When All the World Sleeps

by Lisa Henry

  Bel opened the trunk of the cruiser, grabbing for the fire extinguisher. “I got a fire on Kamchee Road, at Whitlock’s cabin. Can I get a fire truck out here?”

  “On it, Bel.”

  Bel could feel the heat of the fire before he even stepped onto the porch. Could smell the gasoline as well. He aimed the extinguisher at the base of the flames. Not much it could do against the fire, except maybe slow it down.

  A window shattered.

  “Help me!”

  “Whitlock, you in there?” Bel yelled back.

  “Help me!” That voice was reed thin with panic.

  Bel used the extinguisher up, tossed it, then shouldered the cabin door open. “Get the hell out of there, Whitlock!”

  Because Bel would be fucked if he was gonna die trying to save the guy from a fire. The irony would probably kill him before the smoke.

  Whitlock was lying in his bed, his hands cuffed to the headboard bars. He was wild-eyed, frantic.

  “Please, please help me.”

  What the fuck?

  You don’t get to pick and choose who you help.

  Bel hurried over to the bed, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose to shield from the smoke. He wrenched at Whitlock’s arms, but the guy wasn’t going anywhere. Bel remembered the bolt cutters in his trunk. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’ll be right back,” Bel repeated.

  Back onto the porch, back through the heat of the flames, and back to the cruiser. Took too long to find the bolt cutters; by the time Bel pulled them out, the flames were climbing again. He raced to the cabin, through the smoke, and . . . shit, the hairs on his arms curled and burned away as the flames licked at him.

  “You still there, Whitlock?” he called into the smoke.

  Not like he was going anywhere, but it was better than asking if he was still alive.

  “Yeah,” Whitlock rasped.

  Bel ducked, kept low, and headed for the bed. Found himself crouching on the floor, his face close to Whitlock’s. No trace of confusion in those eyes tonight. Just fear. “Only gonna be a minute more, okay?”

  Unless the roof came down or something. But cops weren’t allowed to say things like that. Bel caught the first chain in the bolt cutters and snapped it. Leaned across Whitlock to cut the second one. “You got a back door?”

  Whitlock nodded.

  “Okay, get down on your knees and crawl. I’m right behind you.”

  Whitlock rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a thump. He crawled, the ends of the chains still hanging from the cuffs on his wrists. Bel wondered who had chained him up like a dog and left him to die. Thought of the truck he’d passed on the way into the woods, and wished he’d gotten a look at it.

  He followed Whitlock out the back, where he half rolled down the uneven steps and onto the ground. They both knelt there, coughing and hacking.

  In the distance, Bel heard the sirens approaching.

  Best sound in the world.

  At the hospital in Goose Creek, Bel sucked in oxygen from a mask until the doc was satisfied he wasn’t going to keel over. Whitlock, who’d gotten more than him, was admitted.

  “Well, this is a fine mess,” Uncle Joe muttered when he turned up unshaven, his uniform buttoned lopsided. “How you doing, Little Joe?”

  “I’m okay,” Bel said.

  “I got Avery guarding the scene until the fire investigators arrive, and Ginny’s gonna bring your car back to the station.” Uncle Joe frowned, his forehead creasing with worry. “You see anything when you headed out there?”

  “Saw a truck. Didn’t get a look at it. And Whitlock was chained to the bed.”

  “Well, shit.” Uncle Joe shook his head and sighed. “Guess I’d better go talk to him.”

  Bel followed him.

  Whitlock was propped up on a bed in his room, a mask over his mouth and nose.

  “How you feeling, son?” Uncle Joe asked. It was the same opening he used with anyone. Hell, Bel had heard him call men hardly any younger than him “son.” Everyone older was “sir” but, like Uncle Joe said, that was a list that got shorter every year.

  “I’m okay, Sheriff,” Whitlock said, breathing mist against the clear mask.

  “You wanna tell me what happened?”

  Whitlock’s fingers danced across the hospital blanket. “I don’t know, sir. I was sleeping—”

  Uncle Joe cocked a brow.

  Whitlock flushed. “I mean, I woke up and the fire was already burning.”

  “That ain’t right,” Bel said. “Who chained you up, Whitlock?”

