I asked the girl behind the switchboard what had happened, and as she turned I saw the spreading green-purple stain of a fresh shiner. She explained that there’d been a fight. “The lights went out and everybody lost it. Who threw the first bottle? Who the hell knows? Next it was chairs, and somebody heaved a table over the bar. When the lights came on everybody just stood around gawping at each other.”
Ann and I walked down the corridor to the restaurant. Without discussion, we took the same table we’d occupied that first morning. Only two days ago? I could hardly believe it.
The waitress looked sullen as she set our water in front of us and pulled out her order pad. I asked about her husband, whom I had gotten to know during my term as prosecutor. Goldie said she’d thrown the drunken S.O.B. out last night along with bag and baggage and didn’t care whether she ever saw him again or not.
She went back to the kitchen and after a terrific clatter of pots and pans she came out with four slabs of burnt toast and said the cook had quit, and did I want to wait on the eggs or go to a decent restaurant? I said we’d wait, and then I looked at Ann and asked:
“You think there’s any connection?”
“Maybe. But you’d have to catalogue every husband-wife quarrel in the county before you got a directional fix.”
I got up and went down the hall to the telephone booth. I stepped inside and called my successor in the prosecutor’s office. When I asked him what was happening, he wanted to know if I wanted the bad stuff, or the horrible stuff. Then he said never mind, it was all horrible. Apart from numerous beatings, muggings, fights and inexplicable power failures, there appeared to be a mad killer loose in the country.
First, the double murder outside Chuck and Patty’s. Then a supermarket cashier had found a customer lying dead between the aisles, without a mark on her except that her throat had been cut. Neighbors helping put out a fire in a retirement village claimed to have seen an elderly couple lying dead in their bed just before the roof fell in. Their throats had been cut. The same with Rose Westlake.
The sheriff had called in all his deputies, got old blind Judge Grable out of bed, and got warrants against the community’s known troublemakers. There’d been no word on him since four a.m., when his deputy called in and said he’d just shot Bob Westlake in self defense—
I gasped. “The sheriff shot Westlake?”
“Killed him right in the driveway of Kupp’s service station. The deputy said Bob fired first. They figured he must’ve gone crackers when he found his wife dead, or else he went nuts first and did it himself. Anyway the sheriff couldn’t see any way to take him, so he shot him dead.
“He told his deputy to wait for the coroner, then drove off. Hasn’t been seen since. His deputies have already locked up a dozen people and I can’t find out what they’re charged with. I heard there was even a warrant out for you. If you’ve got time you might look into it.”
“I’ll do that, Norman.” I hung up and went back to the booth. Ann was digging into a duet of fried eggs, but she pushed her plate back when I told her the sheriff had shot Westlake and disappeared. Her face was as white as the napkin she raised to her lips.
“He’s at the jail, of course,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s where the food is. To the creature who inhabits the sheriff is would seem like a gigantic smorgasbord. When he gets hungry he just reaches in and... oh God! Look out the window!”
I saw a pale blue car pull into a parking slot. The gold shield on its door glamed in the early sun, its red flasher splashed light in all directions. Sheriff Wade Hoffer stepped out, shut his door, straightened his white stetson, and jerked his wide leather belt up over the paunch that swelled like a bloated dumpling against his shirt. He strode toward the front entrance, his face wearing the dull truculence of a law enforcement officer about to do his painful duty.
I looked at Ann. “Suggestions?”
“Go with him.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No, listen. He’ll hunt you down and kill you if you don’t. You can’t fight him with force. He’s tied to our world through hate and fear. Only love and courage will drive him away. Do you understand that?”
“No. I can’t see laying myself out on the smorgasbord either.”
“Don’t think about it. Act natural, don’t be afraid. Fear will excite him. Once you’re inside, start organizing the prisoners for a breakout. You’ll hear from me.”
I opened my mouth to ask what she planned, but then I heard the sheriff growl at the desk: “Fred Bagram here?”
The girl tinkled with respect: “You’ll find him in the restaurant, sheriff.”
Ann put her hand on mine. “Don’t fight him. Remember: Love, and courage. I’ll get you free.”
She slid out of the booth and glided behind the counter. As she disappeared through the swinging doors to the kitchen, I turned and saw Sheriff Hoffer come into the restaurant. Love and courage. Those two things were hard to remember when I saw the sheriff’s eyes. They looked like a pair of burnt-out fuses.
I stood up and faced him. “What do you want me for, sheriff?”
He stopped and began shuffling through a bunch of warrants. His thick fingers were stained the rusty color of barn paint — but I knew the sheriff hadn’t been painting any old red barns.
He pulled out a sheet and read in a dull monotone: “Fred Bagram... murder of Robert George,”
“You know I didn’t do that!”
“You gonna come peacable or do I hafta handcuff you?”
I knew one thing — I didn’t want handcuffs. I walked down, the aisle and sidestepped past, him, careful not to touch him, aware that he’d unbuttoned his holster and was resting his hand on his gun.
My back itched all the way to the car. I was happy to sit in back, with wire mesh separating me from the beast, though I admit the lack of door handles gave me worse claustrophobia than I’d had in the cave.
XII
Our new jail stood on the edge of town, not far from the sewage treatment plant. I saw several cars in the lot, but no people. I walked ahead of the sheriff up the short flight of concrete steps and entered the room where prisoners were checked in. Nobody stood behind the counter, nor was anyone at the radio.
I could hear vague murmurs from the lockup area, but these were peevish rather than panicky. As I walked back toward the cells, I glanced into the room where off-duty deputies and lawyers usually sat around chewing fat and drinking coffee. It was empty and dark. I realized the electricity was off.
The sheriff pulled out his keys and unlocked a steel door with a high barred grill in its center. He pushed it open and stepped back, gesturing with the keyring. I stepped through the door. A clamor erupted from the gloom, then subsided to a groan as the door clanked shut.
The trusty who came waddling down the aisle — Dan Kobbe — looked worried and harrassed. He saw me, halted, blinked, and shook his head.
“Fred, I never expected to see you in the slam, considerin’ you’re the one put me here. What the hell’s got into the Man?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I peered into the bullpen — our brochures call it the dayroom — and saw a milling jam of men and boys. There were also a couple of women, which was decidedly against jail policy. I couldn’t see well enough to identify anyone. As the trusty inserted his key, the huddled mass crowded against the door.
“I wanta call my lawyer!” “One phone call. I got rights!” “Wife! Gotta call my wife, I just went out for a pack of cig—” “Food! When we gonna eat?”