Scarecrow

by Robin Hathaway

  Lived?

  He pressed the accelerator.

  As he drove, he thought of Jo’s friends. The Nelsons, ‘Mike,’ Maggie’s sister, Polly; Jack; Marie; Becca … The lights were on full at Mike’s garage. He pulled in and Mike came right up. “Any news?”

  Paul must have been here. “No. I was hoping you might …”

  Mike shook his head, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Well, if you do …”

  Mike nodded grimly.

  Tom headed for the Sheffield place. As he drew near, he saw only one light—in a second-story window. Bad sign. If the family were back, there would be more lights. He checked his watch: 8:30. Juri, all by himself, probably turning in early. He pulled fifty yards past the house and parked. His first instinct was to break down the door and search the place. Easy. No point getting Juri’s wind up. He controlled himself. What excuse could he give for dropping by? He hardly knew the man. They belonged to the same community but had no common interests. He’d met him a couple of times—at the post office and the obligatory fireman’s’ muskrat dinner. Juri was partial to muskrat. Tom hated it—and the way they trapped them. He wondered if Maggie had already called the Sheffields. He should have asked. He glanced in the back of his truck for something to help him. Nothing there but his bow and a couple of arrows. He grabbed the bow and rummaged in the glove compartment for his flashlight.

  There was no bell. He knocked twice. A dog barked. He waited. The barking stopped. He knocked again. More barking, followed by heavy footsteps. Lights came on behind the drawn shades. The door opened and Juri squinted into the darkness.

  “Tom Canby. Sorry to bother you. Was huntin’ in the field across the way and lost an arrow.” His Bayfield drawl grew thicker as he went on. “They’re kinda valuable and I’d like to take a look for it. I think it came this way.”

  “Can’t it wait ’til morning?”

  “I’m kinda anxious about it.” (He resisted saying “shucks.”) “ … And I’ve got my light.” He held up his flashlight. God, what an ass he sounded.

  Juri shrugged. “Go ahead, if it’ll make you sleep better.” He shut the door.

  It had been easier than he thought. But what had he actually accomplished? Permission to spend the night trekking through a muddy field looking for a nonexistent arrow.

  He began close to the house, shining his light onto the porch, under the porch, into the crawl space under the kitchen. Did he really expect to find Jo there? The kitchen window burst into light. He drew back. Had Juri decided to have a snack? The shade was down and glowed yellow. A narrow crack of brighter yellow edged one side. Hugging the wall, Tom peeped through the crack into the kitchen. Peeping Tom. He snorted. A table and three chairs. Juri came into view bearing a bottle of wine and a glass. He set them down and moved out of Tom’s line of vision. When he came back he was carrying a chunk of cheese and a box of crackers. Tom turned away in disgust. Had he nothing better to do than spy on some fella’s evening snack? He headed for the barn. The door was unlocked but creaked loudly when he pushed it open. How would he explain his presence in the barn? His arrow could hardly have pierced a thick barn door. Maybe the door had been open during the day and—like a bird—the arrow had flown in? Bullshit. He flashed his light over the empty stalls. Apparently the Sheffields no longer kept animals. A pile of tattered horse blankets. The remains of an ancient wagon. The sound of scuffling. He shot his light into the corner, trapping a pair of shiny black eyes. They vanished.

  When Tom came out, the clouds had scattered, revealing a three-quarter moon. Clusters of stars crowded the sky. No time for star gazing. He went around to the back of the barn. A rusty tractor, some wooden barrels, a roll of chicken wire. No need for a flashlight now. He headed into the field and stopped. What was he doing? Jo wasn’t here. If she was anywhere, she would be in the house—a prisoner in some darkened room. Not likely. Juri had not seemed nervous or angry when he came to the door. A little curious and mildly annoyed; the normal reaction to an unexpected nocturnal visitor. Hardly the attitude of a kidnapper. And he had been perfectly willing to let Tom search his property. Not the behavior of someone who was hiding something. Or someone. Should he knock again with some further excuse? Such as? How would you like to share your bottle of wine? As Tom stared at the kitchen window, the shade went black. He headed back to his pickup.

