Drowning Barbie (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

A tall man with what Leota would describe as “an unpleasant manner” stepped out of the bar she'd been watching and lit a cigarette. She could almost smell the aroma from where she sat hunched down in the cab of her pickup. At least she thought it was a cigarette. It might have been dope. She'd heard about dopers from Darla. Everyone knew that bikers smoked dope and this man looked like one of them although he wasn't wearing a leather jacket with a skull and cross bones on it. Did that matter? she wondered. She'd have to Google it when she got back to Virginia Beach. However there were more immediate things that needed doing that might keep that from happening for a while.

The man glanced casually right and left and then fixed his eyes on her truck. He stared at her for what seemed a lifetime but could not have been more than half a minute. He dropped his smoke on the gravel and without bothering to extinguish it, turned on his heel and reentered the bar. Had he recognized her? Her truck? Had they guessed what she intended? How could they? What to do. Clearly, she was not cut out for this line of work, but she'd made a promise to herself, to Mark, that she would not rest until all of this sordid business was finished. Once one set out on a certain course, its trajectory seemed immutable. It was like fate, like a Greek tragedy. She could almost hear the chorus chanting away in the background, warning of imminent doom. She shuddered. She was not prepared for doom at that precise moment. She imagined George LeBrun, or that dope smoker or even the occupants of the bar, bursting out of the door, racing across the road, and murdering her where she sat. She decided that she wouldn't wait around and find out. She started her engine and headed back to her motel to think.

The prospect of violent death did not frighten her as much as she thought it might. She found that curious. Surely being stabbed or shot or clubbed by drug-crazed monsters should have at least raised her heart rate. But it hadn't. How odd. She was too occupied with these thoughts to notice the black-and-white take up a position a hundred yards behind her.

***

Darcie Billingsly pushed her oldest through the door and headed straight for Ike's cubicle.

“You tell him what you done, Junior.”

“Darcie, you're back. I thought you had enough of us for one day. Hello there, young Whaite. What is it you're supposed to tell me?”

The boy shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. He tugged at a leather jacket at least a size too large for him and muttered something Ike couldn't hear.

“Sheriff Ike can't hear you, Junior. Now you speak up and tell him what you and Tommy Dewcamp did.”

“Umm…”

“It'll be okay, Whaite. Just spit it out and we'll deal with it. It wouldn't have something to do with that jacket, would it?”

A disproportionately large, pre-adolescent Adam's apple bobbed up and down as the boy searched for enough saliva to alleviate the dry mouth a trip to the sheriff's office created.

“Yes, sir, it umm, does. How'd you know?”

“I'm a policeman. I can tell when a crime has been committed. Talk to me.”

“And don't forget about that brand new backpack Tommy took,” his mother chimed in.

“Okay, Ma, okay. See, Mister Ike, me and Tommy was in the hay barn down on the Franklin Road. You know where that's at?”

“I do. It belongs to my father so, yes, I do. What about it?”

“Oh, shoot, I didn't know it was yours and all.”

“My father's. What about the barn?

“Oh, yeah, we were, like, in it. Honest, Sheriff, all the kids go there and even some of the older ones. You should be talking to them because what they do in there is probably against the law a whole lot more than what me and Tommy do.”

“Probably, but right now I want to know exactly what you and Tommy Dewcamp were doing in there that has you standing here and your mom so upset.”

“Oh, right, sorry. So, me and Tommy was in there exploring, like, and we come across this backpack stuffed up in the rafters.”

“And?”

“And so we drug it out and looked at what was in it. Like there was mostly girl's clothes and—”

“Baby clothing, pictures, and papers?”

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“I told you. I'm a policeman. We know stuff. I'm guessing you dumped the contents on the barn floor, took some of the clothes, including that jacket, and the backpack and…what did you do with the clothes?”

“Tommy…”

“Tommy what?”

“Tommy figured to use them to bribe Francine.”

“Tommy was going to bribe Francine…Francine who, and to do what?”

Whaite Billingsly, Jr. blushed and murmured, “DuVal. Francine DuVal. He thought she might…you know, umm, like, that is…”

“I get the picture. I won't ask you if he succeeded. In my experience used clothes that probably wouldn't fit a thirteen-year-old, no matter how snappy they looked would more likely get Tommy a shot to the chops than a carnal moment.”

The boy risked a grin. “Yes, sir, and if you mean asking for sex, that's what happened. It was pretty funny.”

“So, you stole a bag and clothes from my father's hay barn, solicited an underage girl for sex, and destroyed private property. Is that what you're telling me, son?”

The grin disappeared and the boy gulped and began to sweat. “Well, see…”

“Do you have any idea what that many felonies that could amount to and how many years in jail you could end up serving if convicted?”

The boy stared at Ike in panic. “I didn't have anything to do with Francine Duval. That was all Tommy's idea. And we thought the bag was, like, abandoned or something. We thought we had, like, salvage rights to it.”

“Salvage? You think the barn was a ship lost at sea and the bag was cargo?”

“I don't know, honest, Sheriff, we were just…there's something else, sir.”

“Something else? What?”

“There was some money in the bag.”

“Money? How much and where is it?”

