Out Of The Deep I Cry
Page 16
“Or they’re bivouacking with a friend. So how ’bout it? Which category would you place Jonathon Ketchem in?”
“He’s not here.” De Grave dug his pitchfork into the manure pile and tossed another twenty pounds into the spreader. “Who-all’s on that list you got?”
Harry pulled the creased paper from his back pocket. “You, Hutch Shaw, Leslie Bain, and Garry MacEacheron.”
“We’re all of us married men. With kids. I can’t imagine any of those men’s wives not picking up the phone and letting Jane know that Jonathon was there.” He smiled, almost shyly. “I know for sure my missus would.”
“Could he be holed up in a speakeasy someplace? Maybe gone to Glens Falls, taken a room there?”
De Grave clanged the pitchfork tines against the cobbles to loosen the muck and kicked what remained off with the edge of his boot. “Help me get the team hitched up,” he said, walking into the barn. Harry followed him. For a moment, his vision shut down in the difference between the bright, chill sunshine outside and the warm animal gloom inside. Two enormous geldings, half-Percheron by the looks of them, stood patiently, and Harry was relieved to see that they were already in tack. It had been a long time since he had harnessed up his own dad’s team, and he didn’t want to look a citified fool fumbling around in front of De Grave. “This is Ned”-De Grave indicated the horse at the left-hand block-“and that one is Nick.”
Harry took Nick by the bit strap, scratched his neck, and stroked the outside of his nostrils with a light finger. From between black leather blinders, Nick looked down on him with clever brown eyes that seemed to say, This is all nice and good; but I’m supposed to be to work.
Harry led Nick out of the barn, blinking again as they emerged into the light. “Nick is the far horse,” De Grave called over his shoulder, and Harry led his charge to the right side of the rig. The gelding was so well behaved that the slightest pressure of Harry’s hand on his bit rein caused him to back neatly into his place beside the spreader’s wagon tongue. Harry and De Grave lifted the crossbar, and Harry held it steady while the farmer clipped Ned’s straps to the bar’s left ring and adjusted their tension. Then Harry did the same for Nick while De Grave returned to the tack room to retrieve the heel chains, which would attach the horses’ tack to the spreader itself.
De Grave came about the front of the team and handed Harry a three-foot chain, thick and heavy enough to break a skull open with one blow. “So how ’bout it?” Harry asked as he smoothed a hand over Nick’s broad flank. “Is Jonathon the type of man to have poured himself into a bottle? Does he have a girl somewhere who might have taken him in?”
He bent down to clip on the chain, and through the stolid stacks of the horses’ hind legs, he could catch glimpses of De Grave: muck boots and faded pants and hands that looked older than his thirty-some years, meticulously attaching chain to ring, checking the latch, checking the straps.
“Jonathon liked his whiskey as much as the next man in his younger days,” he said, his words slow and thoughtful. “He never was a temperance man, that I heard. But I haven’t seen him near liquor for… well…” He stood, resting one hand on Ned’s muscular croup. “Well, not since his children passed.”
Harry stood up, the heel chain still dangling from his hands. “What?” He could just see De Grave’s head over the horses’ rumps. “What do you mean, after his children passed? I thought he and his wife had the one daughter.”
De Grave nodded. “She was born after. They had four youngsters before. All of ’em died of the black diphtheria in ’24.”
“Good God.”
“Sometimes His will is hard. Hard to bear.” De Grave’s hand traced the leather lines of the straps crisscrossing Ned’s hip and rump. “Jonathon was different after that.”
“Different how?”
De Grave tilted his head up and squinted at the pale blue sky of early spring. “He had always been real certain about where he was going, what he wanted. He was going to make a big success of his farm, buy more land, do better than his father. After the children passed, he just sort of… spun free.”
“You mean he started acting up? Getting wild?”
“No, no, just the opposite. He didn’t have any more spark for fun in him, I think. He was more like…” Harry waited while the farmer chose his words with care. “Like a working barge that’s been set adrift on the river. You see it traveling downstream, it may look like it’s doing what it’s always done, but there’s no purpose there. No hand on the tiller.”
