Chapter 4
Three years later, Jim sat in his office, pretending to go through papers and otherwise look busy. He was about to return his attention to Linda Collier, who had come outside and was watering the planter in front of the newspaper office, when he heard the moans, groans, and retching from the back room, signaling the return to consciousness of his smelly and unhappy guest.
"Ben," he yelled, "Don’t you be puking on my floor now, you hear? You got a bucket in there for that."
He heard the bucket scraping across the floor and settled back into his chair.
A car full of teenagers drove slowly past, daring him to come out and say something. Harper's Landing School was over on Second Street. The grade school was next to the high school, and the students shared recreation areas and ball fields. Occasionally, Jim had to go over there and remind some of the older kids that the little ones weren’t their personal punching bags.
He peered closely at the car. It was that Miller kid and his cronies, always skipping school. He wondered if they had any inkling of what kind of life awaited them without a high school diploma. Sometimes he thought he should arrest them and put them into a cell with Ben. But he was too fond of Ben, loser that he was, to do that to him.
His thoughts turned to Ben Jenkins.
Loser isn’t exactly fair, he thought.
He remembered the night about a year ago when he had picked up Ben, crying and puking, out near the farm that still bore his name. The farmhouse was on fire, and though Jim called the volunteer FD immediately, there was nothing they could do to save it. Ben was shaking with fear and cold and would only say that he had run from the pump house to the farmhouse, where he accidentally knocked over an oil lantern he was using to save on electricity.
Jim sighed deeply and got up to make a pot of strong black coffee. Ben was going to need lots of it as well as some food.
Me too, he thought.
Food and coffee sounded pretty good right now.
Once he got the pot going, he left, not bothering to lock the front door, and went down to Main, turned left and headed for Morey’s Diner to get takeout.
Morey’s was usually empty this time of day. Today it was buzzing with townspeople, gossiping over pie and coffee as Jen hurried about trying to keep up with the unexpected flow of orders. Morey was sweating over the grill, out of sorts at having so many customers at an unfamiliar time. He waved a spatula at Jim as he entered, and Jen just muttered a quick greeting as she hurried by.
Jim chose an empty seat at the large communal table and ordered his usual breakfast: two breakfast burritos, mild hot sauce, two cinnamon rolls, and an extra side of bacon. To go. He leaned back in his chair, sipping gingerly at the strong, hot, bitter coffee, and listened to the gossip.
The gossip, it turned out, was about a man named Grossman, who had purchased the mill and its surrounding property and was preparing to restore it as an historical site. Harper's Landing was already a summer tourist destination because of the great bass fishing on the Martin’s Way River. Additionally, Mary Harper’s national reputation as a master quilter brought many fellow quilters to her workshops and just to browse her shop. Having a working museum would bring even more visitors who would bring money with them.
"Jim," said one of the regulars, "you gotta talk Ben into selling the rest of his land. They need a better road to the mill if this project’s going to be successful, and the only good place for a road runs right through his property."
"I’m not about to talk Ben into anything. He just lost his brother last month; give him some time," replied Jim.
Just then the bell over the diner door jingled and in stumbled the subject of everyone’s conversation.
"Jim," yelled Ben, "You gotta come back to your office. Mary Harper is there, and it’s bad. Worse than you know, even worse than she thinks."
Silence fell over the diner. It was obvious Ben was completely sober now, and terrified. Everyone was ready to rush to the sheriff’s office at once.
Jim rose.
"You all stay here. You’ll know soon enough what’s going on. Let’s don’t upset Mary, or Ben for that matter, any more. And for heaven’s sake stop gossiping. You’ll know soon enough what Ben will do about the property and if there’s going to be a mill again."
He wrapped a long arm around Ben and gently steered him down the steps and back around toward his office. Jen, the waitress, ran after carrying a bag with their forgotten breakfast and pressed it into Jim’s hand.
"Don’t forget to eat. He needs it, even if you don’t."