  It had taken the firemen to get the cuffs off him. Thick, leather things. Bel had never seen anything like them before. You didn’t forget someone putting those on you.

  Whitlock dropped his gaze. “I did that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Whitlock’s mouth thinned to a line. “I said, ‘I did that.’ I put them on me.”

  Bel exchanged a glance with Uncle Joe. Freak. Could be bullshit, though, like Daniel saying he hadn’t seen who bashed him.

  Uncle Joe nodded. “Okay, Whitlock. I’m gonna talk to you again, see if we can’t get to the bottom of this. Where you gonna be staying?”

  “Can I go back to my cabin?”

  “I need you to steer clear until the fire investigator is done,” Uncle Joe told him.

  “How long will that be, sir?”

  “Long as it takes.” Uncle Joe hooked his thumbs in his belt. “You want me to call your folks?”

  Whitlock jerked his head up. “No, sir. I’ll, ah, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay then.” Uncle Joe nodded at Whitlock, then he and Bel left the room.

  “You gonna put a man on the door, Uncle Joe?”

  Uncle Joe looked at his watch. “You got a few hours left on your shift. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. You stay and watch Whitlock, and the doc can watch you both. I’ll send someone up to relieve you in the morning. Only if you’re up for staying, mind.”

  “I’m fine,” Bel said firmly. “Nothing but a bit of smoke. I’ve had sunburns that were worse.”

  Joe reached out and clasped his shoulder. “Glad to hear it, boy.”

  Bel watched him leave, then went and fetched a coffee and a chair, and sat down outside Whitlock’s room. Nodded at the doc when he came to remove Whitlock’s mask. Almost dozed off a few times, except that every time Whitlock moved his cot squeaked.

  “Settle down!” he called through the door.

  Five minutes later the cot squeaked again.

  Bel sighed, stood, and opened the door. He leaned in the doorway. “Go to sleep, Whitlock.”

  “Can’t,” Whitlock said.

  “Your eyes are hanging out of your head,” Bel said. “’Course you can.”

  Whitlock shook his head.

  “You want the doctor to give you something?” Maybe he’d had too many uppers and needed a downer to settle.

  “No!” Whitlock’s eyes widened. He lifted himself up briefly, and then slumped back down. The cot squeaked. “No drugs, please.”

  “Well, shut the hell up and go to sleep.”

  “I can’t!” Whitlock’s voice rose in pitch. “Please, I can’t. Don’t let me.”

  Bel watched him for a moment, unease gnawing at his gut. “You really chained yourself to that bed?”

  Whitlock didn’t answer, but his face colored.

  “Why would you do that? You almost died tonight.”

  Whitlock wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Bad shit happens when I sleep. Can’t stop myself from doing it.”

  A day ago, Bel would have laughed if Whitlock had dared say that to his face. Kind of hard to find it funny now that he’d seen Whitlock chained to his bed. Even if it was bullshit, Whitlock believed it.

  “Just . . . can’t you just lay still?”

  “Don’t want to go under,” Whitlock said in a low voice.

  “Tell you what,” Bel said. “You lay still, and I
’ll make sure no bad shit happens.”

  Something like hope flashed in Whitlock’s pale face as he met Bel’s gaze again. “You mean that?”

  Bel shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Will you . . .?” Whitlock shook his head suddenly. “Sorry, no.”

  “Will I what?” Bel asked, wondering where the hell this was going. “Spit it out.”

  “Will you cuff me?”

  Bel felt a jolt of something he couldn’t put a name to. Wasn’t sure he wanted to name it. “That what it’s gonna take?”

  “Yeah,” Whitlock whispered. “Please.”

  “Okay.” Bel stepped toward the cot, unhooking his cuffs from his belt. Used them plenty of times on plenty of people, but never like this. Usually they were protesting their innocence the whole way, or plain old resisting. Bel wasn’t sure he’d ever had anyone watch him like this, hold out his arm like that; trusting, hopeful, quiet.

  He closed the cuff around Whitlock’s right wrist and felt the guy’s pulse flutter under his fingers. He almost hesitated when he saw the bruising on the skin under the cuff. But Whitlock hadn’t asked for his sympathy or concern. Bel wouldn’t’ve had much to give anyway. He closed the other end of the cuff around the bar at the side of the cot.

