“I’m trying to I.D. a corpse that came in that night.”
“On the Fourth?” says Fenton. “Forget it.”
“Why?”
“Why? We had three dozen corpses at least. As many as forty, I think. They were stacked like firewood down there.”
“Oh.”
Stacked like firewood. My neighbor, sweet Mr. Maron of the solar still, he died that night.
“We weren’t able to process them properly, is the other thing. No photographs, no intake records. Just bagging and tagging, really.”
“The thing is, Dr. Fenton, this particular corpse would have been rather distinctive.”
“You, my friend,” she says, tasting her tea with a moue of displeasure, “are rather distinctive.”
“A man, thirties probably. Gold-capped teeth. Humorous tattoos.”
“How so, humorous?”
“I don’t know. Zany, somehow.” Dr. Fenton is looking at me bemusedly, and I don’t know what I had imagined: a tattoo of a rubber chicken? Marvin the Martian?
“Where on the body?” Fenton asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know the means of death?”
“Weren’t they all—gunshots?”
“No, Hank.” The words are dry with sarcasm, but then she stops, shakes her head, continues quietly. “No. They weren’t.”
Dr. Fenton takes off the glasses, looks at her hands, and in case I am correct in my impression that she is silently weeping I avert my gaze, try to find something interesting to look at in the dimness of the hospital lobby.
“And so,” she says abruptly, shifting back into her characteristic tone, “the answer is no.”
“No, there wasn’t anybody matching that description or, no, you don’t recall?”
“The former. I am relatively certain we did not see a body matching that description.”
“How certain is relatively certain?”
Dr. Fenton thinks this over. I wonder how it’s going upstairs for the desperate man and his wife, bleeding from her wrists, how they’re faring under the charge of Dr. Gordon.
“Eighty percent,” says Dr. Fenton.
“Is it possible a victim might have been taken to New Hampshire Hospital?”
“No.” she says. “It’s closed. Unless someone took a body there and didn’t know they were closed and dumped it in the horseshoe driveway. I understand—” She pauses, clears her throat. “I understand some bodies have been deposited in such a way.”
“Right,” I say absently.
She stands up. Time to get back to work. “How’s the arm?”
“So-so.” I squeeze my right biceps gingerly with my left hand. “I don’t feel much yet.”
“That’s appropriate,” she says.
We’re walking back to the stairway. I set my half-empty teacup down carefully on the floor next to a full garbage can.
“As circulation improves over the next couple weeks, you’ll start to get a persistent tingling, and then you’ll need physical therapy to work toward regular functioning. Then, around early October, a massive object will strike Earth and you will die.”
3.
“So I go over there on Friday night, maybe two hours after you take off, and the playground is a no-man’s-land. The swings are cut down, just chains dangling, you know? The fence is kicked over, and the—what do you call it?—the jungle gym, it’s over on its side. I’m thinking maybe I’ve got the wrong place.”
“You’re at Quincy Elementary?”
“Yeah,” says Detective Culverson. “Quincy. The play field behind the school.”
“That’s right.”
The diner; the booth; my old friend with an unlit cigar, stirring honey into his tea, telling me a story. A fat double-bread-loaf indentation in the vinyl where McGully used to sit.
“So there I am like a dummy, holding this samurai sword. And don’t even ask how I got it, by the way. I’m standing there and I’m thinking, Okay, so, Hank’s little buddies have moved along, they’ve found some other squat. But then I see that there’s a flier: If you are the parent of … You know? One of those. It looks like they got scooped up.”
I exhale. This is good news. This is the best possible outcome for Alyssa and Micah Rose. A mercy bus came and took them somewhere indoors, with food and organized play and prayer circles three times a day. Ruth-Ann is sitting at a stool by the counter. She’s got her hot-water carafe, her pens arranged behind her ear, her little order notebook jutting out of the front pocket of her apron. Culverson is in his undershirt, off-white and yellowed and stained at the pits, because he’s lent me his dress shirt, which puffs out at my stomach and gaps at the collar.
