Now You See Her

by Paul J. Teague

  Had Bianca been foolish enough to accept a lift from Dean Tarrant? Surely not—she had much too sensible a head on her shoulders. If he had enticed her into his vehicle on some false pretense, what might he have done? Abandoned her somewhere and forced her to walk home? Might he have coerced her into his car? The thought of it made Cory shudder; he wouldn't get away with something like that even if he was the chief's son.

  Then there was the possibility that Bianca might have gone with him voluntarily. Cory scolded himself for even going there. No way was this some kind of screwed-up courtship. He'd seen Bianca's face; she genuinely hated the guy.

  By the time he pulled up at the curb in front of Tarrant's house, he had worked himself up into a frenzy of dark possibilities. He was convinced that Bianca was in danger and he had every intention of putting a stop to it. There was a car pulled up in the driveway, the sort of vehicle a young jerk might drive: black with red trim, double exhausts and alloy wheels.

  What was of even more interest to Cory were the two realtor signs outside the house. He knew from previous experience that two signs usually meant somebody was having difficulty selling a house. So why was Chief Tarrant selling? Was he moving up in the world?

  The house itself was fairly large, middle-class, and well-kept. The yard was what Cory would have described as low-maintenance if he'd been writing a newspaper feature about it: gravel in place of grass, pots instead of flower beds and hanging baskets that were so neat that they must have been purchased ready-made from a nearby store. The house itself was well-maintained but without customizations or adornments. The paintwork would need a touch-up in the next year, but there was nothing decaying or disorderly about it. It was more a case of make-do maintenance than pride-and-joy decoration.

  Chief Tarrant would be too busy to spend much time tending to his property. Its appearance was probably more indicative of the lack of time in his life than an absence of inclination.

  Cory stormed up to the door, certain that his number one target was at home. He ignored the knocker entirely, opting for the more assertive option of banging several times with his fist to raise Dean’s attention. He followed up the first three bangs with another four—it was the kind of knock which established right from the get-go that this was a no-nonsense house call.

  Cory heard movement from inside, so he followed up with another three sharp taps.

  ‘Come on, open up! I know you're in there.’

  He was just waiting for that door to open. The moment it did, he'd tear into the idiot and give him a piece of his mind.

  He heard the key being turned on the inside, saw the door handle being twisted, and the door began to open. Even before it was fully open, he began to let rip with his angry tirade.

  ‘Get out here and show your face, you little jerk! What the f--’

  As the door opened, Cory stopped dead at the sight of an elderly woman with white hair. She was just like anybody's grandma: silver-rimmed bifocals, hair in a bun, a floral dress, and furry slippers. She steadied herself with a cane.

  Cory thanked his lucky stars that his last swear word had not been delivered. Subduing his anger, he immediately slipped back into nice, well brought-up son mode and changed his tone to deferential politeness.

  ‘Oh, hello. You're not who I was expecting to answer the door. Is this Chief Tarrant's house?’

  The old lady seemed to be a little deaf, so he hoped she'd missed his first angry words. At least the heavy knocking hadn't been wasted.

  ‘Hello, my dear, how can I help you? What? Yes, this is Chief Tarrant's house. He's not in, I'm afraid. Would you like to come in for a drink?’

  Cory felt his attitude adjust from 110mph to a steady 10mph with speed bumps.

  ‘I'd better not come in, but thank you very much for the offer.’

  ‘Would you like to come in for a drink, my dear? The children are all here drinking orange soda.’

  Cory looked closely at her. She wasn't deaf; it looked like she might have dementia or something similar. There were no children, and she seemed a little confused. He despised himself for going in all guns blazing. He needed to be slow and gentle.

  ‘I won't take up any of your time. Is this Chief Tarrant's house?’

  She seemed to be drifting in and out of clarity.

  ‘Yes, my dear. Chief Tarrant and his little boy, Dean… they live here. Imagine my son Lance becoming a chief. I'm so proud. But now we'll have to sell the house.’

  ‘Why is the house for sale?’ Cory asked, softly. ‘Chief Tarrant has lived here for years, hasn't he?’

