The Dispatcher Page 5

  ‘Truck,’ the cobbler says, then nods to himself as if getting internal confirmation. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘definitely a truck.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ian says. ‘You’ve been a big help. Someone will probably come down with a book of arrest photos for you to look through, and maybe even ask you to Mencken to help reconstruct a picture if you don’t recognize him in the book.’

  He reaches across the counter and picks up Maggie’s photograph. He slips it into his wallet, folds his wallet, and slips it back into his hip pocket.

  ‘And if you see him again,’ Ian says, ‘I want you to call nine-one-one.’

  ‘Okay,’ the man says.

  When they get outside Chief Davis says, ‘Goddamn, Ian, if you ever get tired of being a dispatcher, I tell you what, I’ll give you a job down at the dealership in a second. You can just bully folks into buying cars. I’ll sell out in a week.’

  ‘Thanks, Chief.’

  Cora Hanscomb at the dry-cleaning place next door claims to have neither seen nor heard anything. She says this without looking away from the TV upon which her gaze is fixed. She sits in a metal fold-out chair behind the counter and moves popcorn from a bag in her lap to her mouth. The backs of her fingers are glazed yellow with imitation butter and several pieces of popcorn lie on the floor around her chair and in her lap.

  ‘Nothing?’ Ian says again.

  ‘Huh-uh.’

  ‘Too busy watching the tube to pay attention to a kidnapping?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Can’t bother even to look at the people talking to you?’

  ‘Huh-uh.’

  ‘Right,’ Ian says. ‘Thanks a fucking lot.’

  ‘Watch your mouth.’ She says even this without looking away from the TV, her voice a droning monotone.

  ‘Get fucked,’ Ian says, and pushes his way out the door.

  They walk into Bill’s Liquor. Ian glances left to Donald Dean. He’s standing behind an orange Formica counter looking bored. A scruffy guy, maybe forty-five, maybe fifty, with oily brown hair and a patchy beard that makes his face look like it was mauled by a large cat. Above the beard, high on his cheeks, acne scars. He’s thin as a stick and pale, and his smile, when he smiles, looks like a grimace. Teeth crammed together like he’s got a few too many. He nods at Ian and reaches over to a tub of red vines, which is sitting between a tub of pickled pigs’ feet and a tub of beef jerky, pulls one out, and chews on it awhile.

  Chief Davis walks over to him.

  Ian turns right. He walks to the refrigerator at the back, scans the shelves, opens a glass door, which immediately fogs up, and pulls out a six pack of Guinness. The door swings shut behind him as he turns around and walks to where Donald and Chief Davis are standing at the counter.

  ‘—at all?’ Davis is saying.

  ‘Huh-uh.’

  Davis turns to Ian and says, ‘He didn’t hear nothing either.’ ‘Maybe the battery in his hearing aid is dying too.’

  ‘What? I don’t—’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Ian sets the beer on the counter.

  Donald rings it up and says, ‘That all?’

  Ian scans the shelves behind him, looking just below the rows of hard liquor, to several boxes of cigars and cigarettes.

  After a moment he says, ‘Gimme a couple of them Camachos.’

  Donald turns around and looks for them.

  ‘Diploma?’

  ‘Maduro. Bottom shelf, to your right.’

  He grabs them and rings them up. Then he grabs a black plastic bag and loads Ian’s purchases into it. Ian knows the cigars will be dry and probably taste like smoking dog turds. The middle of summer and they’ve been sitting out since the spring. He doesn’t care. He’s used to smoking cigars past their prime.

  While Donald loads the bag Ian pulls out his wallet and removes Maggie’s photo from it. He holds it up in front of Donald.

  ‘You remember my daughter?’

  Donald nods. ‘’Course.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone resembling her today?’

  ‘Huh-uh,’ he says with his mouth hanging open. Ian can see bits of red vine ground into his molars like wax fillings.

  ‘And you didn’t hear anything?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Like I told Chief Davis.’

  ‘What about a guy in his sixties? Tall, gray hair, balding on top, busted capillaries in his nose. Heavy.’

  Donald lets out a strange giggle and grins with his too-many teeth, but when Ian gives him a dead pan the smile vanishes, and he stares down at the counter nervously and scratches at something sticking to it, part of a price sticker looks like, with a dirty fingernail.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  Donald shakes his head. ‘Nothing, it’s just, you know, you described damn near half the fat old alcoholics in town.’ He looks from Chief Davis to Ian and a smile grows once more on his face. ‘Hell,’ he says, ‘you just described my brother Henry.’

  Chief Davis snorts once.

  ‘True enough,’ he says. ‘How is Henry, anyway? I haven’t said much more than hello to him since high school, I reckon.’

  ‘He’s okay, I guess.’

  ‘Still working at the community college?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Donald nods.

  ‘If you see anyone looks like my daughter, I want you to call. I’d rather a false alarm than to miss our chance.’

  ‘I will,’ Donald says. He wipes the sweat from his upper lip with a downward swipe of his palm, and then wipes his sweaty palm onto the leg of his pants. ‘I will,’ he says again.

