Down here the house had the faint scent of flowers, furniture wax, and pine boughs. It was almost too warm. A faint whoosh startled Scarlett until she realized it was the furnace turning on.
The whole house was toasty hot, she thought, relishing it. People didn’t know how lucky they were to be warm all the time. In the muted darkness the crystal hall light shone over her head, and the candlesticks on the hall table glittered.
It was pretty, all right. This house could make you want things you never even knew about.
Scarlett clutched the plates and pizza crusts to her as she passed the open door. Except for the light from the television set the room was dark.
When she peeped inside she saw the sheriff stretched out on the couch, a box with the remains of the pizza on the floor, an open can of beans beside it. His arm, extended, dangled into space over a familiar black shape.
Scarlett stepped into the room.
“There you are,” she whispered. She could hardly see the dog, but she heard the thump of Demon’s tail. “What’re you doing down here?”
Demon made a friendly groaning sound. The tail wagged again, sweeping pizza crusts over the rug. Scarlett stepped closer.
The sheriff looked more like a regular-type man now, rather than the police. Farrie was right: he was young and sort of good-looking. By the flickering light of the TV set she could tell he’d showered because his hair was dried in little rattails over his forehead. He’d taken off the starchy tan uniform and wore jeans, and a plaid shirt that lay open and unbuttoned, exposing his bare chest. Where he had rolled up his sleeve his dangling forearm was solid, impressive, lightly spangled with hair. His feet, propped at the end of the couch, were bare.
Scarlett stepped over Demon to lean closer.
Itwouldn’t be so hard, Farrie had said. Scarlett was remembering the sheriff crouched in the driveway that afternoon with his pistol in both hands. Big and tough, too, her sister had pointed out. You needed that against Devil Anse.
But married?
Scarlett frowned. She supposed there were worse things. She wondered how old the sheriff was. If she had to guess she would say not much over thirty.
She bent over him. As he slept the dark fan of his eyelashes were noticeable, unexpectedly long and pretty. They were complemented by a straight sweep of nose, swollen at the tip where he’d fallen on it. His curved mouth, open, snored a little. Even unconscious he looked able to handle anything.
Scarlett felt torn. If she didn’t look after Farrie nobody else would. Worse, they’d taken away her money at the Jackson County jail; they had nothing, now, to get them to Atlanta. She yawned suddenly, convulsively. It was just too much to worry about; she was almost asleep on her feet. She quickly straightened up, feeling a little too warm, strangely dizzy. It was the house. That furnace running like it would never shut off. It had nothing to do with looking at the young sheriff asleep on the couch half naked, in his bare feet.
“Let’s go, Demon.” She reached down to take the dog by the collar but it shifted away, pressing flat on the rug. “What’s the matter with you?” Scarlett whispered. “You’re not supposed to be down here.”
Demon only hunched closer to the couch, lifting a massive head to lick the sheriff’s suspended hand.
Scarlett stood watching. Mostly Demon stuck close to Farrie. On the other hand, she knew that the dog could act strange if someone was in trouble. Once Scarlett had fallen into a gully in the woods and hurt her leg and no one could find her. Demon had hung close as a leech that morning, not letting Scarlett out of her sight. And was sitting there, waiting, when some Scraggs cousins finally took the time to find her.
Before Scarlett could haul on Demon’s collar the body on the couch stirred, and mumbled something. Demon promptly licked the sheriff’s hand.
He seemed to flinch. “Dog… out,” the sheriff muttered. “Damn… damn dog… mmph… ”
Scarlett didn’t wait for him to wake up. “Well, just stay there,” she hissed. “I’ll let Farrie take care of you in the morning.”
She tiptoed toward the door. Demon was leaning against the sheriff’s arm, staring at him adoringly. The dog had not even pricked up her ears at the mention of Farrie’s name.
Scarlett made her way back down the hallway toward the foot of the stairs. There was no need to turn on the hall ceiling light, she thought, looking at its prisms winking softly; the sheriff was bound to wake up sooner or later and close up the house. A small noise made her look toward the etched glass panels that flanked the front door. What she saw made her catch her breath.
The porch light was on and the door was locked. But the face that looked at her through the decorated glass was what you would conjure up if you wanted to be scared half out of your wits – a wild, dirty gray beard, white-rimmed, burning eyes. A mouth grimacing now with words she could not hear.
Scarlett saw a grimy hand point downward, toward the lock. Then lift to jab at her.
She stood rooted to the spot, caught by those terrible eyes that bored into hers. Unlock the door. She could not hear Devil Anse’s words, but she could see his lips move.
Never! If it had been a scream it would have burst out of her.
With her hand clamped over her mouth to keep from yelling, Scarlett turned and ran up the stairs.
Six
Madelyne Smith, buck’s secretary, was filing some papers when he walked into his office. She turned from the file cabinet with a surprised flicker of her eyes as she took in the sheriff’s muddy hat, paw prints across the front of his shirt, and coffee stains in a rather indelicate place on the front of his uniform trousers.
“My goodness, Sheriff,” she said, “you sure wouldn’t pass inspection this morning. You better not let your deputies see you.”
At Buck’s ferocious glare, Madelyne decided to leave it at that. Turning, she nearly fell over the Hound of the Baskervilles. She let out a shriek.
“Good grief, what do you call it?” Madelyne hastily retreated behind her desk. “Is it a dog or an animal Frankenstein?”
“I’ve had a bad morning,” Buck growled. “It started early. Can you get somebody back in the communications room to turn down those damned Christmas carols?”
Deputy Moses Holt, hearing the commotion, came out of the hallway that led to the cell block. He stared at the dog. “Sheriff, I thought you decided we didn’t have a budget for no K-Nine corps.”
At the sound of his voice, Demon raised her black head and snarled softly. Deputy Holt went back inside the cell block and closed and locked the door. “Didn’t mean no offense,” he said through the bars.
“The dog’s not a K-Nine,” Buck explained tersely. He looked around for a good place to put the Scraggs dog but the cell block was already taken by his deputy. “It’s a pet. You don’t bother it, it won’t bother you.”
As Demon followed close on his heels into his office, Buck hoped he was right.
His secretary was not convinced. She stared at the massive animal that settled under Buck’s desk, red tongue lolling out of its fanged mouth.
“That’s the last thing I’d have for a pet,” she observed. “What does it eat – truck bodies?”
Buck didn’t answer. He was going through a stack of telephone messages. He was rarely late, and never had he gotten into the office with so much urgent business piled up and waiting for him. There were four or five calls from the volunteer director of the newly organized Committee for the Real Meaning of Christmas. So far the committee’s nasty attitude on the subject of the cancellation of the Christmas living manger scene had made Buck wonder if they correctly understood the implications of their name. There was also a message in answer to a call Buck had left that morning before he left home: the Methodist minister’s wife, Grace Heamstead, had a houseful of company and couldn’t come herself but would send her daughter Judith over with some clothes from the church’s emergency clothes closet.