C Weaver - Silent River

“She glared at Mr. Milton and said, ‘What do you want, old man? Get off my grass. You people have no respect for other people’s property.’ She shook her fist at him.

“Mr. Milton looked from the woman to the reporter and then at me; I walked to the edge of the grass. ‘Ma’am we are sorry. This man went to the wrong house.’ I told her.

“She squinted her eyes at the old man, ‘You that nut who was here earlier? What in the world do you think you’re doin’? My husband, God rest his soul, divined water. He wouldn’t have done something as stupid as what you are claiming you can do. Get on home where you belong and stop bothering decent folk.’ That being said, she went into her house and slammed the door.

“Mr. Milton hung his head, shuffled back to the car, and got in the passenger seat without saying another thing.

“The young reporter said, ‘I think I have a story that’ll scoop anyone who was here today!’ He thanked me and ran back to his car, the tires squealed as he pulled away. Ernst asked me to take him to his hotel. He had a bus ticket for the next day. I dropped him off, and that was the end.”

Robert watched Barbara continue laughing. Her laugh was infectious. He couldn’t keep from smiling himself. It was a funny story. No one would believe him if he’d told it. The reporter had validated the incident, and now he was able to see that Barbara had a great sense of humor.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Robert, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. It felt good. I could picture everything you told. What a story.” She stood and began taking the dishes to the sink. Robert helped her.

“Oh, you don’t need to do this. There isn’t much here. I can do it later.” She took the plates from his hands.

“My mother always said, ‘If I do the cooking, you do the cleaning.’ So, my brother and I washed and dried dishes.”

“I can do them,” she added a little less forcefully.

“Barbara, do you want to do them by yourself?” He set the salad bowl on the kitchen table.

She winked at him, “Not really. It would be more fun to talk while this chore gets done.”

“Then no more argument.” He turned on the water and stoppered the sink. “Where’s your soap? I’ll wash and you dry, as you know where everything goes.”

She pointed under the sink. He found the bottle and added the soap to the water. Together they got the job done in record time. Robert told her stories from his days on patrol. She told stories from reports she’d typed up.

“I can make coffee if you want to stay for a while.”

“Thank you, but it is getting late. I have to get some paperwork done before I go to bed. That isn’t an excuse, it’s the truth.” He took his coat from her, but before she could open the door, he took her in his arms and hugged her, then lifted her chin. “Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed every moment of the evening with you.” He bent his head and kissed her upturned lips.

A warm feeling like slow-running molasses made its way from his head to his groin. She fit in his arms, just as she had the night of the Policeman’s Ball. He dropped his coat to the floor and pulled her more fully into his embrace. Her lips moved against his, and he felt her hands slowly move up his back. Her breasts burned his chest and fire flowed through his veins. He hadn’t felt like this since—he pulled back and rested his cheek against hers—since Becca.

“Thank you again, for dinner.” He shrugged his coat on, settling his hat on his brow with a slide of his fingers across the brim.

“I always love the way you do that. It’s like a sexual caress,” her voice was low and breathy.

He couldn’t help himself and bent to give her a swift kiss on the lips, then touched her lips with his finger, “See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She leaned on the doorjamb. He waved his hand as he got into the car. She remained in the doorway as he pulled away from the curb.

His body was telling him to move on with his life, that he didn’t have to live life without a woman’s company. He tapped his palm on the steering wheel in time to a jazz song on the radio. A smile tugged at his lips, and he gave in, letting it spread into joy.

Robert had an odd feeling as he drove the six blocks back to his house. A sense something wasn’t right. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the motor. He didn’t get out right away. The house was dark, which was unusual because he remembered he’d left the entryway light on and the front porch light on. He looked across at the porch. It was missing the globe and the bulb.

He stepped out of the car and pushed the door gently closed until he heard the soft click of the lock. He pulled his piece from its holster and flicked off the safety. He walked back to the sidewalk. The tree on the street side of the walk hid him from the street light. The front curtain was as he’d left it, except the lower part had caught on the table in front of it. Someone was in his house or had been.

He checked the breezeway between the garage and the back door and he opened the screen to the side door. Standing to one side, he pushed on the door. It was shut and locked. They must have gone out the front door. He put his key in the lock and turned it. Using his tie to turn the knob, he opened the door.

Nothing moved inside. He waited and thought, I should call for backup. But that would mean waking a neighbor; if someone had been in the house, they’ll be gone by now. He let his gun make its entrance, then looked down as he stepped over the threshold. A thick layer of sugar and other powdery items coated the kitchen floor. He listened. No sound. Using the side of his palm, he flicked on the kitchen light.

The light revealed chaos. Cupboard doors stood open or hung off their hinges. Everything had been pulled off the shelves onto the floor, broken or smashed. Footprints in a mess looked as if the person made the mess on purpose. Some were distinguishable due to the liquids that had escaped their containers; others were drag marks toward the door leading to the living room.

Robert backed out and went to the front. The door wasn’t shut all the way. He pushed at it but found it bent off its hinges. The living room lay in shambles. How could the neighbors not have heard what was going on in here? Why not call the cops? Oh, right, he was the cop. There was no getting around that. He stepped over the mess and found the phone; its cord ripped from the wall, and the receiver busted. It looked as if it had been used as a weapon.

This was no casual break-in. Most perps breaking in looked for money or valuables. This mess was calculated vandalism. They’d taken an ax or something to the furniture. He went down the hall to the bedroom. It hadn’t been spared. Drawers were dumped out and the bedding was ripped from the mattress and had been slashed. He looked closer. Were they looking for something? His notes, the report? Opening the closet door, all his clothes lay in a pile on the floor. Holes had been poked in the plaster as if they were looking for something hidden. They hadn’t found his safe. They’d missed the latch that would have opened the wall. There was a hole in the wall, but the hidden door remained latched. He stepped back across the mess and tiptoed to the living room.

Adrenaline flowed hot through his veins and anger fed it. His fingers gripped the pistol. He wanted to shoot something. Mentally, his training kicked in. The adrenaline cooled with ice logic. He looked at everything and carefully stepped in his own footprints as he made his way back to the front door.

He knocked at a neighbor’s door. After a long wait, the porch light came on and a face with a sleepy expression peered through the glass.