“Was it the Catholics?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Christian Science.”
“Sure,” I say. I’ve started in drumming the fingers of my working hand on the tabletop. Now that I know that my kids are okay, that they didn’t suffer from my absence these last few days, I’m ready to move on, lay out my case. I hustled down here to make sure I caught Culverson within the loose bounds of the lunch hour, so I could run down my missing-person-turned-murder, see what he thinks.
“So I went to the address on the flier. Warren and Green. I didn’t have descriptions so I asked for the names.”
“How are they doing?” I ask. “Are they happy?”
“That’s the thing,” says Culverson. “They’re not down there.”
“What?” My fingers freeze. “They’re not?”
“Nope. A lot of other kids are, though. I found one named Blackwell.”
“Stone,” I say. “Andy Blackstone.”
“Yup. Funny kid. But Andy says that your guys …” Culverson flips through his notes; he’s got a steno pad like we used to use for case notes; I bet he helped himself to a box from the CPD supply closet before we were cleared out of the building. “He says they were there but then they left before the head count.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s as far as I could get.”
“Oh,” I say again, and stare down at the grimy linoleum. I can’t believe I let them go. They were my responsibility, those kids, a self-imposed responsibility but a responsibility nevertheless, and I treated them casually, like objects—a file that could be turned over to a colleague. I chose instead to follow the case of Martha Milano’s missing husband, and every choice forecloses on other choices; each step forward leaves a thousand dead possible universes behind you.
I think of the small broken boats I saw from the window of the blockhouse: the drowning, the dead.
“Detective Palace?” Culverson says. “Your turn. Tell me about your case.”
I nod. I look up, take a breath. This is why we’re here. I’ve come this far. I talk fast, giving him the highlight reel: Julia Stone at UNH, Brett Cavatone at Fort Riley. The gunshot, the orange leaf from the ghillie suit, the diary page. Detective Culverson stops me after the mysterious Mr. N.
“Wait,” he says. “Slow down.” He clears his throat, looks thoughtful. “So, you got a girl who comes to you for help. Husband is Bucket List, she wants him back.”
“Yeah.”
“You find the husband, and right away he’s shot.”
“Yeah. By someone who knows how to shoot.”
“Military?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Someone who knows how to shoot.”
“Okay.”
“And then you get back home,” says Culverson. “How do you get home?”
“In a helicopter—that’s a whole other …” I shake my head. “Don’t worry about that. Skip ahead. I get home, I go over to Martha’s house this morning and she’s gone.”
“Any idea where she is?”
“No. Yes. I have a theory.”
Culverson raises his eyebrows, twiddles with his cigar.
“Okay,” he says. “Lay it on me.”
“Martha’s cheating on Brett with someone she calls N.”
“Right.”
“N. d
ies on the Fourth—at least, Martha thinks he dies. She writes of his death in her diary, but then Brett finds the diary, Brett decides this means his marriage is over, he’s free to go.”
“On his mission.”
“Crusade.”
“Crusade.”
“So he leaves. Martha’s confused and upset; she asks me to go out and find Brett. But while I’m out looking for him, the lover turns out not to be dead after all. They reunite, hit Cortez with a shovel, and leave town together.”
“Riding on a dragon,” says Culverson.
“You’re teasing me.”
“I am.”
Culverson widens his grin and drains the tea. In the silence I picture Alyssa and Micah. Where could they have gone? Where’s Martha? Where’s my sister?
It’s too quiet in here, unnervingly quiet: no radio playing from the kitchen, as there used to be, the cook Maurice singing along with a deep cut from Planet Waves. No muted clang of cutlery and murmured conversation from other tables, no humming ceiling fans. It occurs to me that this institution is in its twilight, not just the Somerset but this whole setup: young Palace putting the case to sage Culverson; Culverson pushing back, finding flaws. It’s untenable. It’s like the hospital, everybody doing their best on a project that is ultimately doomed.
