Pursuit

by Gene Hackman

  “The town square is full of shops, ma’am—over a hundred—and you must see our courthouse dating back to—”

  “Yes, okay. I mainly wanted information on one of your first families, the Caldwells.”

  “Ah, what did you need specifically, miss?”

  “Well, you know what, forget it. Sorry to have bothered you.” She hung up, feeling like a fool. Some things relating to Cheryl’s disappearance needed to be kept private.

  She called Captain Walker and explained her reasoning. He arranged for her to speak with the sheriff of Henry County.

  She dialed him, and he answered on the first ring. After the preliminaries, he got right to it. “I can’t rightly say if the Caldwell I know would be able to he’p you, but I’ll put you in touch, okay?”

  Thanking the lawman, she stopped to think before dialing the number she’d been given. Maybe she should go in person. It was always more beneficial when she presented herself to people face-to-face, watching their tics and shifting eyes.

  She called Todd. “What would you think of a little two-and-a-half-hour trip west to the Lake of the Ozarks area? Assuming I can get permission from SS Capitan Herr Walker?”

  “Long as you don’t use my name in conjunction with his charming nickname.”

  “As always, you will remain my silent partner. It’s late—but can we get under way, Big Man? I’ll get Captain Walker up to speed on the Henry County sheriff and meet you in the lot.”

  An hour onto the road, Todd asked her the plan.

  “I know it may not be protocol, but it’s important you understand this. I want to see if these Caldwell folks can give me some straight answers.”

  “How do you know you’ve got the right folks? You told me Gina said there were a ton of these jokers.”

  “I don’t know. It might just be a hunch.”

  Todd made an odd popping sound with his mouth, keeping time with a musical sales pitch on the radio. “Hunch? Remember what SS Capitan Walker said about that.”

  “No, what? Refresh my tired memory, señor.”

  “Señor? Sí, un error grande como una casa. Or, a mistake bigger than a fucking house.”

  She thought about it. “Yeah, maybe, but it’s my mistake, my inspired guess, and, as it turns out, my house.”

  They were quiet the rest of the way to Clinton.

  When they rolled into town on West Franklin, Julie called the number given to her from the Henry County sheriff for the person who seemed to be patriarch of the Caldwell clan.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Sergeant Worth, Missouri State Patrol. I was given your number by Sheriff Jonas of Henry County. I just happened to be in town. Could I have a few minutes of your time to talk a bit about your— I hesitate to use the word ‘clan;’ maybe ‘relatives’ would be less intrusive. This is Walter Caldwell I’m speaking to, correct?”

  “Yes, correct. Ma’am, is someone in trouble?”

  “No, sorry if I gave that impression. Just that we are doing an investigation of an abduction, and the name Caldwell came up—more than likely unrelated, but we’re just checking. Could we meet?”

  The gentleman gave Julie his business address, and they settled on a time. Julie and Todd first had lunch at Golden Valley, a quaint eatery near the outdoor pavilion, and then walked to the Caldwell Firm, a modest real estate office.

  After Julie took a seat, the elderly gentleman behind the oak desk rested his elbows on the oversized blotter. “You were saying?”

  Not wanting to be the one under focus, Julie moved out of a bright stream of sunlight coming through the second-story window. “We’re investigating an abduction and what is being called a homicide. I now can’t give you more facts because of the ongoing nature of this case. The name Caldwell has come up. Does the name Bink Caldwell mean anything to you, sir?”

  “No, there isn’t anyone by that name in the Caldwell group, at least that I’m aware of.”

  “What about another name for something with a B? Billy, Brit, Bo, Benny, anything?”

  Caldwell cleared his throat. “A number of years ago, there was a Benjamin. I never knew him; a distant cousin. His name came up once in reference to a lawsuit. Turned out to be a paternity affair. By the way, should I have my attorney here for this?”

  Julie watched Mr. Caldwell, who seemed unperturbed and without guile. “It’s up to you. There is no accusation at this time. We are simply asking questions.”

  He smiled back at Julie. “Let me call my wife, see if she remembers this Benjamin character.” He excused himself and left the room.

