A/N: Our story widens.

Big Swamp

Chapter Six: Courthouse

Monday morning divides itself into alternating sudden thunderstorms and rapid-boil sunshine.

Each thunderstorm darkens the sky as if the clouds were dyed with India ink, then dumps rain, and whips it about, and then, with impossible speed, the inky clouds disperse and the sun boils the standing water, chasing it back skyward as steam and humidity. Everything in the distance wavers until the sky begins to darken again.

The whole damn display seems a mockery of my shifty moods over the last week.

I spend the early morning planted at my desk, staring out the window, mixed with the weather. Yesterday's lunch at the Club still nags me, my failure to get anywhere with Uncle Wylie, but also — and admittedly worse — my memory of Sarah Walker with Bryce Larkin.

Larkin-o-Vision.

I'm embarrassed by having imagined beating Larkin with his watch. — A PI I am but a violent man I am not. I don't even carry a gun.

Morgan hates that — and constantly tries to chide me into carrying one. Says I'm not legit and so he's not either. I do own a gun, of course; it's in the file cabinet in my office. I keep it cleaned and oiled, but I've hidden the bullets in my desk.

The bullets are in a box Father Casey gave me, a decorated box that Father Casey's new Cambridge Bible came in. It's a box I'm confident Morgan will not open. I take out the gun and the bullets and drive to the range on the edge of the Tuskegee Forest once a month or so, precautionary target practice.

I am still staring out the window when I hear voices in the waiting room.

Morgan took the morning off so that Bolonia could drive him out to Briggs and Stratton. He's back — one of the voices in the waiting room is his.

The door to my office opens and I recognize the other voice. Langston Graham, my lawyer landlord. Morgan opens the door and waves at me.

"I'm back, Chuck. Mr. Graham wants to talk to you." He gives me a barely perceptible shrug: Morgan doesn't know what Graham wants.

"Send him in, Morgan."

Graham strides into the office. He strides — he doesn't walk. Ever. He's tall and intense. As I said, he's a good guy but his goodness hides deep inside. I stand to greet him. It occurs to me he's never been in my office before, despite being my landlord and neighbor.

"Hey, Bartowski. How're cases?"

I frown. "Case. As in one. As in not plural. And it's not going well."

He nods, his face grave. "Sorry to hear that. But I've come to get you to two, get you to plural."

I gesture to one of the straight-backed chairs and he sits. I do too, in my desk chair. He glances at my Blade Runner poster and shakes his head. "Do you like the theatrical release or the director's cut?"

"The voice-over one, the theatrical release," I say immediately. "It's the one that feels like a detective film. And I hate the unicorn sequence. I didn't know you liked the movie."

He gives me a brief, shallow smile. "I do. And I prefer the theatrical release too."

I chuckle. "But, as much as I like Harrison Ford and the voice-overs, it's Sean Young who…" I let my sentence dangle.

He nods. "Yeah, she's lovely in that film, those clothes."

We sit for a moment then he clears his throat. "So, as I said, I'm here to see about hiring you."

I give myself a shake. I'd been lost in memories of Rachael — and in delayed surprise at Graham liking the movie. He always seemed too serious for sci-fi. "Is it connected to a case of yours, Langston?"

"As you'll understand, Bartowski, I can't say one way or the other. Here's what I can tell you. I want you to look into the death of Jane Peterson."

"Jane Peterson? The woman who owned Noble Hall?"

Langston nodded. "Yes." He adds no more.

I straighten in my chair. "There's a mystery about her death? I heard her son, Wade, found her dead in the Hall, massive heart attack. She'd had heart problems for years, right?"

"Right. She had, she did. No one thought there was any mystery about it — and maybe there isn't. The police were only involved pro forma. — Let's just say that I am curious about her final days and would like to know more." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "No one saw her for the final forty-eight hours of her life. That wasn't all that unusual, as you probably know, she was a recluse of sorts. Did you know her?"

"No, not really. I met her a few times, saw her in Ed's a few times, but no, I never knew her. I heard stories, lots of stories."

Langston huffs, smiles. "Probably all true. Flannery O'Connor wrote Jane's part in life."

I take an ink pen from the holder on my desk and pull a notepad toward me. "Ok, so...the final forty-eight hours of Jane's life." I write 'forty-eight' and then look up at Langston. "But what if she just spent those days in the Hall, alone?"