  CHAPTER 44

  When Tom came into the lobby, he found Paul pacing.

  “Any … ?”

  “No.”

  “Did Maggie call the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What about the hospitals?”

  Paul grew pale.

  “I’ll do it.” Tom picked up the phone. The local hospital phone numbers were conveniently tacked to a bulletin board next to the phone. There were only two.

  While Paul listened to Tom making his calls, the night of his son’s disappearance rushed back to him. That night, he had done the calling. Maggie wasn’t up to it.

  “Nothing at Salem Hospital,” Tom reported over his shoulder.

  That night Paul had felt the way he felt tonight—relieved that Nick wasn’t in the hospital. But that was before they had found out Nick was nowhere. Missing. Lost.

  “Nothing at Bridgeton either,” Tom said.

  “What about the Delaware Medical Center?” Paul rooted out the Wilmington phone book and gave it to him.

  It would have been better if Nick had been in the hospital—or even the morgue. At least then they would know. It was the not knowing.

  “All clear at the Med Center.” Sensing that his old friend was suffering, Tom left the phone and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “What now?” asked Paul.

  For answer, Tom went back to the phone and made another call. “I’d like to report a missing person.”

  Paul put his head in his hands.

  CHAPTER 45

  “If you tell me why you were following us, we may let you go.”

  Compared to the pounding in my head, the voice was no more than the buzzing of a fly. I opened my eyes. Pitch black. I was lying prone, but the undulating motion was gone. I was on terra firma. And I was no longer bound. I could stretch out my right arm to its full length and run into nothing but air. The same with my left arm. My right leg. Left leg.

  “And if I don’t?” I answered the bodiless voice that seemed to be coming from above me.

  “That would be most unfortunate.”

  Milac, giving an imitation of a grade-C American movie villain.

  “In what way?” I prodded. There must be an intercom imbedded in the ceiling.

  A sigh, signifying a deep reluctance to convey the bad news.

  “Oh, come on, I can take it,” I urged.

  “While I was working at the nuclear plant, I borrowed some radioactive material … .”

  A horselaugh burst from me, despite my sore head. “In what? Your briefcase?” (Grade-C spies always carry a briefcase.) “Or did you seal it in your thermos and bring it home in your lunchbox?”

  “You may laugh. But we are not as backward in our country as you think.”

  An especially sharp pain in my head rendered me speechless. It also gave me time to reconsider. Maybe I’d better not be so flip. If I wanted to survive and find Becca, I’d better keep my wisecracks to myself.

  Milac went on. “This material is invisible and odorless, so you will not know when it has been released.”

  Oh, please … It was an effort to contain my groan.

  “In fact, you won’t have any reaction to the material for two, maybe three years. Then you may begin to lose a little hair … .”

  Was this guy for real?

  “Some bruises may appear on your skin and you may develop leukemia. But you are a doctor; I do not need to tell you the symptoms of leukemia. You know it usually begins with severe headaches.”

  I swallowed.

  “All you have to do is tell me what you are looking for, and all this unpleasantness can be
avoided.”

  I stared at the ceiling (not seeing it), and forced my voice to sound flat and expressionless. “I was looking for Becca.”

  “Ah, the Sheffield child. What did you want from her?”

  I raised my head. “I didn’t want anything from her. I wanted to see her. She’s my friend.”

  “She’s a child.”

  “A friend, nevertheless.”

  “Americans have strange relationships.”

  “It’s not a ‘relationship,’ goddamn it!” I sat up, shouting at the dark.

  “Please, don’t get excited,” the voice above me purred. “Take it easy, as you Americans say.”

  Go to hell, I thought—but didn’t say. I lay down and closed my eyes. My head was killing me. All that shouting.

  “I will let you rest.”

