The Dispatcher Page 12

  Bill Finch stands over Nance with a small mini-DV camera and records the process. ‘Want me to get some still pictures too?’

  ‘No need yet.’

  ‘Right.’

  Diego, who’s been standing several feet away rolling a cigarette, tucks the cigarette behind his ear and walks over to Ian.

  ‘They’re all too young,’ Diego says.

  Ian nods. ‘I know.’

  ‘But look at them. Maggie was only seven when—’

  ‘But they’re not her.’

  ‘No,’ Diego agrees. ‘They’re not. You should come look at the clothes. Some of the stuff that was buried looks the wrong size for any of these three. I think maybe the killer came back out here and buried some of her stuff.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Diego nods.

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I dunno. People do weird things.’

  ‘You think some of it might have been Maggie’s?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ian walks around to where the plastic’s been laid out, to where various dirt-covered items lie, looking like the results of an archeological dig: this is what the late twentieth and early twenty-first century will look like to the aliens when they finally arrive and find human civilization beneath a pile of ash. Ian silently scans the items, looking from one to the next. A strange numbness at his core as if his middle had been hollowed out and replaced by stone.

  ‘That’s my daughter’s.’

  He points to a pink nightgown folded into quarters and covered in dirt and leaves. There are a few drops of what looks like blood near the collar. She was hurt.

  Nance looks up from the hole. ‘Your daughter’s?’

  Bill Finch says, ‘That’s Ian Hunt.’

  ‘We met once a couple years ago,’ Ian says.

  ‘And that’s your daughter’s?’ Nance says, nodding at the nightgown.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Just after dinner the night Maggie was kidnapped and Ian was sitting at the table going over their taxes. Debbie was in the back getting dressed and Maggie was in the bathroom. She called to him. He walked to the bathroom and pushed open the door and she was standing in the middle of the room, skinny little-girl body dripping water onto the tiles while behind her the bathtub drain made gurgling noises.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I forgot a towel.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And can you get me one?’

  ‘Can I get you one what?’

  ‘A towel.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Can you get me one, please?’

  ‘Can I get you one what, please?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He walked to the linen closet and pulled out a towel for her. He tossed it to her.

  ‘And a nightgown.’

  ‘Did you forget to wash, too?’

  ‘No. Well.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I didn’t wash behind one of my ears.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Experiment.’ She grinned a wide, gap-toothed grin.

  ‘What kind of experiment?’

  ‘Mom said if I didn’t wash behind my ears I’d grow broccoli there.’

  ‘She did?’

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘But you didn’t believe her?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s an experiment.’

  ‘But you washed everywhere else?’

  ‘Duh. I’m not gross.’

  ‘Okay. Let me get your nightgown.’

  ‘The pink one!’

  Three drops of blood next to the collar like an ellipsis. Covered in dirt and dead leaves. Lying on a sheet of plastic beside things he’s never seen before. Things that belonged to other little girls, now dead.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ian says. ‘I’m sure it’s hers.’

  ‘All right,’ Nance says. ‘If we got someone alive, the daughter of one of our own, your daughter, then I say let’s kick this with both feet.’

  Chief Davis blinks several times. ‘What do you have in mind, detective?’

  ‘Well, I think we should move on the most obvious suspect before he has time to prepare. Ask questions, imply we got more than we do, see how he reacts.’

  ‘The most obvious suspect?’

  ‘Whoever owns this land.’

  ‘Henry Dean,’ Ian says.

  ‘We should get Sizemore to approve it, and—’

  ‘I don’t work for Sizemore,’ Chief Davis says.

  ‘But the sheriff’s department handles murder cases because we got the murder police,’ Bill Finch says. ‘Nance is murder police. This ain’t Fred Paulson crashed his car into a tree. It’s a multiple homicide.’

  Davis squints silently at Finch for a moment, then says, ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘So we get the okay from Sizemore,’ Nance says, ‘and we bring Henry Dean in for questioning, intimidate him as much as we can, see if he cracks.’

  ‘It’s close to Main Street, though,’ Diego says. ‘Anybody could have dumped the bodies.’

  ‘But you don’t get nowhere until you pick a destination,’ Chief Davis says. ‘Can’t drive to every place at once.’

  ‘Exactly right,’ Nance says.

  ‘I think both departments should be in on this,’ Chief Davis says. ‘I know Henry Dean, known him since first grade, and I know what buttons to push.’

  ‘First grade?’ Nance says.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You think he’s our guy?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘I mean based on his personality.’

  ‘Who knows? In my experience you never know who’s capable of what till they gone and done it and you’re catching flies in your open mouth.’

  Nance nods at that, then turns to Bill Finch. ‘Where was the sheriff at last time you—’

  ‘My ears are burning.’

  Sheriff Sizemore moves toward them, his big belly swinging in front of him like a wrecking ball.

  ‘Sheriff,’ Nance says.

  ‘I want to go to the Dean house,’ Ian says as he, Chief Davis, and Bill Finch walk toward the street. Diego stayed behind so he could tell the coroner exactly how he came upon the bodies and give him the legal time of death.

