Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (13 page)

“Tim, if you want to screw me, I'll take my clothes off. If you want to screw me daily, you can come here. I think I may take a job at a bookstore and make Charlotte my home for a while."

“Sandy I don't want to screw you. No, that's a lie, but sex is not the main thing. With you in it, the house felt right. It was an open door for me. When I peeked inside it felt good. It doesn't feel good now that I know you are not there, somewhere in the house, enjoying it too. If you don't want to forget my stupid insistence on a plan, come home with me and let me help you with it. Maybe we can come up with a plan that suits both of us. If you want to work in a bookstore, you can commute from Dot."

“Excuse me,” she said and went into the bathroom. He heard her urinate, the toilet flush, water running, and then she reappeared. He was looking out the window. She embraced him from behind and kissed him gently on the neck. “I can't come back, not now, not ever. I would like to. I really would, but someone in Dot knows who I am."

“That's what he meant!” Tim exclaimed, wheeling around and grasping her by the shoulders. “I went to church this morning. It's a long story. There was a substitute preacher. They read a letter of resignation from this Baxter fellow. Bobby told me to be sure to tell you. I forgot because it didn't make any sense at the time."

“Is preacher Baxter okay? I mean, he's not dead is he?"

“What? No. At least as far as I know he's not dead. His letter said something about it not being God's will for him to stay in Dot any longer."

She pulled him close to her body and kissed him hard on the lips.

Sixty minutes later they were sitting on their front porch just outside the unincorporated limits of the village of Dot, sipping cold cans of diet cola.

“That looks like Bobby's truck,” Sandra said to Tim who sat beside her with the unopened Sunday edition of the
Charlotte Observer
on his lap. They watched Bobby park the truck in front of the porch.

“Just checkin’ on you folks,” Bobby shouted from inside the vehicle.

“Come on up,” Tim shouted back.

As Bobby climbed out of the truck and made his way to the porch steps, Sandra whispered, “Is Bobby actually smiling and did I hear him utter a complete sentence?"

“Yep and yep,” Tim whispered back.

“Pull up a chair and have a seat,” Tim said as Bobby reached the porch.

“Been sittin’ too much today,” Bobby replied, leaning against the porch rail. “I've got a couple of things to tell you if I'm not intrudin'."

“Not at all Bobby. What's on your mind?” Tim responded.

“I've been knowing this ol’ gal for a bunch of years. Name's Adele. Guess we're gonna get married Halloween."

“That's wonderful,” Sandra exclaimed, rushing from her rocker to embrace him and kiss his cheek lightly.” Bobby inwardly moaned as her firm little breasts pressed against his chest.

“Congratulations, Bobby.” Tim was pumping his hand.

“Adele, my brother and I spent yesterday afternoon trying to decide how to remodel my place,” Bobby said, pulling a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket.

Sandra returned to the rocker, but Tim leaned on the rail next to Bobby and examined the paper. “Looks good to me,” Tim said.

“Guess we won't have any trouble charging stuff at the hardware store. Maybe you ought to say something to them at the lumberyard. Brother says he can start tomorrow."

“What's your brother's name?"

“Carl."

“I'll call both places in the morning. Now listen, Bobby,” Tim said as he handed back the paper, “as you go along you're going to find other things that need repair."

“Yes, but I'll check with you first."

“No need."

“I'd feel better checking. Especially if much money is involved."

“Okay, but check with Sandy instead of me.” He looked at Sandra and continued, “She's going to be looking after things around here while I try to figure out all of Uncle Pete's business investments. Is that okay with you, honey?"

Sandra's eyes danced in reply. “Bobby, thank you so much for all you've done—are doing—for us,” she said. “It's so good to see you smiling."

He started to tell her he was smiling because she decided to come back, but instead said, “I'm the one who should be doin’ the thanking. My bigger paycheck and fixin’ up the house has changed my life."

“For the better, I hope,” Tim said, shaking the big man's hand again.

“Bobby,” Sandra called out as he descended the porch steps, “I can't help but notice you've changed the way you talk to us."

