Rude Awakening (18 page)

‘He just stopped coming,' Sanchez told Jean. ‘I called the halfway house where he was staying and they said he moved out. That's the last I heard of him.'

I decided that I needed Jean with me during the interview with the girl who'd been hired by Hawthorne, the one who showed up with Dalton and Eli. So I sent Anthony home to get some sleep, and we packed up Johnny Mac and headed to Bishop to drop him off at my sister's house. Then Jean and me headed for the sheriff's department.

It wasn't what she had expected. She'd had visions of a street in an old Western movie, a horse tied up to a hitching post in front of a door with a sheriff's star painted on it. Instead, Dalton drove Mary Ellen's newly charged-up minivan to an ugly cinder block building painted an even uglier brown. White letters spelled out
PROPHESY COUNTY LAW CENTER
on the outside of the building. Inside was scarred linoleum flooring with orange plastic chairs up against the walls, and a waist-high plywood partition, painted the same ugly brown as the outside of the building – like it would cost more to get a different color – covered in mustard-colored Formica and cutting the room in half. A stern-looking woman stood at the very center of the partition, arms folded across her chest.

‘Dalton Pettigrew, you are in very deep doo-doo,' the stern-looking woman said. Then her eyes flooded with tears as she opened a hidden flap in the Formica top and came out, throwing her arms around Dalton and Mary Ellen, then kneeling to hug Eli.

Holly stood back at this, yet another family reunion. These people sure seem to love each other, she thought. That's when the front door opened and a woman barely taller than Eli came rushing in, followed by a very tall man and two more children. This, she finally figured out, was Mary Ellen's family, including Mary Ellen and Dalton's mother, the very little woman who seemed to be in charge.

With all the shouting and crying and carrying on, the deputy who had rescued them, Emmett Hopkins, came out of a back room. ‘Y'all simmer down, now. We've got to interview everybody separate, OK? Don't y'all go telling your stories now to just anybody—'

‘And who, pray tell, are you calling “just anybody”, Emmett Hopkins?' the little woman asked.

‘Miz Pettigrew, we gotta wait for the sheriff to get here—' Deputy Hopkins started.

‘And why isn't he here now?' Miz Pettigrew demanded. ‘You'd think that, in a situation like this, he'd be front and center, not off gallivanting around town . . .'

‘He's taking his son to his sister's . . .'

‘Now, why would I care about that?' the little woman demanded.

Holly walked over to one of the orange plastic chairs and sat down. Eli came up to her and crawled in her lap. The crow-like voice of Eli's grandmother lulled them both to sleep.

Everybody was talking at once when I walked in the front door of the sheriff's department. Everybody, that is, except Eli and the young woman who'd been with Hawthorne, both of whom appeared to be asleep, sitting in a chair in the front room.

‘OK, y'all,' I said loudly, ‘and that means you, Miz Pettigrew, everybody just shut up!'

Which they all did since I was being so rude. Instead, they all turned to stare at me. I musta woke up Eli, because he began to whimper. His mama went over to him and picked him up outta the girl's arms. The girl stood up, moving closer to Dalton, I noticed.

‘First off,' I said, ‘I need y'all separated. Dalton, take your sister into Emmett's office and close the door. Her in there, you in my office. Close that door and you stay there.'

I waited while Dalton digested this information and then moved off down the hall to do as I'd told him. Then I said, ‘Miss Gladys, if you'd be so kind as to take Mr Eli here back to the break room and buy him a cup of cocoa, I'd be much obliged.'

Gladys may shoot daggers at me on an hourly basis, but when it comes to kids, she's a grandma and can't seem to get over that. She smiled at Eli and he went with her willingly.

‘Miz Pettigrew, Rodney,' I said to Mary Ellen's mama and husband, ‘you and the little ones stay out here or go home, that's your prerogative. Now, Miss Humphries, is it?' I asked, turning to the girl who'd been with Hawthorne.

She nodded her head.

‘I'd like you to come with me to the interrogation room.' I smiled when she blanched at the word. ‘Not as bad as it sounds,' I said. ‘My wife here is gonna come with us.'