“We counted it and it was, like two hundred dollars. Me and Tommy split it.”

“Where is it now?”

“I think Tommy spent his, I got mine in my box.”

Ike looked at Darcie.

“He has a tin box with things he collects. I'll bring it in tomorrow.”

“Okay, Whaite, you just shuck out of that jacket and hand it over. It's evidence. Rita, call the Dewcamps and have them bring in their son. Whaite, you get off to school now. I'll decide what punishment if any you get later. In the meantime, you need to think about this, suppose that bag had been left there as part of a drug deal and suppose the people who were looking for it found out that it was you who took it? You need to think about what you did and what might have happened to you if the wrong people were involved in this.”

The boy and his mother left, he looking pale, she sounding off a mile a minute about what his father would think if he were alive, him once being a deputy sheriff and a town hero. Ike felt a little ashamed of himself for scaring the boy like that. He wondered what he might have said if he had any experience at being a parent. Probably the same thing—maybe worse.

“So now we know how the stuff we found in the barn got there and how it ended up in a pile on the floor. Question, assuming Darla went to the barn this morning and found her bag missing, what will she do next?”

Frank looked up and shrugged. He knew Ike was thinking out loud and didn't expect an answer. He picked up an incoming call.

“Billy said that Leota Blevins also stopped at the barn. I suppose she wanted the bag as well and she didn't find it either. So what is she thinking? That Darla had been there already and is on the loose? Probably.”

“Billy just called in. He said after she left the barn the Blevins woman parked outside Alex's for a time and then went to her motel. She hasn't come out.”

“So, she's not looking for Darla. She never was. Is she after LeBrun? Lord, I hope not, she'll get herself killed.”

Not as long as she stays in the motel.”

“Unless she's been spotted and then, she might end up as bait to get to the girl. Why didn't she just stay put in Virginia Beach?”

Chapter Thirty-five

George LeBrun—before he landed in prison for murder, attempted murder, false imprisonment, assault with a deadly weapon and a variety of drug-related charges, and before Ike had put him away for what everyone assumed would be fourteen forevers and before Darla Dellinger was born—had served as one of the more unsavory deputies on the late Loyal Parker's staff. So corrupt had that administration been that the townspeople had finally reared up and persuaded Ike Schwartz to run for sheriff. Ike, with his law school background and government service about which they truly knew nothing, but suspected everything, appeared to be the only person strong enough to challenge an entrenched, corrupt, and potentially dangerous administration. Ike's father, Abe Schwartz, had spent his entire adult life in Virginia politics. Retirement did not sit well with him and when he saw a chance to get back in the game, he pulled out all the stops, called in favors from both sides of the aisle, and steamrollered Ike's opponent—the dirt-bag Loyal Parker. The campaign had been heated. It had been dirty, but in the end and, much to Loyal Parker's dismay, Ike had been swept into office.

The election had not been universally celebrated. Small towns have traditions and hierarchies with ingrained biases which are willing to overlook obvious social pathologies rather than accept change. Within months of Ike's first election, Picketsville's mayor had begun searching for Ike's replacement. He might have been successful in that endeavor had he found a candidate with a modicum of honesty and integrity. As it happened, he'd failed in that as well. Ike's subsequent reelection four years later had not been as easy as his first, and still rankled the incumbent political machine. The difficulty attendant on those who shun ethical paths to exploit the perquisites of power is the inability to develop any semblance of a moral compass, an attribute which would allow them to sense virtues in others. Thus, these empty men and women, hot in the pursuit of power, even small-town power, will routinely gravitate to people like themselves. They never quite realize that people like themselves are the problem to begin with. The mayor had been shocked and then embarrassed when his candidate ran true to form, that is, he narrowly avoided a felony arrest for aiding and abetting and the jail time that would go with it.

When Ike first assumed the title of sheriff, his intention had been simple, to clean house, to send one hundred percent of those associated with the previous regime packing, set up a moderately efficient system of law enforcement, and then retire from public service. But his innate sense of fair play added to the constraints imposed on him by the town's personnel policies meant he had to interview all current members of the office— deputies and administrative staff—and then justify any and all firings using the town's personnel procedures. The exercise had turned out better than he'd anticipated, but was incomplete. He discovered a small core of deputies and staff who were ready and eager to join him in creating a modern and responsive sheriff's department. To date, his trust in the handful he'd retained had been justified. However, Darla Smut's appearance in town and the old wounds her presence evoked could call their newly minted professionalism into question. People could be forgiven if they wondered whether old loyalties and practices had been truly expunged or were merely lying dormant. Ike shared the concern as well. He'd never had to test their loyalty before—not like this.

Like the hum from the high voltage line that skirted the city and carried power west to Covington, old corruption long thought dead and buried, but now front and center, resonated through the minds of the town's old-timers. Ike had to consider whether any of the men, and women—shouldn't forget Essie, as unlikely as that might seem—might be trying to cover skeletons they thought were long buried but which could now resurface like Karl's dead mobster.

