Heat

Chapter 11

Jesse pulled up in front of the house and gave it a good look. A two-story Victorian with a beautiful lawn and flower beds, a wide front porch and gingerbread everywhere. It looked old but was in perfect condition. He got out of the pickup, walked up the front walk, climbed the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. He reckoned on a long wait, while Mrs. Weather by made it to the front door with her walker.

He had turned and was admiring the flowers when a low voice behind him said, “Good morning.” He turned to find a much younger woman than he had expected. Mrs. Weather by’s nurse, no doubt.

“Good morning,” he replied. “My name is Jesse Barron. May I speak with Mrs. Weather by?”

She rewarded him with a quizzical smile. “I’m Mrs. Weather by,” she said, opening the screen door. “Please come in.” She turned and walked toward the rear of the house, expecting him to follow.

Jesse followed. “Forgive me, I suppose I was expecting a nice little old lady — the widow Weatherby,” he said to her back.

“I am the widow Weatherby,” she said without turning, and there was amusement in her voice. She led him into a large kitchen and indicated a chair at the breakfast table. “I was just making some tea; would you like some?”

He sat down and looked at her again. She was nearly as tall as he, slim, in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with gray streaks in her light brown hair. She wore a simple cotton dress that emphasized her small waist and full breasts.

“Would you like some tea?” she repeated, and as if on cue, the kettle began to sing.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. My mind was wandering, I guess.”

“Milk?”

“Just lemon, if you have it.”

She poured the tea and set it before him with a wedge of lemon on the saucer. “Sugar’s there on the table,” she said as she poured herself a cup. She set down her tea and pulled up a chair.

Her nose was slim and straight, her large eyes wide apart and her mouth broad, revealing large teeth when she opened it. She sipped her tea tentatively and gazed at him in a direct manner.

“Pat Casey said you might have a room to rent,” he said, trying not to seem unsettled.

“Jesse, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“You look like a pretty tough guy, Jesse.”

“I was in an accident; I used to look a little more respectable.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and a hint of a blush ran up her cheeks. “It’s just that I’m particular about who comes into my house, even if Pat Casey did recommend him.”

“That’s understandable,” Jesse said. “I don’t blame you a bit.”

“I have a little girl, you see; she’s at school right now.”

“How old?”

“Six. She’s in first grade.”

Jesse looked away, a move that was becoming more natural as he perfected his performance. “I had three girls, once,” he said.

“Are you divorced?”

“Widowed. My wife and daughters were killed in the car wreck that made me look like this.”

Her face fell. “Oh, I am sorry. I can only imagine what it must be like to lose a child, let alone three.”

“Thank you; I’m living with it.”

“Was the accident your fault?”

“No, thank God. I don’t think I could have lived with that.”

Slowly, methodically, she extracted his story from him, leaving nothing unexamined. Jesse gave her what she wanted, a little at a time.

“Thank you for telling me all this,” she said finally.

“Not at all. But you’ve told me nothing about yourself.” He smiled. “I’m particular whose house I live in.”

She laughed. “All right, I’m a local girl, married in my late twenties, lost my husband in my early thirties, in an automobile accident.”

“I’m sorry. That’s your whole story?”

“Just about. I dote on my daughter, I help out at the local library, do some volunteer work.”

“No regular job?”

“My husband provided for us.”

“It’s a lovely house,” he said.

“Thank you. I have the time to work on it.” She set down her tea cup. “Come, I’ll show you the room.” She got up and led the way down the hall and up the stairs. “Carey’s room is straight ahead,” she said, when they had reached the top of the stairs. “And—”

“What did you say?” The name was an arrow through his heart.

“It’s my daughter’s room; Carey’s.”

“How do you spell the name?”

She spelled it.

“I used to know a little girl named Carrie,” he said, spelling it.

“Oh. Well, my room is to the right, and the spare room is to the left, here.” She led the way into a large, sunny bedroom, comfortably furnished with a double bed, a chest of drawers and a comfortable chair. “The bath’s over there.”

“It’s very nice,” he said.

