by Bill Crider
"He changed his mind, too."
"How do you know?"
"I just know, that's all." His voice was rising, and his face was turning red. "And that's all I'm going to say about it. You can get out of here now."
The kitchen got very quiet.
"Patrick?" his mother called.
It was time for me to go. I stood up and tucked my clipboard under my arm.
Mrs. Mullen walked into the room and looked at her son, who was still sitting in the chair, gripping its arms as he might be trying to crush them.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"Everything's fine," I said. "I was just leaving. Patrick's going to come by my office when he gets back to school and have a talk about that job."
Mrs. Mullen smiled uncertainly and looked at her son, who didn't look a lot like someone who'd just been offered lucrative employment.
"That's nice," she said. "I suppose."
"He'll be an asset to the school," I said, backing toward the door. "I'm glad Dr. Williams recommended him."
Patrick's eyes were wide with disbelief, as if he couldn't believe that I'd dare to lie so blatantly. I wanted to tell him that if he could do it, so could I, but it didn't seem to be the right time to try imparting a moral lesson.
"We're having roast for lunch, if you'd like to stay," Mrs. Mullen said to me.
"I'd love to, but I have an appointment in Houston. I'm going to be a little late as it is. Thanks for the invitation, though."
"You're welcome. Thank you for coming by."
"My pleasure."
I was at the door, and I opened it. Mrs. Mullen was looking at Patrick as if hoping he would say something nice to me to solidify his chance of getting the job.
He didn't say a word. He was still glaring at me when I closed the door, and I wondered how he'd explain his behavior to his mother. Or if he'd even bother to try.
I drove past the muffler shops and transmission shops, then on out past the discount stores. I crossed Highway 146 and headed for Interstate 45, passing the community college and a huge shopping mall.
As I turned onto the interstate, I could see Gulf Greyhound Park on my left. I thought about stopping to put down a few bets on the dogs, but I didn't have time. I had to talk to Chad Peavy and see what his reaction to my visit would be. I hoped I could get more out of him than I'd managed with Patrick Mullen.
As I drove toward Dickinson, a town that had once been nearly as wide-open as Galveston, I thought about what I'd learned from my short visit to Texas City.
For one thing, it was clear that Patrick knew a lot more than he was willing to tell, but now I wondered if his forgetfulness was entirely due to a visit from Henry J. It was hard to judge whether he was afraid because of what Henry J. might do to him or for some other reason.
What other reason? Could Patrick Mullen have been something more than just a witness to the fact that Randall Kirbo and Kelly Davis had been at the same party? Could he have had something to do with the girl's death? Judging from the look on his face as I left his house, and from the grip he had on those chair arms, he was capable of violence under the right circumstances — or the wrong ones. Nearly everyone is.
I wasn't sure about anything that might have happened at the party, but I didn't think that Mullen was going to break down and change his story just to get things off his chest. It was going to take more than just a casual attempt to get anything out of him. I'd left his house quietly, but that didn't mean I wouldn't be talking to him again if I could just figure out what it was that I wanted to say.
I flicked on the truck's radio and picked up the Beatles doing "I'm Down." They weren't the only ones.
I passed Dickinson and then League City. I was getting close to the Clear Lake area when I noticed that I was being followed.
Or I thought I was. There's so much traffic on the interstate that it's not always easy to tell. However, I was driving the legal speed limit, seventy miles an hour, which made me an exception. I was in the middle lane, and cars were zipping by me on both the right and left. Now and then the drivers would give me a look of annoyance, as if I were some kind of idiot for getting in their way. The fact that someone was going even slower than I was and hanging back about a quarter of a mile behind was enough to make me suspicious, especially since it was a black Cadillac Seville, the kind of car that Big Al owned and that Henry J. frequently drove for her.
Of course there are quite a few black Cadillac Sevilles in the Houston area, and I was probably worrying about nothing. I slowed down to find out.
The Cadillac slowed down, too.
I sped up to eighty, which wasn't really pushing the S-10's six cylinder engine and which put me at about the same speed as most everyone else. I even passed a couple of people.
The Cadillac kept pace, which might not have meant anything at all. Or it might have meant that I was right about Henry J. being on my tail.
There were a number of ways of handling things. I could have pulled over to the side of the road to see if the Cadillac would continue on its merry way. If it did, I might get a look at the driver, though I could tell even from a distance that the windows were tinted darker than legally allowable, just like the windows on Big Al's car.
Or I could have tired some movie stunt, like somehow letting the Cadillac catch up with me and then forcing it off the road by running into its side and running up a big bill at some body shop.
I didn't think my insurance would cover any stunt like that, however, even if I survived it, so I decided to see if I could lose whoever it was. After all, I knew where I was going, and he didn't.
At least I thought he didn't. I wouldn't have put it past Big Al to have put a tap on my phone or to have stationed Henry J. near my house with some kind of sophisticated listening device that would pick up every word I spoke.
We'd see. When I got to Houston, I'd put the moves on him. I was fairly sure I could shake him, and if he turned up later on, then I'd know he had inside information.