  ‘I'm just a silly old woman who costs too much to care for. That's what Dean says. You should hear his language! He's only five years old, too.’

  Cory wondered how much of what she was telling him was true and how much was confused memories. He noticed a package of something on the key table just inside the door. It looked like a box of drugs delivered by the pharmacy. He was no expert, but he was pretty sure Namenda was used for memory loss, dementia; the bogeyman that frightened the life out of everybody over the age of fifty.

  ‘Is Dean at home?’ Cory asked.

  She flinched when he said his name.

  ‘Keep that nasty piece of work away from me,’ she replied, suddenly seeming fully aware of what she was saying. ‘I'll be safer when I'm in assisted living, away from that spiteful little brat.’

  Cory looked at her arms. They were covered by her dress. Was she trying to tell him that Dean was hurting her?

  ‘What's the old lady telling you now?’ came a voice from within the house. It was Dean Tarrant. He walked toward the door, gyrating his finger by his head in a dismissive display to convey that she had lost her mind. Cory felt his anger rising once again.

  Dean walked up to the open door and swept the old lady away with his arm. She stumbled a little, then steadied herself with her stick.

  ‘Out of the way, old lady, go and take some medication—it might help you to talk some sense.’

  He picked up one of the boxes of pills from the side table and threw them at her. She moved out of his way, speaking to herself. ‘He used to be such a lovely young boy, but now, I just keep out of his way. Never been the same, not since his mother died.’

  ‘Is that how you always behave with your elders?’ Cory asked, trying to control himself. He'd never wanted to lay into a person quite as much as he did with Dean Tarrant right at that moment.

  ‘She'll be dead soon enough,’ Dean sneered. ‘She's just a damn nuisance. I could get a pool table in that room of hers, yet still she insists on taking up valuable space. And she smells.’

  ‘You really are a nasty piece of work, aren't you?’ Cory said.

  ‘Well, just so you know, my dad's on his way here right now. I told him you've been harassing me and that you're now shouting abuse at his mom on the doorstep. What a rude little man you are, I heard everything you said—urine-soaked old lady, smelly witch, and psycho grandma—you really need to mind your manners around seniors, Mr. Miles.’

  Cory heard the car approaching even as the words left Dean's lips, but he could contain himself no longer. Dean gave him a push as he finished his list of abusive phrases and he responded immediately, pushing back as he tried to steady himself on his feet.

  Dean was solidly built and immovable. Cory felt like an annoying fly, unable to rustle up any more than a mild irritation. He ran at Dean a second time, but an impregnable and muscular arm brushed him aside and he stumbled and fell, right into a pot of purple pansies. In a misguided effort to create some form of offensive action, he pulled out one of the plants from between his legs and threw it at Dean.

  Cory could hear that the old lady was becoming distressed inside the house. One part of him needed to get his message over to Dean Tarrant, but the other hated himself for upsetting or confusing the old lady.

  ‘Dad, Dad, look, he's attacking me.’

  ‘That's enough, Cory.’

  Chief Tarrant's voice boomed from the end of the d
riveway, stopping Cory dead in his tracks.

  ‘Go and see to Grandma,’ Tarrant said to Dean. ‘Make sure she's taken her pills and try and calm her down.’

  ‘Yes, Dad. I was scared for our lives—this man's a maniac.’

  Then, before Chief Tarrant had reached them, he added something extra for Cory's benefit. ‘Whoops! Looks like you're in trouble with the police, Mr. Miles. That's what comes of bullying vulnerable old ladies.’

  ‘Dean, go and help Grandma,’ came Tarrant's voice again.

  ‘Yes, Dad. I just wanted to make sure Mr. Miles wasn't going to hurt us again.’

  Chief Tarrant stormed up to Cory as he attempted to pull himself out of the plant pot.

  ‘That's enough now, Cory, you've gone too far. This all ends here and now.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  That's all Cory needed as a companion in his cell: Spencer Jones. And he was sobering up. If it had been a nightmare, his imagination couldn't have found a worse cellmate. Spencer smelled of booze and was ranting wildly at Chief Tarrant for placing him there in the first place.