“What I’m wondering about is that diary page,” he says. “You’re sure that diary page was the real McCoy?”
“Yes.” I pause. I stare at him. “No. I don’t know.”
“I’m talking about the handwriting,” he says. “You’re sure it was the girl’s handwriting?”
“No,” I say. “Yes. Dammit.”
I close my eyes and I can picture it, the block letters on the cinnamon-scented page: HE’S DEAD N. IS DEAD HE’S REALLY DEAD. I try then to hold it up next to the quote, transcribed from St. Catherine and taped up by Martha’s bathroom mirror: IF YOU ARE WHAT YOU SHOULD BE … but I’m uncertain, I can’t tell, and I don’t have that pink page anymore. It’s somewhere in the blockhouse, it’s drowning in the mud of Fort Riley or fluttering out over the ocean like a bird.
“I just didn’t think of it,” I say, appalled that I could have overlooked something so obvious.
“It’s okay,” says Culverson, signaling to Ruth-Ann with two fingers for more hot water.
It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. I toy with the mostly empty condiment jars: ketchup, mustard, salt. A plastic vase sits among them, bits of stem floating in a quarter inch of water at the bottom. It’s hot and dark in here, a couple stray beams of weak sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds. So simple. So obvious. The handwriting.
“I suppose it would be useless to note,” says Culverson, “that there is no point in investigating anything. It’s not like, you find this killer, and he’s locked up and you get a promotion. The office of the attorney general is shuttered. There are literally raccoons living in there.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I know all that.”
“And if your babysitter has really been kidnapped, what are you going to do? Rescue her with that cute little gun that McConnell gave you?”
“No.” I scratch my head. “Actually, I lost it.”
Culverson looks at me for a second, and then he bursts out laughing, and I do, too, and we both sit there cracking up for a second, Houdini staring at me with questioning eyes from where he’s stationed himself under the table. Ruth-Ann comes over to pour our hot water—that’s about all she’s got left, hot water, and there’s something funny about that, too, there really is. And I’m really dying now, pounding the table, making the condiment containers dance and slide around the surface.
“You guys are a couple of lunatics, you know that, right?” says Ruth-Ann.
We both look down, and then up at her. Culverson’s shirt billows around my slender frame like a nightdress. Tufts of graying chest hair poke out over the V-neck of his undershirt. We laugh all over again, about our own ridiculousness, and then Culverson remembers he wanted to tell me about poor Sergeant Thunder, the weatherman, who has been waiting outside on his porch since six this morning, apparently, waiting for the convoy that’s supposedly coming to escort him to the World of Tomorrow.
“I just know the dumb S.O.B.’s going to come over tonight,” says Culverson, “wanting to borrow a cup of everything.”
We collapse in fresh giggles, and Ruth-Ann shakes her head, over at her counter, turns back to the same issue of the Monitor everyone has been reading for a month.
“All right,” I say to Culverson at last, pushing the last small teardrops from the corner of my eyes with the back of my working hand. “I’m going.”
“Home?”
“Not yet. I’ve got a quick idea I want to follow up on, on the Martha thing.”
“Of course you do.”
I smile. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
Houdini gets up as I get up, looks sharply into the corners of the room, stands stiff and straight with head cocked to one side.
“Oh, wait,” says Culverson. “Hold on. Sit. Don’t you wanna see it?”
“See what?”
“The samurai sword, man.”
I sit. The dog sits.
“You said not to ask you about it.”
“Well, yeah, you know. People say all kinds of stuff.” He takes it out from under the table, slowly, one curved inch at a time: a real weapon, glinting in the pale light.
“Holy moly.”
“I know.”
“I said a toy sword.”
“I couldn’t find a toy one.” He tugs the sweaty undershirt forward off his chest. “Listen, Stretch. You go solve your case. I’ll find the kids.”
