The receiver plastic groaned under the weight of Harlan’s thumb as he held the plunger down, pinning the cradle into the metal housing until the mechanical bell inside the casing choked out its final metallic shudder. Neither man moved. Across the counter, the green vacuum-fluorescent readout on the caller-ID unit stayed bright, searing Nora’s name and address into the dim room like a brand on the wall.
Harlan didn't lift his hand. He kept his back stiff, his broad shoulders blocking the desk from my view as his chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow hitches. When he finally turned around, the easy, patronizing smirk he had carried into the cellblock was completely gone, replaced by a gray, wet sheen across his forehead.
"A crossed pair," Harlan said, his voice dropping into a flat, raspy rasp that sounded hollow even to himself. "The storm blew a locust limb through the trunk line down at the creek bed yesterday morning. The county road crew hasn't cleared the brush yet. Telco circuits short together when the insulation rubs raw in high humidity."
"A short circuit doesn't dial an unlisted seven-digit desk extension, Wayne," I said, my voice steady against the iron grille. "And crossed copper pairs don't generate my sister’s subscriber data from an exchange that sits four miles up the timber ridge."
Deputy Miller sat motionless in his swivel chair, his fingers still clutching the blue ballpoint pen over the carbon paper. His knuckles were yellowish-white under the harsh fluorescent tube. He didn't look at Harlan, and he didn't look at me, but his gaze remained fixed on the green display box like it was a live rattlesnake coiled on top of the blotter.
"Miller," Harlan snapped, the edge in his voice cutting through the humid air of the booking room like a drawn blade.
Miller flinched, the pen rolling off his fingers and clicking softly against the linoleum tile. "Yes, Sheriff?"
"Log that call as phantom line interference from the Ridge Road sector," Harlan ordered, stepping around the counter with a heavy, hurried stride that betrayed every second of his panic. "Don't touch that receiver again. If the line rings back, you let the roll-over switch route it straight to the state police regional barracks in Mercer. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Miller whispered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed dryly.
Harlan pulled his heavy oilskin rain duster off the coat tree beside the holding cells, jerking his arms through the sleeves with violent, jerky motions. His sidearm slapped against his hip inside the leather holster, the metal snaps clinking in the stillness. He pulled his ring of master keys from his duty belt, sorting past the cell turnkeys until his thumb caught the heavy brass padlock key I had spotted minutes earlier—the one tagged with chipped yellow enamel and smeared with greasy, reddish-gray clay.
"Where are you going, Wayne?" I demanded, leaning my forehead against the cold bars until the metal cut into my skin. "The road to Nora's place is taped off. You told the county prosecutor's office no one was allowed inside that perimeter until the forensic accountant finished going through her desk."
Harlan didn't answer me. He jammed his brimmed hat down over his forehead, cinched the collar of his duster, and pointed a blunt index finger straight at Miller’s chest.
"Lock the front deadbolt behind me," Harlan said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that barely carried across the partition. "Nobody comes through that front vestibule. Nobody makes a call out. If Clara starts screaming, you shut the solid fire door between the cells and the dispatch floor and you turn the radio up. I'm taking the four-wheel drive up Ridge Road to inspect the utility box myself."
He didn't wait for Miller to answer. He shoved the heavy metal crash bar on the outer door, letting a gust of cold, river-damp mountain air sweep across the booking desk before the hydraulic closer hissed and slammed the frame shut. A second later, the big V8 engine of his department Tahoe rumbled to life outside the frosted window, its heavy all-terrain tires grinding through the gravel turnabout before accelerating hard toward the mountain cut.
The station fell into an agonizing silence, broken only by the persistent, sixty-cycle hum of the overhead light and the steady drip of a leaky valve in the corner washbasin.
Deputy Miller didn't get up to throw the deadbolt. He stayed in his rolling chair, staring at the closed outer door with his jaw clamped tight.
"Miller," I said quietly.
He closed his eyes, shaking his head once without turning around. "Don't, Clara. Please don't do this. Wayne’s got twenty-two years in this county. My uncle got me this job three months out of the academy, and I'm still on probationary status until November."