The Monster left his shop at four, returning home through a city that appeared to be in shock. The streets and sidewalks were virtually deserted and most of the stores he passed had already closed, hastily scrawled signs announcing their corporate grief. Once home the Monster made a brief check of what was left of his prisoner, then went upstairs, made himself a watery bourbon and switched on the television.
What he saw was as confused as the radio reports he’d heard, both from the radio in his shop and the transistor he kept on the littered dashboard of the van. He’d seen the same shots of Chief Curry going from his office down the hall to the Homicide Department, refusing to answer any questions, a blurry sequence of images of the alleged killer and, for the last half hour, the arrival of Air Force One in Washington, half-lit scenes of the coffin coming down to the ground, Jackie climbing into an ambulance with her husband, Lyndon Johnson’s bloodhound face asking for the nation’s help and God’s, none of it really meaning anything at all.
Chaos.
The Monster picked up his glass from the end table and drained away the ice-cube water, wetting his dry tongue and mouth. He felt the rage mounting in him, making him shake, his mind desperately casting around for something to think about that would distract him, even for a few seconds. The president of the United States, his president, was dead and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing to defuse his anger, nothing to hold back the terrible memories of his impotence in the face of events and the terrors that had consumed him so often in the past. He stared at the television, watching the world repeat itself again and again, ricocheting in flashing bursts, noon to five p.m. and back again, Walter Cronkite in shirtsleeves, taking off his glasses, eyes wet with tears as he lurched out the announcement that the President was dead and, coming from the hangdog face, for the first time the world knew that it was true.
The Monster felt his breath coming in short sharp gasps, his heart racing and spasms of electricity in his limbs, jerking his arms and legs like the subtle twitching of a puppet, the wires at his joints forcing him into the dance from which he knew there would only be one result. He fought as hard as he could, his teeth clenched, and then, so horribly, someone chose to run something that looked like a home movie of the President in a ratty sweater, on the beach with his son, his little son with his glowing face, a child with the complexion of an angel, and the Monster could control himself no longer.
‘Too soon,’ he whispered. ‘It’s too soon for another one.’ But he couldn’t hear his own warning or if he could he ignored it. He pulled himself up, the glass tumbling out of his hand, bouncing heavily on the filthy carpeting on the floor. ‘Too soon.’ But it was for the President, the terrible anger. It was for John-John, the perfect golden child. The Monster headed through the kitchen, swept his keys off the counter by the double sink full of overflowing dirty dishes and pulled open the door leading to the garage. ‘Too soon,’ he moaned again then went through the door, slamming it behind him.
* * *
Martha Ellen Caddo’s address on Hugo Street was second from the end in a row of two-storey brick houses that probably dated back to the turn of the century. There were no setbacks from the cracked and broken sidewalk, no grass and nothing in the way of a stoop except three cement steps without railings. The steps had probably been added on when the original wood steps rotted away. They were a little skewed, sitting an inch or so away from the front door. Paint on the window frames was cracked and peeling and the curtains over the windows themselves were old and faded. Cars parked by the curb were all older than Ray’s and three or four of them were up on blocks. There were no street lights here and even though it was almost fully dark a few kids were trying to get in a last inning of stickball on the street just past Martha Ellen’s house. The kids were all black, which was to be expected in this area, the original Irish immigrants long gone on to bigger and better and richer things.
Ray parked the car and climbed out. Seeing him, the stickball players disappeared as though they’d never been there, melting silently into the darkness. Ray smiled. Not only was he white but even in the dark those kids knew for a certainty that he was a flatfoot. He locked the car, crossed the sidewalk and went up the off-kilter cement steps. Like all the houses in the row the only spot of colour was the front door, in this case a startling yellow. There was no bell or knocker so Ray used his knuckles. A few moments later Ray saw a twitch at the curtains on his left and then the door opened. He was surprised to see a man standing there instead of a woman. He was even more surprised to see that the man was dressed in a suit and tie, the suit old-fashioned but well cut, the tie a plain dark blue. The man in the suit was the colour of coffee with a bit too little cream in it, his eyes a darker brown. He looked to be in his middle thirties or maybe older.
