Gates was still sitting there, wondering what had happened. He didn’t think Robert had even looked at him.
The car. Gates was in a white sheriff’s unmarked Crown Vic with a whip antenna, one of the two departmental general staff cars. The big white car Robert had mentioned. He looked like you.
Gates started the car and drove back to the office to check the transportation logs. He would give Robert time to recover before he contacted him again.
At the office, he looked at the records for October 17, the day the Parker girl disappeared. The other Ford, last year’s model, was not checked out that day. The car he had been driving today, a ’99 four-door Ford Crown Victoria scheduled for replacement before too long, was checked out for that whole day to Betty O’Meara in admin, to go to an accounting services workshop in Lakeport, two to three hours southwest. Car checked out at six o’clock in the morning. Checked back in at 6:45 p.m. by dispatcher clerk Mona Andrews.
Gates called Mona at home. He apologized for bothering her on her day off, but asked her if, by any chance, she remembered checking in the Crown Vic from Betty O. on an evening in mid-October. She said she’d have to see the log to get the right date for sure, but yes, she remembered the incident because she had joked with Betty about trying to pile up comp time driving around the state, and Betty had said something like, “You’ll never guess how much fun a woman can have at a rural accounting workshop,” and they had both laughed. Mona asked what this was about and Gates assured her it had nothing to do with Betty. It was just a vehicle survey at this point, and he would have more for her later.
Gates called Drummond.
“Go.”
“I have some reason to believe that the vehicle that picked up the Parker girl at the school is a white government-type car. Unmarked, or maybe one with a small sign like the county seal on the side. Maybe with a whip antenna, if there are any of those still in service.”
“What reason to believe?”
“I have been developing a source in the mental health community, a fragile source, trust me on this, who may have witnessed the abduction. He bolted today when he saw a car like the one I described.”
“Pretty thin.”
“I know it’s thin. I said I’d call if I got anything at all. You feel like checking for any such vehicles your people checked out on 10/17?”
“Don’t tell me my goddamn job.”
“Drum, a little touchy lately? Your shrink on vacation?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, sorry. I’m really wound tight on this Parker thing. I’m getting heat every day—the mayor, my lieutenant, the press, the whole circus. You know.”
“Yeah, I think I do. Give me a call if you turn anything, and I’m going to check Social Services, DA’s office, marshal’s office, local hazardous transport companies, downtown County Admin, county motor pool. Any agency that might be driving something like that.”
“Okay. Great. Find me if anything pops.”
Gates was already rooting around in his desk drawers for a County directory.
ONE HELL OF A COINCIDENCE
Murray was asleep in the big chair close to the woodstove in the workshop. Pearl was thinking about something her dad had told her when he was talking about the history of cemeteries. They stacked them up, he had said. One on top of the other.
So, Pearl thought, the Craddocks buried their Precious Husband and Loving Father during the day of the seventeenth and somebody put the Parker girl’s body in there with him that night. The ground would be loose. Humped up over the grave. A person could lay a blanket or a tarp down next to the plot and put the dirt on it as he shoveled. And then practically pour it back in when he was done. Dig down to the coffin. Dump the body in the hole. Cover it back up and, voilà, done deal. Gosh, she thought, it fit what Dearly had said. Hide it in plain sight. It wasn’t exactly in plain sight, but it was in a fresh grave where a fresh grave was supposed to be. Brilliant! And nobody would have ever been the wiser if it hadn’t been for our old grave-talker over there.
But the next step had Pearl stumped. What to do now? Was this the point where she would finally let her dad in on the deal? She decided to wake Murray and ask him.
“He’ll want to know why we think so” was Murray’s first concern.
“I’ve thought of that. We’ll say that, a month ago, when you were hanging out here, you saw somebody messing around with that gravesite, digging or something, when the dirt was still fresh. You didn’t think too much about it at the time, but since then, you’ve seen him messing around a couple more times and you think maybe he put something he shouldn’t have in Craddock’s grave.”
“Him?”
“Yeah, say a man. That will make it more believable.”
“Well, I don’t want to be here when you tell him. I don’t want him questioning me. You tell him tonight. And see if you can get him to do something, and I’ll see you at the angels after school tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
* * *
While they were eating one of Pearl’s favorites, canned chili with extra hamburger and sweet cherry peppers, Pearl told her father that she needed to talk to him. He put his spoon aside and gave her his complete attention. She starting by apologizing for possibly acting a little strange sometimes lately. She said she had been working on kind of a mystery with Murray and that something really upsetting had come up that she knew her dad would want to know about. She said that Murray had seen someone messing around at Craddock’s grave, more than once. The first time was right around when the Parker girl disappeared, and Pearl was afraid that the girl might be buried with Craddock, hidden, and she didn’t know what to do.
“Lord of the furry and feathered!” Janochek paused, pushed back in his chair, eyebrows raised, skeptical. But that expression faded, quickly followed by a softer look of concern.
“So the crypt thing was just looking to see if someone had stuck her in there?”
Pearl appeared to think that over and come to some kind of decision.
