by David Stout
“That kind of thing isn’t you,” Karen said. “It’s not you.”
Stung silence. Then he said, “I felt I had to do it.”
“I don’t know about that. I do know you. And what you did to that…”
“Carmine. The lab tech.”
“…with that Carmine is not you. Your strengths are research and logic. You’re not—that term you use for some reporters—you’re not street-smart. You’re not, Will. Any more than you’re handy with tools.”
That last pierced him like a dart. A couple of years before, Will had decided to cut some firewood. He’d rented a chain saw, despite (or maybe because of) Karen’s anxiety over his lack of skill with tools.
The saw had hit a nail and bucked in his hands. It was sheer luck that he hadn’t badly injured himself or his son, who was standing nearby.
“Bull’s-eye,” he said, not trying to hide his anger.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Yes, I did, but I shouldn’t have put it that way. I was only…”
“Why explain? You couldn’t have been any clearer.”
“Will, I’m your wife, and I worry about you messing with the police and this Carmine. If he is crooked in some way, you can’t assume he’s some harmless punk. Even if he is, he knows people who aren’t.”
Will swallowed the last of his beer and waited for her to go on.
“And if you wounded this man on a personal level, Will, how do you know he won’t come after you with a knife or something?”
That made him feel even worse. She was right, of course. Right about his strengths and weaknesses. He was not tough and shrewd. Even in doing what he did best—making decisions in the workaday newspaper world—he was more comfortable with stories that originated with government actions and court rulings than he was with investigative or speculative articles.
“I’ll be careful,” he said.
He got through the rest of the conversation without losing his temper. After hanging up, he cracked open another beer—is this how it starts, Frannie?—and thought over what Karen had said. Yes, he might have wounded Carmine on a personal level, might have made him hate him. For that, Will felt a tinge of guilt—and anxiety. He had been reckless in the encounter with Carmine Luna, perhaps to the point of stupidity.
He thought again of how right Karen had been, and then he remembered how he had felt with Heather Casey, how close he had come to…
Well, what? He knew which reporters cheated on their spouses when they traveled. He’d felt morally superior to them. “Hypocritical bastard,” he whispered to himself.
He forced himself to scan the newspapers. The New York Times account of the kidnapping was on an inside page, under a one-column headline. The Times article was accurate, thorough, clear, circumspect.
Will thought his own story measured up pretty well by comparison. Will skimmed the rest of the Times, catching up on the world.
He picked up the Long Creek Eagle. Even with the kidnapping, it found room for other local news: a church-renovation fund drive, complaints about smells from a landfill, a couple of drunk-driving arrests (yes, Fran’s sample could have been switched), a grocery-store burglary.
Will remembered what a famous journalist had said years ago: “All news is local.”
I guess so, Will thought. Is there anything else happening in Long Creek? The lead obituary was on a retired steelworker who had been a gunner on a Liberator bomber in the China-Burma-India theater in World War II. And there was the Long Creek mayor, cutting a ribbon somewhere.
Besides the kidnapping, the biggest local news was from the fire department. A child had been killed because he played with matches while his mother left him alone to go to the coin laundry, and two men had perished in flames after apparently using gasoline to clean up some grease.
Was there any end to human stupidity? No, Will decided.
He got into bed. He tried not to think about Heather Casey. And just before gliding into oblivion, he had the same feeling he’d had before—that he was overlooking something obvious, even trivial, and yet terribly important.
Sixteen
The hermit awoke in the dark of night, in the dark of his soul. He knew at once that he had been having a whiskey dream, that he would be hours getting back to sleep—if he did.
Sometimes the whiskey did that to him. Other times, it let him sleep. Whenever he drank a lot of whiskey, he thought it worth the gamble.
No. It hadn’t been just the whiskey dream that had roused him. Wolf had stirred. The hermit could see his form in the dark. The dog was sitting up, his ears high.
“Damn you, Wolf.”
