Lacy's End (21 page)

After Peter left Brenda, he headed straight for the closest beer, which happened to be at Logan’s Place, a local tavern close to the sheriff’s station. There he would quench his thirsts for beer and women. If all went as expected, he could be tipping the mug and tantalizing the tongue in as soon as fifteen minutes. Not to mention satisfying his throbbing member. Add one more thing to the list of duties his disrespectful wife had denied him. When he got his hands on her, he’d make her pay. She wouldn’t be able to walk for a week when he finished claiming all his denied rights. A grin spread across his face as he grabbed his throbbing groin.

He walked into the tavern, boldly sporting his sheriff’s uniform. He normally avoided wearing his uniform here, except on official business. Despite his loose, lurid behavior, he tried to show respect for his position—at least most times. Today, however, he was angry enough not to care.

Several pairs of eyes swung toward him as he strutted up to the bar.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Josie, the bartender, said as he sat on a stool. “Startin’ a bit early today, aren’t ya?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at Josie. “It’s none of your business, Josie. Your job is to fill the tankard and leave the rest to me.”

He laughed as Josie set the mug in front of him. He downed it in five seconds flat.

Josie shook her head, chuckling. “That’s a new record for you, Sheriff.”

“Fill it again,” he said, slamming the mug down hard on the bar.

Josie shook her head again but filled the mug. She moved away, wandering around the bar straightening up and wiping down surfaces. Peter watched her work. He tilted his head to one side and began rolling his eyes at her. Occasionally, he’d snort at her. She pretended not to notice his obvious contempt.

The bar usually wasn’t busy this time of day, and Josie always used the noon hour to clean. She watched the sheriff from the corner of her eye, careful not to let him see her watching him. She was growing wary of him lately. He seemed to be becoming increasingly more aggressive as the days passed.

She recalled a trip to the market a few weeks ago. It had been a crazy day. It was her day off, and she had a million errands to run. Tyler, her youngest, had been running a fever, but wasn’t sick enough to stay in bed. Just entering his terrible twos, he had been bouncing off the walls and driving her nuts. When she went to fill his Sippy cup with juice, she had become frustrated to discover an empty carton that someone had put back in the refrigerator. “Trevor,” she had screamed, knowing it must have been her eldest son’s doing. He was always returning empty cartons to the refrigerator. Not that it had done her any good. Trevor was at school, but shouting to vent her frustration had felt good. Hoisting the toddler on her hip and depositing him in his umbrella stroller, she had walked the ten blocks to the corner market to get more juice.

That was where she had run into Mrs. Waldrip. The woman had looked so ragged and torn that Josie had barely recognized her. Tyler had dropped his teddy bear on the floor, but Josie hadn’t seen it. She was on the verge of running it over when Mrs. Waldrip had stuck out a hand to stop the stroller.

“Oops. We don’t want to run over the little guy.”

She had given a wan smile and handed the stuffed toy back to Tyler.

Josie had nearly gasped when she saw the bruises on her face, arms, and around her neck. Mrs. Waldrip had apparently noticed what she had been looking at because she turned away, blushing.

When Josie’s husband, Mark, came home that night, Josie fixed him his favorite dinner, bathed the children early, and sent them off to bed. She had made passionate love to him, and when he questioned her sudden voraciousness, she held him tight and told him she just wanted to show him how much she appreciated him.

“Josie!” the sheriff bellowed, bringing Josie back to the present. “Get me some more beer.”

“It’s barely noon,” she protested. “I think you should just go on back to work, and forget about the beer.”

He tore himself from the barstool, propelling toward her so fast that she barely saw him coming. He clutched her around the throat, backing her against the wall. Her eyes went wide as she gasped for air. Her feet barely touched the ground.

“You aren’t the beer monitor,” he spat, spittle flying from his mouth, his bulging eyes threatening to come out of their sockets.

“And I’m not your wife,” she managed to squeak out.

His hand tightened for a few seconds, and then he let go. Josie fell to the floor, her hands going instinctively around her throat as she fought to bring air into her lungs. She ran to the bathroom, gasping and coughing. She slammed shut the door and turned the deadbolt almost simultaneously.

Josie staggered to the sink, splashed cold water on her face and examined it in the mirror, checking for damage. Her eyes were red and watery. Splashes of color still stained her face from the disrupted blood flow, and she could see the marks on her throat from the pressure of his hands. Her heart squeezed tight at the realization of what his wife and daughter must feel on a nearly daily basis.

She heard the doorknob jiggle and froze.

“Josie, you all right in there?” the sheriff asked.

She didn’t answer, hoping he would go away.

He knocked again. “Josie. I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me. Please open the door.”

Torn with indecision, she stared at her reflection. If she reported the incident, what kind of wrath would she be unleashing? On the other hand, the sheriff clearly was out of control, and someone had to put a stop to him. Mark was certain to notice the bruises already forming on her throat. How would she explain them?

He knocked again—more insistently. “Open the goddamn door,” he said.

She heard him kick the door. She flinched. “Go away, Sheriff.”

“Are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine. Just get the hell out of my bar.”

“You’ll let me know if you need anything?” he asked.

“I need you to leave,” she said. She only hoped he didn’t hear the weakness in her voice.

She heard his footsteps retreating. She waited another five minutes and then slowly opened the door. She took a deep breath and peered out to see if the coast was clear. She took a tentative step out, looking around. She let out her breath and relaxed her shoulders. Her hands still shook, so she clasped them together.