  Ian and Chief Davis step into the daylight. It seems bright even after Ian puts his sunglasses back on. An oppressive wall of heat surrounds them. Ian reaches into his bag and pulls out one of his cigars. He bites the end off, spits it to the parking lot asphalt, plugs the stick into his mouth. He lights it, looking past it to Diego. Diego standing with his arms crossed, watching one of the boys from Mencken pulling fingerprints.

  Then the sheriff himself pulls up in the Ford Expedition Tonkawa County provides for him and screeches to a stop. He steps from the thing, all five feet five of him, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him. He walks toward Ian and Chief Davis, belly swinging before him like a wrecking ball.

  Ian glances at his watch.

  ‘I’ll let you talk to the sheriff,’ he says. ‘I need to tell Deb. Call if there’s any developments.’

  ‘I will. And Ian,’ he says, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Stop in at Roberta’s tonight, okay? You shouldn’t be alone through this.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Ian says, knowing he won’t.

  Maggie opened her eyes and saw white white white: the ceiling. She tongued the place where her loose tooth should have been, but all that was there now was smooth wet gum and a bloody divot that tasted vaguely of metal.

  Someone took it, she thought. Tooth fairy took it and didn’t pay. Stole it.

  Then it occurred to her that maybe the tooth fairy had paid. She flipped over in bed and tossed the pillow aside, but the only thing beneath it was wrinkled sheet. There was no green dollar bill awaiting discovery. Not even a lousy quarter. She couldn’t believe the tooth fairy would sneak into her bedroom in the dark of night and yank her tooth from her mouth. What a butthole. She briefly considered putting a fake tooth beneath her pillow—a piece of chalk, maybe, or else a white stone if she could find one of the right size—and pretending to sleep so that when the tooth fairy came she could grab him and force him to pay for what he had taken from her.

  But then she saw it on the floor. It lay half-buried in the thick carpet. She hopped from her bed and picked it up. She brushed off the dirt specks it had collected and held it up in the morning sunlight shining through her bedroom’s open window and looked at it, amazed at how big it was, at how much of it had been buried in her face. It was kind of gross and kind of neat at the same time. She tongued the gap between her teeth. There was a strange flap of skin there that she could flip back and forth. It felt
weird. She ran to the mirror on her dresser and looked at herself and smiled. Then she ran into Mommy and Daddy’s room to show them.

  ‘Look it,’ she shouted as she shot into the room like a human bullet, door swinging open as she pushed it aside and banging against the wall. The curtains were drawn, daylight held temporarily and ineffectively at bay, and there was a strange grown-up smell in the room. It made the air feel heavy and close, like being in a zipped-up sleeping bag.

  Daddy groaned and sat up. He cleared his throat. It was a funny sound. Like a monster in a Saturday morning cartoon. He rubbed his red eyes and wiped his mouth and twisted his neck left and right, sending out little hollow-sounding pops, and looked in her direction. But for a moment his face was blank.

  ‘Look it,’ she said again and held up the tooth for him to examine.

  ‘Wow,’ Daddy said after a moment. He coughed into his hand and yawned. ‘Is that a grown-up tooth? It’s huge. Have you been out stealing teeth? You know the tooth fairy doesn’t buy stolen teeth, Mags. It’s a felony.’

  ‘It’s not stolen. Look.’ She gripped her tooth in her right palm, folding three fingers over the top of it, and with index fingers stretched her mouth open wide so Daddy could see where the tooth used to be.

  ‘My God,’ Daddy said, ‘you could park a car in there.’

  ‘Could you two chatterboxes take it to the living room?’ Barely a mumble. ‘Mommy needs her beauty sleep.’

  ‘Sounds like someone’s got a case of the crankies,’ Daddy said, then winked at Maggie and got to his feet. A pair of pants lay in a pile on the floor. He picked them up and slipped into them, hiding his red boxers.

  ‘Come on, Mags,’ Daddy said. ‘Let’s get some breakfast.’ He looked over his shoulder at Mommy with a smirk in the corner of his mouth and said, ‘Cereal. With lots of sugar.’

  They headed to the kitchen. Maggie climbed onto one of the barstools lined up before the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room. She spun around left, catching herself on the edge of the counter, and then spun herself around right, back and forth, back and forth. She liked to go round and round in one direction, she liked the dizziness it brought, it was fun, but once she accidentally unscrewed the stool all the way and the seat fell to the floor and she sprained her wrist catching herself, so she didn’t do that anymore. While she played on the stool Daddy went digging through the cupboards.

  Maggie caught herself on the counter one last time and said, ‘What does the tooth fairy need teeth for, anyway? It’s kind of a weird thing to collect.’

  ‘He turns them into stars.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Really?’

  Daddy nodded, then put two bowls on the counter and poured Froot Loops into them. He put away the box and got out a half gallon of milk and poured that over the cereal. He pushed a bowl across the counter to Maggie.

  ‘Eat up.’

  ‘What about a spoon, silly?’

  Daddy picked at his bellybutton and flicked a wad of gray at her.

  ‘What about some lint?’

  Maggie dodged it, dipping her head to the left.

  ‘Gross. Don’t. I don’t want your smelly lint.’