  “Okay?” he asked softly.

  “Thanks.” Whitlock sank back down onto the thin mattress, his entire body relaxing. Bel hadn’t even realized how tense Whitlock had been holding himself, until he wasn’t. He exhaled, his eyes drifted closed, and his face took on that peaceful look that Bel remembered from years ago at Harnee’s. “Thanks.”

  “Whatever.” Bel’s voice came out gruff.

  His fingers tingled from where he’d felt Whitlock’s pulse, and he flexed them until the sensation went away. Fought the crazy urge to touch Whitlock again, maybe trace the line of his jaw, or his throat, or his lips. Fought the dumb idea that cuffing the guy meant something more than giving in to his crazy for a bit, just to shut him up.

  He went outside, closed the door behind him, and drank the rest of his coffee.

  Bel pulled up at Dav and Jim’s, shut the car off, and got out. His shoes crunched on the gravel drive. Inside the house, Stump barked. “Just me, Stumpy,” he called.

  The front door was open. He banged on the edge of the screen to warn whoever was inside. Stump raced across the wood floor and stood there barking at him. His front feet left the ground with each woof. Bel opened the door and walked in. “’Lo?” he called.

  “In here,” Dav called from the kitchen.

  Bel walked in, Stump following. Dav was at the kitchen table with a pile of paperwork and her laptop. She typed faster than ought to be possible. He strode over and pulled a chair out. Turned it around and sat on it backward, folding his arms across the top. “Tell me,” he said, his tone more brusque than he’d intended. “Tell me about what he’s got.”

  “Hi to you too,” Dav said. “What are you asking?”

  “Whitlock. How come you believe him? You know something about his—whatever? His condition? You think people can do shit like he did in their sleep?”

  Dav continued typing. “Why the sudden interest?”

  “C’mon, don’t play like that now. You’re always telling me I ain’t being fair to him, so tell me why I ought to be.”

  Dav closed her computer. Brushed her bangs out of her eyes and stared at him. “He sleepwalks. He does things in his sleep that he has no recollection of when he’s awake. It’s a real disorder, Bel.”

  “Yeah, and I looked that up. And I don’t know what to believe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean other nutjobs have been trying to get off on that defense when they kill somebody. But where’s the proof unless they were hooked up to electrodes or something while they were doin’ the murder?”

  “Polygraphs. Whitlock took several.”

  “Ain’t always accurate.”

  “Whatever Whitlock’s dealing with, he’s not faking it,” Dav said. “I do believe people ‘do shit like that’ in their sleep. And I believe Whitlock’s doing everything in his power to keep himself under control.”

  Bel swallowed, remembering Whitlock chained to the bed. Chained to his own bed. In his own house. If you could call that shack a house. If Bel hadn’t come by . . .

  Since when did he worry about what happened to Daniel Whitlock?

  Since Harnee’s. Since before Harnee’s. Since he’d watched from his window at age twelve while Whitlock and the rest of the high school cross-country team jogged down his street.

  Shit. The hope in Whitlock’s expression when Bel had promised he wouldn’t let anything bad happen while he slept. And he’d kept his promise. Whitlock had slept until dawn. Bel had quietly uncuffed him around seven, before the relief officer got there, and Whitlock had thanked him quietly.

  “Just seems convenient, is all,” Bel muttered. “You kill someone who fucks with you, then say you were unconscious when you did it.”

  “I don’t think anything about Whitlock’s condition is convenient,” Dav said evenly.

  Bel was silent awhile, tracing a crack in the table’s finish.

  “You heard what happened?”

  “Jim heard. I haven’t left the house all morning. All this paperwork.” She paused. “You tried to save him.”

  “Tried? I did save him. Not that anyone’ll thank me for it.”

  Dav stood, shaking her head. But when she spoke, it was just to ask, “You want coffee?”

  “Nah.”

  “There’s leftover ribs.”

  “Too early.”

  “Not for me. Had three for breakfast.”

  “Jesus. This is what you’re like now, imagine how you’re gonna be six months in.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with me being pregnant. I just like ribs.” Dav went to the fridge. Poured herself some juice.

