Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,27
who pissed the bed.
The cop didn’t get up, didn’t offer his hand.
Webster stared at the man, waiting for an explanation from somebody. The cop’s chin had so many acne scars, it looked chewed. The eyes were pale green, washed out.
“An empt,” the guy said again, as if he’d made a terrific joke. Nodding all the time. Establishing rank. He examined Webster head to toe. “Quite a surprise to find my sweet little Squirrel shacked up preggers with an empt in Vermont.”
Why didn’t Sheila say something?
“Get out,” Webster said.
“Whaaa? I drive all the way from Chelsea, and you want me to leave without a proper meal?”
“There’s a diner down the road,” Webster said.
Engaging him.
Mistake.
“Squirrel and me have things we need to talk about.”
“Not in this house,” Webster said.
“This a house? Fuck, you coulda fooled me.” The cop took a sip of coffee, as if he were Webster’s best friend.
“What things?” Webster asked.
Second mistake.
“Hey, man, the bitch ran out on me,” the cop said, as if appealing to a fraternal bond.
Sheila looked up at Webster. She put her hand on the table. “He says I owe him money,” she said.
“Do you?” Webster asked.
She shrugged.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred.”
“Eight hundred fifty,” the cop corrected. He slid his hand across the table and covered Sheila’s. She flinched.
“Take your fucking hand off her,” Webster said, quivering with fury.
The guy was thirty, maybe thirty-three. Maybe he weighed 225.
“Simmer down, probie.”
Was the gun in the holster the reason the guy had driven through three states in his uniform? It would have taken him four hours to get to Hartstone.
All Webster could hear was Burrows’s voice in his ear, warning him months ago: Never approach a guy with a gun. Even if he’s hurt. He’s hurt, too bad for him. Nine times out of ten, you approach, he’ll shoot you.
“She’s a squirrely little hustler,” the cop said, looking in Sheila’s direction and then back at Webster. “She hustling you?”
“I’ll say it one more time,” Webster said, enunciating each word. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
“Or what?” the cop asked. “You’ll call the cops?” The guy grinned.
Webster pictured Nye and McGill arriving at the apartment. Looking from Webster to the cop and back again.
“What did she tell you?” the cop asked. “She tell you everything?”
Sheila twisted out of her chair, walked to the stove, kept her back to the two men.
“Like how she used to be standing at the top of the stairs in her nothing at all when I got off my shift? All pink and rosy from her bath? Me with the bottle of Maker’s Mark in my hand? She tell you I saved her from a life on the streets?” The cop turned to look at Sheila’s back. “You’d think she’d be more grateful. An apartment? A car to tool around in? I guess she likes guys who save her.”
“Sheila,” Webster said. “Get your jacket. We’re leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” the cop said. “I got business here.”
Webster was silent.
The cop hitched himself forward in his chair, the seat barely containing his thighs. “Well, empt, I’ll tell you what. I’m hungry. So I’m going to go to that diner you mentioned and have a big meal. And when I’ve finished with my coffee, I want Sheila to be sitting on a stool next to me with the money in large bills inside an envelope.”
The cop stood.
“Don’t go to the diner,” Webster said, hating that he had to speak at all. But he couldn’t have the guy at Geezer’s. “Go to the pub at the inn.”
The cop grinned again. “You’re a stand-up guy, you know that? But you’re an idiot. Don’t waste your time on that fucking whore.”
Never had Webster wanted to throw a punch more than he did at that moment. With every muscle screaming, he moved to one side.
The cop put on his cap, completing the uniform more than a hat ought to.
“You wouldn’t last ten minutes in Chelsea,” the cop said.
Sheila turned to Webster the moment the door was closed. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her eyes with her fingers, as if she wanted to blot out the image of the cop.
“Why did you let him in?”
“I didn’t. I heard footsteps on the stairs. I opened the door, thinking it was you, and then he was inside.”
Webster’s legs shook. He put his coat over a chair and sat down. “How’d he find you?” Webster asked.
“Is that a serious question?”
“I fucking wanted to cream the guy.”
“I was terrified you were going to do something.”
“Come over here,” he said. He patted the