He raised his head and saw the silhouette of the dog against the blue-black of the window. Now Wolf was standing on his hind legs, his front paws on the sill, his ears pricked and alert.
“Damn you, Wolf.” He let his aching head fall back on the pillow. “You can’t sleep, either.”
The dog whined softly, then chortled.
The hermit swallowed hard against the nausea, wishing now that he had eaten more while drinking.
Wolf whined again, louder. The hermit raised his head again, saw by the silhouette that the great shepherd was looking directly at him.
“Lie still, damn you. Wolf, lie down.”
Wolf snarled, then barked loudly. The hermit sat up. Only a few times had Wolf snarled and barked in the middle of the night. Once, there had been a black bear near the cabin, another time a deer. Once, the hermit had heard footsteps (human?) in the dark.
“What, Wolf?” the hermit said, getting out of bed and walking to the window. “What, boy?” he said, putting a hand on the dog’s shoulders and feeling the fur standing on end.
The hermit stared into the night, held his breath as he listened. There was nothing but the soughing of the trees. Still, he tiptoed to the corner and picked up the rifle, an old lever-action .30-30 carbine. He could open the door with one hand while holding the carbine in the other, and firing it if he had to. There was something out there; he was sure of it.
In the dark, the hermit laid the rifle on the bed, then pulled on his pants and stepped into his boots. He put on his thermal vest. “Shh, Wolf. Good boy.”
With a flashlight in his left hand and the rifle in the right, he tiptoed to the door and put his ear to it. Nothing.
Wolf sat down next to him, whined, scratched the door. Without turning on the flashlight, the hermit opened the door, felt a gust of cold wind.
“Wolf, come.”
Outside now, he closed the door quietly and listened. There were only the tree noises. No, there was something else: a scraping sound. The darkness and the wind played tricks; the sound could have been a stone’s throw away, or way over the next ridge.
Suddenly, Wolf bolted and ran. The hermit turned the flashlight on, caught Wolf in the beam thirty yards away. The dog paused, looked back at him, his eyes red and huge. Then the dog turned and ran.
The hermit followed.
Stepping high so as not to trip in the dark, he trotted behind the dog. He tried to keep the flashlight steady, but the beam danced helter-skelter as it poked into the blackness. About every fourth step, the light picked up Wolf trotting ahead as though drawn to something.
“Wolf!” The hermit hissed as he stopped to catch his breath. The light caught Wolf’s red eyes staring back at him. “What the hell is it with you? Stupid dog.”
The hermit trotted on, catching Wolf in the beam. The dog was farther ahead, eager. Going back the way they had come earlier. Almost to where he had been digging earlier. Was that what this was all about?
“Wolf, wait! Damn you.”
An impatient bark from ahead.
“All right, god damn it.”
Then he heard the sound, like an echo from far away. Christ, don’t let me be hearing this. I ain’t been drinking so much that I deserve this.
He heard the sound again—a moan, a scream, an echo—and dropped to his knees, letting his carbine and flashlight fall. He put his hand
s over his ears. He held his breath and uncovered his ears.
Again the sounds. Hard to make out, tumbled by the wind, but boy sounds. Real. He was too awake from the cold for it not to be real. Wolf barked. The echo-moan came again; Wolf barked again, went on barking.
Yes, there it was. From deep in his memory came the cries of the son he had never had, the one he had let die in Jo’s belly.
“Mom-MY … Dad-DY…”
He knelt on the chill bed of pine needles.
“Help me.…”
Once, the hermit had managed to get the rifle muzzle almost to his face. It was after a really bad whiskey dream, and he had almost convinced himself that if he could get the muzzle into his mouth and pull the trigger before he had time to think about it, he could see Jo again. And the baby? At least he’d be with them, wherever that was.
But he hadn’t been able to do it. He’d been afraid of the pain if he didn’t die right away, afraid to die slowly in the woods. He’d even been afraid how the gun oil and old cordite of the muzzle would feel on his tongue.