“Sooner or later, an unmanned boat will wreck.”
De Grave looked at Harry. “I know.”
“But not on a bottle.”
De Grave shook his head. “I don’t think on other women, either, although I can’t say for sure, one way or tother. It’s hard to imagine a man with a pretty, sweet wife like Janie looking elsewhere.”
Harry didn’t find it hard to imagine at all. He could picture it, long nights lying next to the woman, and every time you looked at her seeing your lost children in her eyes, her mouth, the color of her hair. Never touching each other without the chains of grief weighing your limbs down, making your flesh cold. He glanced at the heel chain, heavy in his hands. Easy to imagine wanting to hide yourself in someone else’s hot, blank, forgettable body.
He squatted down and attached the chain to Nick’s trace strap, tugging on it to make sure the latch was secure. He fastened the other end to the big steel ring bolted to the corner of the spreader. When everything was neat, he stood again, looked across the horses’ backs at De Grave. “What’s your guess, then?” he said. “You know the man. What would you think he’d done, disappearing from his home and not coming back?”
De Grave weighed the question with the same deliberate concentration he gave to everything. “My guess would be,” he said after a minute, “that he’d finally drifted downstream out of sight.”
When Mrs. Ketchem had described her husband investing in his brother’s gas station, Harry had envisioned one of those ramshackle affairs that were popping up in the wake of the new road construction up north, converted livery stables or smiths with a pump out front and bales of hay still stacked in the rear. He was surprised, then, when he spotted a brilliantly enameled brand-spanking-new sign emblazoned KETCHEM’S GAS AND MOTOR SERVICE. The low, wide building on the intersection of Route 9 and Tenant Mountain Road was whitewashed within an inch of its life, stuccoed into rounded edges and smooth curved arches through which three service bays beckoned to distressed motorists. There were no fewer than three pumps outside, protected from the elements by a bright red roof supported by more stuccoed pillars. It looked as if it had been lifted up bodily from Hollywood, California, and transplanted to Lake George.
Harry pulled alongside the far edge of the building, out of the way of the pumps. As he got out of his Ford, a tall, gangly youngster in coveralls popped out of the first service bay. “Help you, sir?” he said, his voice cracking halfway through the greeting. He coughed and blushed.
“I’m not here for service, son, but thank you. I’m looking for David Ketchem. Might he be around?”
The kid tucked his chin in an attempt to keep his Adam’s apple in place. “My dad’s in the office,” he said, pointing to a red door sandwiched between the service bays and a gleaming expanse of plate-glass window.
The door didn’t tinkle when Harry opened it. Instead, it set off a musical bing! that sounded like an hour tone on the radio. He began to suspect that, had life turned out a little differently, Jonathon Ketchem’s brother would have gone into show business instead of being a pump jockey.
“Can I help you?” The man behind the counter was about Harry’s age, mid-thirties, with thinning blond hair and a face that fell easily into smiling. Harry didn’t need the DAVE badge sewn over his right breast pocket to identify him as the skinny kid’s father.
“David Ketchem?” Harry smiled himself, a salve against the sting of his next words. “I’m Chief Harry McNeil, Millers Kill police.”
“I’m here because of your brother, Mr. Ketchem. Seems Jonathon Ketchem had a fight with his wife this past Saturday night. He stormed off in his car and hasn’t been home since. Mrs. Ketchem is mighty upset about it, and I told her I’d make some inquiries. I’m hoping you can help me locate him.”
“Yeah. Janie called me yesterday. Said he’d taken himself away and she didn’t know where he was.” Ketchem’s body relaxed, and the storm cloud that had been brewing in his eyes dissipated into amused surprise. “I can see why Janie’d go on about it to you. He’s never done that before, that I know of.”
“He hasn’t come here? To cool off or to keep his head down for a few days? Give her a scare?”
