Ness made his way up the hill toward the courthouse. Ten thirty. His jacket draped over his shoulder in the early heat. Nodded to a woman pushing a pram. Concrete streets becoming brick the closer he came to the government building. Tall maples, tall oaks. A sky the color of blue eyes.
At the steps of the courthouse he dabbed the sweat at his brow with a handkerchief. Then he climbed the granite stairs to a set of huge wooden doors. A meager wind made its way into the valley but brought nothing for the heat. Only ten thirty in the morning and already his shirt damp with sweat. He passed some government men on the stairs, said, Morning.
He walked down a long hall with placards of past mayors and councilmen. There was no air conditioning and the building was warm and awhirl with ceiling fans. His shoes sounded on the floor, echoing like a chamber. At the end of the hall a woman sat behind a wide dark-stained desk. She was on the phone, watching him as he approached. She smiled, said something into the phone and then hung up.
Good morning, she said.
Morning to yourself, Ness said. Looking for the sheriff’s office. Seem to be a bit lost.
She pointed to her right, said, Looks like yer right where yeh need to be.
A pebbled glass door with a star printed on it. The name SHERIFF AMOS FIELDING stamped below.
No one’s above the law, Ness thought.
You got an appointment? she asked.
I hope so. Drove three and one half hours to get here. Ed Ness. Your deputy gave me a call yesterday.
Oh! The detective from Minneapolis.
She gave him a look.
I know that look, Ness said.
She’s a sweet girl, ain’t she? That Heather.
She wasn’t kidding.
Kidding about what?
About it spreading like a grease fire.
She looked at his wedding ring.
Ness held up his hand. Widower, he said.
At the first look of sympathy Ness held up his hand, said, No, no, none of that.
Well, she said, Heather is a very sweet girl.
Yes, Ness said. Noted.
Anyways, we’re so happy to have yeh come down. This town ain’t seen nothin like this before.
So I gather.
I’m Betsy, she said, extending a hand.
Ed Ness. But you already know that.
She gestured with her chin to a row of chairs just outside the sheriff’s office. Have a seat, she said. He’s with someone now. Some woman lost her cat up a tree.
Isn’t that quaint, he said with a smile.
Yeh want some coffee? Tea?
I just had my coffee down at Deb’s so I’m fine just the way I am. Thank you kindly though.
After some time a plump old woman in a shapeless green dress exited the sheriff’s office. Her lips were brightly rouged and she wore a cravat that looked to be cut from the same bolt of cloth as the dress. She stood at the desk a moment, talking to Betsy. Mild distress. Ness heard her say: But if he’s not goin to get him down, who will I call? Then she said something about church then thanked Betsy and then shuffled her way on thick ankles down the hall.
Betsy came around her desk and opened the door for him. She leaned in and said: Mr Ness for yeh, Sheriff.
Fielding, at his desk going over paperwork, looked up at the pair darkening his doorway. He set down his pen and thanked her. She closed the door behind Ness. Sheriff Fielding stood. Pulled up on his belt. Came from behind his desk and shook Ness’s hand.
Detective Ness, Fielding said. What’s the news?
I’m not sure to be honest with you.
Damn right on that. Yeh have a seat. Yeh want some coffee? I’ll get yeh some coffee.
Thank you, no. Had my fill at the café just now.
Naw. Naw. No trouble.
He went to the door and called for two coffees. Then he closed the door and sat back at his desk. Sheriff Amos Fielding. A paunchy man in his mid-forties and judging by the shape he was in one could tell he’d gotten accustomed to being chauffeured around. Handsome enough. Played quarterback in another life. Wide shoulders, big hands.
He propped his feet in an open drawer. He never wore a tie and rubbed the skin at his throat. He shook his head. Spoke slowly in a low voice.
This whole goddamn thing, Detective. I don’t know what to make of it. He pointed to a holstered revolver hanging on a hook in the wall. Started wearin that thing around with me. Cain’t believe it. Carryin it around people that’ve known me since I was a boy. I been sheriff of this town since I was twenty-one years old. Can yeh believe that? Twenty-three years I ain’t ever carried a gun on duty. Now this damn nonsense starts happenin. Pardon my French. He shook his head. I don’t know, Mr Ness. We’re dealin with somethin new here.
Why don’t you call me Ed. I’ve a feeling we might be spending some time together.
That sounds good, the sheriff said. Amos Fielding.
Ness looked around the office. There was a placard made out in Fielding’s honor for his years of service to the town. A picture of his wife. A stuffed bass over the window. The mount of a ten-point buck. There was a vinyl sofa along the far wall, a filing cabinet, a typewriter draped in a plastic dust cover, a small fan whirring in the warm air.
Fielding pointed.
Caught that monster there a few years back. Twelve-pounder. Yeh fish, Ed?
When I can.
We’ll go. I know a good place. The sloughs round here got some nice fatties that’ll take anythin yeh throw at em.
Uh-huh.
Then he pointed to the deer head.
That there’s Bob. Don’t know why I named him. Tagged that beauty the last time me and my deddy went out together. The fall before he died.
Was his name Bob? Your dad?
No it wasn’t. Roger. But that’s good. Shoulda named it Roger.
He turned the photo in the frame.
That’s my wife there, he said. Sara. Been sweethearts since high school. You married, Ed?
No, sir, I am not. Widower.
Ness wondered if it would be more convenient to take off the ring while he was here.
Well I imagine the big city keeps you occupied.
Fielding raised his eyebrows but said nothing more and Ness appreciated the lack of questions over it.
Something like that, Ness said.
Sure. Well enough dilly-dallying, Fielding said. Here’s what I know. The scuttlebutt is that Dahl girl, Hannah, she ain’t left her room in three days. Ain’t said moren a sentence to anybody. Fielding tossed a folder of photographs and statements across the desk. That’s what we got so far.
Any word on a body? Ness asked.
The boy’s yeh mean? Nothin.
Ness opened the folder and leafed through the contents. He read down the list.
Says here you have a suspect?
Where’s that? Fielding sat forward and leaned his weight over the desk.
Ness turned the folder and tapped it out.
Suspect might be a little wishful a word, Fielding said. There’s a feller who lives up that slough them kids were campin at. Only one who might’ve been in the area.
What’s his name?
Rigby Sellers.
What’s he like?