Ravenous (10 page)

“Now, you know, Doris, that I've come out here before about this, and I've heard the shouting myself. Remember? I had a talk with Jimmy Norton and told him to get into an anger management class, or something, because his temper was liable to land him in jail. Remember?”

“I might remember that time.”

“Well, it wasn't just one time, Doris. You've had us out here a few times about the Nortons. But I've seen nothing I can do anything about. Not yet, anyway.”

“Then go over there right now,” Doris said, pointing with an arthritic index finger out her window. “She's there now, and her face is all messed up, go and see.”

“Is he home now?”

“No, he's at work. But she's home.”

Hurley nodded. “Okay, I'll do it right now.”

“Hey, Sheriff, tell me—do you still have a restraining order against me?”

“Now, Doris, I told you why I had to do that.”

“I was never that bad.”

Hurley laughed and shook his head. “Doris, you were coming into the station three and four times a day and interrupting my deputies and my staff while they were working, and interrupting
me
while I was working. You wouldn't stop when you were told, so I got the restraining order. And no, it's no longer in effect. But if you show up down at that station so much as once, Doris, I'll get another one. There's absolutely no reason for you to go down there. All you have to do is call us.”

“Oh, all right, all right.”

“Now. I'm going across the street to have a word with your neighbor,” he said, starting for the door. “I'll come back and let you know what happened when I'm done.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I really appreciate it.”

Hurley released a long sigh as he left Doris's house and walked across her front lawn. He went across the street to the Norton house, a small white ranch-style house with pale blue trim. The yard was a mess. Flowers shared their beds with weeds and the shrubs grew wildly up past the top of the white picket fence that bordered the yard.

Rain fell in an unenthusiastic drizzle, and a cold, biting breeze was coming up.

He went up the walk, which had a few cracks in it. Up the front steps, across the small covered porch, and he rang the bell. Then he waited.

The door opened and the once-pretty, blonde young woman who stood on the other side of the screen door looked harried.

“Yes?” she said with a smile, but the smile did not last long.

“Mrs. Norton? Andrea Norton?”

“Yes.”

He took off his cap. “I'm Sheriff Hurley and I'd like to have a word with you. May I come in?”

“Uh ... well, I'm doing housework at the moment. I was, um, mopping the kitchen floor and then I was gonna—uh, look.” She pushed the screen door open and stepped outside, leaving the front door half-open. “Why don't I just step out here, okay?”

“Sure, that's fine. Boy, that's quite a shiner you've got there, Mrs. Norton.”

There was a darkened half-circle under her puffy right eye, and the bruise seemed to dribble part-way down her cheek. A small cut was visible on her lower lip.

Staring at the black eye, Hurley thought he'd love to catch the son of a bitch doing that himself sometime, show him what it's like to get beaten on for awhile. Men like Jimmy Norton—who weren't really men at all—brought out the worst in Hurley. They were just one notch above child molesters, and barely that.

Andrea shrugged. “Well, I tripped over the vacuum-cleaner cord and slammed my face right into the, uh, front of the entertainment center.” She released a breathy chuckle. “The thing almost fell over on me. It hurt pretty bad, I'll tell you.”

Hurley frowned, reached around and slowly rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Mrs. Norton, your neighbors have been complaining about the shouting.”

“The shouting?”

“The shouting your neighbors say your husband does so much. At you.”

“Neighbors? Really? Or just one neighbor? Mrs. Whitacker, right?”

“Well, I, uh—”

“Has anyone besides Mrs. Whitacker complained?”

“Uh, no. To be honest, they haven't.”

“See? I thought so. That old woman—”

“But wait, Mrs. Norton. I've been out here before, and I've talked to your husband about this. This has been going on awhile. And this is the first time I've seen you actually, uh ... banged up.”

