The Dwellers were late again.
There was trouble with Jim’s pass at the checkpoint even though it was the same guard who’d issued him the card a few days earlier. This time the guard had refused to acknowledge the document or let him through until some proof could be offered up of Jim’s true identity and station. The brothers were explaining the trouble with proving this when Barton told them to shut the hell up, which they did, boring into him with their identical eyes a look of pure hate.
All day long, Barton seethed. He made unreasonable demands of the Dwellers, like insisting they polish the outside of the bank vault, deeming their work shoddy, making them start over, and spitting on the vault door to prove his point. The atmosphere in the bank became so tense that several people, upon walking in, stopped to look around as if sensing danger.
This was Roslyn’s fault. Barton knew he was in a foul and cruel mood, as bad as days before the fire when he’d loathed himself completely. He was furious at Roslyn for not returning his affection. He had spent so much time thinking of her, imagining what it might be like when they would finally speak. And then, when they had, the very first thing she’d told him was that she wanted to be away from him. This rejection made him want her more. He was propelled forward in his love by the panic of not being loved.
Around noon, Del knocked a bottle of ink off the teller’s desk and Barton threw a letter opener at him. After that, he retreated to his office, announcing in a voice that sounded wild even to him that he did not wish to be disturbed the rest of the day.
But not five minutes later, he was disturbed—by a familiar and unwelcome face. Bill Wolfe, the owner of the scorched lunchroom and hotel, stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Heydale,” Wolfe said. “If I might have a moment of your time?”
This man was here for Roslyn. Barton was certain of it. He knew Barton was harboring her. Barton had given his heart to that woman and what did he get in return? Rejection, and now trouble from an angry pimp.
“I have nothing of value to you, sir. And now if you don’t mind, I am very busy and will ask you to be on your way,” Barton said, determined not to show his fear.
Wolfe gave him a look of concern. “I’m sorry to disturb you. But I need to discuss the matter of my insurance check,” he said, producing this item from his shirt pocket.
Barton flushed. Just as with Zeeb the day before, he had misinterpreted the situation. Wolfe went on to say that he was eager to begin rebuilding his hotel. The new version would be much improved. It would be larger and classier. In fact, in a certain light, he felt the fire had actually been a blessing—a chance to start fresh. The old hotel, he’d be the first to admit, had grown a little ramshackle in recent years.
“So now it’s just a matter of getting the funds secured, which I am thinking I would like to keep in an account here. Does that seem wise? I’m embarrassed to say it, but I’ve never been much of a bank person before. I suppose you already knew that. Anyway, I want to get back to business as soon as possible.
“And then you can get back to seeing your girl,” Wolfe added.
“She’s dead,” Barton said.
“No, she’s not,” Wolfe said.
“If she’s not dead, then where is she?”
“Well, I don’t know. Staying with a friend, I assume. Is that what’s making you uncomfortable? I can ask around. Or find you another girl in the meantime.”
Barton wondered what this man’s relationship to Roslyn had been. She’d lived in his hotel and he’d arranged clients for her. He’d been the one to send Barton up to her when he, a nervous new arrival in Spokane Falls, was first looking for a particular sort of company. Had anything ever exchanged hands between him and Roslyn besides money? Had he ever been unkind? As Wolfe spoke, Barton was beset by an image of him and Roslyn together, having sex, Wolfe on top, and then behind her, grunting, talking, saying things about insurance and construction costs. Reality and fantasy crashed together in his mind. He shook his head in an effort to rid himself of this picture.
“You should reconsider,” Wolfe said, taking Barton’s headshake for an answer to his question. “It’s really no big deal. I’m happy to help. Just like you can help me here, with my money and such.”
Barton would be of no such help. He told Wolfe he couldn’t take his check, or open an account for him at the bank. He gave vague excuses, cited various processes thrown into disarray by the fire and whatnot.
“But might I offer you a loan instead?” he asked.
Wolfe, irksomely unfazed, declined. He said he would try back in a day or two. He took his leave of Barton’s office then, but not of the bank entirely. A moment later, Barton heard the man’s laugh carrying from the lobby. When Barton went to his office door, he was met with another unsettling vision: Wolfe, the Dwellers, and a uniformed police officer all standing together, cackling like witches.
Barton made for the teller’s desk, thinking he might be able to overhear their conversation if he pretended he had work to do there. But he was quickly sighted by Wolfe, who waved him over.
“Heydale, we were just talking about you,” he said, his voice too loud, too friendly.
For once, Barton hoped the laughter had only been for his bad haircut.
“This is Police Chief Hornsweller,” Wolfe continued. “He and his men have been a tremendous help to me these past few days at the hotel, with the investigation and all.”
“We’re helping too,” Del added. “We’re going to be deputized.”
“Well, now, that’s not exactly what I said.” Hornsweller was a thick man and he extended a meaty hand that engulfed Barton’s when he shook it. He seemed, like Zeeb, comfortable in his largeness.
“And you’ve come here with Mr. Wolfe today to talk about his insurance settlement?”
“Nah, we just bumped into each other,” Hornsweller said. “The mayor asked me to visit our city’s institutions to make sure everything’s still smooth sailing since the fire. Your assistants were giving me a tour.”
“And are you finding it to be? Smooth sailing?” Barton asked.
“Are you?”
Barton looked into the police chief’s eyes but could read nothing in them. He decided this meant the man was either very smart or very dumb.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Please let me know if there is any further information I can provide to you.”
“We’re already doing that for him,” Del said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Barton said, and forced a laugh—to show he too was the sort of man who could laugh amiably in the lobby of his bank. A helpful fellow with nothing to hide. But neither Wolfe nor Hornsweller took the bait. The only one to chuckle at Barton’s joke was, inexplicably, Del.