Dust in the Heart

by Ralph Dennis

  “At the Holiday Inn. He’s probably taking another shower and shave so he’ll look and smell good tonight out in the moonlight. My guess is that was after he called the front office and told them how rude and crude and unfriendly I am.”

  Joe laughed. “Got your number early, didn’t he?”

  “It ain’t hard.”

  Wilt checked his watch. It was right on seven-thirty. It was already dark outside. Though he knew Jonas needed all the rest he could get, he also knew he wanted the man fed and alert when the call came through. He stood. “I’ll shake Moore awake. You see if his supper’s ready.”

  “Don’t throw me in that briar patch.”

  “You like briars,” Wilt said.

  Harriman returned while Jonas Moore was having his supper. He gave the empty beer bottles a sour look but he didn’t say anything. He’d changed his shirt again. Now he wore a blue tie shirt and dark blue tie and. he carried a dark raincoat. The raincoat looked new. Wilt wondered if that went on the expense account. Slung over one shoulder was what looked like a camera case.

  “You going to take pictures?”

  “It’s a nightscope.”

  From the dark clothing and the nightscope, Wilt guessed that Harriman assumed he was going to be closely involved with the operation.

  The hell he would. It didn’t work that way, Wilt told himself. Harriman couldn’t cover his ass and badmouth the way the operation was being handled and still wedge himself into the front-line action. Nobody got to have it both ways. If Wilt would be damned if Harriman got within a mile of the money while it was being delivered. And Harriman had picked his way without knowing it.

  In the early evening, after the supper hours, there was a rash of calls. Dana’s teacher called. The minister of Moore’s church called and wanted to come by and offer such comfort as he could. An Associated Press stringer called and wanted to drive by for a short interview that would go out on the wire.

  Jonas handled each call well. He was short and polite. After his rest, he seemed especially alert.

  The call they were waiting for came in at nine-fifty-eight.

  “You have the money?”

  “Yes.” Jonas said.

  Wilt sat next to him. He’d taken the technician’s earphones. He had a legal pad in front of him. If there was a question that Jonas wasn’t sure how to answer, he would look to Wilt and the Sheriff would write the answer on the pad.

  “In small bills?”

  “You didn’t say anything about small bills.” Jonas turned to Wilt. Wilt scribbled on the pad: In tens and twenties.

  “In tens and twenties,” Jonas said.

  “You called the police?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Don’t you lie to me.”

  “They’re not involved.”

  “Here’s how we do it. You know the bridge over Branch Creek?”

  Wilt wrote on the pad: I know it.

  “Yes,” Moore said, “I know it.”

  “Exactly at eleven I want you to park on the side of the road that’s south of the bridge. Two hundred yards from the bridge. What kind of car do you have?”

  “A Firebird.”

  “You carry the gym bag and walk toward the bridge. If you’re alone, if you’re not being followed, you’ll be met and you’ll hand over the money. You got all that?”

  “Yes, I’ve got all of it.” Moore seemed to crumble inside. “My little girl … Dana … when will I …?”

  “One hour later, after we’ve got the money, we call you and tell you where she is.”

  “How do I know …?”

  “Repeat all of it for me.”

  Jonas repeated the instructions. Tears of frustration ran down his face.

  “Good for you. You do it the way we say and your little girl will be with you by twelve-thirty. You get cute and you’ll never see her again.”

  The line went dead.

  Wilt met Joe’s eyes. He nodded. “Why don’t you take Mr. Moore next door? I’m sure he’d like to see his wife.”

  “But …” Jonas looked at the phone.

  “They won’t call again.”

  The technician stopped the tape and hit the rewind button.

  Joe came back a couple of minutes later. He started to say something and then clamped his mouth shut.

  Wilt nodded at the technician. “Play it again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At five of eleven, Wilt parked the Moore’s Firebird on the side of the road about two hundred yards south of the Branch Creek bridge.

  The prior forty-five minutes had been busy.