  Todd crossed his legs. “What do you think, Sarge?”

  Julie felt disappointed. She checked over her shoulder for the elder Caldwell. “He seems honest, unafraid. I couldn’t pick up anything; how about you?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s a morte finito.”

  “Is that supposed to be Spanish for ‘dead end’?”

  “I skipped school a lot. Par-done.” Todd laughed.

  They found themselves on the street with another phone number, directions to a house in the suburbs, and an invitation from a certain Benjamin Caldwell. Todd and Julie pushed on, being met on a comfortable porch with a padded swing for two and a couple rattan chairs.

  “Greetings. I spoke to Walter Caldwell; said you wanted to have a word with me about an investigation? I didn’t get all of that.”

  Julie sat in one of the rickety chairs; Todd carefully followed suit.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s an important case we’re working on. A possible kidnapping and what we are presently calling a murder, at this point it is simply an inquiry. We’re looking into the whereabouts of someone named Bink, more than likely a derivation of a name beginning with a B. Therefore we are here speaking to”—she gestured toward the old fellow pedaling back and forth on the porch swing—“Benjamin Caldwell, senior?” She arched her eyebrows and smiled a “Please speak” kind of smile.

  “Well, yes, you might say I’m a senior both in age and as the father of a long-lost, I guess you could say, junior Benjamin.”

  “Would you mind explaining that?”

  “Not at all. A former . . . wife of mine became pregnant with child, the result being a little Benjie.”

  Todd stopped writing in his notebook.

  “Where does this former Mrs. Caldwell now reside?”

  “I believe with a group of hellions and heathens.” The old man adjusted his shirtfront. “Sinners and nonbelievers more than likely at the corner of Hellsgate and eternity.” He leaned back and smiled. “She died, rest her filthy, rotten soul, soon after giving birth.”

  Julie waited for the man’s newly discovered glee to subside. “What happened to little Benjie?”

  “Don’t have a clue. Given up to the state, I suppose. Don’t know, wasn’t interested.” He ran his hand up and down on the rusted chain holding the swing. “It’s been nigh onto forty years, like a dream. Ha-ha. More like a nightmare—”

  “Thank you, we’ve—” Julie got up to go.

  “—one that keeps coming back.”

  “—got all we need.”

  “Never saw the little bastard. Cost me a sweet penny, I’ll tell you.”

  “Let’s go, Todd.”

  “Not even sure it were mine. Might’ve been about anyone’s,” he ranted as Todd and Julie got in their car. And just before they drove off: “We were never married, so he really was a little bastard.”

  Unfazed, Julie glanced at her watch. “We can still check with Child Services. Let’s hustle.”

  “Good afternoon, miss. My partner and I have somewhat of a problem,” Julie stated. She and Todd flashed their badges at the receptionist.

  “Can we speak with the person in charge of Child Services? It’s an emergency.”

  Soon a woman of Julie’s age approached from down the hall. “I’m Barbara Spence; you asked for me?”

  Julie explained what they needed.

  “Can this wait until morning? It’s four thirty. I was j
ust leaving for my son’s soccer game.”

  “We’re dealing with an abduction, Mrs. Spence,” Todd said. “We don’t have the time. How far back do your records go?”

  “In some cases, quite far. What was it you needed, specifically?”

  “A child, a newborn, was, we think, put into your care—”

  “My care? You mean the state’s care, right?”

  “Yes, of course. Excuse me.” Julie knew to tread lightly here. “Some thirty-five years ago, a Benjamin Caldwell Jr. was, we believe, put into either an orphanage, hospital, or foster home here in Clinton or nearby. Would you have a record of this?”

  “Are you all right, miss?” The woman seemed to be studying Julie closely.

  “Sorry, we’ve been running around like crazy today. Excuse me if I seem—”

  Todd interrupted. “Sergeant Worth’s daughter has been abducted, Mrs. Spence. She’s been gone close to two weeks; we are somewhat desperate here. Can you give us a minute?”

  The woman signaled for them to follow her. “Sorry, let’s get right to it.”