"That's just it, Bartowski. Another person — who will remain nameless — went to see her each of those two days, an important matter. Neither visit turned up Jane."

"Maybe she was already…"

"No," Langston says definitely. "The coroner's sure of the time of death. Her heart attack happened not long before her son found her."

"Maybe she was there all along but just didn't answer the door? Maybe she couldn't or wouldn't?"

"Not likely. Her car was gone. She didn't drive often, but she did drive. She never let anyone borrow that car."

I knew the car — a shining and massive old yellow Cadillac that Jane Peterson commanded from port to port. I made a note of that.

"Mhmm. Who was her doctor?"

"She'd just started seeing that new doctor, — Woodcomb, I think that's his name?, not long before she died. But she was a long-time patient of Dr. McCombs'. She complained about everything, hyper hypochondriac, so she saw lots of doctors. Her pastime."

"Did she have friends?"

He shrugged. "Not sure how to answer. She knew people, lots of people; she had money, influence. But she was a bizarre old woman, hard to get on with. I'm not sure anyone would count as a close friend. — Cats, she had cats. The Hall was a cathouse."

I look up after writing 'cats'. "You're joking?"

"Yes, about the cathouse, but not joking about cats. Twenty. Wylie Stroud burned stacks of money getting the scent of cat piss out of the Hall."

"I was out there, at the Hall, Friday night," I say.

"Oh, the party? My wife and I were going to go; we were invited, but I got called out of town. How'd the Hall smell? What do you make of Stroud?"

"Smelled fine, I guess. The Hall, that is. Stroud's...um...opaque. Charming, handsome, but too…too."

Langston gives me a look. "All hat, no cowboy?"

I'm not entirely sure what that means and it does not seem like a Langston Graham comment. I must stare at him funny because he laughs. "Look, there's no particular hurry on the Peterson thing. But still, I'd like to know what you find out sooner rather than later."

"Okay, I'll start on it. Say, does Wade Peterson still live over in Georgia, in LaGrange?"

He stands. "Yes, still does. Up on West Point Lake."

"Thanks for the business, Langston." I come around the desk and shake his hand.

"No problem. I doubt anything comes of it."

"I'll call you when I have something, anything."

"Thanks, Bartowski." I open the door and he goes through the waiting room and out, with a quick nod to Morgan.

I do not go to Ed's for lunch. I'm not up to facing Hannah just yet. I still haven't decided what to say to her.

Morgan walks over to Chuck's BBQ (that's the name) and brings sandwiches and potato chips back to the office. The last thunderstorm lasted a while and the sky has brightened but remained overcast. The temperature is, for now, bearable.

As we eat in the waiting room, he tells me about his visit to Briggs and Stratton.

"So, Big Jim gives me the tour and then takes me to the employee locker room. It's just a big cement room with lockers, a long bench, and two doors, metal, one on each side of the room. I looked at the lockers that had been stolen from, but I couldn't see any sign of forced entry. Whoever took the stuff knew the codes — they have little safe-thingys on the doors — "

"A tumbler," I say, naming the thingy.

"Yeah — and there's a combination assigned to each employee — no one knows those but the employee, although there's a record in a locked filing cabinet in the main office. Big Jim showed me that too, and it was clean, no forced entry. So, someone must have been able to unlock the filing cabinet and get the records. At least, that's my guess."

"Who normally has the key to the office, the filing cabinet?" I ask, crunching on a chip.

Morgan takes a bite of his sliced pork sandwich and chews it before answering. "Each shift leader. Four people total. One or two of them's always there when the place's open."

I take a drink of my sweet tea. "Any of them misplace their keys, lose them?"

Morgan grins, pleased with himself. "Evidently not. All four said they've had their keys all along."

"Any ideas?" I ask, curious what he thinks.

He knits his brow theatrically. "Not yet, but the ol' noggin is percolating away. Glub, glub." Morgan often resorts to vocables instead of words, sounds instead of units of meaning.

"What was stolen, by the way?"

The knit becomes less theatrical, more real. "That's actually the weirdest part. No cash, no wallets. I have a list here…"

As Morgan reaches into this pocket for his notebook, my phone rings. A Burbank number I recognize. Sarah Walker. "Hold on, Morgan. I've got to take this."