“Jo, I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” What did the trees and the night care?
Maybe this time he could really do it. Shoot Wolf first? No, let him have his chance. If any dog could make it in the woods, he could.
He stood up and almost fell back down. The whiskey had taken a sledgehammer to his head, and, while the night had sobered him, it had not deadened the pain inside his skull. A drunk like this was enough by itself to make him want to die. Why not fire a bullet into his head. His brain was mush, anyhow. It couldn’t even tell what was real anymore.
There came the sound again, a child’s moaning. It sounded near and yet far away.
If he did it tonight with the rifle, would the sound of the child follow him?
Whiskey. There was some left in the cabin. He would swallow it all and go back to sleep—forever, if he was lucky.
The wind shifted; it was in his face now, and he breathed deeply to clear his head. And now the wind brought a scraping sound. Yes, there it was. It was real. Just then, he heard the unmistakable ping of metal on metal.
Again, he heard the moan of a child, followed by Wolf’s bark. Wolf went on barking, and the moan rose to a shout, a scream. “Dad-DY! Puh-LEEZE! Get me out.…”
There, over there. He flashed the light in the direction of the sounds and stumbled toward them. The hermit tried to control his own breathing, the better to hear the night sounds. There was the ping of metal on metal, and the scraping sound: a shovel digging into dirt. And then the sound of a man’s voice, angry, cursing.
The beam of light danced crazily with his steps, catching ground, branches, treetops, Wolf’s eyes. And beyond Wolf, something else: There in the light stood a man holding a shovel. Next to him was a small mound of fresh-dug dirt, and next to that a larger mound with something sticking up out of it.
Wolf snarled, moved toward the man, who raised his shovel as if to swing it.
The hermit worked the lever of the carbine to put a round in the chamber. “Wolf!”
Transfixed, the man in the light beam looked toward the hermit.
“Help! Daddy, get me out! Get me out!” The child’s voice sounded as if it was coming from a well. In there, the hermit thought, looking at the bigger mound. In there.
“Wolf!”
The dog stopped several yards from the man, who switched the shovel over to one hand as he stooped, still looking toward the light. With his free hand, the man picked something off the ground: a newspaper. He put the paper under his arm and fumbled some more on the ground before he found what he was groping for: something box-shaped, like a camera.
The dog advanced toward the man, snarled again. The man extended the sharp edge of the shovel toward the dog’s face.
“Wolf!”
The hermit put the rifle to his shoulder, pointed it toward the sky, and squeezed the trigger. The sound crashed over and over down the hills and ravines. Somewhere, an owl stirred.
“Help me! Get me out!”
The man backed out of the light beam and turned to run. The hermit worked the lever of the carbine again. Hearing a new round being chambered, the man dropped his shovel and ran off into the darkness.
“Wolf, come!”
But there was no need for the command: The dog was already digging furiously at the larger mound of dirt.
“God Almighty,” the hermit said. “God Almighty.” He walked slowly to the mound. Dirt and leaves from Wolf’s digging spattered off his boots.
“Mom-MY! Get me out.…”
The hermit leaned over what looked like a stovepipe and shined his light into the opening. “Jason?”
“Dad-DY! I’m in here.”
“Jason? Jason! God Almighty!”
“Get me out!”
His father had sent a man to find him! Jamie knew his father could do it, knew his father wouldn’t let him die. He knew!
Jamie could hear the scratching and digging. He shouted as loudly as he could—in joy now. He heard a dog again. He could tell it was a big dog. Jamie liked dogs.
He heard the shovel sounds, faster than before. Faster, faster, faster! He heard a man grunt. He knew that the man was shoveling as hard as he could.
Jamie shouted as loudly as he could. His own voice rang back in his ears, but he didn’t care.
The dog barked again—what a big dog it must be!—and Jamie made a sound that was part laugh and part cry.
The sounds of the shovel were close now. The man was grunting hard.