If he didn't turn up, Big Al would probably do something terrible to him.
Which was just fine with me.
16
It was even easier than I thought it would be. I got onto Loop 610, drove around it until I came to Highway 288. From 288 I took the exit for the Medical Center, with its maze of hospitals and parking lots. I didn't spend much time in that area, but I figured that Henry J. didn't, either. It was just a matter of getting a little lead on him and hiding the truck from sight.
When I took the exit, the Cadillac tried to make up some of the distance between us, but it was already too late. I made a few zigs and a few zags and even got lost myself. I went into and out of a couple of parking lots and finally pulled into a spot between two custom vans that towered over my little truck like a couple of semis.
I sat there for ten minutes, listening to the radio recycling the same old oldies and wishing I'd brought the O'Hara book with me to read. There was no sign of the Cadillac in that time, so I pulled back out onto the street and headed toward West University, better known as West U, a community not far from the Rice campus, where all the streets were named for famous literary figures. If you've ever yearned for a classy address on a street named for Shakespeare or one of the Romantic poets, then West U is the place for you.
As it happened the Peavys lived on Coleridge, whose name always reminded me of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," portions of which for some reason I'd never tried to figure out had been stuck in my memory ever since my eighth grade English class with a teacher named Mrs. Morgan. As far as I could tell, the verses had never served a useful purpose in my life. After all, what possible good was it that I remembered the two lines that said, "Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea"? I was sure Mrs. Morgan would have been proud of me for recalling it, though.
The Peavy house was white and two stories tall. There was a large boat covered with canvas and parked in front of a black BMW in the driveway. The Christmas decorations were li
mited to a tasteful handmade wreath on the front door, where I was met by all the Peavys, who seemed quite happy to see me. Obviously they hadn't been talking to the Mullens within the last hour or so.
Chad's parents were dressed casually but expensively, all natural fabrics, of course, whereas Chad was wearing a pair of old jeans and a flannel shirt that might have come from Wal-Mart. He was big, bigger than I was, and a lot wider through the shoulders. Shaking hands with him was like shaking a hand carved from a block of wood.
"I hope you'll be able to talk some sense into Chad," Mr. Peavy said as he led the way to the den, a room with a big-screen TV, a sectional sofa and several chairs. There was also a Christmas tree, a fir of some kind, not artificial, about seven feet high. There were plenty of gifts under it, wrapped in red and green paper.
"Chad just seems to have lost interest in school," Mr. Peavy said. "I don't know why."
"That's why I'm here," I said, giving them a quick look at my clipboard and pad. "My job is to try to get him to come back. We don't like to lose any students of course, but your son is a special case."
"We've always felt that way, too," Mrs. Peavy said. She was a cheerful-looking woman with hair so black that I was certain it was dyed. "He could do so well if he'd just try."
"Not to mention that he could help out the football team," I said, getting into the spirit of things.
"That's the truth," Mr. Peavy said. "He could have been really good if he'd just put his mind to it. I think the disappearance of his roommate just took the fun out of things for him."
The three of us chattered on that way for a few seconds, while Chad stood awkwardly to one side and said absolutely nothing. It was obvious that meeting with me hadn't been his idea.
"Why don't the two of you leave me and Chad alone for a while?" I suggested to the Peavys. "Sometimes these interviews are a little awkward if the parents are in the room."
Mr. Peavy said that he understood completely, and he and his wife disappeared.
"We might as well sit down," I said to Chad when they were gone.
Chad sat in a chair, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at me. He still hadn't said anything.
I looked at my clipboard, ran my finger down the legal pad, and said, "Let's see. Your roommate was Randall Kirbo, is that right?"
"Yeah," Chad said.
"He's another student we'd like to have back. I understand that there's some problem there, however."
"Yeah."
I pretended to refer to the legal pad again. "He didn't come back to school after spring break. Neither did you. Any connection?"
"Nah."
"Your major was communications, right, Chad?"
"Huh?"
"Just a little joke." I smiled to show him that I was only kidding around, then looked back at the legal pad. "It says here that Randall was at some kind of party and that he was never seen again after that. You were there too, isn't that right?"
Chad leaned against the back of his chair as if trying to get as far away from me as possible.
"What's this got to do with student retention?" he asked.
It was nice to find out that he could string several words together at the same time.
"Well, Chad, as you know, I'm interested in helping the college retain students. If we can find out why they left in the first place, we might be able to persuade them to come back and continue their educations. If something happened at that party to cause two of our students to decide to leave college forever, then we'd like to know about it. You see?"
"No."
Talking to Chad was a little like talking to Nameless, though I was beginning to wonder if Nameless didn't have a slightly larger vocabulary.
I tried again. "Let me put it this way, Chad. If we could find out what happened at that party, we might be able to get in touch with Randall and talk to him the way I'm talking to you."
Chad just looked at me. Subtlety wasn't going to get me anywhere with him.
"I don't seem to be getting through to you, Chad," I said. "So I'm going to level with you. I don't care about you at all. The coach told me that you were a lousy football player and that he didn't care whether you came back or not. But he wants me to find out about Randall. He says Randall could be All-Conference next year."