  His first stop was at his apartment for a quick change of clothing. He tossed his uniform aside and dressed in gray trousers, a plaid shirt, a dark brown pullover sweater and slipped on a pair of jogging shoes. Over the changed clothing, he put a hip length wool outer coat.

  He found his gym bag on the closet floor. It was empty but it smelled of sweat and dirty socks.

  The next stop was the Station, where Joe waited for him. On the way through the lobby, he left the gym bag with Floyd so that the money-sized bundles of cut newspaper could be packed in it. While this was being done, he entered his office and unlocked the safe. He got out his spare, a Dan Wesson .357 with a six-inch blue steel barrel. He loaded it with fresh shells and shoved it in his right hand, coat pocket. He counted six more shells from the box and wrapped them in a paper towel so they wouldn’t rattle when he walked.

  Floyd passed him the gym bag and said “Good luck, Sheriff.”

  Joe waited for him in the back parking lot. As soon as Wilt was seated, Joe said,” It’s been tested,” and passed him a walkie-talkie, “But you check it again when you park by the bridge.”

  One more stop, at the Moore’s, to get the borrowed Firebird.

  All that hurry and he was early. A mile away from the bridge, Wilt realized he was ten minutes ahead of schedule. He pulled to the side of the road and let the time drift by.

  Now, at five of eleven, he had parked with the bridge in sight. Early, but not too early if the kidnappers were watching. He lifted the walkie-talkie and checked the picket line.

  Joe first. Joe was stationed half a mile away on the other side of the bridge. He’d taken the roundabout route so he wouldn’t be spotted on the main road.

  “Loud and clear and cold,” Joe said.

  The next call was to Special Agent Harriman. He was half-a-mile behind Wilt in the driveway of a farmhouse. There was a pickup and a flatbed truck in the same driveway and Wilt hoped the cruiser wouldn’t be noticed in the dark.

  “Read you loud and clear,” Harriman said.

  Deputy Charlie Reaton was in the cruiser with Harriman. Charlie was the driver. That was because Charlie knew the county and Harriman didn’t. If there was a chase, it would be better to have Charlie behind the wheel.

  What Wilt told Charlie was that this was an important operation and he didn’t want Harriman playing cowboy and screwing it up. No matter what Harriman said, no matter what orders he gave, Charlie wasn’t to leave that driveway until Wilt gave him the order. He was to be polite but deaf if he had to.

  Eleven. The minute hand straight up. Wilt shoved the walkie talkie in his left hand pocket. Now he was balanced. He stepped from the car and dragged the gym bag after him. The night air was cold. He shifted the gym bag to his left hand and raised his collar. The wind was from the left side of the road, crossing him, and he thought he could smell the dirty socks. When this was over, he told himself, he was going to burn that damned bag.

  A three-quarters moon. The sky was cloudless. The moonlight was bright. So bright he could see every clump of weeds or grass as he headed for Branch Creek bridge.

  The creek wasn’t wide or deep. The water, what there was of it, ran through a deep gulley and the gulley was the reason for the bridge. It spanned the banks and it was seventy or eighty yards from south end to north end. The construction was of concrete and heavy steel rails. Heavy steel rails bordered both sides of the
bridge.

  From a distance Wilt heard an anguished bellowing. If the wind were stronger, he’d have told himself that it was a sound created by the wind in the dense woods. Instead, it might be what it sounded like: a lost cow that needed milking.

  The final hundred yards. He kept walking. He reached the near end of the bridge and paused. There was no sound from the water below the bridge and Wilt guessed that the level was so low that it was probably frozen over.

  The new sound, when it came, startled him. It split the silence. Not there one moment and so loud the next that he almost jumped.

  He must have passed it. Hidden in some road, in some clearing. He stepped onto the narrow pavement walk as the pickup truck’s headlights brushed across him and the engine raced. He turned his head and tried to eye blink the glare away. It didn’t work and he was blind when he turned his head away and walked on.

  Split seconds later, he heard the hollow thump of the truck’s tires as it left the road and touched the bridge.

