by David Stout
“Yes. I’ve talked to her. She seemed like a nice young woman.”
“Well, then. The accident was officially your friend’s fault, regardless of whether he was drunk or sober. So the young woman has nothing to gain by trying to get the blood test fixed, does she?”
“No. I guess not.”
“You guess not. And she seemed to you like a nice young woman. And living around here, she probably doesn’t have enough money to bribe somebody even if she wanted to. Fact is, about the only guy around here who’s rich is the father of the kidnapped kid.”
Will said nothing. What could he say?
“Anyhow,” the detective said, “I’ll pass along your suspicions.”
“And then what?” Having gone this far, Will didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.
“Then probably nothing happens,” the detective said. “Because, frankly, I think your theory is a crock of shit. Excuse my French, miss.”
“Okay,” Will said. “Then you tell me what happened.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything. And my main suggestion to you is that you get on the two-lane and head on up to the main drag and go on back to Bessemer.”
After a long, cold silence, Heather Casey spoke. “I’m sure Mr. Shafer is upset about his friend and doesn’t mean any disrespect.”
Her elbow brushed Will’s, and he took the hint. “Right,” he said, swallowing hard.
“And Will, I’m sure Detective Howe will keep his promise and relay your suspicions to higher authority.”
“Howe?” Will said.
“John Howe,” the detective said. “That’s right. Same last name as the chief. That’s because he’s my brother.”
Of course, Will thought. That’s why the face is familiar. God, am I an outsider.
“If you’re finished with us, perhaps we could go,” Heather Casey said.
“You can both go,” Detective Howe said. “I’ll tell the chief what you said. Tonight, maybe. We’re playing poker at his house.”
Will stopped in front of Heather Casey’s apartment building and shut off the engine.
“Would you come in for a few minutes?” she said. “I’d like you to.”
He had been afraid she would say that, and hoping she would. “Sure,” he said.
“That sofa’s comfortable. I’m going to have some wine. Would you join me?”
“Please.”
The living room of Heather Casey’s apartment was small, Spartan, immaculate. A long, narrow table of cherry wood stood in front of the sofa, and beyond it a fireplace.
“It isn’t real,” Heather Casey said, sitting down next to him and pouring two glasses of white wine. “The fireplace, I mean. It’s just for looks.”
“It’s pretty.” God, he thought, I haven’t lost my touch when it comes to making small talk. I can always find something stupid to say.
“Would you like some crackers and cheese? I think I have some cashews.”
“No, nothing else. This is fine. You read a lot, I see.” The shelves on either side of the fireplace were crammed with books.
“A lot of self-help stuff. A mystery now and then. Nothing too scary. Living alone, I’m not eager to frighten myself before I try to sleep.”
“You’ve been alone for a while?”
“A while, yes. Here’s to life.”
“To life.”
They touched glasses and drank. Then Heather Casey set down her glass, put her face in her hands, and cried.
Will hesitated a moment, then put his arm around her. Her body slumped against him, and she leaned her head on his chest.
He had meant only to comfort her, but her warmth and closeness was arousing him. Will breathed deeply, filling his nose with the scent of her skin.
Heather stopped crying. Her breathing slowed. Will kept his arm around her shoulders. He bent a little lower, gently kissed the top of her head.
Finally, she sat up and looked at him. Her eyes were shiny through the tears. “Thank you,” she said.
He didn’t know what to say. But he knew what he felt. He hadn’t been with another woman since he’d been married, had scarcely been tempted, and now here he was.
She smiled knowingly. “You’re married,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Of course. Of course.” Her face showed a hint of sadness. “I needed you to come inside tonight. After finding Carmine like that.”
“God, yes. Carmine.” Will took a long drink. He would have his own demons to wrestle with tonight, and not just about Carmine Luna.
“It wasn’t only Carmine,” she went on quietly. “The reason that detective, the chief’s brother, recognized me and vice versa is that he came to my home once. It was a while back. When he was a uniformed officer, and I was still married.”
Will understood what had happened. He sensed, too, that Heather Casey needed to tell him. “It was what they used to call a ‘domestic disturbance,’” she said. “In my case, it meant a black eye and a bloody nose.”
“I’m sorry.” Will poured more wine.
“Thank you. Al was sorry, too. He was always sorry. And he always got drunk again, and…”
“And it never got better.”
“It did, actually. That last time, I got an order of protection. It was a big, big step, especially since I’ve been in Long Creek all my life, and you know how that is. Everyone knew. But it wasn’t going to happen to me again. Not that.”
“You say it got better after that?”
“It got better after Al left. Got drunk and left Long Creek, left my life.” She sipped her wine, and bitterness flashed in her eyes for a moment. “Left a bunch of debts, too, as a matter of fact. But I still had my job and my life. There’re worse things than being alone, believe me.”
“Have you been alone since?”
“Oh, mostly. I may not always be, but for this phase of my life it works.” She paused. “What’s your wife’s name, Will?”
“Karen.”
“Kids?”
“One of each. Good kids.”
“And your wife, does she have a career?”
