The Narrows(38)

3



After leaving the Crawly house, Ben stopped at the Dandridges’ where he summoned old Delmo Dandridge to the door. Delmo looked less than pleased to find Ben Journell on his front porch at that ungodly hour. Delmo had suffered his fair share of run-ins with the police sergeant in the past, having been arrested by Ben on at least two occasions that Ben could recall off the top of his head. In an easy tone, Ben apologized for knocking on the door so late then explained the reason for his visit. Delmo grunted and told Ben to come in.

The house was a pigsty. He had to navigate a maze of upturned furniture, towers of bound newspapers, and random electrical appliances in various stages of disrepair, while following Delmo into the small, foul-smelling kitchen.

“Beer?” Delmo said, and since he didn’t move from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, Ben knew he was being a smartass.

“You’re familiar with the Crawly boy who lives down the road?” Ben asked.

One of Delmo’s eyebrows arched. “The crawling boy?” he said, wiggling his fingers in the imitation of a scampering spider.

“Matthew Crawly,” Ben clarified.

“Yeah. He’s Dwight’s friend. His sister was here earlier looking for him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Shit if I know.” Delmo was wearing sweatpants cut off at the knees and a tight undershirt that did his bulbous midsection no favors. “He gone missing?”

“Yes.”

Delmo’s wife, Patti, appeared in the doorway, a cigarette jutting from between two fingers, wearing a flimsy ribbed undershirt that clung to her sagging, generously nippled breasts. A large German shepherd sidled up beside her, its silvery eyes locked unwaveringly on Ben. He’d shot and killed a dog once before, as it charged him from across a barn. He had no qualms about a repeat performance if it came to that.

“What’s this?” Patti rasped. She eyed Ben in the same suspicious and distrustful manner as the dog.

“He’s here looking for the Crawly boy,” Delmo informed her.

“Matthew?” She cocked one eyebrow.

“Do you recall the last time you saw him?” Ben asked. A second dog paced back and forth across the hallway behind her.

“Lord,” she said, blowing a streamer of cigarette smoke up over her head where it seemed to collect like gossamer in the ceiling fixtures. “Maybe a week or so ago. Did something happen to him?”

“He’s gone missing,” growled Delmo before Ben had a chance to answer her.

“Is Dwight available to speak with me?” Ben asked instead.

Patti Dandridge’s other eyebrow went up. “Now?” She made a big deal of looking at the wall clock over the stove.

“I know it’s late,” Ben said, “but it’s important.”

“I’ll wake him,” Patti said. She moved back out into the hall. At first, the German shepherd remained staring at Ben, quite possibly sizing him up the same way Ben had sized up Delmo Dandridge when he had answered the door just moments ago. But then the dog turned tail and padded down the hall after Patti. The second dog, no more than an indistinct black blur at the far end of the poorly lit hallway, continued to pace like a lion in a cage. The whole house stank of dog shit.

“Flood sent John Church’s trash can through my basement window,” Delmo said. He leaned his considerable bulk against the stove, his belly jutting from beneath the strained fabric of his undershirt. “Who do I see about that?”

“See about that?”

“About gettin’ my window fixed.”

“I would think your homeowner’s insurance would take care of it,” Ben opined, not without a hint of affectation.

Delmo grunted while he dug around in one ear with a finger roughly the diameter of an Italian sausage.

Dwight appeared in the kitchen doorway, shirtless and straining against a pair of striped boxer shorts. His hair was corkscrewed and he winced in the harsh kitchen lighting. Ben nodded succinctly at Delmo then led the boy back down the hall and to the stairwell, where they both took a seat on the third step up from the bottom. Ben asked him about Matthew.

“We hung out after school yesterday then we went home for dinner. I haven’t seen him since then.” Dwight Dandridge spoke in hushed tones, either because the subject matter disturbed him or because he didn’t want his parents, who lingered down the hall in the kitchen, to overhear. Or possibly it was a combination of both.

“Thanks, Dwight,” Ben said, and squeezed the boy’s knee before getting up off the steps.



4



The rain was coming down in sheets by the time Ben arrived back at the police station. The weather report predicted a second storm, just as bad, if not worse, than the one that had flooded the Narrows and darkened the center of town, and Ben had no doubt of its inevitable arrival. It seemed par for the course—what else could possibly go wrong?

The station was hopping this evening, at least for a department as small as Stillwater’s. Ben could hear music coming from the Batter’s Box. The soles of his shoes squelching on the tiles, he crossed into the Batter’s Box to find Officers Eddie La Pointe and Mike Keller sitting in their respective cubicles, tossing a handball back and forth. The radio on Mike Keller’s desk poured out a Tom Petty tune, all jangly guitar and harmonica.