by R. A. McGee
Pima nodded, not sure what to say. She focused on Laura Bell’s nose, which had a small stud in it.
Laura Bell looked at Pima’s neck. “Did that big idiot try to choke you?”
Pima nodded.
“Hell, I’m sorry. Those two aren’t the brightest, but they’re family, ya know?”
Pima nodded like she did.
“Look, I don’t want you to be scared, okay? Which I know is some dumb shit to tell somebody after they just had their ass beat and tied up to a chair. But Richie’s smart; he’s not gonna bother you. And I’ll make sure my brother, Seth, and his trained gorilla leave you alone. They won't hurt you as long as I’m around.”
Pima winced as Laura Bell’s cool hand touched her swollen face.
“The thing is, I can’t let you go right now. It’s too risky. We have a lot going on right now; we’re really going through it. The last thing we need is some trooper to pull us over with a missing kid in the car. You get me?”
Pima could barely understand the words Laura Bell was saying, but she nodded.
“Good. Don’t worry your pretty eyes about it. We’ll get you some food, and then I’ll figure out what to do. Got it?”
Pima nodded again.
“You got a voice?” Laura Bell said.
Pima swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. “Yes.”
“Good.” Laura Bell got up and left, closing the door behind her and leaving Pima alone again.
Pima wasn’t sure how long things were like that. They left her untied and alone in the room. In a moment or two of sheer bravery, she’d tried to pull the plywood off the window, but it was no use. The wood was screwed in tight.
Laura Bell was in and out, checking on her and making sure she had what she needed, but Pima mostly saw Dusty. She’d hear his slow, heavy footsteps trudge toward her, then the door would swing open and he’d drop a sack of fast food on the bed for her. He always said the exact same thing.
“Here’s your food. I hope it’s good. Sorry I hurt your neck.”
Then he would turn around and walk out of the room, leaving Pima alone again.
Eleven
Porter checked his GPS for the third time, sure he was being led in circles. The small roads through the town all had multiple names and numbers, some seemingly changing mid-road to something else. He’d passed the same butcher shop three times.
Technology being no help, he turned the program off, and instead rolled down his windows and looked up at the city’s meager skyline.
Having spent years in small towns looking for criminals, he’d learned one valuable trick: everyone was proud of their town hall. It was always the tallest building, or the nicest, or maybe it just had the highest spire awkwardly jutting into the sky. Regardless, when he saw the circular dome with a fifty-foot radio antenna, he guessed he was in the right place.
Porter drove toward it, through the downtown. Half its shops were vacant, the other half businesses that appeared to be on life support.
Eventually, the road dead-ended into an open green space, with several monuments erected in it. Porter nosed into the on-street parking and hopped out of his truck. After a brief stop at his lockbox to lock up his pistol, he slammed the door and started across the lawn toward the large building in the distance.
As he drew closer, he realized the monuments were a collection of granite pillars dedicated to the town’s fallen veterans, with names inscribed as far back as World War One.
Porter stopped for a moment.
He always did when he came across these monuments. Every town, large or small, had its variation of this place. They were different, ranging from a small plaque in the sidewalk to sections of a park with walls and benches and statues. Porter lingered for a moment in these spots.
War was a political football. Every night, tone-deaf politicians would argue back and forth with each other, none of them really caring about their constituents. It made Porter sick to listen to them, and he wondered when the American people would get wise to the charlatans.
His stop at the monuments had nothing to do with war or politics: it was his way of remembering his father.
A Vietnam veteran, he was one of the men who didn’t have to be drafted. A stern man of principle, Porter’s father had chosen to go and serve his country, and had paid dearly for it.
Injuries from the war, both physical and mental, had made him difficult to deal with. In his youth, as is the way of most young men, Porter hadn’t understood or appreciated his father. Now, with time and hindsight, Porter realized his father was just a man who had done the best he could at all times. This was a lesson Porter counted as learned.
A massive set of stone stairs led up to the town hall’s entrance. Porter took them two at a time, then pulled the handle on the big double door, encountering a checkpoint.
There was no x-ray or standing metal detector as was common in many federal or city buildings. No, there was just a man, even older than the man from the guardhouse at the Newtons’. He had a small, handheld metal detector in his lap as he tilted back in his rolling chair.
Porter paused for a moment as the elderly man heaved himself from his plush office chair.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The man wore the uniform of a police officer, but on closer inspection, it was lacking a gun and a badge. A volunteer or auxiliary member of the force.
“How’s it going?”
The man stood straight and kept looking up at Porter. “Hot damn, you’re a big guy. You ever play ball?”
“It’s been a while.”
“You play around here? I watch all the games, maybe I’d know you.”
“Nope. A long way from here.”
“Well, I feel bad for those guys,” the man said with a laugh. His shiny nametag read “Jerry.”
“Jerry, I’m looking for the sheriff’s office. Is it around here?”
“A few years ago, you would have been right. But they moved it, down the sidewalk and around to the back of the building.”
“Great. And what’s his name?”