“In a way, yeah, I guess maybe we thought someone had stashed a body in one of those places. But then we didn’t know it was the Parker girl.”
“We thought! Did Kiefer put you up to this?”
“No, Dad! I made him tell me about it. It’s not his fault at all. Please don’t blame him or be mad at him for anything. He’s really nice, and he did everything he could to keep me from being involved. That’s what we were fighting about at first. I mean, that’s why I was so mad at him. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Not a thing. I practically forced him to.”
Janochek could imagine that. Kiefer had never seemed manipulative. But Pearl.…
“All right, why do you think this is about the Parker girl?”
Pearl looked stricken. She didn’t say anything for a moment. She seemed to be stalling. She’s concocting another damn story, Janochek thought.
“Well … well, uh, what does everybody know about the Parker girl’s disappearance?”
Janochek was watching Pearl very closely. He thought he could see small beads of perspiration on her forehead.
“Uh, the high school,” she said, thinking out loud. “She probably was taken from the high school, um, probably by a man, wouldn’t you think? And she was probably taken … Didn’t she go missing a few weeks ago, around the middle of October? And Craddock—”
Janochek got up and went to his computer.
“October seventeenth,” he said. “That’s the day she went missing. Same day Craddock was buried.” He looked over at Pearl still sitting at the dining table. “That’s one bloody hell of a coincidence,” he said, closing his eyes and taking some very deep breaths.
After a while, he came back to the table.
“Let me think about this tonight and we’ll talk about it again tomorrow morning.” Before she could respond, he added, “Tomorrow’s your last day before the break, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s waited this long. I’ll be here at
the shop tomorrow afternoon when you get home from practice and we’ll talk about the next step on this. I need to think it over tonight.”
But that night he wasn’t thinking about the next step. He was thinking how awful it would be if anyone ever took Pearl.
NO BOTTLES, NO PAPER PLATES
Murray got home a little after dark. It had been drizzling and he was wet and cold. Frank’s car was in the driveway behind theirs and the front door was unlocked. Murray hesitated. He didn’t like to walk in on his mom. He listened at the door. The TV was on and they were talking. Should be safe.
His mom and Frank were sitting at the dining room table. The house smelled like spaghetti sauce, and they were dishing lettuce out of a salad bowl and putting it on two real plates that Murray had never seen before.
“Murray, honey, dry off and come eat with us. We’re having spaghetti. It’s one of Frank’s favorites. His mother was Italian, and he’s been showing me how to cook the … what did you call it?” she asked, looking at Frank.
“Pasta,” he said through a mouthful of salad.
“Pasta,” she echoed. “I’ll set a place.”
Murray wasn’t sure he was hungry after this afternoon, but it did smell good. Something was missing. Paper plates … and wine.
“How come no paper plates?”
“Murr,” she said, gently chiding. “You don’t eat spaghetti on paper plates. You know that. They get all torn up.”
News to him. They had never in his memory used anything but paper plates.
“Where’s the wine?”
“Murray, sweetie, what do you care? You don’t drink it anyway.”
“Just curious.”
“Frank doesn’t drink alcohol. He’s a minister, remember, and he tries to set an example for the kids he works with.”
Well, that was a first. He hadn’t really seen his mom in the last couple of days, but come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any bottles around either. And she’d been dressed every time he’d seen her. He went into his room and found himself wishing that this Frank guy would stick around. Frank was good for his mother. So far.
The food was pretty tasty, and he was going to do everything he could to keep the cemetery out of his mind for tonight.
SIDETRACKED
Billup awoke in his bed at first light and immediately started retracing. What had he done last night? He recalled meeting with Fowler and the suspension and the demand that he get thirty days alcohol/drug treatment. And then what? He went to the stockyards bar in Cottonwood. After that? He hoped he just drove home and went to sleep. Damn it!
He was sweating. This was not how he had planned his life. He was going to get married, have a family, have a successful career. So how did he get so sidetracked with all this drinking? He had partied hearty in high school but never got into any particular trouble. This blackout stuff didn’t start till after his divorce. No, that’s not true. It had happened from time to time even in high school, but never regularly like now.
He was afraid to go to the damn drug program. Afraid he might not be able to stop drinking even if he tried. Somehow he had gotten split off from himself. If what Brenda had said about him was true, that was ugly. He was starting to be like the kind of person he became a police officer to arrest, to get off the streets so the decent people could be safe.
And these nightmares … He knew he had thrashed around during the night in some violent, bloody quagmire.
He had lost his marriage and was about to lose his job. He was probably going to tank a recovery program—if he even went. Most of the people he worked with disliked him, avoided him whenever possible. Nobody ever called him at home. He didn’t even have bar friends.
God, he wanted a drink. He couldn’t stand feeling so awful, so disgusting. Here we go again! No! Just say no! He wasn’t going to start that up again. He turned over and put the pillow over his head to block out the daylight.
He wondered whether he actually had the courage to shoot himself.
ROBERT HOLES UP
Robert had run back to his hotel yesterday, looking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t followed.
A big white car with a long radio thing. How did that guy in the car find him at work? Did the guy know he had been talking to the police about him and the girl?