“Nope. He’s welcome to stay anytime, but I haven’t seen him for a couple, three weeks at least.”
“You sure? Maybe he drove through here on his way up north, and your boy saw him?” Harry figured if this guy was protecting his brother, it would be a good idea to give him a graceful way out. He leaned forward on the counter, confidential, man-to-man. “Obviously, we don’t get involved in a quarrel between a man and his wife, but now that we’re out looking for him”-skipping over the fact that Harry wasn’t wasting any of his men’s time on this-“I’d hate to keep on spending the department’s money looking for him if someone knows where he’s gone.”
David Ketchem shook his head. “Honest, I don’t know. And Lewis, my boy, he’d ’a told me. Janie’s a good girl, and she’s been a good wife to him. I wouldn’t help to scare her.”
“You ever know your brother to drink?”
“We used to sneak a bottle here and there when we were younger, but no, not for some while. Our dad is an elder of the Presbyterian church in Cossayuharie, so you can imagine how our folks feel about liquor. I just figured Jon followed their example.”
“What about women? Any chance he might have a girlfriend on the sly who’d take him in?”
Ketchem laughed. “Jon? Not a chance. Farm and family, that’s all that interests him.”
Harry polished an imaginary spot on the gleaming white counter. “That’s not the impression I’ve gotten from speaking to a few people. His wife says he’s been moody and out of sorts since they lost their farm to the Conklingville Dam project. Hasn’t figured out what to do with himself. A friend of his agrees.” He glanced up at Ketchem. “What’s your take?”
David Ketchem rested his forearms on the counter, bringing himself down to Harry’s eye level. He frowned, and gazed out the plate-glass window at the stubby pasturage across Tenant Mountain Road. “I guess that’s true. Having to sell the farm, that was hard on Jon. Only thing he ever wanted to do, really. Be a farmer, just like Dad.” He looked at Harry. “I told him he ought to get into a business. Farming.” He shook his head. “You bust your hump three hundred sixty-five days a year doing the same work your great-great-grandfather did. And never get any further along in life than he did.” He glanced around his movie-star-bungalow garage. “You have to look to the future, that’s what I told him. He got a bundle from selling his land to those development folks. It’s worth more underwater than it was growing corn and feeding cows. That’s a sign, don’t you think? The mountains are changing, and a smart man changes along with them.” The satisfaction in his eyes as he surveyed his red-and-white kingdom left no doubt as to which path David Ketchem had chosen.
“Mrs. Ketchem said your brother invested in your business here.”
“He did, and it was a smart thing, too. I’m going to get him a good return on his money. It’s quiet now, ’cause it’s spring, but you should see this place during the summer. From June through September, the pumps never stop ringing and we have cars parked around the building waiting for garage service.” He came around the counter and opened the red door. “You see that lot across the way?” He stepped out onto the macadam and Harry followed. The sun was sliding fast toward the mountains, and a cold breeze had sprung up, reminding Harry that they were still just a few weeks past the rawest nights of the year. He hunched his shoulders inside his wool jacket as Ketchem pointed across the road, where a tired-looking farm stand leaned in on itself, empty except for a few bunches of rhubarb propped in buckets and a tin can for customers to put their money into. “You know what oughtta be there?” Ketchem said. “A restaurant. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just someplace clean and fast where folks driving to the lake or up into the mountains can pull over and eat. I got my eye on the property. I tried to get Jon to think about it, buying the land and building a place.” He shook his head again, this time with the frustration of a man navigating by a map that everyone else ignores. “I told him, you’ll get more for cooking and selling food to tourists than by growing it. He’s not interested.”
“What is he interested in?”
David Ketchem frowned at Harry, as if he had lost track of the purpose of their talk. “Huh?”
“Your brother doesn’t seem to drink. No one can place him with a girlfriend. And he’s never gone off and left his wife and kid with no word. But he’s been missing two days now. Where do you think he is?”