Now the shovel banged on the metal. Again and again. Jamie heard the man swear. Then Jamie heard a thump, thump, and then a screeching noise like old nails being pried loose.
There was a clang; Jamie saw a flash of light and smelled cold, clean air. Then there was another clang, like something snapping shut again. Jamie heard the man say, “Shit!” Then the prying noise started again. The prying noise kept going, going, going.
Clang.
The cold, clean air blew all over Jamie’s face. A light in his eyes was so bright, it made him squint. When he opened them, he saw the upside-down head of a dog, the biggest dog he had ever seen.
“Wolf, back.”
Jamie felt big, strong hands on his shoulders, felt himself being pulled out of the metal place.
It was night.
“Jason,” the man whispered close to his ear. “Jason.”
“My name is Jamie.”
Seventeen
Will slowed his car when he saw the gouges in the earth. He pulled over and stopped.
Will got out, stood by his car, shivered in the wind. Fran had come down a curving hill—not the kind of hill you wanted to take at sixty miles an hour, but not one that seemed particularly dangerous, either. Had the accident report mentioned anything about snow, ice, whatever? No. Nor had Suzanne Glover.
“Were you really drunk, Frannie? What happened?”
Having struck out at several saloons—no bartender recalled serving schnapps and beer to a man in a dark gray suit on Thanksgiving Eve, or, if they did, they wouldn’t say—Will stopped at the liquor store he’d passed earlier.
Yes, he thought, it would make sense if Fran’s last great temptation had been right here: The liquor store was not that far from the expressway; it was on the two-lane heading into Long Creek. Jesus, Frannie might’ve been tempted after seeing a bar back there, then resisted until spotting this place.
Will parked in the dirt lot. Coming out of the store were two young men—teenagers, Will thought—in dirty work clothes. One carried a brown paper bag. They got into a battered pickup and drove away.
I hope the store owner’s halfway friendly, Will thought. But suppose he isn’t.
He started toward the door of the store, then spotted the phone booth. He had an idea.
“Good afternoon,” Will said.
The man behind the counter in the liquor store looked up, nodded, and said, “Help you?”
“I hope so. I’m checking on some
thing, actually.”
Will saw the man’s eyes harden.
“I wonder if you remember a man who might have stopped in here the night before Thanksgiving. Middle-aged, wearing a suit?”
“Suppose I did?”
Not friendly, Will thought. “I’m interested because this man is, was a friend of mine. He’s dead now, from injuries in a wreck down the road.” Will paused, locked onto the man’s eyes. “If my hunch is right, he might have stopped here not long before.”
“Hold it right there, mister! I don’t sell to drunks, so if you’re trying—”
The man cut his voice the instant the door opened and a customer walked in. Will stepped back, pretending to check the scotch brands, as the man rang up a sale to a whiskey buyer wearing overalls and a red face.
Will had heard fear as well as anger in the man’s voice. He was glad he’d called the Gazette from the booth outside and had the paper’s morgue check something.
The customer left, and the owner turned to Will. “Like I was saying, I don’t sell to drunks.”
“And you don’t sell to minors. The liquor commission made a mistake when it suspended your license. Twice.”
“How do you—?”
“It’s public record. Look, it’s okay. Just listen.” Will tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. “I believe you, all right? I can understand why you’re upset. It’s okay, really.” The man’s eyes softened. “I’m not looking to get you in trouble. I have personal reasons for checking. I think my friend might have stopped here. Your place is the closest liquor store to where the accident happened.”
“So what? How do you know he didn’t stop at a bar? Couple of them up the road a way.”
“I know. No one remembers my friend. Besides, when my friend drank and had the choice, he liked to start with peppermint schnapps. If he stopped to drink schnapps in a bar, he would have drunk until he passed out. My friend was an alcoholic. And you can’t buy a bottle of schnapps in a bar to take out. Legally, you can’t. You follow me, don’t you? So I think my friend might have stopped at a liquor store to buy schnapps and beer. Do you remember?”