I leave my sandwich and chips on one end of Morgan's desk and move into my office, tea in hand. I kick the door closed gently. "Hey, Sarah!" I walk over to the window, phone to my ear.

"Chuck, hey! How are you?"

"Fine. You?"

"Fine. Say, I have some free time now, and I'm downtown in Opelika, near the Courthouse. It's not bad outside right now. Meet me at the fountain out front?"

"That's a public spot," I object, "people will see us together."

She laughs. God, that sound! "Chuck, we went to a party together Friday. We chatted in the restaurant of the Club. People have seen us together. It's perfectly fine with me if people think we're an item."

I shake my head, glad she can't see me. "Including Bryce Larkin?"

It's a question I know better than to ask but it's been on my mind since yesterday. A lot on my mind. I try to ask it as If I'm just making conversation but it feels like I fail.

She says nothing in response for a moment.

"Sorry, Sarah, not my business. Forget I asked, please."

Another moment of silence.

"Bryce showed up Saturday, Chuck, — not at my invitation. Not at anyone's invitation. He does that sometimes, just materializes, like a mushroom, or a mushroom cloud."

She's annoyed, but I can't tell if it's with Bryce or me — or both of us. "As I said, Sarah, I shouldn't have asked."

She sighs. "Chuck, Bryce and I...we...dated for a short time. We've known each other a long time, kind of grew up together."

I want to know so much more — and I don't. No need to provoke my already wretched imagination. A retreat is the best option. "So, the fountain across from the Courthouse? I can be there in ten minutes."

She seems past her annoyance when she answers. "I'll be on one of the benches around the fountain. Can you be away from the office this afternoon?"

"Um, sure." I had planned to drive to LaGrange, talk to Wade Peterson, but I can do it tomorrow. "Why?"

"I'll explain when you get here. See you soon." She ends the call.

I hear Morgan knock on the door. "Do you want to hear the list of things stolen, Chuck?"

"I do, Morgan, but not now. Case. Gotta go. Hold down the fort."

"Always do, Chuck, always do."

I park in the lot next to the fountain, across from The Lee County Courthouse. The Courthouse, framed against the grey sky, seems aglow. Its red brick and white ornaments jut from against the backdrop, as if only the Courthouse is three-dimensional, everything else, all the rest, me included, two-dimensional, slight.

I take a moment and gaze respectfully at its six fluted columns, each extending the two-story height of the building. It's got the same general architectural look as Noble Hall.

The Courthouse was built in 1896. It has a central section and two wings. Atop the building is a cornice with dentil work and, atop the cornice — a clock surrounded by scrolling. Above the clock is a simple circular cornice surmounted by a circular dome and capped with a small ornament. The tall clock tower gives the building a churchy feel.

According to the tower clock, I'm right on time, ten minutes since talking to Sarah. I get out of the car and see her, seated on one of the benches that faces the Courthouse. She seems to be admiring it. In her hand is a to-go cup, and I recognize the logo on it: The Breezeway. She's sipping from a straw. I make myself take no notice of that fact.

She sees me, smiles around her straw, and waves. I wave back, wondering what sort of lanky spectacle I present. I'm wearing what I rate my summer Alabama detective wear, a plain tan t-shirt, jeans, and low black Chuck Taylors. It's too hot in the summer here for the high tops I prefer and wear during our few weeks of snowless winter.

Shaw, my competition, always has on a sports coat. Morgan has pointed that out a few times, mainly, I believe, because he hopes if I took to wearing a sports coat, I'd wear my gun beneath it. I wouldn't. I watch Sarah's face as she watches me walk to her. She puts her cup on the concrete below her feet and motions for me to join her on the bench.

As I sit, I nod to her cup. "The Breezeway?"

She looks at the cup and the glances behind her. The Breezeway, a local restaurant, stands near where we are.

"Yeah, I don't normally eat fried food, or — " she nods at her cup, "drink things with processed sugar, but I kept hearing about chicken fingers and sweet tea and my curiosity overwhelmed my resolution."

I grin. "And your verdict?"

"Damn good. What was that sauce you dip the fingers in?"

"That's a Southern State Secret, if I told you, I'd have to kill you, and then honor would demand I kill myself."

She laughs for a moment and then fastens on one word. "Secret, huh?" Her expression becomes serious. "Are you a man with lots of secrets, Chuck?"