‘Yes?’ There was no fear in the man’s voice, no panic or guilt. Something though. Resignation?
‘I’m looking for Mrs Caddo, Martha Ellen Caddo’s mother.’
‘Gone.’
‘Will she be back soon?’
The black man in the suit smiled. ‘No, sir, you misunderstand. She’s dead. Died when Mar’Ellen was born.’ He made the name into a single word.
‘I see.’
‘I’m Mar’Ellen’s father, Danny Coulthart. Her mother and I were never married but I gave Mar’Ellen the name. It seemed like the thing to do, give her a reason to remember her mother. Something to take her on.’ He stared at Ray. ‘You’re from the police?’
‘Yes. My name’s Duval, Ray Duval.’
‘I guess this is about Mar’Ellen. You haven’t found her, have you?’ It was almost a plea. Until she was found there was still a chance she was alive.
‘We’re not sure,’ said Ray. He took a little step forward and Coulthart backed up, opening the door wider.
‘You’d better come in.’
Ray stepped over the sill and into the front room of the little house. It was neat and tidy even if it wasn’t very much. A front room with an old broken-back couch that had a patterned piece of fabric spread over the back. A table and three chairs, a dark blue rag rug on the floor, a crucifix over the door leading into a back kitchen and a television in the corner with a worn-out, green velvet La-Z-Boy in front of it.
The set was on with the sound turned down. Ray could see Walter Cronkite, his heavy black glasses in one hand, staring mournfully into the camera, his mouth barely moving under his mustache as he talked to the nation. Taking a few steps forward and looking around, Ray saw an open hardcase for a guitar on the floor beside the couch.
Inside it was a classic-looking wood-body Dobro resonating guitar with a gleaming, portholed silver dish. It was one of the old models with an eight-legged ‘Spider’ bridge support that went right across the dish. The last time Ray Duval had seen one was at a black-and-tan piney woods speakeasy when he was seventeen or so and doing things he shouldn’t have been with people he shouldn’t have been seeing, at least by his father’s lights. The same night he’d seen the Dobro he’d also heard Alger Alexander and Blind Lemon Jefferson and he’d been a blues convert ever since, not that he got to hear it much; there was no such thing as a black-and-tan in Dallas and even if there was he’d have been too self-conscious to spend any time in one.
‘You play that?’
‘I do. Have done for a while. It’s my trade.’
‘A beautiful instrument.’
Coulthart crossed the room and knelt down before the hardcase. He picked up the guitar carefully and sat down on the arm of the La-Z-Boy. A moment later the room was filled with sound as he laid out the first few bars of ‘Shotgun Blues,’ a Lightning Hopkins hit from a decade before. He stopped suddenly, his eyes turning to the television screen. On it they were showing the arrival of Kennedy’s body coming out of Air Force One. A few moments later Lyndon Johnson was speaking from a podium. Without saying anything Coulthart got up from the chair and put the guitar back in its case.
‘Antoinette,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what I
call her. After Mar’Ellen’s mother.’
‘Pretty name.’
‘She was a pretty woman.’ Coulthart swung the La-Z-Boy around and gestured to it. Ray sank down into the chair and Coulthart eased himself down on the couch. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from anyone, not today, with all this going on.’ He waved a hand towards the television.
‘It’s not my case,’ said Ray. ‘The world doesn’t stop just because the President dies.’
‘World doesn’t stop when my twelve-year-old girl slips out of sight.’
‘True enough.’ Ray paused, trying to plan out what he was going to say. He didn’t even know what Mar’Ellen looked like. ‘There was no picture with the report,’ he said finally.
‘I play the weekends at the Lights Are Blue down on Thomas Street, get some session work from time to time.’ He shook his head. ‘Not much left over for pictures, sir.’