  She opened a door marked City Planning, a command office holding a number of desks with a half dozen men and women preparing to leave for the day. “Hold up, folks. I realize all of you are not with us in Child Services, but we have an emergency. Let’s get together on this, please. Sarah, Jim, Roberta, get on your computers, look for a Benjamin”—she looked to Todd for confirmation—“Caldwell.”

  “Did you hear the name? Benjamin Caldwell. It goes back nearly forty years, get on it, please. The rest of you, if you would, go through our paper files back as far as 1970, okay?” She motioned for Julie and Todd to sit as the room took on a frenzied energy.

  They had just settled in when a woman going through the paper files shouted, “Got it!” Mrs. Spence took the single sheet of paper from her and glanced at it. “Says an infant boy was brought to the Main Street Child Care Center—our former name—that occurred on February 10, 1975.” She read the notes to herself and then continued out loud. “On June 1, 1980, which would be five years later, the child was put into a foster home run by husband and wife J. T. and Gloria Gerard, ages thirty and eighteen, respectively.”

  “Any address?” Julie asked.

  “No. Just Henry County. Things must have been fairly loose back then.” She turned to a woman at a nearby desk. “Sarah, would you see if any of the old telephone directories have this fellow, J. T. Gerard?”

  The woman returned, handing a note to her boss.

  Mrs. Spence glanced at the memo. “A Mr. James T. Gerard, State Road 13, number 204, two miles west of Calhoun. Seems this is about the best we can do here. Hope it is of some help.” She walked them out the long hallway of the city government building and wished them well.

  The drive to Calhoun took only fifteen minutes. Todd and Julie spotted the weed-covered tin mailbox after having driven past it twice. They proceeded down a long dirt drive bordered by unsown fields, weeds, and mounds of dried cornstalks scattered along the fallow landscape. At a tree-lined opening, a group of chicken-coop-sized buildings were huddled among an orchard of scrawny crab apple trees.

  A man with a shotgun greeted them, rising from a porch decorated with mismatched lawn chairs.

  Todd showed his badge through the windshield as he slid out of the car. “Cover me, Sarge.”

  Julie unsheathed her weapon and eased open her door.

  “What can I do you for?” The man, a veritable department store Santa Claus, kept his shotgun at his side.

  Julie positioned herself behind the car door, her Sig just peeking over the open window.

  “We’re State Patrol, need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Well, that may be difficult. I barely graduated grade school.” He laughed and set his shotgun against the newel post of the steps. “Come on up.”

  Julie holstered her weapon and took a position close to the man’s shotgun. Todd looked to Julie, who motioned for him to proceed.

  “Looking for a fellow, James T. Gerard. Would you be that gentleman?”

  The heavyset fellow spread his arms wide on the divan lawn furniture. “Afraid not. J.T. got hisself burned up in a filling station accident.”

  “What’s the T stand for?”

  The roly-poly hulk burst out laughing in short snorts. “Stands for Tucker, like the car that Detroit dude thought up.”

  Julie was alerted to this Tucker being the Tuck that Venus had mentioned. “How long ago did he pass away?”

  “Ah, hell’s fire, I don’t recall. Twenty-some-odd years, at least.”

  “Did you buy this property from Mr. Gerard?”

  “Nope, inherited it.”

  “How so?”

  “He were my daddy. When he went up in smoke, my ma and I got this spread. He had taken up with a hooker and left Ma and myself kinda high and very dry. About two years later, we got word he was ‘toast.’ ” He snorted again.

  Todd and Julie exchanged looks.

  Julie identified herself.

  “Good for you.”

  Another wiseacre. “We’re on a case and need information about your father. Would you like to help us or be an asshole?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. Todd took a step forward as Julie grabbed the shotgun, broke it open, and extracted the two shells. “Let’s all be real comfy here, okay Big Guy?” she asked. “Were you brought up here on the ‘spread’?”

  “Yeah, with the rest of the snot-nosed brats. Dad and Gloria, my ma, took in foster kids. Buncha sorry little turds.”

  “Among these sorry little turds, did you ever hear the name Benjamin Caldwell?”