“Yes ma'am,” he grinned. “I'm practicing. Adele says she won't marry me unless I use sentences."

As the truck moved away, Tim, rather apologetically said, “Sandy, I'm sorry I laid that on you without checking with you first."

She grinned. Her eyes twinkled. “I'll forgive you this time, Dude."

“Dude, huh. Okay Dudette. I promise not to do that again."

“As the newly appointed administrator of the no-name ranch, my first official act is to recommend that you, that we, give Bobby his house and a little land as a wedding present."

“As the lord and master of the no-name ranch, I will take your recommendation under advisement,” he smiled, but he knew it was a done deal, and she knew he knew.

“I want a long soak in the Whirl Pool, Dude."

“Want company?"

“What do you think?"

The gentle wind alternately lifted and lowered the pages of the
Charlotte Observer
, which lay abandoned on the porch rocking chair.

Sandra woke up by degrees. First, she felt pleasant sensations in her chest area, then lower, then lower still. Why is he moving my leg like that? she dreamily wondered. Oh, side entry. I wish he weren't wearing a condom. Oh yeah, that's good. He seems bigger this way. His hands are free. Oh yes, Tim.

Again, she beat him to orgasm. When he rolled over on his back, she reached for tissues, strategically placing several between her legs. She slid off the condom, wrapped it in tissues and snuggled up to him, resting her head on his chest.

“Good morning, Dude."

There was no answer. He had already drifted back to sleep.

“Wonder who he was screwing in his dreams?” she muttered as she climbed out of bed, now wide-awake. After cleaning up, she put on a robe and went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it dripped, she decided to ride the golf cart to the highway to get Tim's newspaper for him.

Stepping out on the front porch, she found that the wind had scattered the pages of the forgotten Sunday newspaper. Impatiently she began snatching up the clutter. Her eyes fell on the front-page headline: “Van Fans No Fans of Sheriff Dilson.” With heart pumping rapidly she grabbed the remaining pages of the scattered newspaper and, to escape the cold October morning, returned to read the lead article over a cup of coffee in the warm kitchen.

Responding to a silent alarm, sheriff Matt Dilson and a half dozen deputies surrounded Murray's Food Mart on Interstate 85 just south of the Charlotte city limits about 3:00 a.m. Saturday morning. A group of eight men and six women, who call themselves the “Van Fans,” were apprehended in the process of attempted armed robbery.

Sheriff Dilson stated that although shots were fired, there were no injuries. He credited the quick thinking of clerk Cecil Merit for the successful arrests. Merit sounded the silent alarm and managed to lock himself in a storage room, thus depriving the bandits of a hostage.

Dilson believes that the gang is responsible for a series of similar robberies across the state and possibly in South Carolina and Georgia as well. “There may be other members of this group,” Dilson said. “If so, we will identify them and bring them all to justice."

Arrested and charged with armed robbery were...

Sandra read the familiar names. She buried her head in her arms and sobbed as Tim walked into the room.

The big black spider car, with blue and white lights embedded in the grill flashing alternately, screeched to a stop beside six other Mecklenburg County Sheriff's Department patrol cars. Dilson emerged hastily but cautiously and made his way to Sergeant Masterson who was leaning over the hood of his patrol car with a rifle aimed at the dilapidated four-room house.

“Why do these damn things always happen in the wee hours of the morning?” Dilson asked.

“To keep you from getting any sleep,” replied Masterson, rolling the unlit cigar to the side of his mouth.

The dispatcher had filled Dilson in on details over the telephone. “A sixteen-year-old female dumped her older boyfriend. The boyfriend went nuts, and broke into the girl's home. He's armed and is threatening to kill the girl and himself,” the dispatcher had said.

“Any new developments?"

“He let the mama go a few minutes ago. She's a basket case—over there in the ambulance,” Masterson responded without taking his eyes off the house.

Dilson followed his sergeant's gesture and saw the ambulance parked a block away. He checked his bulletproof vest and said, “Let's get this over with. No radio contact. Give me five minutes and then get his attention with the bullhorn."