‘Call me Ray.’
‘I don’t think so.’
There was a rough, embarrassed silence that dragged on for a long moment. Coulthart broke it finally, leaning forward on the couch, hands on the shiny knees of his dark trousers. ‘Mr Duval, if you’ve got something to tell me about Mar’Ellen why don’t you just tell me. She’s been gone almost a week and I’m not a fool, Mr Duval. Cop doesn’t pay a personal call here for no reason.’
‘No,’ Ray answered. ‘You’re right and there is a reason.’
‘You found her?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘Look,’ said Ray. ‘I’m not even assigned to Juvenile. Your daughter’s name came up in relation to something else. Something I’m working on.’
‘I see.’ He sat back against the couch and nodded. ‘So it’s not about Mar’Ellen at all.’
Ray was starting to feel sick about what he was doing. If he was honest about things he’d tell this man they’d found a little girl butchered and then strung together with baling wire, raped and sodomised and every hellish thing you could think of. Kennedy had his brains blown out, all that power and promise blinked out in a second. Whatever pain he’d felt, whatever fear, was nothing to the terror and the torturous pain and the foul indignity of what happened to that little girl.
‘I’m not sure,’ Ray said finally. ‘All I know, anything you can tell me about what might have happened to your daughter might just help her and might help some other people too.’
‘Mr Duval, you can forgive me but all I care about right now is my Mar’Ellen. I’ve got her and I’ve got my job but that’s all, Mr Duval.’
‘So help me.’
‘How?’
Ray took out his notebook. Just above the address was a little sketch of the half-moon scar on the dead girl’s thigh. He ignored it for the moment, flipping the page over. He wrote down Coulthart’s name and underlined it.
‘The report says your daughter was last seen on Monday, after school.’
‘That’s right. She and some of her friends went to the library.’
‘That’s Thomas Street and Boll roughly, isn’t it?’
‘Right.’
‘What was she doing at the library?’
‘She liked books, Mr Duval.’ The words were spoken politely enough but Ray sensed a bit of iron behind them.
‘Who was with her?’
‘I told you. Friends.’
‘Any friends in particular?’
‘No.’
‘Did she have a lot of friends?’
‘Seemed to. Everybody liked her.’
‘A best friend?’
‘Not that she ever said anything about.’
‘She bring any of her friends home?’
‘Once in a while. She knew better, though. Most of the time I’m not here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Either doing work or looking for it, Mr Duval. She knew how to get along on her own. She had a key, knew where I kept whatever money we had for groceries. Made her own dinner lots, made mine most nights. She’s a good girl, Mr Duval.’
‘When did you realise she was missing?’
‘There’s only one bedroom, Mr Duval. She sleeps there. I sleep on the couch. Makes sense, getting in late like I do. The house was all locked up, kitchen was clean, everything looked like it was supposed to. Sometimes I’d come home and I’d go upstairs and look in on her but not that night. I was too tired. It was three, four in the morning. I just went to sleep right where I was.’
‘So you didn’t realise until next morning?’
‘Next afternoon. I didn’t get up until past noon. She wasn’t here but I thought she was in school.’
‘And?’
‘There was no money missing from the jar.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘There’s a jar in the cupboard. I needed some cigarettes and I went to it and I saw that there was still three dimes in it and two dollar bills.’
‘So?’
‘It was the same amount that’d been there last time I looked. Three dimes, that was the problem.’
‘Why was it a problem?’
‘Every day Mar’Ellen takes a dime for milk at school. She likes it with her lunch and it’s good for her so I don’t mind.’
‘So she hadn’t taken a dime for lunch that day?’
‘No. I knew something was off. Looked like the bread hadn’t been touched and we had a few slices of ham in the refrigerator and that was still closed up in paper. I went upstairs to her bedroom and it just didn’t feel right. She wasn’t there and it didn’t look as though she’d been there.’