"He's fulla shit, then," Chad said.
I had to give Chad credit for one thing; he was making it easy for me to lie to him.
"Maybe so," I said. "Now, about that party. There was a girl named Kelly there."
Chad uncrossed his arms, then recrossed them even more tightly in front of him than before.
"Who said there was?" he asked. "Who said there was any party? I didn't go to any party."
"A young man named Patrick Mullen says you did. He lives down in Texas City."
"I never heard of him. He didn't tell you anything about any party, or any Kelly, either."
"Well, that's where you're wrong, Chad. He told me quite a bit about her. He told me that Randall went to a party with her at a beach house, and that he saw you there, too. He said there was a lot of drinking going on, and that sometime during the evening Kelly and Randall went off by themselves. He didn't see them after that, but you did."
"That's a damn lie. He didn't tell you all that."
It was a damned lie, all right, but I certainly wasn't going to admit it.
"Sure he told me," I said. "Why wouldn't he?"
"Because he'd better not, that's why." Chad was sweating even more than Patrick had. "He knows better than to say something like that."
"Why? Is he afraid of Henry J.?"
Chad looked puzzled. It was a look that came so naturally to him that I couldn't tell whether he was faking it or not.
"Henry who?"
"Don't kid with me, Chad. You know exactly who I'm talking about."
"No, I don't. You're talking crazy, about parties and stuff that I don't know anything about. And I don't think you're here from any student retention office, either."
Chad wasn't exactly quick on the uptake, but he'd eventually found me out. I decided to reward him by telling him the truth, or part of it.
"You catch on fast, Chad," I said. A little flattery might not hurt. "I'm actually a private detective. I've been hired by Randall's parents to find out what happened to him."
"I don't know what happened to him. I don't know about any party or any girl named Kelly Davis."
"Who said her name was Davis?" I asked.
Chad looked panicked. "You did."
"I don't think so, Chad. I left that little detail out."
"Then the cops must've mentioned her. I went over all that stuff about Randall with the cops a long time ago."
"But you didn't tell them the truth. You lied to them about not knowing what happened to Randall. You know he disappeared after that party."
Chad wiped his forehead with one of his hard hands, then wiped his hand across the leg of his jeans.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was never at any party. I don't know if Randall was, either. And I don't know anything about this Kelly person."
Chad was talking a little more, but he wasn't helping me. He was as stubborn as his hand was hard. Maybe a few more lies would crack him.
"There was someone else at the party," I said. "Someone who came forward just last week and talked to the police in Galveston. So you might as well tell me what happened. I already know most of it."
Chad's mouth twisted. "That bitch."
"Which bitch are you talking about?"
"You know which one. That damn Sharon. I knew she couldn't keep quiet."
I felt for just a second as if someone had sucker-punched me in the solar plexus, but I tried not to show it. There were probably hundreds of girls named Sharon in Galveston. This one didn't have to be the one I was thinking of, though if she were, it would explain something that had been bothering me.
"Blondish hair?" I said. "Blue eyes? Tall?"
"Yeah, yeah. That's her."
"Matthews, I think. I don't remember."
I'd been afraid he was going to say that.
"I shoulda known she'd talk sooner or later," he said.
I took a deep breath. "She did. So why don't you?"
Chad slumped in his chair and looked at his feet.
"OK," he said. "I'll tell you."
17
Sometimes I'm not nearly as clever as I think I am, and this was one of those times. I hadn't lost Henry J. at all. He was waiting for me when I came out of the house.
The Cadillac Seville was parked around the corner, right in front of my truck. Henry J. was leaning against the side of the S-10, picking his teeth and looking up at a squirrel in one of the oak trees. When he saw me, he lost interest in the squirrel. He grinned at me, snapped the toothpick in two, and threw it on the street.
"There's a pretty stiff fine for littering in West U," I told him.
"Yeah? I wish you hadn't told me that. Now I'm scared half to death."
He didn't look scared at all. He actually looked quite happy to see me.
"You should be scared," I said. "The cops here don't like litterbugs."
His grin got wider. "Guess I'll have to mop up the street, then. With you."
I'd spent the night with my Mauser beside the bed, but I hadn't thought to bring it with me. Even if I'd brought it, it would have been inside the truck where I couldn't get to it. I wondered if I could convince Henry J. that my clipboard was a lethal weapon. I didn't really think so.
In fact, I hadn't really been thinking at all. If I had been, I would have realized that Henry J. didn't have to follow me. He would have guessed that if I'd visited Patrick Mullen, the next logical stop would be at Chad Peavy's house, and he obviously had the address. He'd probably been there before.
"The cops are pretty tough in West U," I said. "You wouldn't want to start something that might get both of us thrown in jail."
Today, Henry J. was wearing a T-shirt that showed a target silhouette with a red bullseye on it. A black hole was in the center of the bulls eye, and printed above and below the silhouette were the words "Gun Control Means Hitting Your Target." Matched automatic pistols in holsters dangled from the "u" in Gun and the "o" in Control.