  Cory could not recall a time when he'd felt more humiliated. Tarrant had cuffed him in the front yard, soil still caked around the rear of his pants, and driven him in the back of his own car to the police station. And as he was doing so, Dean Tarrant was escorting his grandma into the yard, talking to her about the lovely flowers, holding her arm to support her and looking like the best grandson an elderly lady could have.

  As Chief Tarrant turned his back to guide Cory into the back of the car, Dean stuck one finger up at him and ruffled his grandma's hair contemptuously. Cory flexed his body in an automatic response, but Tarrant was onto him right away, giving him a push into the car.

  The chief had dropped him off at the desk, still in handcuffs, for processing.

  ‘Stick him in a cell for now, while I think about what we do with him. I'll be on my phone if you need me—I need to check that my mom is fine back home.’

  That felt like a final twist of the knife for Cory; he knew he'd got too fired up and he felt terrible about upsetting a senior, particularly one who appeared to have enough problems of her own.

  The cells were very basic and smelled of urine. Cory had never been anywhere near this end of the police station before, and he was pleased about that. There were just a couple of wooden benches, heavily vandalized with names, curses, and carvings. He was grateful for one small mercy; Spencer had now fallen asleep and was snoring loudly on one of the benches, sprawled out longways with seemingly not a care in the world.

  Cory wondered how long he'd be left in there. Chief Tarrant would be justified if he pressed charges—he knew he’d crossed the line. But his thoughts were about Bianca, not himself. Whatever action Chief Tarrant took, it wouldn’t involve jail time or a judge.

  The most pressing issue was Bianca's welfare. The contents of his pockets—cell phone included—had been taken at the desk, so there was no chance of getting a message out. What would Denise Williams think of him? He'd abandoned her midway through a search for her daughter. If she wasn't resolved to stop her daughter working at the newspaper beforehand, she would be now.

  Spencer Jones stirred and snorted on the opposite bench. He was mumbling something to himself.

  ‘I was doing you a favor… you pull me over like that… only a couple of darn drinks…’

  There was one small consolation for Cory in all of this, and that was that there was no way Dean Tarrant was with Bianca. She had to have walked home a different route, maybe needing to cool off or something like that. But Dean Tarrant wasn’t with her, and for that he had to be grateful.

  Cory heard a rattle of the door and a police officer walked in. It was Louise.

  ‘Damn, Cory, what the hell have you done?’

  ‘The chief and I appear to have had a little falling out.’ Cory smiled at her. He didn't feel much like smiling, though; he was ashamed.

  ‘Look, I shouldn't really be down here speaking to you, but Lorna on the desk tipped me off that you’d been brought in. The chief's pissed with you, so they've been told to hold you here for a couple of hours, then let you go.’

  ‘Well, that's a relief, at least. I was going to ask you to smuggle in a file so I could break out.’

  She kept a straight face, conveying mild annoyance as far as Cory could tell.

  ‘Look, Louise, I need to ask you a favor. If you can't help me, that's fine. But it's sort of a police matter, too.’

  ‘Go on, what is it? I'm still furious with you over Poppy Norman's nonexistent dress…’

  ‘It was there, Louise, I promise you.’

  ‘I believe you, Cory, but you try explaining it to three hardened cops and a deputy who's under intense pressure to get some results on three very challenging cases.’

  ‘I'm just trying to help. Like everybody else, I want Poppy back safe and well with her family.’

  ‘We all do, Cory.’

  ‘I know you're annoyed with me, but please, will you speak to Bianca's mum and let her know I got held up? Also, I'm really worried about Bianca—I need to know she's back home okay.’

  Louise looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded.

  ‘What's Spencer Jones doing in here?’ Cory asked, happy now that he could at least get a check on Bianca. ‘Surely snoring isn't an offense yet?’

  ‘Ha! No, he was pulled over by one of the officers at Shallow Falls. He'd just come back from Westview and was weaving all over the road. The man’s had far too much to drink to be at the wheel of a car.’

  ‘Westview, you say? Any idea where he'd been?’