‘Was there anything wrong? Anything out of place?’
‘No, nothing like that. It was just… bad.’
‘And?’
‘I went next door and used their telephone and called the school. They said Mar’Ellen hadn’t been there since the day before.’ He shook his head. ‘I went down but they didn’t say much more to me than that. Principal was polite enough but…’
‘Any reason you can think of, Mr Coulthart, that she’d run away in the first place?’
‘No.’
‘You were on good terms?’
‘Yes.’
‘No big fights or arguments recently?’
‘I told you, Mr Duval, she’s a good girl. She never makes any trouble for me or anyone else. Does her homework and all, gets good grades.’ A faint smile flickered across his features. ‘She was proud of me,’ he said quietly.
‘Proud of you?’
‘Proud of me being able to play Antoinette. She always asked me what records I’d played on and who I’d played with and she sometimes even went down to buy them at Polly Dee’s.’
‘Polly Dee’s?’
‘Record store.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Thomas Street, between Routh and Fairmont.’
‘Towards downtown.’
‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘Could she have gone there?’
‘I went. Polly said she hadn’t been.’
‘Polly a friend?’
‘I know him, he knows me.’ There was a long, flat silence that Ray left alone. Coulthart finally picked up on it. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Duval. Polly’s not that kind. He’s married and he’s got kids of his own.’
‘Anywhere else she might have gone? Places she liked?’
‘I don’t think so. Not like there’s a lot of toy stores on Thomas Street.’
‘What about the movies?’
‘If she didn’t have any money, how was she going to get into a movie?’
‘Sneak in?’ Ray offered. ‘I used to do it all the time.’
‘I don’t think there’s much on that would have interested her.’
Ray agreed. He’d seen two out of the three marquees for the theatres on Thomas Street. One was showing 55 Days at Peking and the other was showing Under the Yum Yum Tree. ‘Could have gone in with a boy she liked. Maybe he paid as well.’
‘She’s twelve years old, Mr Duval. She didn’t even like boys.’
‘Kids can fool you.’
‘Not Mar’Ellen.’ He was firm here, probably too firm, but Ray was pretty sure it wasn’t a lead worth following up.
‘You ever walk her home from school?’
‘When she was younger, if I could be there when it let out.’
‘She have any particular route she liked to follow?’
‘I always told her, come straight home. Stick to Thomas Street until you get to Hugo, then come right on down.’
‘Lots of distractions on Thomas Street, Mr Coulthart. Not all of them too… savoury.’
‘Maybe that depends on who you are,’ the black man answered. ‘Unsavoury to you might not be unsavoury to me or my friends or to Mar’Ellen. She grew up here. She knew the neighbourhood. Some dives, some clubs, some places a man like you even might not be too smart to go into but this is broad daylight, Mr Duval. This is a little girl in broad daylight walking down a familiar street.’
‘Who would she go off with?’
‘No one. She knew better than to talk to strangers.’
‘Someone who wasn’t a stranger then. A friend, someone she knew?’
‘I know a lot of people, Detective.’
‘Any you can think of who might take her, for whatever reason?’
‘No.’
‘All those dives and places you talked about…’
‘Yes?’
‘Any of those she might have stopped into?’
‘Maybe Pop Mercier’s but like I said she didn’t have any money.’
‘All three dimes.’
‘That’s it, Detective.’
‘Who’s this Pop Mercier?’
‘Louisiana fellow. Been here since time began. Runs a candy store.’
‘A book?’
‘No, sir. Like I said, a candy store. Lots of candy behind a big curved glass case. Cold drinks, cigarettes, tobacco, that kind of thing. You know that ice cream you buy in a paper roll, jam it into a cone?’
‘Mel-o Rolls,’ Ray said.
‘That’s the one. Pink ones what Mar’Ellen liked. Supposed to be strawberry but tasted… pink. Looked like bubble gum. Fat old man and his fat old wife sold them.’
Wisdom of the Bones Page 18