He could eliminate Essie and Billy from the list. George had tried to kill them once already and the likelihood either still harbored any residual loyalty to him seemed impossible. Given LeBrun's reputation as a bigot and a racist, Charley Picket could be removed from the list as well. Whaite Billingsly died LOD a few years back and that left only Jack Feldman and Harry Doncaster. Ike realized he would need to watch them both. Doncaster's possible involvement could be set aside for the moment. He had taken vacation time and now lay basking in the sun in the Outer Banks at a place with the unlikely name of Duck. But why had Feldman, quite uncharacteristically, volunteered to help search for the girl? Jack's efficiency reports were like a Dalmatian dog: spotted. Entries stating he showed a “lack of initiative,” and “frequent unexcused absences,” and “occasionally demonstrates poor judgment.” If he'd stayed connected to LeBrun, the answer was obvious. Suddenly, he'd become a cop concerned with the welfare of a girl once mistreated by his coworkers and perhaps even by himself? Ike had assigned Feldman a sector to search that included the park land area around old Route 11 where it led into town. That should have kept him away from the barn and Alex's Road House and hopefully away from what Ike assumed would be the girl's more likely hiding places.

Ike had no idea where Darla had disappeared to, no one did. Worse, he hadn't an inkling which direction she might have bolted. Frank thought the girl would head west as fast as she could. If Frank was correct, she could be out on the highway thumbing rides or halfway to Chicago by now. The state police had a BOLO on her. If she tried the highway now, they would find her and he'd know pretty soon. If she'd caught her ride before the general call-out, he doubted they'd ever find her. If she'd been scared off the highway for some reason, like her bag gone missing, the chances of her being found were better, if only slightly so. Darla had survived in an environment that would have killed a lesser person. Clearly, she was not stupid.

Ike wandered to the shiny new coffee machine and started the thing gurgling and spitting, then promptly forgot it and walked back to his desk. If the girl wasn't already in a semi cab heading out on the turnpike system, she'd gone to ground nearby. But where? The skills she'd learned in the journey that took her out of Picketsville in the first place would be in play again, only this time she was older and smarter. She would stay invisible and remain that way until a window opened and then she'd be gone for good. He wondered whether he'd ever find her. He also wondered if he wanted to find her. It was a fleeting thought, but one with a small measure of merit, at least from the girl's point of view. Of course, the time might come when she would want to be found.

Ike hoped she'd failed in her attempt to catch a ride out. Hoped she would hide somewhere local and wait until things changed. If she lurked in the area she might make her move as early as nightfall when the darkness would allow her to move around more easily. But where would she hide until then? The hay barn? It was just possible Billy missed the significance of the Blevins woman's visit to the barn. What if Leota Blevins had not gone there to search for her at all but to supply her? What if it was the librarian who had been hiding her all along? He told Rita to find Billy and send him back to the barn. When he got there, he was to lay back and wait for backup. Then he had her dispatch Charley Picket to the barn as well. If the girl was in there, they'd have her.

***

Darla had misjudged the time it would take to reach her destination. Almost an hour had elapsed before she edged into the trees that bordered the church parking lot. She searched for signs of activity. Two cars were parked near the door that led to the church office. She guessed one must belong to that snotty secretary and the other to the preacher. Low brush lined the edge of the graveled area and she sat cross-legged behind one with the little white flowers that smelled like perfume. Honeysuckle. She remembered that. The moss-covered ground felt damp but soft and comfortable. She waited. The first pangs of hunger arrived about noon. She remembered she had not eaten since the night before. Still, she didn't move. She'd been hungry before, many times. Back in the times her mother had sunk deep into the nuttiness of her meth life, she'd often gone without food for days. She'd subsisted on the meth head's diet—sugary soft drinks and Cheetos. This little bit of going hungry wouldn't amount to much. Somewhere in that church building she would find a refrigerator, a pantry, and something to eat. They probably had a stove in there, too. If she wanted to cook up something, she could. She wouldn't, of course. People in churches were pretty careful about their stoves. Leota had told her that once. She couldn't remember why. They would probably notice it if someone had messed with it. She didn't know why she thought that either. It was more than likely something her mother told her back when they were making the rounds of churches looking for handouts. Preachers were always a soft touch. Darla would stand behind her mother looking miserable—easy to do. She was mostly always miserable anyway and then the old lady would go into her story which was usually some crap about her having cancer or shit like that. At the moment, she couldn't be sure when she heard it. Things like that happened to her lots of times—when she couldn't connect the whats with the whens. Something to do with the brain chemistry crap the docs always talked about when she got looked at.

Darla knew there would be a bathroom with soap and towels in there, too. The most important thing, she thought, if the church had been put together like any of the other old buildings in the area, it would have a crawl space somewhere. Unless it had been covered over with Sheetrock or like that, it should be big enough to hide her for as long as she wanted to stay hidden. That and a supply of food meant she could hole up in there, like, forever. If not? Well, this place right here was pretty good and who'd go looking for her in the bushes around the church? Just as long as she could get some supplies and it didn't rain too hard.

A police car drove in off the street, circled the parking lot, paused for a moment, and pulled out again. She shuddered. She was pretty sure she recognized that particular cop. She shrank back a few feet, deeper into the safety of shadows fighting the urge to stand up and run—run like the wind as far away as possible.