  “Gonna try and figure out who did that to Whitlock,” Bel said.

  “You need to figure?”

  “I need proof.”

  Dav shrugged. “This is your territory. But I’d be out giving McAllister eight kinds of hell right now if I were you.”

  She was right, and Bel knew it. Just wanted to make sure he thought it through first, didn’t just go looking for the obvious. Didn’t want to railroad anyone, not even an asshole like Clayton McAllister. The whole department would have to tread carefully on this one, because most of the town would already be saying that Whitlock got what he deserved and it was only a shame he hadn’t burned.

  Bel rubbed his temples. “Sleepwalking. I can’t even credit that.”

  “A jury of his peers did,” Dav reminded him. She furrowed her brow. “Listen, I don’t know about the science of it. All I know is they hooked him up to enough machines and took enough brain scans to prove it. If you ask me, it was lucky for him his lawyer got the trial moved out of town. Here, they probably would have burned him for witchcraft.”

  Bel snorted. “Yeah, probably.”

  “I feel bad for him, Bel. He’s got no one. He’s got nothing except for a condition even he doesn’t understand, and I can tell it scares the hell out of him.”

  Yeah, Bel had seen that too. “So how come he ain’t done nothing about it? Shouldn’t he be committed or something? You get someone off on insanity charges, they still gotta be locked up. Just not in jail.”

  “Can’t afford a hospital. No insurance. And he’s not insane. I’ve told him his best bet might be to volunteer for sleep studies at the med center in Orangeburg.”

  Bel had a vision of Whitlock in a white bed with electrodes planted on his head, his eyes Clockwork Orange–wide.

  “He almost died because he chained himself to his bed,” Bel told her. “Then he wouldn’t settle at the hospital until—” He bit that off too late.

  “Until what?”

  “Until I cuffed him.” The memory still made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t define. Whitlock, so willing to make himself helpless. So desperate. And so fucking relieve
d when the lock had clicked shut.

  Dav raised her eyebrows.

  Bel flushed. “Anyhow, even if it’s true, it don’t make it right, what he did to Kenny.”

  “I never said it did. It doesn’t excuse it. But it explains it.”

  “That enough?”

  “It has to be.”

  Bel made a face. “Maybe.”

  “Can’t be easy,” Dav said slowly, “being gay in this town.”

  “Dav.” His warning tone.

  They didn’t talk about this. None of the family did. They knew, Bel guessed, even though he’d never come out and said as much. It added up though, didn’t it? Strapping guy like him with no girlfriend. Once, he’d left a magazine out by accident at his place. Billy had seen it and pretended he hadn’t. Then there was the clincher: the fact that Dav had been one of the best-looking girls to show up in Logan for years, and Bel had set her up with Jim instead of staking a claim himself.

  Keeping quiet didn’t eat him up the way Dav thought it should. His family kept quiet about plenty of things. Like Aunty Lu’s drinking and his dad’s gambling. Didn’t have to be an issue unless you made it one. You liked cock in a town like Logan, you kept it to yourself. It was simpler that way. It wasn’t like he’d be bringing anyone home to meet the folks anyway. Not when you took a look at the choice of guys in Greenducks. Hell no.

  He thought of Daniel Whitlock. Good-looking guy, always had been, and he cleaned up nice. Madder than a cut snake, according to the whole town, but what if Dav was right? What if Whitlock’s legal team and doctors had been right? And those twelve jurors, and the judge. Come to think of it, that was a good handful of people that believed Whitlock.

  Bel had seen the need in Whitlock when he’d held out his arm to be cuffed. Unadulterated need. Like he’d been pushing himself too hard for too long, but didn’t have anyone to catch him when he dropped. Like Bel was his savior in that moment, not just a cranky cop with a pair of cuffs. Like Bel was everything.

  Would be nice to have someone look at him the way Whitlock had.

  To have Whitlock look at him like that again.

  Shit. Bel shook his head to clear it and realized he was disagreeing with something Dav was saying. “Sorry, what?”

  “I said it’s a shame you never went to college,” Dav said. “Might have done you some good to get out of Logan.”