“Social work.” Will told her a little about Karen’s work with teenagers, her counseling, the articles she wrote. “All in all, she’s one of the most competent people I know. No, more than that. She’s…”
He stopped himself. To tell her about his wife seemed hypocritical, and he was afraid that saying more would squander this moment.
“You’re lucky. Both of you are. Thank you for coming inside with me. And for listening.”
She had slid closer to him on the sofa, and he put his hand on hers. She smiled, and he put his arm around her again. God, let me do the right thing, he thought. Whatever it is.
Without disturbing her, he drank the rest of his wine. Her head was on his shoulder now, and he turned toward her. He caught the scent of her perfume, her hair. And when he kissed her on the lips, he tasted the wine again. Her eyes were closed, and she smiled softly. He squeezed her shoulder softly and let her slump completely against him.
“I really needed someone here tonight.”
He caught the past tense, and was not sad. Prayer answered, Will thought. “Heather, will you be all right?”
“Yes. I know you have to go.”
She saw him to the door and put her hand on his arm. “Your wife is lucky,” she said.
“And your husband was a fool.”
She smiled, then shrugged. “Good night, Will.”
His head full of more emotions than he could sort out, Will drove back to the Long Creek Inn. On the way, he stopped at the newsstand and bought the New York Times, the Bessemer Gazette, and the Long Creek Eagle.
In his room, he opened the bottle of scotch he’d bought at the liquor store out on the two-lane, poured a jolt into a glass, and added a little water. He sat in a chair, tried to force himself to relax.
No luck. He drank some scotch, knowing his head would pay for it in the morning.
Will would talk to Jerry
Graham, try to persuade him to investigate Fran Spicer’s death. Was that something the FBI would do? Will didn’t know.
There had to be something fishy about it. Heather Casey had thought so, too (he forced himself not to dwell on the time in her apartment), and had said as much.
As far as the Long Creek police were concerned, Will knew he was vulnerable. One just didn’t get on the bad side of cops on their turf.
Unwinding a little, he scanned the newspapers. As always, he devoted more attention to the New York Times—and had the feeling again that he was overlooking something trivial and yet very important. What was so special—?
God Almighty.
Will dialed his home. As he’d thought, Karen was just getting the children squared away. He said good night to them, then asked Karen to look up the number for Harvey Bober.
“Harvey Bober?” She was incredulous.
“Yes. I’ll explain soon.”
“Hmmmph. Just a minute.”
After she gave him the number for Harvey Bober, the Gazette’s circulation director, he cut short the conversation with apologies and pledges of undying love, which did nothing to lessen his nagging guilt over his attraction to Heather Casey.
“Damn,” Will whispered to himself as he dialed Bober’s number back in Bessemer. “Can this be?”
Will reached the circulation director, asked him a few questions, and got the answers he had expected.
He hung up, tossed down the rest of the scotch in the glass, and didn’t know whether to feel stupid or triumphant. It had been there all along, and he had just now caught on.
“Hey,” he said to the room, “better late than…”
Damn, Will thought. Latin Condensed. Yes, Latin Condensed. He could hardly wait to get another look at those pasted-up ransom notes.
Twenty
Jamie felt a lot better. The man with the hurt face had washed Jamie’s clothes, hung them near the stove to dry, then left the cabin so Jamie could get dressed with no one looking. The clothes smelled of smoke, but they felt clean on his skin. Not like in the tin place.
For a while, Jamie had been afraid to ask the man his name. When he finally did, the man laughed and said, “What do you want to call me, Jason?”
“My name is Jamie.”
The man’s eyes had looked sad (it was hard to tell about the rest of his face), and at last he said, “All right. Jamie it is.”
“Why do you keep calling me Jason?”
The man’s eyes looked really sad. “That’s a long story. An old story.”
The man told Jamie that Jason was going to be his son, but that Jason’s mother was burned up in a fire before Jason even got to be born.
“Is that what happened to your face?”
“Yep.”
“Does it hurt?”
“My face? Not anymore.”
Jamie didn’t understand why the man didn’t just marry someone else and have a new son. Just like he didn’t understand why his mother and father couldn’t still live together. There were a lot of things about grown-ups that he didn’t understand.
Then Jamie remembered that the man hadn’t answered his question. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, boy. How about I just tell you my dog’s name. Wolf.”
“Okay. But what’s your name?”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m a hermit. Okay? I don’t use my name much.”
“What’s a hermit?”
The man laughed and said, “A hermit is a crazy guy who lives alone in the woods with a ferocious dog ’cuz he likes dogs better than people.”
Jamie didn’t quite understand. “Are you really crazy?”
“No. Sometimes maybe.”
Jamie still didn’t understand. “Is that really a wolf?”
“No. This is an honest-to-God German shepherd.”
The dog came up to Jamie and butted him with his head.
“Wolf likes you,” the hermit said.
“I like him, too.” Jamie patted the dog on the head. He had never seen such a big dog. Jamie could spread his hand on top of the dog’s head and still not touch the ears.
“Did you get him when he was a puppy?”
“Sort of. When he was only a little ways grown, I took him away from a farmer who wasn’t treating him right.”