Matt slipped away, his dark blue uniform blending with the black night. He moved around the house next door and to the rear of the house occupied by a madman and a captive child. He eased up to the house and, keeping his back to the structure, inched his way to the rear door which opened into the darkened kitchen.

“LISTEN UP INSIDE.” Masterson had begun the diversion.

Cardboard replaced two panes of glass in the top portion of the door. Matt silently pushed his hand inside, groped for the latch chain but found none, quietly turned the knob and was in. He found the girl on the living room sofa; the gunman was beside the front window, peering out.

“Don't move,” Matt called out in his sternest voice.

Startled, the girl screamed; the gunman whirled and fired. Matt returned the fire, and the youth dropped to the floor, clutching his chest. Dilson quickly kicked the gun away, snapped on his portable radio and calmly said, “It's over. Come get him."

“Son-of-a-bitch gotcha,” Masterson teased, fingering the small hole in the sheriff's shirt as they watched the wailing, once tough guy lifted onto a stretcher.

“That's what the vests are for."

“Shot him in the shoulder. I'd have killed the bastard."

“Not worth killing,” Dilson replied, declining to admit his aim was off a few inches.

“Your buddies are waiting outside."

They are my buddies, Dilson thought as he went to meet the press. They were here the whole time, but there were no TV lights, no camera flashes—no interference to the operation at all.

The media ridiculed him when he first took office, but he refused to take offense. They were a part of his plan. He needed them. Now they knew he needed them, understood why and they liked it.

“First I want to thank you for your cooperation,” he said into the microphone thrust in his face.

Two hours later the sheriff sank into his desk chair, showered, shaved and wearing a fresh uniform. Other sheriff's wore business suits. He was a lawman and insisted on looking like one. Deputy Cathy Long brought him a steaming cup of coffee and the morning newspaper. He knew he should speak to her about the tight pants she wore, but his male deputies would lynch him, and he, too, enjoyed looking at the outline of her crotch and her bottom.

“You get any sleep last night?” she asked.

“Couple of hours,” he replied, wishing he had been standing when she entered the office. She always gave him a hug when they were alone and he was standing.

“That makes what, three, four days without a decent night's sleep?” she continued, moving behind him and massaging his shoulders.

“Something like that."

“You've got to take better care of yourself. I don't want to lose you."

“What's that supposed to mean? You telling me you are in love with the gray-haired old sheriff?"

“Of course I love you,” she laughed, moving towards the door. “Who else would have given me so many promotions so quickly?"

“Cathy, you earned those promotions. Don't you ever forget that."

She paused at the closed door and replied, “I know, but hell, nobody else would even hire me.” She reached for the doorknob.

“Cathy,” he called out, getting out of the chair.

She faced him as he approached.

“You didn't give me my morning hug."

She smiled, put her arms around his thick neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

He pulled her to him, forcing her massive breasts against his chest. He had never done that before. She didn't protest. He let his hands ride down, clasped her buttocks, and pulled her even closer, forcing her to feel his erection.

“Matt,” she said with a hint of alarm, placing her hands on his chest.

He cupped her cheeks with his hands and pressed his lips to hers. She broke free.

“Are you surprised to learn I have an erection in your honor?” he asked.

“I ... I guess so,” she stammered, backing to the door. She smiled weakly. “I think of you as the boss instead of the hoss."

“Why the hell did I do that?” he muttered, sitting back down at his desk.

He knew the hostage situation occurred too late to make the morning paper, but the insurance thing was probably there. “Right here on the front page,” he said aloud, hunching over the small desk on which was spread the newspaper.

He punched the button on the intercom. “Cathy, that house in the hostage situation this morning was in terrible condition. In that neighborhood, it must be a rental unit. Find out who owns it for me."

Company Is Concerned About Publicity

Sheriff Matt Dilson loves publicity, but the Blue Ridge Insurance Company does not. The company notified Mecklenburg County officials last week that it will cancel liability coverage for the sheriff's department and jail as of December 31. The company said the intense media attention Dilson receives constitutes “an increase in hazard."