"Me?" I ask as if the very idea is absurd. It is, except for my detective-novel writing. And the confidential work stuff, like my job for her. But that last is a secret we share.

She examines me closely, that look creeping back into her eyes, the contempt-like thing, although that is still not the right word. It's a detachment, a coolness, a withdrawal, — it feels like disdain, but it isn't. But I feel again like a specimen beetle in a box; I feel wholly objectified. I squirm a little under that dissector's gaze.

"Are you sure, Chuck? No secrets?" Her gaze warms, releases me from the box I felt I was in. I want to wipe my forehead, blow out a breath, but I don't.

"No secrets — well, I keep a few secrets for Morgan but that's just public service." Like Morgan daydreaming about Sarah's gloved hand. A secret I keep trying to forget.

"I can imagine. Just sitting with him in your waiting room the other day was…interesting."

"Did he say something to you?"

She shook her head, picking up her cup. "No, he didn't say anything really. He just looked at me. For a long time. But I could, I don't know, hear his brain working."

"Glub, glub?" I ask and she looks at me like I've lost my mind. I rush on to words. "That's the sound Morgan made today, the sound of his brain percolating."

"I'd rather not be — myself — the cause of that, of his percolation."

"That I understand completely. I'm sorry about him."

She laughs. "It's okay. I suppose I've caused percolation before." She says it with no hint of self-compliment.

"Probably the result of resisting fried food and processed sugar."

She laughs again and shoves my shoulder. I laugh with her.

When we stop, she gives me a look, glances up at the clock tower, and then back to me. "So, are you willing to do a little spying with me?"

I boggle. "Spying?"

"Yes, I overheard Uncle Wylie on the phone this morning; he didn't know it. He was talking to someone, secretively, and he made an appointment to meet the person at 2 pm."

I look at the clock tower. "That's fifty minutes from now."

"Uh-huh. I didn't hear the name of the person he was talking to, but I'm sure it's connected to whatever it is he's up to…"

"I assume you overheard where he's meeting this person?"

"The Auburn Coliseum."

I boggle again. I can hardly imagine a more unlikely clandestine meeting place. "Really, that mausoleum?"

She looks confused. "I thought it was the Coliseum."

"Oh, it is. You'll see why I called it a mausoleum. If we're going to be there in time, we should go. I'll drive this time."

She nods and follows me to my car, slurping the dregs of her tea. I turn to look at her.

"Not wasting any?"

She shakes her head. "When I splurge, I go whole-hog."

That phrase seems stranger from her than the hat-cowboy line did from Langston Graham.

She glances one last time at the Courthouse. "A beautiful building."

It's beginning to rain again as we get in the Camry. The earlier rains had washed off the dust.

The Auburn Coliseum is a gigantic, forgettably ugly building just off-center of the Auburn University Campus.

We park on the edge of the vast parking lot that surrounds it, a concrete sea.

I have a couple of ball caps in the trunk of the Camry, both Auburn caps, and I give Sarah one and take one myself. With another of her graceful gestures, she sweeps her hair up, so that it no longer shows beneath the cap.

She steps toward me, her face close to mine, and asks, breathlessly, "How do I look? Like an Auburn fan?"

The sun has come out again. The impulse to kiss her overpowers me and I feel myself wobble toward her. She moves toward me, lingers there, face up to mine, her eyes staring into mine. Her tongue darts out; she licks her lips.

A student walks by and I lose my nerve. "We should get inside. It's a big building. Any idea where they're meeting?"

"Wylie said something about a court?"

"Oh."

The Coliseum is where Auburn's basketball team used to play. It is as dark and cavernous inside, even with the lights up, as its outside promises. The team now plays inside a new building, The Auburn Arena, across the street, a state-of-the-art facility. By rights, and for the sake of student and faculty ocular health, the Coliseum should be destroyed but it still stands defiant and mute, its rooms serving as makeshift classrooms, and its basketball court the scene of graduations or other events.

Sarah and I hurry across the parking lot and enter a door. The building is cold and dim inside. We stand in the cool dimness for a moment. Sarah looks at me again, then steps close to me and takes my hand.

She's not wearing gloves this time.

I know the Coliseum reasonably well. I went to games there as a boy. Holding Sarah's hand, I lead her down the hallway, into the dimmer fastness of the building.