The bar, sparsely occupied before, was now vacant of any patrons. She walked to the register, intent on checking the cash. It would be just her luck for someone to rip her off on top of everything else. She was surprised to find well over one hundred dollars in various denominations sitting on top of the register. If Sheriff Waldrip’s display of outrage had indeed frightened off her customers, they weren’t taking any chances by stiffing her on their tabs.

“Hey, beautiful.”

She looked up from the register and into her husband’s eyes, and then quickly back down at the register.

She tried to smile. “Hey, Mark.”

He bent down to look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m okay.”

He lifted her chin. As he did, the bruise around her neck caught his eye. “What’s this?” he asked, running his finger along her neck, tracing the outline of the handprints.

She pulled her head away while she shrugged. “One of my customers got a little rough.”

“What! Which customer?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She walked away from the register and began picking up stray glasses from various tables.

He followed her, taking hold of her upper arm and turning her toward him. “I asked which customer.”

“And I said it didn’t matter,” she spat. Then she broke down and cried.

He pulled her close and stroked her hair as he whispered in her ear, “Who was it, baby?” Then his lips went to her neck, kissing the welts. “Tell me.”

She started to cry again, and the tears stung the welts. She managed to choke out, “Sheriff Waldrip.”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in front of Charlie Renton swearing out a complaint against the sheriff.

After they’d left, Charlie stared at the phone for ten minutes. He hadn’t wanted to go this far above the sheriff’s head but hell, did he have a choice? The mayor and city council hadn’t listened to him. All they’d done was transfer him as if Charlie were the problem. Oh sure, they’d taken away the sheriff’s badge, but they gave it right back. Well, what did he have to lose? He’d soon be in Vegas, and none of this would be his problem. Why not stir things up a little before he went? Shaking his head, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number he never thought he’d have to call.

“Attorney General’s office,” a young, perky voice with no cares in the world said, “how may I help you on this fine day?”

Charlie cleared his throat. “This is Charlie Renton, the second-in-command at the Layton County Sheriff’s office.”

“What can I do for you?” the still-perky voice said.

“I need to file a complaint.”

“Is that right? Against whom?” Suddenly, the voice wasn’t quite as perky.

“Our sheriff,” Charlie said.

The once perky voice was now still. After several seconds, she said. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll get someone for you right away.”

After about fifteen seconds sitting on hold, Charlie almost lost his nerve and hung up. Finally, someone answered the phone, and Charlie began telling the investigator all about the abusive behavior of Sheriff Waldrip.

***

Peter barely made it home without sideswiping several cars. The first thing he noticed when he pulled into the driveway was Brenda’s car missing. Already reeling from his encounter with that twit of a bartender, his anger skyrocketed. “Damn you, Brenda. I told you to get your ass home.”

He parked his car, staggered to the front door and stepped inside.

Expecting to smell stale food and booze, he was surprised when the scent of lemons hit his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. He smiled to himself when he realized she had been there.

He walked into the kitchen and saw that the sink was empty of dirty dishes, the coffee pot was clean, and all the counters sparkled. “Now that’s more like it.”

He walked into the living room, saw the shiny furniture and knew why the scent of lemons filled the room
. She must have gone shopping to restock the pantry. Perhaps she’s planning something special for her homecoming dinner, maybe one of her amazing chocolate cakes,
he thought. He hoped he was correct.

Walking down the hallway, he paused by Lacy’s bedroom door. He pushed it open and for the first time noted all the things missing.
She must have been sneaking in while I was out slaving away to put food on the table
, he thought. Oh well, she’ll be home soon, and so will all her things.

He entered his bedroom and stopped short, shocked. The place looked as though someone had ransacked it. He picked up one of his dresser drawers and began shoving his things back inside. He put the drawer back where it belonged and began picking more things up.

He saw the dirty clothes hamper sitting in the middle of the room. This puzzled him because it belonged in the bathroom. He moved it back where it belonged, noting the bathroom had been cleaned. He smiled. Whatever had caused the chaos in the bedroom had not extended to this room.

He turned on the shower and stripped naked, looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. “Just enough time for a shower before my love gets home.”

He showered, toweled himself dry, and pulled on his robe. He opened the medicine chest, reached for his deodorant and froze. He moved things aside—too far aside. There was too much room in the cabinet. He closed the cabinet and ran to the dresser, pulling open the drawers that housed Brenda’s things. They were empty. Panting with exertion, his heart thumping wildly, he raced to the closet, flung open the door and stepped inside. He stared blankly at the empty closet rod.

“You little bitch!”

He dressed hurriedly, pulling his shirt over his head as he ran for the front door. He grabbed his keys off the hook just beside the door and rushed outside. He still had one leg out of the car when he turned the key, igniting the engine. He roared out of the driveway, tires spinning on the gravel.

***

Angela and Lacy were sitting at her dining room table, laughing over some teen scene magazine that Lacy had found in the bathroom at school. They sipped cocoa and ate cookies.

Lacy was pointing out some funky shoes one of the models was wearing when they heard the loud bang on the front door. They both jumped and let out a scream.

“Open up in there,” Peter screamed as he banged incessantly. “I know you’re in there, Brenda. Open this door or I’ll break it down.”

Lacy looked at Angela, fear extinguishing the joyous laughter of a few moments before. “He’s really angry,” Lacy said.

Angela nodded as she arose from the table and crossed to the front door. “Go away, Sheriff Waldrip. There’s a restraining order against you. You’re in violation.”

“I don’t give a damn about your restraining order, you horse’s ass!” he shouted back. “I want my wife and daughter, and I want them now!”