  Chief Davis shakes his head. ‘No chance, Ian. You’re too close to this.’

  ‘It’s my daughter.’

  ‘Now, Ian—’

  ‘I’m going,’ Ian says.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Finch says. ‘Sizemore just wants us to bring him to the station so he or Nance can question him.’

  ‘Things might get hairy,’ Ian says.

  ‘I’ll bring Deputy Oliver.’

  ‘Deputy Oliver couldn’t blow his nose with a stick of dynamite. My daughter might be in that house, Finch. You might’ve got your fingers in every part of my life, but it’s still my life. My fucking family.’

  ‘Now hold up,’ Finch says. ‘I know Maggie might be in there. I know you love her. But look at you, man. You’re already worked up and we don’t know if he’s done a damn thing. You’re not going. You’ll just cause trouble.’

  ‘You got no authority over my officers, Finch,’ Chief Davis says.

  ‘He’s an officer on a technicality. He sits at a desk all day. And you said yourself he was too close to this.’

  ‘I did,’ Chief Davis says, ‘but I can. He works for me. That don’t mean I like the guy who weaseled his way into his wife’s bed trying to—’

  ‘I didn’t weasel my way—’

  ‘Look,’ Ian says. ‘This isn’t up for debate. I’m going.’

  They walk out onto the street and into the sunlight.

  ‘Fine,’ Chief Davis says, ‘but I don’t even want you to get out of your car unless we need you. I mean it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ian says, walking toward his Mustang. ‘Fair enough.’ His mouth is very dry.

  Maggie paces the floor and looks at the ceiling. Strange noises come from above: bangi
ng and talking, footsteps back and forth, and things sliding and shifting. The sounds are making her nervous. Usually the only noise from upstairs is the drone of the television—daytime dreaming with eyes wide open. But this is different. She does not like different. She does not want different. It is worrying her.

  What’s going on up there? Maybe they know her plans and are building some terrible torture device with which to punish her. Maybe they’re—

  One two three four five six seven eight.

  They don’t know anything. It is true that they’re making strange noises, and it is true that they’re talking about something, something that’s causing Henry to raise his voice at Beatrice, but she doesn’t think it has anything to do with her. When Henry is mad at her she knows it right away. Still: it makes her nervous.

  Today is her day for escape and, except for that escape, she wants today to be like every other day. She wants today to be more like every other day than any day has been yet. She wants it to be perfectly normal. Normal is predictable and predictable is what she needs if she’s to escape, and she needs to escape: fresh air in her lungs and sunshine on her skin and Daddy’s arms wrapped around her.

  If strange things are happening upstairs, and they are, that might ruin her plan.

  No. It will work out. It has to work out, so it will. That’s all there is to it. There’s no point in thinking about it not working out.

  She walks to the back of the stairs and pulls the weapon from the shadows for the third or fourth time today. She does not hesitate. The thought of staying here even one more day is much worse than anything she can imagine lurking in darkness.

  It makes her sick when she thinks of what she plans to do with this weapon in her hand, it makes her stomach feel like rotten milk, but she also wants it done. She wants to be through it and up the stairs and through the front door and standing outside beneath the yellow sun.

  She closes her eyes and imagines the sharp edge of the weapon hacking into the flesh of Beatrice’s ankle. She imagines seeing beneath the skin, seeing the opening in the skin like a slit in a piece of thick leather, seeing all the organic levers and pulleys that make up the moving parts of a human being, seeing blood pour from within and splash in great red drops on the dirty wooden step before the woman tilts like a great tree felled.

  She can do this. She just has to be patient. In another two hours Beatrice will come down here and she will—

  A metal thwack as, from the other side of the door, the lock is turned and the deadbolt retracts.

  She looks out the window. It is too early for this to be happening. Donald’s El Camino has not yet even rolled down the driveway. It is far too early for this to be happening.

  Should she do it now, anyway? Should she make her move now or should she wait? Something is happening, something she doesn’t understand, and if she waits she might never have another chance. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. This is all wrong. Everything about this is wrong and wrong and wrong.

  Borden told. He is real after all and he told. He wants her stuck here in the Nightmare World forever and ever. He wants her to suffer and—

  Borden is imaginary. He’s not real. He’s never been real.

  The door at the top of the stairs creaks open and a bulging silhouette fills the doorway. Beatrice. It’s Beatrice and she’s coming down. She’s not carrying a plate. She’s not bringing dinner down. Maggie knew she wouldn’t be. It’s too early for dinner. Henry is still home and the shadows are not yet long, so it’s too early for dinner. She can hear his deep voice vibrating through the wood floor and into the basement. There are other voices up there, too. She can feel them but she cannot hear them. But they’re there and they vibrate differently than Henry’s voice. Something is wrong.