  My eyes flipped open. Could he see me? Did the little rat have a spy hole? Was I under constant surveillance through one of those infrared lenses that spies use to see in the dark? I had seen a window display of those gadgets in a store in Manhattan. They had fascinated me, but I had never supposed I would be on the other end of one.

  “While you’re resting, you might like to think about the effects of radiation. Perhaps you can recall some stories of the survivors of Hiroshima.”

  Would he never shut up?

  A faint click, then blessed silence. But only for a moment. Into the silence filtered a soft, cloying music. The kind of music that is inflicted on you in department store elevators or over the telephone when someone puts you on hold. A type of music I particularly loathed.

  Bastard! I thought, but didn’t yell. If I was going to survive and find Becca I had to keep my mouth shut.

  The Muzak kept coming.

  Was it strange to be fond of a girl less than half my age? I shook my head violently. Dirty-minded little bastard. What did age have to do with friendship?

  Becca was a smart-assed kid who needed guidance and a goal. She had no parents, for God’s sake, and was being raised by an aunt who was living on another planet and a cousin who was—at best—a question mark. No wonder she was acting out. Under that tough-guy exterior was a lost little girl … .

  “Holy crap!” I sat up. You’re getting maudlin, Jo. Face it. Becca is a brat. But … a brat worth saving. If I can only find her … .

  CHAPTER 46

  I must have fallen asleep, despite the Muzak. (Because of it? I refused to credit those foul notes with anything.) My dreams, strangely enough, had been happy ones—of my father and me at the seashore, of riding my bike under a brilliant sky, and finally, jumping the waves with Becca—and Sophie. Each child held one of my hands. Suddenly we all three merged into one and were floating on top of the waves, looking up at the sky, and … I woke up. To reality: One dead. One missing. One in prison.

  But my head felt better. I could think more clearly. How could I have fallen for that radioactive shit, even a little bit—except that my resistance was low, because I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for hours, maybe days. They couldn’t possibly risk killing me slowly, over a period of two or three years. I was on to their whole immigrant-smuggling scheme, for God’s sake. All those poor people imprisoned in that airless attic with little food or drink and nonexistent sanitary conditions. And God knows what other horrors they were subjected to. No, when they got rid of me, it would have to be quick. Meanwhile, they would try to get as much out of me as they could. Find out how much I knew about their operation, and how much I had spilled to others.

  “Good morning, Doctor.”

  The voice jarred me. Morning. At least I could get my bearings. This must be the day after I rented the boat, unless I had slept for an entire day and night because of some drug they had given me. (Maybe that was why my head ached!) If the boat wasn’t returned, the people I’d rented it from would start to wonder, wouldn’t they? Maybe even start looking for it? For me?

  “Not talking today? How unfriendly. And I thought you put such a high premium on friendship.”

  Premium? The rat had a good command of the English language. Friendship? Where were my friends? Had they missed me yet? Had they begun to search for me? Don’t they serve any food in this rat-hole? “I’m hungry,” I said mildly.

  “If you cooperate, I promise you a good breakfast.”

  His accent was barely perceptible, like the hint of some seasoning I couldn’t put my finger on.

  “Why did you follow me to the nuclear plant?” he asked.

  Since when do people follow a skunk? “I took that tour because I wanted to know how the plant worked, in case it ever sprang a leak or was attacked by terrorists and I might have to treat the victims.”

  “Such nobility.”

  I let that pass. Discussing “nobility” with a sewer rat was my idea of nothing.

  “And what about that day at the gas station?”

  I had to think a minute. Oh, yeah, I had a big ulterior motive that day. “I was picking up my tire.”

  “And what about the day you tailed us to the Sheffield farm?”

  “Tailed you? I was driving along, enjoying the scenery, until I had a flat … Wait a minute. It was you who took that potshot at me!”

  “Not at you. At your tire.”

  At least one piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  “So,” he continued, “you maintain that appearing in our vicinity so frequently was a twist of fate? A mere coincidence?”

  I hope you don’t think I’d actively seek out your company! “That’s right.”

