Lizzie looked lost sitting against the wall, her father and mother hovering on either side, her mother’s arm around her, her father staring straight out over a proud chin through all the bedlam and the foot-thick concrete wall right into the holding tank, or so it seemed. There, Winthrop Reedy, in protective custody, sat abjectly on the steel bench swung down from the bars with chains, wearing only a pair of pants, no belt because they’d taken that, an unbuttoned shirt and no shoes, because he never found them. He never had time and couldn’t have located them in the dark anyhow, the power box having almost been blown off the pole. But of course, neither he nor Lizzie’s father could see each other.
They think she’s come home, Dugan realized, looking out at Lizzie’s parents from his office. His gaze moved on around the main room, crowded with deputies, city cops, prisoners, members of families and the bail bondsman. All the ingredients of a rousing weekend. The thought was depressing. God protect little girls, especially from life.
He checked his watch: 1:17 A.M., Saturday October 7. What a night! And now he was down two deputies: Stamey Kibler’s wife had gone into labor, and he was over at the hospital, and Reggie Tetrault had called in sick. Dugan bowed his head a moment, then looked up to see Eddie, who had been getting some information from Fillmore, start back across the room. Eddie looked as dapper and unflappable as ever, saying hello to just about everybody, including the prisoners. He couldn’t have come back to the job without Eddie. It wasn’t just efficiency; something like an aura of clarity flowed around the man. Dugan felt himself flush at the wonder of Eddie’s friendship and support.
Eddie stopped in front of Lizzie and said something to her. She reached out a hand, and he held it for a moment while her mother and father suddenly looked lost, the mask of parental assuredness slipping a bit. Then the father signaled Eddie, who bent and listened to him a moment, too.
“Lizzie’s father wants to talk to Winthrop, wants to try to understand,” Eddie said as he entered the office.
“Aren’t four near-killings enough understanding for one night?”
“I told him I’d ask. She sure blew the hell out of that trailer.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“The bondsman.”
“Oh, hell, she’s not going anywhere. Release her on her own recognizance and get them out of here.”
“Four assaults with intent to kill, malicious damage to property in excess—”
“Yes, yes.”
“Anyhow, Lizzie wants to talk to you,” Eddie said.
“Who’re the fill-ins for Stamey and Tetrault?”
“Junior volunteered—who else? He’s so keyed up with all his heroics—one whore, one brawl, one wino—he said he wouldn’t sleep anyhow.”
“How’s his head?”
“My opinion or his? No, I know. He says he’s all right, but him and J. B. are doubling up just in case. Unless they get called elsewhere, they plan to stake out Puma’s place again, something restful.”
“Any sign of Skinner or that Grady fellow?”
“No. My guess, you’ll never see Grady Snipes or that Peanut again.”
“That’s just fine with me.”
“But Skinner isn’t going anywhere, Charlie.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“So if I hadn’t told him to clear out …?” Dugan rubbed his face and sighed, then looked up at his deputy. Thinking about Skinner—back to that night at the fair and again at the resurrection, back to July and all the anger that had been building—made him reflect on Pemberton. He’d sure been appreciating the reprieve the slow judicial process was providing. Even the Carvers were quiet, satisfied for the moment while the wheels of justice ground on. He’d be surprised if it went to trial before spring, if then, and had told the Carvers so. He was even beginning to think he might breeze through the election, in which case Pemberton wouldn’t be a problem for four years. At least now he understood the pressure, could see Pemberton’s leverage and was clear why it had driven him crazy. Reelected, he could take whatever happened with Pemberton’s case. The leverage would be gone. Maybe he could start believing again like he once did. Or maybe he’d just be wiser.
“She wants to talk to you,” Eddie reminded him.
Dugan came to. “Send her in. Oh, and close the door, will you, Eddie?”
When the door opened again, he looked up and saw Lizzie, and that she was furious. In the next moment, he saw why, as her mother and father crowded in behind her. She turned and confronted her mother. “I’d really like to talk to Sheriff Dugan alone,” she said, barely holding her temper.
“Now, you listen to your mother,” her father admonished, his patience sounding thin, too. “Quite enough has happened to you for one night, young lady.” He’s still looking over his chin, Dugan decided as he pushed himself to his feet to greet them. “You need to calm down, let your head clear, Lizzie,” her father added, nodding to Dugan. “Doesn’t she, sheriff?”