  She ducks once more behind the stairs, hiding in the shadows there with the weapon gripped in her now sweating hands. She can’t decide what to do. She can’t decide whether to put the weapon away or use it. If she doesn’t do this now she might not have another chance. There are strange voices upstairs, there was banging earlier, and Henry yelling.

  But the plan was to wait for Henry to leave. Another couple hours, no more.

  Except Henry may not leave. She has no idea what’s going on and she cannot count on things happening like they normally do.

  This might be her only chance.

  She’s not going to wait. When she attacks Beatrice the woman will scream. She’ll scream and that will draw Henry. When Henry comes running down to see what happened she’ll slice his ankles too. He probably won’t be down for good, but that doesn’t matter. As long as she has time enough to get upstairs and out the front door that doesn’t matter at all.

  She can do this.

  It can all still be okay.

  The stairs creak as Beatrice makes her way down. Her breathing is heavy and somehow thick. Her feet drag across the wooden steps, and the steps sag beneath her weight.

  ‘Sarah?’ she says.

  Maggie does not answer. She stands in the shadows beneath the stairs gripping the weapon. Her breath is still in her throat: dead air: waiting for what happens next.

  Another step down from Beatrice and her right ankle is now in front of Maggie’s eyes, visible between two planks of wood. White and soft and easy to reach—easy to cut.

  She can do this.

  Her heart pounds in her chest.

  Her face feels numb.

  She can do this. She knows she can. She has to do it, so she can do it. That’s how it works. She is not too weak for what must be done. She is strong. She is strong and brave. Her daddy said so. Her daddy once told her she was the bravest person he ever met.

  Beatrice lifts her left leg to bring it down next to the right.

  Maggie lifts the weapon with both hands and hacks at the flesh between the boards, drawing a red line where before was unblemished white skin.

  Blood splashes on Maggie’s hands and arms. It is hot. Much hotter than she expected it would be.

  Beatrice screams.

  Back up. Watch the sun rise from the western horizon. See clouds in the bleached denim sky once blown apart by the wind pull themselves together again. Cars reverse down streets. A shattered drinking glass reconstructs itself and flies up from a tile floor and into Roberta Block’s right hand and she sets it into a sink full of soapy water and unwashes it. A turkey vulture flies backwards through the sky. Genevieve Paulson sits in bed in her parents’ guest bedroom and tears roll up her cheeks and vanish into the corners of her eyes. Her daughter Thalia unsays something that unbreaks her heart and walks backwards out of the bedroom door and down the hallway to where her grandma is unbaking cookies. The hour hands on all the time pieces spin counter-clockwise, pulling their ticks and their tocks back out of the time stream to be spent once more. Now stop.

  The same turkey vulture hangs motionless in the sky above the Deans’ house just south of Crouch Avenue like it was nailed into the blue.

  For a moment everything is very still. Then—after a beat: exhale—time moves forward once more. The turkey vulture flies over the house and toward the woods, trying to catch a scent of death in its nostrils.

  And Henry Dean steps through the front door of his house, keys dangling from his index finger. He’s out of beer and wants a couple-three more before heading to work. And for work. A good buzz helps the night pass. He walks down the steps and across the gravel driveway to his truck. He yanks open the door and slides the seat of his Levis across the seat of the truck, stopping behind the wheel. He starts the engine and shoves the transmission into first, releases the clutch, and gasses the thing with a booted foot. The tires spit gravel and the truck gets moving.

  When he hits the street he makes a left, and then cracks the window to get a breeze in the cab of this Ford-brand oven. But he doesn’t turn on the air conditioner. Henry refuses to use an air conditioner. People managed for thousands of years without them and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna prove frail and womanish by using one hissel
f.

  Sweat trickles down his forehead, catches on a thick gray eyebrow, and holds there a moment before rolling along the arc of hair and running down the side of his face. He smears it away with his palm, pushing it into his retreating hairline.

  Then he turns left on Main Street and heads toward Bill’s Liquor.

  Some ways down, through heat fumes rising from the cracked asphalt, he sees several cars parked on the shoulder of the road up ahead and pulls his foot off the gas.

  ‘What the hell?’

  He downshifts to third, then second, then first as he approaches. Two cars from the Tonkawa County Sheriff’s Department and one from the Bulls Mouth Police Department. A sheriff’s deputy is sitting on the hood of one of the county cars, staring at nothing in particular and smoking a cigarette.

  Henry brings his truck to a stop and rolls down his window.

  ‘Hey, dep,’ he says, ‘how the hell are you?’

  ‘All right, Henry. How you doing?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’ He smiles. ‘Hot, though, ain’t it?’

  ‘Shit yeah, man. Hotter’n a pussycat in a pepper patch.’

  ‘What’s with all the police?’

  The deputy glances over his shoulder, sees nothing of concern, and leans toward Henry conspiratorially.

  ‘You really wanna know?’

  ‘No, I ast ’cause I wanted you to lie to me.’

  ‘Bodies.’

  Henry’s face goes numb. He tries not to show it.

  ‘Bodies?’

  ‘Little girls. Two or three of ’em buried in the woods.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘None.’