“I
told
you, I tripped over the vacuum-cleaner cord and I—”

“Yeah, I know, that's what you said.” He smiled. “But I don't believe you, not for a second, so why don't you drop the story. Use it on your neighbors and the cashier down at the grocery store. I know exactly what's going on here, Mrs. Norton, and I'm here to tell you that every time your husband hits you, he breaks the law. You could have him put in jail. You could do it
right now
—all you have to do is tell me your husband caused those injuries and you want to press charges. I would then go to his place of work and arrest him. Then you'd have to testify against him in court. But it would put him in jail for awhile. And maybe, uh ... maybe you could use that time to figure out what you want to do with your life. You might ask yourself if you really ...
really
want to stay here and keep getting beaten up.”

She gasped, but then her face, registering first anger, then fear, slowly relaxed.

“I've seen it before, Mrs. Norton,” Hurley said, lowering his voice and joining his hands in front of him, one still holding his cap. “I've
seen
it. It just keeps getting worse and worse. And then he kills you.”

 
A baby made loud sounds of delight inside the house, but Hurley ignored it. Then a child called, “Mommy!”

“Just a second, honey, I'll be right there,” Andrea said. A tear trickled down the side of her nose, then down past her mouth, to dangle from the edge of her jaw.

“He won't really mean to kill you, of course,” Hurley went on, almost without a pause. “He'll be horrified when it happens. He'll go just a little too far, is all. He won't
mean
to kill you. But you'll be dead. And your babies will be without a mother. And they'll be raised by your husband alone. How would that be, Mrs. Norton?”

She said nothing. The teardrop quivering at the line of her jaw finally let go and fell to its death. Andrea Norton's eyes, which had been locked onto Hurley's, now slowly wandered downward, and she turned her head slightly, until she was staring down at the top porch step.

“Mommy!” the child inside the house called impatiently.

“You think about that, Andrea,” he said, almost whispering now. “Think about it hard, but not long. Because you never know with these guys, when they're gonna go two or three punches over their usual quota. A couple more punches, a little harder. Or maybe he'll pick up a heavy blunt object and use that instead of his fists. You don't know how much time you might, or might not, have. There are places you can go, people who will help you. Like I said, you can put him in jail today, right now.”

The baby squealed and began to cry.

“Mommy, pwease come here!” the child called.

“I'm sorry, but I've, uh, I've gotta go, okay?” Andrea said, but her voice was thick and wet now, and she did not meet his eyes with hers, which glistened. She turned away from him quickly, and clumsily pulled the screen door open and went inside.

“I hope you'll give it some thought, Mrs. Norton,” Hurley said as he put his plastic-covered cap back on.

“Thuh-thank you, Sheriff,” Andrea said, her back to him. “I've got to go now.” She closed the front door. An instant later, the lock clicked.

Hurley went down the front steps, left the yard, and crossed the street back to Doris Whitacker's house.

“Well?” Doris said, her thin arms folded over her flat chest. “Did you see? She's been knocked around, hasn't she?”

Hurley nodded as he once again removed his cap. “Yeah, she has a black eye, Doris, and you were right to call.”

“
See
?”

“I had a talk with her,” he said. “I let her know she has options. Maybe she'll think about her situation a little differently now.”

“Ah, well,” Doris said with a flippant shrug of her shoulder, “I think they like it if you ask me.”

“What?” Hurley said, blinking beneath a frown.

“The women who stick around for it and never leave,” Doris said. “They get something out of it. They need it. They get off on it. That's my theory, anyway.”

Hurley sighed. “Look, now, are we square, Doris? Think you could stop calling us every time you see someone walking down the street? Now this, calling about your neighbor beating on his wife—that's a legitimate reason and I'm glad you called. But really, Doris, please ... you've got to stop calling so many times a day.”

“You told me to stop dialing nine-one-one, and I did,” Doris said.

“Yes, you did, Doris, and for that, I'm very grateful. Now you've got to stop calling the non-emergency number, okay? Unless you've got a real emergency.”

Doris frowned and cocked her head. “You only want me to call the non-emergency number when I have an emergency?”

Hurley sighed and rolled his eyes. “You
know
what I mean, Doris. If you keep pressing me on this, I'll just go ahead and put you in jail for it. There's a law against it, you know—I'm not enforcing it, is all. Yet.”

“You'd put me in jail?”