“What’s on your mind, Liz?” Dugan asked, meeting her gaze, the impatience and determination blazing out at him. Calling her Lizzie wasn’t going to work anymore, he’d already decided. Thinking back on that mobile home as he’d found it, he was impressed all over again.
“Can we speak alone?” She lifted her head, and he felt the defiance, too, not just against her parents but against everything that had gone wrong, everything that was telling her she was in the wrong, and would have to admit it in order to return to the fold, to be nurtured again until something good could be found for her. Suddenly Dugan really admired her.
“Sheriff, now …,” her father began.
“Bob, it’s been a long night for all of us, and I got a longer one still. Give me some time with Liz, let me hear what she has to say, okay?”
It wasn’t a request, and they all knew it, but he’d made it gently, so once again he saw the parental mask slip slightly, doubt flare up at the edges.
“You doing better, Liz?” he asked when the door had closed. Her ponytail was still all in pieces, hair hanging down the side of her face, her face yet a bit blotchy with all the spent emotion, spent except for the defiance; that was stronger now, though not against him.
She nodded, then blushed deeply at this new, startling behavior in herself and the subsequent tendency toward shame that always seemed to accompany such moments. Seeing her struggle brought the memory on him again, his arrival at the trailer with its shattered doors and windows, a hole right into the living room, the metal siding ragged like a bullet through a tin can, the interior dark and ominous and volatile beyond the ragged glass, the only sound inside dripping water, like the building had been gutted. Three highway patrol cars were already there, along with his deputies and his cars. The small crowd of people shifting through the headlights and spotlights surrounding the trailer made it look like a stage set, phony somehow, an attempt to draw them into some different reality. “She’s still in there, sheriff,” one of his deputies, pistol drawn, had said. “And that’s double-ought she’s using. We think there’s someone else in there, too, someone moaning. People say there were even more than that. What are we going to do?”
“Liz, you in there?” he’d called. “This is Charlie Dugan.” Another deputy ran up with a bullhorn, but Dugan pushed it aside. “Liz, I’m coming over there. My hands are up here, where you can see them. I expect you’ve had enough for one night.” With that, he started to walk across the tiny lawn, stepped over some mangled flowers onto a walkway and found himself at the foot of the steps to the trailer. Smelling gasoline, he looked quickly beyond the end of the trailer and saw the front end of Skinner’s convertible, a headlight and the grill and windshield all blown to hell. A big motorcycle was lying on its side, gasoline dripping from its tank. Hearing the crunch of glass, he tensed, then turned to watch a figure in dark slacks and turtleneck push through the remains of some curtains into the blasted doorway. Hair hanging down, face gaunt and pale, shotgun held loosely, expertly, in one hand, the tip of its barrel dangling just above the floor, she looked like some Hollywood fantasy.
“They ruined our car, sheriff,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“It wasn’t these people was it?” he asked gently, climbing one step and reaching for her hand.
“No, sir.” She looked down at the gun like she’d just discovered it. “I expect you want this.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I honestly don’t recall where I got it, though it must be Winn’s. I must have gone home and fetched it.” She looked up. “Can you believe that, Sheriff Dugan?”
“Yes.” He knew she wasn’t making it up.
“I saw him with her!” Watching her look darken with the recollection, he shifted his weight, ready to spring as she lifted the gun from her side. He heard the taut shuffle of the armed men behind him. Looking at the floor, she almost dreamily turned the butt of the shotgun toward Dugan. He reached up and took it, then put his other hand back out for her.
Moments later, her hot face had been buried in his chest. A deputy had stepped up and relieved him of the shotgun. “Oh, sheriff, those sonsuvbitches! Just look at my life! And Winthrop! She had it in her mouth, him saying, ‘Lizzie, baby!’ ” He had felt her fingernails dig into his skin. “I’ll kill him! I would have killed them all. Good God, look at me!”
He had held her tighter, held her as she broke down. Finally she had grown quiet and could go, and he had handed her over.
“I’m going to need a lawyer, I guess,” she said now. She was sitting in a chair across the desk. “Can you tell me someone good?”
“Your mama and papa there want to help.” She shook her head. She’s tough. “I’m not supposed to make recommendations, Liz.”
“I understand.” She bit her lip.
He pulled open a drawer in his desk, withdrew a telephone book, then listened to the distant ringing of a phone. His hand over the mouthpiece, he studied the young woman, knowing nothing would ever be the same for her again, not nearly so new and exciting. He heard a muffled voice. “Elmore? Sorry to wake you. This here’s Charlie Dugan.”