  “Nah, don’t ring no bells. Why you wanna know?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Gerard.”

  He smiled. “Don’t often get called Mister. Sounds kinda nice.”

  Todd moved a little closer. “How about Bink? Maybe a nickname for Benjamin?”

  The man looked down at his hands as if taking a stab at coming up with something. “Look here, guys. I’m just a poor dirt farmer looking to make ends meet—”

  “Yeah, we saw your fields as we came in.” Julie, hands on knees, went to his face level. “Not much of a crop this year, is there?”

  “I’ve been off my feed for a while. Couldn’t tend to—”

  “How’s about this, Slim.” Julie stayed close. “I give you fifty bucks, and you stop the bullshit and give me what I ask for.”

  He played with his silver beard. “I may have known Bink. Is it worth a hundred?”

  “I’ve got sixty.” Julie dipped into her pocket. She held the three twenties out in front of her.

  He reached for it. She pulled back. “Talk first, Mr. Dirt Farmer.”

  “Bink was around for a long time. I didn’t think I knew his last name, is why I paused.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”

  “Well, he’s come from over Clinton way and grew up here on the ranch along with another group of rag tails.”

  “How old was he when he left the ranch?”

  “Left? Well, he didn’t leave so much as he disappeared.”

  “Ran away?”

  “Nah. We were all on a sightseeing thing. ‘Way Things Are Made,’ they called it.”

  “You said ‘we.’ ”

  “Yeah, the foster kids—Bink and all the other brats. We were looking around in this warehouse place; factory, I guess. I was young—don’t think on it too much—but Bink and this other kid got themselves seriously killed.”

  Julie didn’t think that to be right. After all the running around they’d done, only to find out Bink gets himself killed. She walked the length of the porch, wondering which way to jump. Todd kept his eye on Gerard and took a seat on the porch railing.

  “What?” the grizzled character asked.

  “You wouldn’t be putting us on, would you?” Todd asked.

  “Nah, it’s the God’s truth. Tuck wouldn’t let us look, but as I think on it, they were both pretty much waffled.�
��

  Julie moved next to Todd. “What does ‘pretty much’ mean?”

  The scruffy hulk dropped his sporting grin when he noticed Julie’s attitude. “Damn, lady, you look like you’re out for bear.”

  “If I was, I wouldn’t have far to look, would I?”

  The man sucked in his stomach with effort.

  “You want the sixty, keep talking, bro.”

  “ ‘Bro’—that’s funny.”

  Once again he looked at her. She raised one finger in the air as if to say “Get on with it.”

  “ ‘Pretty much,’ I guess, means Bink was dead. Had his brain all crushed in like a smashed pumpkin. The other idiot was on the ground moaning his guts out; forget his name. Yeah, right, he weren’t killed, just fucked up. Was back on the spread after a couple months. That’s all I have on the brain at the moment. About that sixty . . .”

  Julie reached back into her pocket for the money. She played with it in her hands.

  “Did your old man keep any records? Something to look at for names, that kind of thing?”

  “Yeah, he did. After he died, Ma and I came back here. Ma burned all that rubbish, not wanting the memories, I reckon.”

  “Would anyone besides you have information on names of the kids here at the time?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know, don’t think so. Saddle, Boots, Stinky, Mirabelle, and Tucker’s beloved son, Jimbo.” He spread his arms wide. “Yours truly.”

  “What was the name of the place all this smashed melon business took place?”

  “Don’t recall. Someplace over close to Saint Loo-ey.”

  Todd walked out into the yard to answer his cell. Julie saw him hold up his arm for attention; he waved it and stepped back toward the porch while still talking. “I’ll tell her, and thank you.” Todd signaled for Julie to come off the porch and follow him back into the dandelion-filled yard. “That was Walker. He just heard from section commander B. J. Dalton in Jefferson City. What he said, Sergeant, and listen to me carefully—”

  Julie looked at Todd’s handsome face, praying he was not about to give her bad news. “They brought a girl into St. Mary’s Health Center about nine this morning, suffering from exposure and malnutrition. She’s alive, and she fits Cheryl’s description.”