At the top of the steps the light in the main hallway shone out through the glass doors onto the concrete, but the doors were locked and he stood for a moment in a panic, rattling the doors and pounding on the glass. Finally it occurred to him that it was late Saturday afternoon. So he turned and stumbled back down the steps and immediately began to run again, along the high brick wall of the courthouse toward the corner of the building and then around it and along the sidewalk toward a red light above another door. This door was unlocked and he threw it open and ran down a flight of stairs to the basement. In the first office off the hallway he found Dale Willard, Holt County deputy sheriff, sitting at a desk with his feet up. Willard was clipping his fingernails.
“Where’s Bud?” Bird cried. He stood panting at the counter.
Willard looked up at him.
“Where’s Bud Sealy?”
“He’s not here.”
“I can see that. Where is he?”
“Right now? He’s at home eating his supper.”
“Then Jesus Christ, get him on the phone. Tell him to get over here.”
Willard allowed his feet to drop from the desktop and slowly he sat up in the chair. He leaned forward and began to brush the fingernail clippings from his shirtfront onto the green blotter on the desk. He was making a neat pile. “Something bothering you, Ralph?” he said. “You sound a little excited.”
“What?” Bird said.
He was still standing behind the office counter, panting and sweating, his face as red as beets and his eyes looking as though they belonged in the head of an alarmed poodle.
“Excited? Listen. By god, if you ain’t going to call him, at least reach me that phone so I can. What’s his number?”
“No. I imagine I can call him myself,” Willard said. “Soon’s I know there’s a reason to call him. Soon’s I have some idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“What I’m talking about?” Bird said. But he was shouting now. “I’ll tell you what—” Then he seemed to catch himself; he appeared to make an effort to be calm. But it didn’t quite work, so that he began to speak now to Willard as though he were addressing an idiot. “What I’m talking about,” he said, talking too slowly, “is how that son of a bitch is back in town. That’s what I’m talking about. Now call him.”
“Sure. But which son of a bitch is that, Ralph?”
“What? You mean you—”
“I mean you haven’t said yet.”
“Well it’s Jack Burdette. Jesus Christ, you’ve at least heard of him, haven’t you? You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Yes. I know who Jack Burdette is.”
“And you know what he did, don’t you?”
“I know what he did. Everyone in Holt County knows what he did.”
“Then call Bud Sealy. Goddamn it. Here that—” But again he was shouting. The momentary restraint he had managed to place on himself had disappeared and so he was shouting once more, his face inflamed and outraged above the loosened tie. “Here that son of a bitch is back in town again and he’s driving a red Cadillac with California plates. And he’s got it parked out in front of the Holt Tavern and if you don’t quit asking me these goddamn questions and get up off your fat—”
“That’ll do,” Willard said. He stood up and leaned toward Bird. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”
“—he’s going to — What?” Bird said. “What’d you just say?”
“I said, ‘Shut your goddamn mouth.’ Now go over there and sit down. I’ll let you know if I want anything more out of you. In the meantime keep your mouth shut.”
Ralph Bird was astonished almost into peace by this. He was not used to being talked to in this way; it made him quiet. He sat down in a chair in the corner and folded his hands like a child. But his eyes were still wild.
Willard stood watching him. Finally he pulled the telephone toward himself across the desk. He dialed the number. While he listened to the phone ring he pushed the wastebasket with his foot until it was beneath the edge of the desk; then with his free hand he swept the neat pile of fingernail clippings into the trash.
When Sealy answered, Willard said. “Bud?”
“Yes.”
“Bud. Listen. Ralph Bird is in here and he …” Willard went on to tell him what Bird had said.
At his home Sealy listened to Willard talking. When Willard finished telling what he knew, Sealy asked how long ago that was and Willard told him and Sealy said had he checked any of it and Willard said no, he hadn’t checked any of it, he wanted to call first, and Sealy said he doubted it but after he’d finished eating he’d drive over to see for himself.
“In the meantime what do you want me to do with Bird?” Willard said.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s still a little excited.”
“Hell,” Sealy said. “You figure it out. Take him home to his wife if you can’t contain him. At least she can feed him his supper.”
“I imagine I can contain him,” Willard said.
* * *
So it was full dark now. The streetlamps shone clearly at the corners of town, making pale circles of light on the pavement under the trees. It was that brief anticipatory moment between six and seven o’clock on a November evening when the shops on Main Street have all been closed for the weekend, when the high-school kids haven’t yet begun to race up and down Main Street, when even the Holt Tavern is quiet before the Saturday night rush and out along the highway there are only three or four men sitting quietly, drinking at the bar in the American Legion.
At home, after he’d talked to Deputy Willard, Bud Sealy finished his supper. Then he rose and walked outside into the dark in front of his house. The stars had come out and, looking at them, he belched once and felt better. Then he lit a cigarette and got into the sheriff’s car parked in front of his house and drove north two blocks onto Highway 34, then north again onto Main Street.
Driving up Main Street he passed the water tower and the bank and the post office and the theater, just as Burdette had done two or three hours earlier, and soon, a block ahead of him, he could see the red Cadillac parked at the curb in front of the tavern. He slowed. When he reached the Cadillac he parked the sheriff’s car behind it so that whoever was driving the Cadillac wouldn’t escape. He released the strap over his gun and got out.
But Burdette didn’t appear to have escape or anything else on his mind. He was still sitting in the front seat. He was slumped down massively in the seat and his head was thrown back against the headrest. The light from the corner lamp shone palely onto his big face and jaw.
Sealy examined him for a moment. Finally he tapped with his fingers on the roof of the car. Inside the car Burdette opened his eyes and rolled his head, looking up at Sealy as if the sheriff were of no interest to him whatsoever.
“Well,” Sealy said. “So you come back, did you?”
“That’s right,” Burdette said. “I come back.”
“Hell of a deal.”
“That’s what I think. I’ve been sitting here trying to remember what for.”
“That so?” Sealy said. “I thought you was smarter than that. I thought you had it all figured out.”
“I did once. But I seem to of forgot what a little piss ant place this is. I can’t seem to recall now what I wanted here.”
“No? Well I imagine we haven’t changed so much. Not so you’d notice it anyway. We still get a little upset when somebody does something wrong to us. And afterward decides to disappear.”