“In a second, if I get so much as one more phone call from you, unless it's a legitimate emergency. See, when I find out it's Doris calling, I want to be able to think to myself, well, if
Doris
is calling, something's really
wrong
, because I know she wouldn't call for no reason. Do you think we can get to that point with you, Doris?”

After a moment of thought, Doris sighed and bowed her head. “All right, all right,” she said, her voice quivering a little. “I-it's just that, uh ... well, I ... I just need to know that, uh, that you're ... there.”

“We'll always be there, Doris. We're not going anywhere. I promise. We're there when you need us.”

Back in the SUV, Hurley felt ... sorry. He felt sorry for lonely Doris Whitacker ... for battered Andrea Norton.

He turned on the radio, which played some loud rock and roll—Led Zeppelin. The album-rock station he listened to played nothing but hard driving rock and roll from back when there was such a thing. It made him feel good.

He turned the music down a little when a call came over the other radio. He listened closely, hoping it was close by and he could take the call.

He did not wan to go back to the station—he wanted to keep busy.

 

 

 

10

 

Disturbed

 

 

Hugh precariously held the lunch tray on his left arm while he opened the bedroom door with his right. He went to the bed and sat down on the edge beside Emily, put the tray in his lap, and carefully reached out and touched the side of her sleeping face.

She awoke with a jerk and a gasp and immediately pushed down on the mattress with both hands, dragging herself away from him, her eyes wide, lips parted. Then she blinked several times as she looked at him, as she looked around the room, her face shiny with perspiration. Her eyes closed slowly and she sighed. Her left eye was swollen and bruised and there was a small cut on her chin, another gash on her forehead, both covered by small white bandages.

“Hi,” she said sleepily.

“Hi. You didn't eat breakfast, so I thought maybe you should have some lunch. I made you a tuna salad sandwich, and there's a little potato salad, I've got an apple here, and a banana, and a Diet Dr. Pepper. You can eat all of it, or part of it, but I think you should eat something.”

She nodded as she reached back and adjusted her pillows. She sat up with the pillows between her back and the headboard. “Thank you,” she said.

Hugh put the tray across her lap. “If you want anything else, just let me know.”

“No, this is fine, really. It's great, honey. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“How's Jeannie?”

“She's had lunch, and now she's taking a nap.”

Emily nodded.

“How are you?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly. “I keep having this nightmare. I wake up from it, then go back to sleep, and I have it again. I keep reliving that ... horrible thing.” She picked up half the sandwich and took a bite. “And something else,” she said with a frown. “A house. I keep seeing this house.” She chewed slowly. “It hurts to chew,” she whispered. “Everything hurts. I even hurt ... between ... between my ... “ Her face screwed up and her shoulders began to hitch with quiet sobs.

“Oh, Emily.” He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she moved away from him.

“Don't touch me,” she said with food still in her mouth. She pushed the tray down her legs and shook her head as she said, “I can't eat. Take it away. Just go away, please. I want to sleep. That's all. Just sleep. I need a couple more of those pills, then I'll sleep. Please.”

Emily reached over and took the orange prescription bottle from her nightstand. She popped the lid off and shook two Valium into her palm, swept them into her mouth, then drank them down with the glass of water on the nightstand.

Hugh picked up the tray and stood. “Would you like to call the counselor and—”

“No, just go. Please.”

Hugh left the bedroom, frowning. She was still sobbing as he pulled the door closed. He went downstairs to the kitchen, put the tray on the table and went to the counter. He put his hands flat on the countertop and leaned forward, elbows locked, his head bowed between jutting shoulders.

It was not like her not to eat. Hugh was concerned. Of course, the truth was, she could stand to lose a few pounds, but he knew this was not the way to do it. He felt guilty for so much as thinking it. He hoped there was nothing seriously wrong with her. Could her head injury be worse than first thought? Maybe Emily should still be in the hospital. Whom should he call to ask? He knew a lot of people, he knew medical people, maybe someone he knew would have some advice. But who? He couldn't think, couldn't line his thoughts up in a row because ... because ...