up on the rotting porch, the old floorboards nearly giving way under his weight. He stopped for a moment and looked at the door. It was slightly ajar, held in place only by a rusty hasp and missing a lock. Watts could easily have just pushed the door open but instead he raised his work boot and kicked hard. The door flew open, coming off at the upper hinge. Watts stepped inside.