“I’d be happy to have you here, if you want it,” she replied. “The rent is fifty dollars a week and another fifty with three meals a day. I cook well.”

“I’m sure you do,” Jesse replied. “I’ll take the room and the meals. Is a month in advance all right?” He counted out eight fifty-dollar bills.

“Thank you, yes, and you should open a bank account, Mr. Barron. That’s a lot of money to be carrying around.”

“Good idea, and will you please call me Jesse, or Jess, if you like?”

“Sure. My name is Jenny.” She held out her hand for the first time.

He took it and didn’t want to let go. “I’m starting at the Wood Products plant tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Then you’ll want an early breakfast. That’s all right, we rise early here. Go to bed early, too.”

“That’s fine by me.”

“Cereal or eggs?”

“Eggs, please, scrambled?”

“I can manage that. I’ll put lunch in a bag for you. When would you like to move in?”

“I’ll go back to the motel and get my things and be back in half an hour.”

“Fine.”

“May I have a door key?”

She laughed. “Oh, we don’t lock our doors in St. Clair,” she said. “No burglar would dare operate in our town.”

Jesse pointed the pickup toward the motel and reflected on his good fortune. A very handsome landlady, and a little girl in the house, to boot. He would have to be very careful not to sweep her into his arms when he saw her. The daughter, he meant, chuckling to himself.

On Main Street he passed the Bank of St. Clair, and, on impulse, pulled into a parking spot. He might as well start getting respectable, he thought. He got out of the truck and walked toward the building. He opened the front door, stepped in and immediately knew something was wrong. A young man was backing toward him and, across the marble floor, a guard stood, a riot shotgun held tensely at port arms. He’d never seen a bank guard with a shotgun before he thought, as the man continued to back toward him, apparently oblivious of his presence. Before Jesse could move, the man bumped into him.

The younger man spun around, his face full of surprise, and Jesse saw the pistol coming around. Instinctively, he grabbed the man’s wrist, made the gun point toward the ceiling and twisted hard. The gun came away in his hand. At that moment, all hell seemed to break loose. Jesse saw the guard’s shotgun swing toward the robber and, flinching, he turned his body away. The shotgun went off at exactly the moment that the front window of the bank caved in.

The robber flew toward Jesse, knocking him off his feet, then there was another shotgun blast. Jesse thought it was the third. He looked out onto the street and saw another young man, looking frightened, standing next to a pickup truck and yelling.

“Come on, Dan, get out of there!” he screamed.

Dan was lying on top of Jesse, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The young man outside suddenly figured this out and leapt into the pickup. As he did, a police car suddenly appeared, skidding sideways into the truck, and another squad car rammed the pickup from behind. The driver started out the truck’s door, but before both his feet had made the ground there were half a dozen gunshots, and the young man was lying on his face in the street.

Jesse pushed the robber’s body off him and started to get up, but he was pushed back onto the floor by a large foot. The bank guard was standing over him, pumping the shotgun.

“Hold it, Frank!” somebody shouted from the street, and the guard stepped back, still pointing the weapon at Jesse.

“I don’t think he’s one of them,” the voice said, and then Pat Casey was helping Jesse to his feet.

“Well hello, Pat,” Jesse said. “I was just coming in to open an account. Does this happen every day in St. Clair?”

Casey laughed. “Put down the shotgun, Frank; this is a customer.”

The bank was suddenly filled with policemen, and Jesse was herded off to one side. Eventually, somebody took his particulars, accepted his money and gave him a temporary checkbook. The man called Ruger watched from an office and talked with Casey, occasionally nodding at Jesse.

Jesse finished his business and left for the motel, to collect his things. On the way he reflected on the bungled robbery, and it occurred to him that at least one of the robbers, the one he’d taken the gun from, had been shot unnecessarily, after Jesse had the pistol. The other one had been shot down very quickly, too, but Jesse hadn’t seen that as clearly.

He remembered Jenny Weatherby’s comment that no one would dare commit a burglary in St. Clair. Now he knew why. He bet himself that there were no prisoners in the city jail.