“I’m Jerry.”
“Not you, the sheriff. What’s his name?”
Jerry cocked his head to the side and pointed his ear toward Porter. “Huh?”
Porter leaned toward the man. “What’s the sheriff’s name?”
“Ah. Sheriff Spaulding.” He tugged on his earlobe. “I don’t hear so good.”
Porter gave him a thumbs up and turned to leave.
“Wait—you aren’t coming in?”
Porter shook his head no.
“Good thing.”
“Why?” Porter said.
“I don’t think I could have gotten my little hand wand here all the way to the top of your head to check you. I’d have had to stand on a stool.”
Porter laughed. “I’ll bet you could do it, too.”
The old-timer nodded vigorously as Porter turned around again and pushed out the door. He followed a sidewalk—colored with dark mildew and cracked in places—down the side of the town hall and around to the back where a smaller, free-standing brick building stood, with several marked sedans out front. Carefully painted on the glass window up front was a sheriff’s badge with the name of the town and the words “Dennis Spaulding, Sheriff” underneath.
Porter pulled the handle and was met by a rush of warm air. The lobby smelled like someone was running a space heater. It was dark, and he could barely see the chubby woman sitting at the front desk.
“Help you?” a twang-accented voice spoke out.
“Hopefully. I need to see Spaulding.”
“This is in regards to…?”
“Something I’d like to ask him,” Porter said.
The woman stood and leaned over her small desk. “Regarding what?”
Porter eyed her for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”
The woman shrugged noncommittally.
“Are you Sheriff Spaulding?”
“Obviously not,” she said.
“Then it
’s none of your business.”
The receptionist looked affronted and sat heavily back in her chair. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll get on the horn.”
“I’ll stand, thanks,” Porter said.
He wandered over to the front of the lobby, near the street window. The brightest place by far, the sunlight cast itself on a miniaturized model of the building and the small typed note that proudly displayed the architect’s name.
Moments later, a door behind the receptionist swung open, the loud click of the one-way push bar echoing throughout the space.
“Sir?”
Porter turned, looking at two men, one in uniform and one in plainclothes. The uniform’s nameplate read “Adams.” “You aren’t Spaulding.”
“Can we help you?”
“I need to talk to Spaulding. What’s so difficult about that? In a town this size, I know he can’t be too busy. Either he’s here or he’s off somewhere having a coffee. If it’s coffee, I’ll come back later.”
“Sir, I need you to calm down,” Plainclothes said.
Porter laughed. “I am calm. Believe me, you’d notice a difference.”
“Maybe we can help you?” Adams said.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s obvious you can’t. Look, I’ll try again later,” Porter said, turning to leave.
Plainclothes had worked his way to Porter’s side. “Actually, we need you to stay here for a minute while we get this sorted out.”
Porter looked at the man, then back at Adams. “What’s there to sort out? You guys aren’t Spaulding, so I’ll come back.”
Adams reached for a pouch on his shiny black duty belt and unsnapped it. It was oleoresin capsicum spray. OC was like pepper spray on steroids. He pulled the canister and started shaking it.
“Really? You’re gonna OC spray me? We’re in an enclosed space, you idiot. You’ll choke yourself.”
Adams looked at Plainclothes, who shook his head, then put the can back in the pouch.
“It’s like Mayberry,” Porter said. “What’s your issue? I haven’t done anything. Move and let me out.”
“Sir, you aren’t leaving.”
Porter couldn’t understand the posturing of the deputies. Their reaction was way overblown. Still, he was no one’s whipping boy. “Watch me.”
When he turned around, Plainclothes had blocked the door and Adams was circling him.
“Okay. Okay,” Porter said with a nod. “You take a minute to call the rest of your buddies. You try to stop me when I walk out of here and I’m going to throw you a beating, and the two of you won't be enough to stop me. You might as well call some friends.”
Adams looked at Plainclothes, who nodded.
“If I’m going to jail, I might as well earn the trip,” Porter said, stepping away from the two men. “Go on, call your backup.”
Adams reached for the square microphone receiver clipped to his epaulet. As he keyed the receiver, a voice spoke up. “Belay that, Adams. It’s all right.”
Porter turned to the left and the metal door that the two deputies had come out of. A thin man in uniform was standing there. The stripes on his collar and sleeve told Porter he outranked the two idiots standing in front of him.
“What’d you say your name was?” the man said, blowing into his paper cup of coffee.
“I didn’t.”
“Fair enough. Mister, I can’t have you kick my guys’ asses in our own station. Imagine what a bad precedent that would set.”
“Not my problem, Spaulding,” Porter guessed. “You should really teach your guys how to interact with the public better.”
“You might be onto something. Ruby said you wanted to see me?”
Porter looked to the receptionist, who was leaning over the desk with her eyes wide. “Yeah, I do.”
“Fine. Let’s talk.”
“You bringing the goon squad?”
Spaulding shook his head. “That’s not fair. They’re just doing their jobs.”
“If you say so. Which way?”