  ‘It’s not smelly.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You almost got it in my cereal.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Get me a spoon before it gets soggy.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Daddy grabbed two spoons from the silverware drawer and handed her one. Then he dipped his into his bowl and shoveled a mouthful of pink and green and orange into his face. He scratched at his blond stubble. Scooped another bite into his mouth and milk dripped down his chin and he wiped at it with his hand.

  ‘What do you want to do today?’

  ‘Petting zoo!’

  ‘What if they mistake you for one of the goats and fence you in?’

  Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘They won’t.’

  ‘How do you know? You’re stubborn as a goat.’

  ‘I don’t even know what that means.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait till Jeffrey wakes up and weighs in?’

  ‘He loves the petting zoo.’

  ‘He’s never been.’

  ‘Then we should definitely go. He’s only here another two days and he needs to go before he leaves town.’

  ‘You have a point.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  Daddy nodded.

  ‘Okay what?’

  ‘Okay okay.’

  ‘Okay petting zoo?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really really.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise. Now eat your cereal before it gets soggy.’

  ‘You’re the best daddy ev—’

  ‘Wake up.’

  A familiar voice gurgling up from swampy depths. The stench of onion on a wave of breath. The sound of swallowing.

  Something small shatters in a sharp pop. A moment later the stink of ammonia fills her nostrils. Her eyes flutter open. Warm water runs down her cheeks.

  Everything is dark and without form. A shadow, like a vaguely human-shaped hole scissored out of reality, before her. Behind it, bright white light making it impossible for her to see anything more than shadow. She closes her eyes and opens them again. Her pupils shrink, adjusting to the room. The shadow grows features, taking on detail and color and a third dimension. It is a man. The man has a name and she knows what it is. Henry. She blinks again and sees him clearly for the first time since waking. He simply stands before her with his arms at his sides, fists opening and closing.

  Then he reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a roll of something, small white disks, and thumbs one into his mouth. He chews it, swallows.

  There’s an intense pain in her wrists. She can feel blood warm and thick rolling down her arms. She looks up and sees her wrists tied together with coarse yellow rope. The rope is slung over a large metal hook which has been screwed into a wooden ceiling beam. Her hands above the rope are purple and numb, bloated fingers curled slightly, fingertips touching. She has been here before: the punishment hook. You’ve been very bad, Sarah. Very bad indeed. Looking at her fingers she thinks of a rhyme she learned in Sunday school. Here is the church and here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people.

  Her feet dangle far above the cracked gray surface of the concrete floor.

  Henry stands and stares. Fists opening and closing, opening and closing. He tongues at a molar. His breathing sounds funny. It gets heavier and thicker and faster.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His breathing stops. There is silence.

  Then: ‘But you’re really not, are you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What are you sorry for?’

  One two three four five six seven eight.

  She looks around for Borden, just to know that she isn’t alone down here. Just to know that she isn’t alone with Henry. Maybe he’s standing in the shadows somewhere. She knows he cannot save her from whatever punishment Henry will be delivering, but seeing him would be a comfort still. She does not see him.

  A hand across her face so hard it makes her eyes water and a bruise above her ear begins to throb. She had forgotten about it, that place where Henry punched her earlier, but now it is throbbing with the beat of her heart.

  ‘I said what are you sorry for?’

  She looks down at her feet once more. They are filthy, black with dirt, and if she ignores the pain she can pretend she is simply floating above the floor. A crack in the concrete moves left and right beneath her as she swings by her wrists. Just pretend you’re floating: above the ground without a care in the world.

  He reaches toward her. She instinctively recoils. He slaps at her cheek, a quick whip-crack of
his fingertips, then grabs her chin and tilts her head up so that she is looking him in the eyes. An uncaring cruelty floats in them and nothing more: pools of bad water. She hates them.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re sorry for?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ she says, and licks her lips. They are dry and cracked. ‘I’m sorry for running.’

  ‘You’re sorry for getting caught.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you wanted to get caught?’

  She turns her head and looks away. She can feel fresh tears welling in her eyes. She tries to blink them away. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him. She doesn’t want to be weak in front of him. He is a cruel man and weakness makes him angrier, more likely to attack.

  ‘You didn’t want to get caught.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is why you’re sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well I do.’

  With the last word he puts a fist into her stomach, punching all the air out of her. It leaves her in a single rush. If she weren’t strung up by the wrists she would curl into a fetal ball. Instead she swings and gasps for air like a fish on the end of a line.

  Henry stands and watches her swing. Fists opening and closing.

  ‘You’ve made me very angry, Sarah.’

  He has always called her Sarah. Both he and Beatrice. Another way of torturing her. Another way of confusing her. Of making her confused about who and what she is.

  She is just getting her breath back when Henry grabs her by the hips and stills her swinging. He looks at her in silence.

  Then: ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

  She breathes in and out, chest heaving. Her stomach is a tight, cramped knot.

  ‘My daddy’s coming,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I called my daddy and told him everything. You better just let me go. If you don’t he’s going to, he’s going to get you and he’s going to—’

  ‘Lies!’ Violence like a large wave crashing upon a beach. She flinches away but does not break eye contact. ‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘Tell me you’re lying.’