  The truck slowed. When the cab was even with Wilt the window cranked down. He saw a dark shape, head and shoulders and the man shouted, “Throw the bag in the back. Throw it in the back.”

  Wilt swung his left arm. The cab passed him and the bed of the truck was even with him now. He tossed the bag into the truck bed. Then he ducked and drew the Dan Wesson from his right-hand pocket. As soon as the bag hit the truck bed, the driver floored the gas. The pickup jerked, hesitated and lunged forward.

  Wilt was directly behind the truck, three or four feet away, when he aimed at the right rear tire and pulled off three rounds. The tire exploded and bits of rubber slapped against Wilt.

  The driver wrestled the wheel as the truck swerved. It wobbled from side to side. Wilt stood up straight and lined up the Dan Wesson. He was about to fire again when the truck made a wide circling half loop and struck the railing on the right side of the bridge.

  Wilt trotted forward. Running jarred his left hip and he felt the hooks of pain. He slowed when he reached the rear of the truck. He listened. There was only the sound of the running engine and, below that, the clogged coughing of one of the men. He braced himself against the truck siding and limped to the driver’s side. He prepared himself. Dan Wesson in his right hand. He grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door flew open. The overhead lights went on.

  There were two young men, hardly more than boys, in the truck. The driver slumped forward against the wheel. His nose was broken and blood ran down and covered his chin and neck and the front of his jacket. As Wilt watched, this one coughed and spit up blood and mucus. The other boy, the one in the passenger seat, had his head back against the seat. A deep ragged cut on his forehead spilled blood down his face.

  Wilt stepped back and took the walkie-talkie from the left pocket of his coat. “Joe, Harriman, I’ve got them. I’m on the bridge.” He placed the walkie-talkie on the truck hood and reached in and switched off the engine. He stepped back and stood there, the .357 relaxed and down beside his leg.

  He heard the sirens building as the cruisers came at him from both directions. At the last moment, at opposite ends of the bridge, both cruisers curled sideways and formed barricades. The bridge was bottled up.

  “Call an ambulance,” Wilt said when he saw Joe.

  “Bad?”

  “Not half as bad as it’s going to be,” Wilt said.

  Special Agent Harriman trotted toward the wrecked truck. Wilt stared at him and smiled.

  All those night operation clothes and that nightscope for nothing. The smile was all he’d allow himself. He really wanted to laugh.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The interrogation room at the Sheriff’s Station was crowded. The ambulance, on Wilt’s orders, took the two young men to the Station rather than to the Emergency Room at the hospital. The ambulance attendants cleaned up the two boys and waited with them until a doctor arrived. Now the doctor, Walter Parsons, checked them for injuries besides the broken nose and the cut forehead. Floyd was there in case there was trouble with the boys and Joe Croft waited for the right moment to begin the questioning.

  Wilt was in the observation room where the two-way mirror was. Joe hadn’t looked in his direction but Wilt was fairly certain that Joe knew he was there.

  Chief Amos Wilson stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Wilt. He’d been jerked from a warm bed and he was sleepy and boozy and needed a shave. He wore civvies, a topcoat over a rumpled shirt.

  In the interrogation room ,the boy with the broken nose was starting to talk. “… but we didn’t mean any harm. It was a joke.”

  Wilt leaned forward and switched off the sound.

  “I know both boys,” Amos said. “why, both of them are from good families and they’re on the basketball team. I saw them play last week when Edgefield beat …”

  “I don’t care if they piss dark German beer and walk on water.”

  Amos held up his hands in surrender. “No, no, Wilton, what I mean is that I’m surprised. That’s all.”

  “Let’s leave it at that. You’re surprised. Don’t give me that shit about what good families they come from or what great jocks they are.”

  Amos nodded and gave Wilt his hangdog look. They left the observation room and entered the lobby. “Somebody call and get you out of bed, Amos?”

  Amos almost choked on it. He got it out finally. “John Turner called me. His son is …”

  “The one who likes to play jokes, right?”