The girl smiled tentatively at Jean and Jean smiled back. ‘Jean, you wanna take her on back?' I said, and watched while the two women left.

Turning to the remaining bunch, I said, ‘Miz Pettigrew, you staying?'

‘You bet your ass,' she said, and sat her ass down firmly in one of our orange visitor chairs.

I shrugged and headed back to the interrogation room.

Charlie was fast asleep, his head, right arm and half his chest draped over the open file cabinet for 1995. When Jean MacDonnell and Holly Humphries came in the room, he woke up, raising his head to look at them, a string of drool hanging between his bottom lip and the file on Mac Durby, arrested for indecent exposure on April 12, 1995.

‘Charlie?' Jean said.

‘Huh?' Charlie said.

Milt came in the room. ‘Charlie, what the hell?'

‘Milt,' Charlie said. He looked at Jean. ‘Hey, Jean.'

‘Hey, Charlie,' she said.

‘What are you doing, man?' Milt asked.

‘Oh,' he said, rubbing at the string of drool and then at his sleep-encrusted eyes. ‘Ah, I was looking through your files . . .'

‘I see that!' Milt said, a little testily.

Charlie stood up, rubbing his back and stretching out his legs. ‘It's about that case of mine—' Charlie started.

‘Charlie, can't you see I got bigger fish to fry here? You know, a kidnapping and all?' Milt said.

Charlie nodded his head. ‘I suppose so. I'll just get out of your way,' he said, and started for the door.

Milt put up a hand to stop him. ‘Just hold on, Charlie.' Turning to his wife and Holly Humphries, Milt said, ‘Ladies, could y'all excuse us a minute? Just wait in the hall for just a minute.'

Jean raised an eyebrow but escorted Holly out of the room.

‘Now what?' Milt asked.

‘I just got to wondering about the case you had that was similar to this one,' Charlie said.

‘What one?' Milt said, the exasperation obvious in his voice.

‘The ammonia/bleach one!' Charlie said, a little irritated himself after having spent the night sleeping on a file drawer.

‘Oh, that. What about it?' Milt asked.

‘Just want to see the file on it, that's all.'

‘Humph,' Milt said. He shut the file drawer for 1995 and opened the one for 1997. ‘Think it was here,' he said. He rifled through until he found it. ‘Albert Canfield. One domestic disturbance in eighty-five, then OD'd on ammonia and bleach in ninety-seven. Left a widow and a teenaged daughter.'

‘Can I see that?' Charlie asked, taking the file from Milt's hand as he asked. The widow's name was Roberta Canfield, and the teenaged daughter, fourteen at the time, was named Carolina. Hell of a coincidence, Charlie thought.

Dalton had never been alone in Milt's office before. The door was closed and nobody could see him, so he looked around a little. Right on the desk was the wedding picture of him and Dr Jean, in a double frame with a picture of him and Dr Jean bringing Johnny Mac home from the hospital. Dalton felt sad looking at that picture. He'd thought for a little while that that was gonna be his life, too. Him and Sarah. Except there was no Sarah. Only some guy named Geoffrey who thought it was fun to dress up in women's clothes.

Memories were coming back. Bits and pieces that Dalton was trying to put in some chronological order. He remembered, even in his earlier drunkenness, the truth he'd learned. That Sarah wasn't Sarah, but Geoffrey. Some guy dressed in women's clothes. He remembered that big, oversized purse Sarah – no, Geoffrey – carried. When Sarah was with Dalton, Geoffrey had been in that bag, and when Geoffrey showed up, Sarah had been put back in that bag, never to come out for Dalton again.

Tears welled in his eyes as he remembered the pain he felt, realizing Sarah had never been. He wanted to hit the man, that Geoffrey, but it seemed that Geoffrey hadn't really meant to hurt him; he had thought Dalton knew. And anyway, if you looked at it in a certain light, hitting Geoffrey would be the same as hitting Sarah.

He'd run out of the bar where they'd been drinking mojitos, run into the night, slobbering drunk, crying, no better than the people he put in jail on a Saturday night to sober up for church on Sunday.