“Really?”
“Yep. I was doing an odd job for the farmer, like I do sometimes when I have to have a little money, and I felt sorry for the puppy, and I told the farmer I wanted him. And he let me take him.” Especially when I told him I’d break his head if he didn’t give him to me, the hermit thought. But he wouldn’t tell the boy that.
“How old is Wolf?”
“Six.”
“That’s older than I am. I’m five.”
“Jamie, where’re your mother and father?”
“Back home.”
“Where’s that?”
“My father lives in a house on a hill near Long Creek. My mother got mad and left. I go to see my father a lot.”
“Jamie, do you know who stuck you in the ground?”
Jamie got tears in his eyes.
“Don’t cry, Jamie.” The hermit felt badly. He shouldn’t have talked to a kid like that. “I’m sorry I made you cry. I didn’t mean to.”
The dog put its paws on Jamie’s legs, stood on its hind feet, and licked the side of Jamie’s face. It tickled so much that Jamie laughed.
“See, Wolf wants you to feel better.”
“I have to go to the bathroom. Then I want to go home and be with my father.”
“Your mom must miss you, too.”
Jamie frowned. “She got mad and left. I feel sorry for my father sometimes.”
“In there, Jamie. When you’re done, I’m going to give you something to eat. Then I want you to tell me what happened to you.”
“Then will you take me home?”
The hermit thought about the man he’d seen in the night. “Yes, Jamie.”
“I want my daddy.”
“I know. I know.” The hermit didn’t want the boy to cry anymore. “Just go in there, Jamie.” To his astonishment, the hermit was embarrassed. “If you have to do anything but pee, take some lime—the white stuff in the can—and throw it in the hole. Okay? But don’t get any in your eyes.”
When Jamie came out, he heard sizzling sounds from the stove. He smelled cooking.
“I saved some warm water in the sink for you to wash your hands, Jamie. Around here, we don’t waste water.”
Jamie stood on tiptoes to dip his hands in the soapy water, then wiped them dry on a raggedy towel hanging on the side of the sink.
“Sit here, Jamie. Your cough is almost gone, do you know that?”
“Yes.” It was, Jamie realized.
“That jolt of whiskey fixed you right up, didn’t it?”
“Yes.” Jamie didn’t know quite what the hermit meant. “What should I call you? You still didn’t tell me.”
Jamie watched the hermit stand by the stove, scraping stuff around in a frying pan. His dog sat near the stove, looking right at the hermit.
“Tell you what, Jamie. I’m going to take you home pretty soon, so what we’re doing right now is just, oh, sort of a visit. Okay?”
“Okay.” Jamie didn’t know what he meant.
“It’s just a visit. So we can play a game. If you want to, you can call me, uh, call me Da—” Suddenly, the hermit was overwhelmed with sorrow and shame. He turned away, shook his head, forced himself not to cry.
Jamie didn’t know what was happening. He was glad when the hermit looked at him again. The hermit’s eyes were shiny.
“Tell you what,” the hermit said. “I live in the woods, so you can call me Woody. How’s that?”
“Is that your nickname?”
“No.”
“Then why.…?”
“It’ll be my nickname if you call me that. Starting right now.”
Jamie didn’t quite understand. “I don’t get to call many old people by their first nam
es.”
“If it makes you feel better, you can call me Mr. Woody.” Just then, Wolf whined. “Wolf, you’ll get your share, you greedy bastard. Oops, excuse me, Jamie.”
Jamie laughed at the funny name, laughed at the swearing. “The men who took me away swore a lot.”
“When was that, Jamie?”
“A long time ago.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. I thought they were going to do things to me.”
“Did they?”
“No. But they hit me. And two men put me in that tin place. With bread and water.”
“You mean where I found you?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you there?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell when it was night.”
God, the hermit thought. “Where were you before that, Jamie?”
“In a long cement room with no windows. It was a bath-room.”
“A bathroom?”
“Yes. It had a toilet and a sink. I remember men talking.”
“How long were you in that place, Jamie?”
“I don’t know. At first, I couldn’t tell when it was night, because there weren’t any windows. But when I got sleepy, I guessed it must be night. Only, there were times when I wanted to sleep but when I was too scared.”
“How many times did you sleep, Jamie?”
“A couple, I think. I don’t know. I was scared.”
“I bet.”
“They gave me baloney sandwiches to eat and a toy furry bear to play with. But I was still scared.”
“Jamie, where were you when the bad men first took you?”
“With Tony. He was driving me back to my mother.”
“Who’s Tony?”
“He drives me and my dad places. He’s real nice.”
“So he’s like a chauffeur?”
“Yes.” Jamie remembered the word. “I’m allowed to call him by his first name.”
“So, Jamie, your mom and dad don’t live together?”
“No. My mom got mad and left, and then she made me go with her.”
“It’s okay, Jamie. Okay to cry. Here.”
Jamie took the rag from the hermit and wiped off his face.
“Let’s eat, Jamie. We can talk while we eat.”
Jamie looked at the big plate of food: chunks of meat, potatoes, carrots. It smelled good.