The door shut behind her, but she stood in the window watching their slow progress down the street, a worried frown creasing her brow. After a few moments, the conversation again picked up regarding Ben’s competence, this time tinged with concern about just what had got him so riled up.
Jim made sure Ben was settled into a chair at the side of the office, and carefully put his breakfast and a cup of strong black coffee on the table in front of him. Throughout this process Mary Harper sat on the straight chair by the door, clutching her purse and alternately glaring at him and wiping her eyes. Eventually, having settled in to his own desk and placed his breakfast before him, he turned his attention on her.
"Mary, you look pretty upset. Now take it easy and tell me what’s going on. Would you like a cup of coffee or some water?"
Mary shook her head.
"Go ahead and eat your breakfast, Jim. I can talk while you chew."
Jim picked up a burrito and took a huge bite. The food hit him like a warm sauna on aching muscles. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. He tried to focus on the terrified woman before him.
Mary O’Connor Harper was about forty-two, married to Bull Harper, formerly the mill foreman and now the town carpenter and handyman. Mary, a tiny but determined woman, ran a quilt shop next to the barber shop over on Main and Fourth. She kept Quilt Heaven open even after Wally World moved in by providing classes and quality goods. Her classes for kids and adults were always full. During the summer, she would hold quilters' retreats at the Rectory. She was a solid, no-nonsense woman who had raised her kid brother, Rory, after their parents were killed in a car accident out on Miller Road one winter. She was a talented artist, expressing her vision in fabric and thread rather than paint, and some of her quilts had won national awards.
Everyone in Harper's Landing knew how strong the bond was between brother and sister. When Rory returned from Iraq, wounded in both body and spirit, Mary and Bull had taken him in and nursed him back to good health. But Rory never again worked. Even the slightest noise could send him trembling in a corner. The shrapnel in his leg bothered him whenever the weather changed. Mary and Bull built him an apartment over the garage. He made do with his VA pension and medical care from the new VA clinic and hospital over in Wilton. Sometimes he would go down to Mary’s shop and run the big longarm quilting machine. He had quite a talent for quilting the creations of her students, and he loved the quiet hum of the stitching and the soothing back and forth motion of the process.
Rory had bought himself an older car and would regularly go fishing for crappie and bass at Big Bass Pond where the Martins Way curved and formed a deep pool. Sometimes, in the early fall, he would find wild blackberries and bring home buckets of them for Mary to make into jams and pies. Occasionally he would attempt to borrow Bull’s rifle for deer hunting, but he would invariably start to tremble and shake and have to put the long gun back. He contented himself with the occasional rabbit trap and the foraging as his contributions to the family larder.
And now, according to Mary, he had simply disappeared.
"Harve Sanders called him up yesterday morning," she said. "Asked if he would drive out to the old pump house on the Jenkins farm in Harve’s landscape truck to pick up some fertilizer bags. Haven’t heard from him since."
She drew a shaky breath and made a feeble attempt to sit up taller.
"Has anyone been out to the farm?" asked Jim.
"Harve went out there this morning. The truck was there, all loaded up with the fertilizer bags, just waiting to be brought back to town."
"So, what’s got you so spooked, Mary?" asked Jim.
She was trembling and near tears, not a normal reaction for this practical, tough woman.
"He saw scuff marks, Jim. Harve said he saw scuff marks when he opened the pump house doors."
"Scuff marks?"
"Harve said he saw marks, like heels of boots would make if someone was being dragged across the ground. Not long, about two to three feet, going toward the center where the pump used to be. It’s covered up now, or it's supposed to be."
Her voice raised higher and the words came faster. Jim got up, put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed just a bit.
"You just sit here for a moment," he said gently.
He walked back to his private office, dialed the phone, and waited.
"Yup," grumbled Bull’s deep voice.
"This is Jim Burch. You’d better come down to my office. Mary’s here, and something’s got her in a state."
"Be right there, Jim."
Jim turned to the cabinet behind him and poured a small amount of bourbon into a clean glass. He topped it off with water from the cooler and carried the drink back to his office.