The guy was going to hurt him. Maybe kill him! That’s why Robert was going to stay in his room for the next few days. Not even answer if someone knocked. If he lay low, the guy might forget about him.
Robert got very little sleep. The next morning, he realized he couldn’t go to work again for a while. He’d have to tell them that he was sick, had the flu. He’d have to go downstairs and ask the manager to call them right now. Before the hitting guy found his hotel. He quietly opened his door and looked up and down the hall. Empty. He left his room and walked to the stairs. Nobody there. He hustled down the steps until he got to the lobby, where he stopped and looked. Same old couple on the couch. What’s-his-name at the card tables. Manager must be in his office. Robert lit out for the front desk.
“Robert!”
Robert jumped like he had been shot, and wheeled to face his attacker.
Bruce. Bruce was walking toward him. “Robert. Hey, what’s the hurry? How you doin’?”
Robert turned and continued to the front desk and looked in the office for the manager.
“Can you help me?”
The manager looked up from his crossword.
“Um, I’m sick and I can’t go to work tomorrow. Will you call my job and tell them?”
“Sure, but how do you know you’re going to be sick tomorrow?” But he was talking to Robert’s back as Robert hurried back to the stairs, right past Bruce.
“Hey! Hey! Slow down! Robert!” Bruce was left standing in the middle of the lobby as Robert motored back up the stairs.
* * *
Gates’s search for white four-door motor-pool cars had been fruitless. The County agencies and Social Services had all gone to smaller cars with better gas mileage. Same with the DA’s office. The marshal still drove a white four-door Ford with a whip, but it also bore very distinctive green-and-gold striped markings, which would be the first thing anyone would notice. The three hazardous transport companies in this area no longer bought or drove sedans. They had converted over a year ago to four-wheel-drive pickups and SUVs. A dead end.
He hoped Drummond had had better luck. He was going to call him after lunch, but first he was going to see Robert. Robert didn’t work today and he ought to be at his hotel. Gates left the office and drove to the Sadler.
On his way across the lobby, somebody spoke to him. Gates stopped. It was the kid Robert had talked to outside the donut place.
“What did you say?” Gates asked.
The kid stood up. “Bruce,” he said.
“Bruce,” Gates confirmed, nodding.
“I said watch out for Robert. He’s wiggy.”
“What do you mean?” Gates had been afraid of something like this.
“My man Rob came racing through the lobby about an hour ago and told the manager to tell his job he’d be sick tomorrow. Tomorrow! Then he hustled back upstairs to his room. At least I think he went to his room. He wouldn’t answer the door or say anything when I went after him to see if he was okay. You gonna see him now?”
Gates said he had hoped to.
“I don’t think he’ll talk to you or let you in,” Bruce said.
Gates walked over to the hotel office. He pulled out his badge and showed it to the manager as he asked for a passkey.
“I don’t expect any trouble at all,” he told the man. “But it’s very important I speak to Mr. Compton right now.”
The manager gave him a key off his chain and Gates went upstairs. He heard Bruce behind him. He blocked Bruce’s path on the stairs. “I need to talk with Robert alone first for a few minutes.”
“Right. Okay,” Bruce said, eager to be helpful. “Tell Robert I said hi. Okay?”
&n
bsp; “You bet.”
Gates knocked on Robert’s door. No response. He talked to Robert through the door and said who he was and that he had enjoyed their steak dinner together and that he wanted to take Robert out for ice cream soon, but that right now, he really needed to see Robert and talk to him for just a couple of minutes. Still no response, but he had the sense that Robert might be listening at the door. Gates told him that he really was a sheriff’s deputy, Robert knew that, and he was here to protect Robert. Bruce had said Robert looked a little upset, and Gates was here to make sure Robert was safe.
“Don’t come in!”
“Robert, I have the passkey to the room and I have to come in to make sure you’re okay. But I won’t touch you or harm you in any way.”
Gates put the key in the door and opened it quickly. He could hear footsteps hurrying away. When the door was open, he could see Robert across the small room, tugging on his window, trying to open it.
“Robert!” he said loud enough to get his attention. “You are safe now! I won’t let anyone hurt you. Easy. Easy. Please turn around and see who I am.”
Robert turned to face Gates. He was breathing so fast his shoulders were heaving. Gates had his own hands up, empty, and he stayed where he was in the doorway.
“I won’t take one step closer,” he told Robert, “until you feel a little better.”
They stood together in the room for two or three more minutes without talking. Then Gates saw Robert’s eyes move up to a spot behind him. He turned. Bruce.
“Bruce,” Gates said, thinking actually this might further break the tension. “Say a quick hello to your friend and then give us a few more minutes, all right? Maybe in a while, the three of us will go over to Lancaster’s for some ice cream.”
“Great!” Bruce was always on board for ice cream. “Hey, Rob,” he said, “glad you’re okay. See you in a bit.” And he headed back downstairs.
Robert still hadn’t spoken.
“Please tell me about what happened yesterday. When you feel like it,” Gates said. “You may have seen the car you told me about.”
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