  “Call me, Wilt, when you’ve decided what the charges are.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Wilt passed the switchboard desk and nodded at Floyd. “I’ll be in my office.”

  Special Agent Harriman was seated in Wilt’s chair behind the desk and was on the phone. He got to his feet when he saw Wilt.

  Wilt closed the door.

  Harriman finished his phone call. “Yes, I guess that’s about it, sir.” He listened for a few seconds. “I’ll stay over tonight and make sure this is wrapped up before I leave town. I should be back in the office after lunch.” He listened a time more and smiled. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice of you to say that.”

  Wilt edged around the desk. The pain in his hip had reached the toothache scale. Harriman moved aside and Wilt sat down. Harriman said his goodnight and placed the receiver on the base and pushed the phone into place at Wilt’s elbow.

  Wilt lit a Chesterfield and blew the smoke toward Harriman. Harriman looked startled and leaned away. He moved around the front of the desk and unbuttoned his suit coat. He unclipped a Police Special in its holster and placed it on the desk. “Keep this for me. I want a few words with the boys.”

  “Tell them to win one for the Gipper.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” The cigarette tasted like burning leaves smelled. “You going to take the credit for this one?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Harriman said.

  “Come on, Harriman, I know how you slickers work.” He dropped the pistol and holster in a desk drawer and closed it. “You stand around the fringes and when the bust is made, you preempt it.”

  “There’s enough credit to go around.”

  “After you covered your ass in case it went sour?” Wilt shook his head.

  Harriman hesitated. It was probably a new experience for him. It wasn’t often that other law enforcement officers confronted the Bureau so openly. “It’s out of my hands.” He reached the door and stopped with his hand on the door knob. “The district office does pretty much what it wants to.”

  “But you will spell my name right when you list the spear-carriers, won’t you?”

  “You’ve got a twisted sense of humor,” Harriman said. He stepped through the doorway and drew the door closed behind him without looking back at Wilt.

  He was gone about three or four minutes before Joe Croft opened the door without knocking and reached back and slammed it shut.

  Joe’s face was flushed and he looked about as angry as Wilt had ev
er seen him. “That shit … he’s posing and posturing around like he had something to do with this. Our noble leader, I think it comes out.”

  “I’ve already had my words with him.”

  “The words didn’t take,” Joe said.

  “I didn’t expect them to.” Wilt shrugged and then thinking, oh, to hell with it, he grinned. “I think we ought to read the papers in the morning and see what a really small part we had to do with tonight’s work.”

  “It burns my ass.”

  “You can’t blame him. It’s a course they teach at the Academy. It’s Stealing the Credit 44. It’s required for graduation.” Wilt rubbed his eyes. Clustered dust came away on his fingertips. “What do you think of the kids?”

  “I’m a hundred percent sure they had nothing to do with Dana Moore or her disappearance.”

  “So, why’d they do it?”

  “The money,” Joe said. “They thought it was a small risk and they’d seen enough movies to think they could run this scam and not get caught. To tell the truth, it was the money that bothered me the whole time.”

  “Huh?”

  “The money they asked for in ransom. Five thousand isn’t enough for the risk. That should have clued us.”

  “Bothered me too. But five thousand is a fortune to them.” He’d kept that doubt to himself. Until he knew better, he had to treat it as a legitimate demand and he wanted his deputies to do the same. “Tell me about the kids.”

  “Benny Turner, the one with the broken nose, is the brains.”

  “For the one with the brains he’s still about half a load short.”

  “The way he tells it, he and his buddy … George Hall … heard about the little girl this afternoon or early evening. So, they decided they’d do a prank. And part of the prank was to see if they could pull it off without getting caught.”

  “A prank?”

  “And a joke. Benny worked that word, Joke, into the conversation about as often as he wedged prank in.”

  “And the other kid?”

  “George Hall. Mainly he’s worried that we might think they really had something to do with the disappearance of the little girl. He kept telling us he and the Turner kid were at basketball practice until five o’clock or a bit after that.”