Sheriff Spaulding waved his guys off and motioned for Porter to follow him through the doorway.
Porter glared at the two deputies, then turned after their boss.
There were cubicles and office space, the linoleum floor dull for such a new building.
“You know, there’s a better way to do that,” Spaulding said over his shoulder, leading Porter to the office at the end of the hallway.
“Do what? Ask to speak with the sheriff? Because that’s all I did. Your guys are a little jumpy.”
Spaulding shut the door behind him and motioned to a folding metal chair across from his desk.
“No thanks,” Porter said.
“Suit yourself,” Spaulding said, dropping into a tattered office chair. “About my boys… I’m sorry. I realize they didn’t do a great job, but I’m trying to make them better. Still, a little professional courtesy on your end would have gone a long way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, they didn’t realize it, but you’re a cop, right?”
Porter didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, I mean, you look like a big monster, but you called it OC spray. Civilians always say pepper spray; they don’t know any better. And you moved yourself so those guys couldn’t box you in. You’re in the game, I can tell. Working?”
“No,” Porter said.
“Want a job?” Spaulding said with a smile.
Twelve
“Not a chance,” Porter said.
“Eh, I figured not. I could use someone on my team with some skill and know-how. My guys… they’re just new, that’s all.”
“You seem a little more seasoned,” Porter said.
“If you mean old, that’s not hard to tell.”
“Where’d you retire from?” Porter said.
Spaulding scrunched up his face. “How did you—”
“Your accent isn't from around here. Northeast?”
“Boston PD. Made captain and called it quits.”
“Sounds about right. What, you give them a career and move down to run this shithole?”
“Hey, shithole’s a little strong.”
Porter didn’t say anything.
Spaulding rocked back and forth in his chair. “Yeah. We used to come here for vacation. When I retired, we moved. I was home for about six weeks, then my wife said I was driving her crazy and I needed to get my ass out of the house. So I ran for election as sheriff, and managed to win.”
“Now you’re the man?”
“It appears that way. As much as I like this conversation, was there something you needed?”
“Pima Newton.”
“What about her?”
“Where are you with the investigation?” Porter said.
Spaulding rocked a couple times in his chair. He pointed to his desk drawer. “Want a drink? I have some whiskey in there the DA brought me from someplace or another. It’s supposed to be good.”
“Pass.”
Spaulding leaned forward. “Suit yourself. It is the policy of the sheriff’s office not to disclose any information about an ongoing investigation.”
“Is there an ongoing investigation? It doesn’t seem like you guys are doing anything.”
“What business is it of yours?”
“I’m a friend of the Newtons. Just want to make sure you guys are dotting your i’s and crossing your t’s. I was willing to accept that you just hadn't found anything, but after meeting your two local yokels out front, now I wonder if you don’t have anyone qualified to run the investigation.”
“I’ll have you know I’m running it myself. Despite what you may think about the ‘local yokels,’ I’ve done this a few times.”
Porter didn’t doubt it.
Cops in big cities were usually a little better at the job. They had more resources and could learn more. They also had larger populations; there would always be a rape or a kidnapping or a murder. If Spaulding had come from the Boston
PD and made it to captain in a big department like that, he had some experience.
“And you don’t have anything?”
Spaulding exhaled. “No. The girl’s just gone. No one’s seen her. Nobody has any clue. She just disappeared.”
“Fine,” Porter said, reaching for the doorknob. “That’s all I wanted to know. Is that so hard?”
“We don’t always get what we want, Mr…?” Spaulding stood and met Porter at the door, reaching out his hand.
“Porter.”
“Porter? One name, like Madonna?”
“It’s just easier for people to remember. Your knuckle-draggers out front couldn’t handle two names.”
“I doubt my guys will forget you anytime soon.”
“That a good thing?” Porter said.
Spaulding reached past the big man in front of him and opened the door, gesturing for Porter to exit first. “Actually, yes. These boys need a good scare now and then. You were the scariest thing they’ve seen in a while.”
“You need new guys.”
“I tried to hire you, didn’t I?”
Porter didn’t answer, looking at the empty cubicles to his left and right, pushing through the exit door and holding it for Spaulding.
Save for Ruby the receptionist, the lobby was empty. Porter ignored her as he walked by, and Spaulding moved in front of him to pull the door out and hold it for him.
“I was hoping you had something else,” Porter said. “You haven’t gotten much.”
“Well, hope in one hand and shit in the other, see which fills up first.”
Porter just looked at the man. “What your next move?”
“Me? I think I’m going to be digging the Newton girl out of a shallow grave sometime soon.”
Thirteen
The two men parted ways and Porter stopped for a moment to take a breath. Despite it being a new building, the sheriff’s office had felt old to him, and there was a smell he couldn’t place.
The wind bit at him as he walked up the hill, past the veterans’ monument and back toward his truck. He thought of the Newtons and Joe. He thought of Sheriff Spaulding and his idiot deputies. The reality was plain as day: there would be no easy way to find Pima Newton.