"Here," he said, in his best sheriff voice. "Drink this. You’ll feel better."
Mary grabbed the glass and tossed back the whole thing. She was seized with a small choking fit, but then sat back and said, "Can I have another, please?"
Jim went to his office and returned with a somewhat stiffer version of the first glass.
Mary sipped at it cautiously, and slowly began to relax. As she did, the tears began to roll down her cheeks. Jim handed her a box of tissues and waited for her to gather herself and for Bull to arrive.
Bull Harper lived up to his name. He was short, wide, muscular, and stubborn as a mule. What he lacked in stature he made up in swagger, and no one in their right mind would have ever allowed him in a china shop. He loved his job at the newly renovated mill. He liked people well enough, but in very small doses. He had been a great supervisor at the Harper's Landing Textile Mill because he knew how to stay out of other people’s business unless it was necessary to intervene.
What he lacked in the social graces was more than made up for by his steadfast loyalty as a friend and his fanatical devotion to Mary. He quite literally worshipped the ground she walked on and defended her with every fiber of his being.
The door banged open with a force that would have jolted a lesser building as he stormed into the sheriff’s office.
"Jim, where is she?" he yelled, sweat beading on his red face. He had obviously run much of the way from the only available parking behind the building.
"Calm down, Bull. She’s right here with me and Ben, having a drink. You want one too?"
"Sure. What the hell, gotta be past noon somewhere."
Bull lumbered into the chair next to Mary and took her tiny hand in his. His frown of concern turned into a slight smile when he saw that she seemed calm. However, the moment she felt his hand she burst into tears and leaned into his arms, sobbing and shaking.
Jim returned with a drink for Bull, which he sat carefully on a nearby table and waited patiently for the two of them to get composed. He leaned back and regarded his three guests with curiosity. Ben was still utterly and completely sober and seemed terrified. Mary was gathering her calm about her. And Bull was moving from concerned to pissed and back again.
"All right," said Jim, leaning back in his chair. "Let’s see if I've got the facts straight. Mary, you said you never heard from Rory after Harve sent him out to the old pump house on Ben’s farm to pick up the fertilizer bags."
Mary nodded, picking at the embroidery on her sweater. She tried to control her emotions and not look at Ben.
"And Harve said he found the truck with the sacks loaded, but no signs of Rory?"
Mary nodded again.
"And he said there were marks, like something or someone was dragged toward the well where the pump used to sit?"
Ben whimpered and started to shake uncontrollably. To Jim’s shock, a puddle of yellow liquid started to pool at his feet.
"Good God, Ben! You’re peeing yourself."
Ben continued to whimper and shake uncontrollably, while Bull and Mary looked away. Jim led him back to his usual cell, handed him a pair of clean white prisoner pants, and gingerly took away the soiled old jeans. He then got the mop and bucket and cleaned up the puddle. Mary and Bull sat watching, distracted and appalled all at the same time.
After seeing Ben safely into the shower, Jim sat down and took a long pull at his cup of now cold coffee. He poured himself a fresh cup and thought longingly of the bottle in his back office. But he was still on duty.
"Sorry about that. I don’t know what got into him. I’ll find out later. But for now, has Rory ever gone off like this before?"
"Nope," said Bull. "He doesn’t like to be alone, ‘cept when he goes fishing up at Big Bass Pool. Not that he’s particularly social; he just sticks close to home."
Bull wiped his face. He was less red now, and some of Jim’s initial alarm faded as the big man got control of himself.
"Let me make some phone calls, investigate this. I’ll probably go up to the pump house myself, just to see what Harve thinks he saw. You two go home. Bull, can you get the rest of the day off? I don’t think Mary should be alone."
"Nope," said Bull. "But I can get someone to come down to the shop with her. Mary, will you be okay at the shop?"
Mary nodded. She gathered her things, looking forward to the familiar smells of textile and wool, the gentle clack of the sewing machines, and tried not to cry again when she realized that Rory would not be there to run the quilting machine.
"Where is he," she wailed silently, trying not to let her imagination run wild.