Harry could see the exact moment when Ketchem realized he had no answer for the question that his brother might really, truly be gone, in one of the ways that have no relieved reunion, no happy ending. A thought had been swimming around in Harry’s mind, hard to catch, like a fish in a shady brook. Just glimpses, as it darted into the sun-clear water. It was one of those silly things, you know, first you say something, and then he says something, and next thing you’re going at it hammer and tongs.
After the children passed, he just sort of spun free.
Having to sell the farm, that was hard on Jon.
He leaned in closer to Ketchem, dropped his voice. “How blue do you think your brother really was?”
David Ketchem’s mouth sagged open. Then he snapped it shut. “No.”
“Dad?”
Both men turned to see the boy, framed in the archway of the first service bay.
“Is Uncle Jon missing?”
Ketchem looked at Harry, an edge of panic sharpening his features, his question as clear as if he’d spoken it. What do I say?
“Your dad says your name is Lewis,” Harry said.
“Yessir.”
“Did you overhear us talking in the office, Lewis?”
The kid ducked his head. His cheeks pinked up, but he managed to look Harry in the eye. “Yessir. I’m sorry, Dad. It’s just, without a car running in the garage, it’s easy to hear through the door-”
“And you were curious what a cop had to say to your father?”
“Yessir.” The kid ducked again, then looked at his father. “Dad, what if Uncle Jon was out at night and ran into some bootleggers?”
This, his father seemed to know the answer to. “That’s not very likely, Lew. And even if Uncle Jon happened to be on the same road as a bootlegger, they wouldn’t be bothering with him. They want to get their liquor to where it’s going as fast as they can, not have shoot-outs with folks driving by.”
“But you wouldn’t let me go out last Saturday with Boyd and Morrie in his jalopy ’cause of the rumrunners. You said we might wind up in serious trouble.”
Harry had used enough spurious reasons to say no to his kids to recognize one when he heard it. Any serious trouble Ketchem expected came from the idea of three half-bearded kids gallivanting around the countryside on a Saturday night. “Your dad’s right. Bootleggers aren’t likely to pick on a grown man, but kids could be an easy target. But that’s still an idea worth looking into. If your uncle doesn’t show up in a few more days, I’ll send a wire to the other police stations all along R
oute 9, and have ’em keep an eye out for your uncle’s car.” He turned to Ketchem. “Any hunting cabins, fishing shacks, someplace he might have gone to”-put an end to it-“be alone?”
Ketchem shook his head. “No.”
Harry glanced over at the future restaurant site. He kind of favored the old farm stand himself. He looked back to David Ketchem, held out his hand. “Thanks for your help. If you think of anything, give me a call. Millers Kill six-four-five.”
Ketchem gripped his hand a little too tightly. “Do you really think-,” he said, his voice shrunken, then shook himself and released Harry’s hand. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,” he said, in a normal tone. “And when he does, I’ll be first in line to kick his keister for making us worry.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Harry said.
Pulling out of the gas station and turning onto the road back to Millers Kill, Harry could see David Ketchem had gone to his son’s side. He watched them in his rearview mirror, watching him, until they disappeared in the distance, Ketchem’s arm wrapped tight around his son’s shoulders. Keeping him safe at home.
Chapter 18
NOW
Monday, March 20, The Feast of St. Cuthbert, Bishop of Lindisfarne
Did you ever find out what happened to your father?” Clare shifted in the passenger seat of Mrs. Marshall’s Town Car, taking pains not to move the dish towels shielding her thighs from the hot casserole dish balanced on her lap. She had wheedled her way onto the delivery, in part because she had a guilty need to extend her sympathy and support to Allan Rouse’s wife, and in part because she didn’t know, if she cut off the tale in its telling, if Mrs. Marshall would ever open up this way about her family again.
“No. Although there was no lack of theories. My mother was convinced he was dead, though she never speculated whether it was by accident or some misadventure.” She glanced away from the road briefly, smiling an old smile. “I suspect it was easier for her for him to be dead than for him to be alive somewhere, making a new life without us.”