I try and fail to hide the pleasure that this announcement brings me. I bite my lip, employ the dry and sarcastic voice I have learned, over many years, from Detective Culverson. “I thought you said there was no point in investigating anything.”
“Yeah,” he says, and stands, lifting the sword. “I know what I said.”
4.
“No way,” says Nico’s awful friend Jordan, staring at me in the doorway of the vintage clothing store. “You’re kidding me.”
He’s wearing jean shorts, the Ray-Bans, no shirt, no shoes. His hair is a slovenly mess. A blonde is passed out in a sleeping bag on the shop floor behind him, fast asleep, cheek pressed against the one slim bare arm thrown out from the bag.
“Jordan,” I say, peering behind him into the store, the cluttered bins, big black garbage bags overflowing with wool socks and winter hats. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” he says, pressing a hand into his bare chest. “Ésta es mi casa, señor. What are you doing here?” He looks at me in Culverson’s oversized shirt. “Are you here for some clothes?”
“Nico said you were all going to the Midwest.” I can’t bring myself to say “to recon with the team.” It’s too ridiculous. “For the next phase of your plan.”
We’re still standing on the threshold of the store, desolate Wilson Avenue behind me. “These sorts of plans are changing all the time.” Jordan lifts one foot to scratch the opposite calf. “I’ve been reassigned. This is team holding-down-the-fort.”
The blonde girl makes a sleepy mew and stretches, rolls over. Jordan sees me watching her and grins wolfishly.
“Do you need something?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
I step past him, into the shop, and Jordan makes a light tsk-tsk.
“Hey, that’s trespassing, dude. Don’t make me call the police.”
I know this tone of voice, it’s one of Nico’s favorites, glib and self-satisfied; it was her tone at UNH when she told me what was in the duffel bag: guns, maple syrup, human skulls.
Jordan stoops to tug a ratty yellow T-shirt from one of the disheveled piles on the ground and pull it on over his head. The room smells like mildew or mold. I look around at the clustered mannequins, some dressed and some undressed, some raising hands in greeting, some staring into the room’s
dusty corners. Two of them have been arranged to shake hands, like one is welcoming the other to a board meeting.
“Jordan,” I say, “Is it possible …”
“Yes?”
He stretches out the word, simpering, like an obsequious butler. The shirt Jordan has selected has Super Mario on it, mustachioed and hydrocephalic and mock heroic. If I am remembering this incorrectly, or imagining it, what Nico told me on the helicopter, I am going to sound like a moron—I am aware of that. On the other hand, this man, of all the people in the world, already finds me ridiculous: my aesthetic, my attitude, my existence.
“Is it possible that you have an Internet connection in here?”
“Oh, sure,” he says, unhesitating, grinning, proud. “Why? You want to check your e-mail?”
“No,” I say. In my chest there is a starburst of excitement, possibilities sparkling to life like fireworks. “I need to do a search.”
* * *
We tiptoe past Sleeping Beauty to a door marked MANAGER’S OFFICE, where Jordan asks me to stare at the floor while he runs the numbers on a combination lock and lets us in. And there it is, in the tiny claustrophobic office space, jammed between a three-drawer filing cabinet and a small unplugged break-room refrigerator with a missing door: a desk of particleboard and glass, with a big ugly Dell computer, the tall processor tower listing alarmingly. Jordan sees my skeptical expression and brays laughter as he plops into the spinning office chair behind the desk.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he says, leaning forward to depress the power button. “Do you think the head of the National Security Administration is offline right now? What about His Honor the President?”
“I can’t say I’ve really thought about it,” I say.
“Maybe you should,” he says, swiveling in the chair to wink at me. “You heard of sipper?”
“No.”
“No?” He spells it, S-I-P-R. “Never heard of that?”
“No.”
“What about nipper?”
“No.”
He cranes his head around, chuckles. “God. Wow. You’ve heard of Google, right? It starts with a G.”
Countdown City: The Last Policeman Book II Page 18