  “And when you came to dinner at the Sheffield’s—that was also a coincidence?”

  “Of course.”

  A long pause. I thought he had left until he said, “I hope you find your accommodations satisfactory?”

  I swallowed my normal response. “I could use a glass of water.”

  He didn’t answer. Suddenly the room blazed with light. I shut my eyes. There was a grinding noise. My eyes opened to see part of the cinder-block wall in front of me begin to separate from the rest. Through the crack, a hand emerged holding a glass of water. As I grabbed the glass, I tried to hold on to the hand. It slipped from my grasp. Another grind and the crack disappeared. It had been a woman’s hand.

  I drank the water down in one gulp. Guess that radiation material hadn’t arrived yet, otherwise he wouldn’t let his wife come in here to wait on me. Unless, of course, he’d grown tired of her. “And I could use a toilet.”

  After a few moments, the cinder blocks parted again and a portable potty—complete with toilet paper—was shoved into the room. As I scrambled to use it, I wondered briefly if he was watching me. But the call of nature overcame my modesty.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” His voice purred with sarcasm.

  The little rat—he had been watching. “Let me out of here,” I said. Now that I could see my living quarters, they appealed to me even less. A small cinder-block cell painted a dull gray. The only furnishings: a cot, the potty, and me.

  This time the silence continued. He really had left.

  CHAPTER 47

  Maggie was on desk duty when Mr. Banks arrived. If she had been asked to describe him, she would have thought a minute and said, “If you put a wig on him, he’d look just like one of those signers of the Declaration of Independence.” Maybe it was the glasses—round with steel rims. No, it was the eyes behind them. Clear blue, a shade lighter than Jo’s, but just as steady.

  “I’m Joe Banks.” He came straight up to the desk. “Any news of my daughter?”

  She shook her head and swung open the little swinging door that separated the office from the lobby. “Please come in, Mr. Banks, and have some coffee.”

  He looked swiftly around the lobby as if searching for someone to give him a different answer. His gaze switched back to Maggie. He stepped inside.

  “Everything’s being done.” She poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, thanks. What’s being done?”

  “The police
are scouring the neighborhood. All the hospitals have been contacted and no accident involving a motorbike has been reported—”

  “Motorbike?”

  “That’s how she gets around, makes her house calls … . Didn’t you know?”

  “No.”

  Maggie felt she had put her foot in it.

  “Where was she headed?”

  The force of his gaze made her want to look away. She didn’t. “No one knows.” She wasn’t about to repeat Jack’s story.

  “May I see her room?”

  “Of course.” She reached behind her, lifted a key from a hook, and handed it to him. “I’m afraid I can’t leave the desk. Just take the stairs outside the door and turn right at the top.”

  “Thank you.”

  She hadn’t realized, until she watched his receding back, how small he was—a good three or four inches shorter than his daughter. Jo was about five foot ten.

  When Mr. Banks returned to the lobby, Maggie had gone and Paul had taken her place. Maggie had described him, but Paul would have known him anyway because of his eyes. Paul came out of the office and offered his hand. “Mr. Banks—Paul Nelson.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’d like to register,” Mr. Banks said.

  Paul took down a key and handed it to him. “On the house,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  He pocketed the key. “I’ll get my bag.”

  Paul watched him go. When he reached the door, Mr. Banks turned. “I lost my wife, Mr. Nelson … .” His hands clenched at his sides. “I can’t lose Jo.”

  “I know,” Paul said. “I lost my son.”

  The color left the man’s face.

  Paul dropped his gaze and cursed himself. Maggie would never have said that.

  Shaking his head as if to shake off Paul’s words, Mr. Banks went to get his luggage.

  CHAPTER 48

  “Sorry, Canby. We have no authority to search either of those properties. What makes you think she’s there?” The police officer was slumped in a swivel chair in front of a computer monitor displaying six playing cards, faceup. From a corner of his mouth hung a dead cigar. The office reeked of dead cigars.