He remembered quieting down some and trying to find his car. But he had no idea where he was or where his car was, either. And then he met those boys. One had his hat on backwards and one had on a lot of jewelry. The third one's pants were too big and almost falling off him. Or had it all been one guy? Dalton wasn't sure. All he knew was that one minute he was standing there telling those guys that the watch on his arm was all that he had left of his daddy, and the next minute he woke up pantsless in an alley.

Dalton shook his head at the folly of his entire weekend.

He wondered if he was gonna spend the rest of his life in the same bedroom of his mama's house where he'd always slept. Eat the same food his mama prepared for him every night – meatloaf on Monday, fried chicken on Tuesday, sausage on Wednesday, Salisbury steak on Thursday and Hamburger Helper on Friday. Saturday was sandwiches and Sunday was dinner at the cafeteria after church. Then going to work every morning with a brown bag loaded with a chopped ham sandwich, a bag of chips, an apple, orange or banana, depending on the day. Coming home every night to watch ‘Jeopardy' with his mama, eat his dinner and go to bed. Was that gonna be his life forever?

He thought about the girl now being interviewed by Milt. She was pretty, yeah, but she was an actress. Way too sophisticated for him. A city girl, like Sarah, but real, where Sarah hadn't been. He liked the way her reddish-brown hair glowed warm under the lights, and the way her brown eyes sparkled when she talked to Eli. She was real good with Eli, which meant she'd probably be a real good mother . . .

Stop it! Dalton told himself sternly. Just stop it! Hadn't he made a big enough fool of himself already this weekend? Thinking like that about a girl like Holly Humphries, a real-live actress who'd probably be off to Hollywood in a New York minute she was that good.

Dalton sighed and opened the sheriff's lap drawer to see what was in there.

I got rid of Charlie Smith, letting him borrow the file he was so hot about, and brought my wife and Holly Humphries back into the interrogation room.

The girl was scared, I could see that right off the bat, so I tried to put her at ease. ‘Miz Humphries,' I said, ‘if you could give me an address and phone number for you in Tulsa, please.'

‘Well, all I have is my cell phone, but that man, Smith, he took that. I don't exactly have an address . . . I've been sorta staying with friends, here and there . . .' Her voice faded out.

Jean caught my eye and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out she was telling me to go nice.

‘How did you and “Smith” find each other?' I asked her.

‘He put an ad on “Craig's List”,' Holly said. ‘That was before I hocked my laptop and I answered it.' Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘I was gonna get my laptop back just as soon as Mr Smith paid me, but now I guess I won't.' Her face crunched up and she began to cry. Which is something I just don't deal with if I can help it. ‘I had everything on my laptop!' she wailed. ‘My journal and my Facebook and my MySpace and all my music and the addies of all my friends all over the world!' She crumbled at this point and Jean, who was sitting next to her, put an arm around her. Holly wrapped herself around Jean and bawled outright.

I left the room.

Only to be immediately accosted by Hawke Pettigrew, the titular man of the house for the Pettigrew clan, Miz Clovis's oldest child, Mary Ellen's and Dalton's older brother.

He stood just outside the interrogation room door, and I wasn't sure if he'd been listening or not. I didn't know Hawke very well, and wasn't sure if he was the kind to eavesdrop or not. If he was like his mama, yeah. If he was like his little brother, not so much.

‘Sheriff,' he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake.

I shook it. ‘Hawke, what can I do for you?'

‘Just wanted to thank you for taking care of my family,' he said, a shy smile on his face. ‘I was at a loss for what to do.'

‘Well, it's my job, Hawke.'

‘You know, Dalton worships you,' he said out of nowhere.

I felt my face turning hot. ‘He's a good man,' I managed to say.

‘He found his niche with you, all right,' Hawke said smiling. ‘We – Mama and me – were worried he'd never find his place in this world.'

‘He's an integral part of our system now,' I told Hawke, not even sure what I meant by that, but feeling like it sounded good.

‘Can I take Mama home now?' Hawke asked.

I shook my head. ‘Not up to me, Hawke,' I said. ‘I told her she could leave, but it doesn't seem like she's in a mood to do that.'

Hawke sighed. ‘Yeah, well, Mama can get like that.'

I just nodded, thinking that to say anything at this point would probably just sound rude.