  ‘No idea,’ Louise replied. ‘I know that they've impounded his car. The chief wants him to sleep it off, then he'll call him in for a personal chat later, when he's sober again.’

  Cory had a good idea where Spencer Jones might have been, bearing in mind the timings of everything—but why?

  ‘I've gotta go,’ Louise said. ‘I'll check up on Bianca and let you know what's happening.’

  She left him in the cell, the heavy door echoing behind her as she was let out by the supervising officer. The sound of the door made Spencer Jones stir on the bench.

  ‘Ah, Cory Miles,’ he said, opening his eyes and clearly trying to figure out where the hell he was.

  ‘Hello again, Spencer,’ Cory said curtly, keen to avoid entering into conversation with him while he was drunk.

  ‘How did I get here? I really can't recall…’

  ‘You might want to lay off the booze,’ Cory advised. ‘You're a respected man about this town, Mr. Jones, but if you carry on like this, you're going to kill yourself in a car accident.’

  Spencer sat up on the bench, struggling to orientate himself.

  ‘Well, some of us carry heavy burdens, Mr. Miles. A beer here and there helps to oil the wheels.’

  Cory decided to come right out with it.

  ‘What were you doing at Westview today, Spencer?’ He wanted to know; had Spencer Jones been the one intimidating Zach in the schoolyard?

  Spencer began to speak, then seemed to sober up suddenly, like a switch had just been flicked in his head.

  ‘I was out getting groceries, where else would I have been?’

  ‘Oh, I don't know—maybe paying a visit to one of the elementary schools?’

  Cory saw it, but only for a moment. It was a flash of fear in Spencer's eyes, caught in a lie and then swiftly recovering.

  ‘I don't know what you're talking about,’ Spencer replied. ‘I bought my groceries, had a couple of beers and came straight back to Shallow Falls. And they throw me in jail just because I drive a little wide at Devil's Corner, damn cops. And Chief Tarrant’s involved, too, he owes me one--’

  Spencer stopped mid-sentence, closing his eyes and drifting off to a snooze like nothing had happened.

  ‘Spencer,’ Cory said, trying his best to rouse him back to consciousness.

  His eyes opened once again, after some struggle, and he was back in t
he room with Cory.

  ‘You're still here?’ he said, slurring his words. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I got into trouble with the chief, just like you,’ Cory replied, a little more conversational in his tone now. He wanted to see if he could get Spencer talking, now he was a captive audience.

  ‘What's Tarrant been up to now?’ Spencer said. ‘You'd think he'd be a bit more grateful when you do the man a favor.’

  ‘And what favors have you been doing for Chief Tarrant?’ Cory asked.

  ‘Who said anything about chief--’

  The switch seemed to go off in Spencer's head once again, like he had some kind of trigger pin response any time Cory got a whiff of a sensitive issue.

  ‘How was Westview Elementary?’ Cory pushed, trying to disorientate the man. He saw that flash in Spencer's eyes once again, the sort of expression that would have created a short spike in a lie detector test.

  ‘Don't know what yer talking about.’ Spencer maintained his innocence in the matter. ‘Beer and groceries, that's all Westview is good for.’

  There was a rattling of keys once again at the entrance to the cells. It was Louise Powell back already. And Cory could see by the expression on her face that she didn't come bearing good news.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘This looks like bad news,’ Cory said, searching for a clue in Louise’s face. She waited for the door to be closed behind her.

  ‘Spencer, we're letting you out of here. The chief will catch up with you tomorrow. Go straight home and don't call into Lacey's—then this might blow over for you. They're expecting you at the desk with your belongings. Don't let me see you back here again.’

  Louise unlocked the cell. Spencer Jones looked like he couldn't believe his luck.

  ‘What, now?’ he asked.

  ‘Go,’ Louise said, ‘Before I change my mind.’

  Cory stayed quiet, sensing that the reason Spencer was leaving was so that they could speak alone. It was lucky that Shallow Falls had such a low crime rate; if these police cells were a hotel, they'd have gone out of business years ago. The main door was opened for Spencer and an officer was waiting to accompany him.