Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dave was restless and exhausted and his nerves were jangled from too much caffeine. He paced around Now News and bothered all of the other staffers who were working on angles to the story. He listened as interviews were conducted. He recorded video excerpts for the website, he drank even more coffee, and worked the phones, calling all of his sources, even members of Congress who were as shocked by events as he was. By mid-afternoon he couldn’t stand the newsroom and most of the staffers were eager to have him out of their hair. He picked up the address Mr. Lowry had given him and drove Elena’s LightCar to Arlington, crossing Key Bridge from Georgetown and taking Wilson Boulevard up to Glebe Road and winding through a neighborhood using his phone’s GPS system until he found Mr. Lowry’s address.
The house was a modest brick bungalow built after World War Two in a neighborhood that housed federal employees who would raise baby boomer children who would take to the streets in the sixties to denounce their parents. Now, decades later, older people lived side-by-side with young professionals who paid kings’ ransoms for the homes, which they doubled in size with additions furnished with high-end kitchen appliances. It was not unusual to see hundred-thousand-dollar European cars in the driveways of the homes of the newer residents, something that shocked and amazed the white-haired neighbors who had moved in when it was just a middle class neighborhood of government workers.
William Lowry was one of the old timers, a retired GS-14 who had worked for the Navy Department for thirty-one years following his own military service. He was the type of retiree who wore dress pants, a starched white shirt, and a good wool sweater, even though he had nowhere to go during his day. His hair was short and combed, his posture erect, and his face was shiny from his shave. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. He had a smile from a fifties sitcom when he greeted Dave, bright and showing lots of teeth.
“Welcome, Mr. Haggard. It’s good to see you. I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee. Please come in.” It was the welcome of someone who doesn’t meet many strangers.
The living room was a period piece. Vaguely Scandinavian furniture, a New England oval rug on the blond oak floors, photographs of a much younger Lowry and a woman who looked a little like Donna Reed, the wholesome actress from sixties family shows, and a photo of two sleepy-looking boys under a Christmas tree next to a Big Wheel. There was slight odor of mold and bleach.
Dave sat on the sofa while Lowry went into the kitchen for coffee. He returned a few minutes later with a porcelain pot that looked to Dave like it had come from a little girl’s tea party. It was white with small flowers in a springtime pattern, or so he thought. There were matching cream and sugar containers. The cups were good china and the spoons were silver. “May I?” Lowry asked, holding the pot over a cup.
“Please,” Dave replied, wondering if he had somehow slipped into a children’s story.
Lowry poured the coffee and sat back in an easy chair with a look of deep concern. “You’ve come about the man and the red MG. I’ll show you the house.”
Dave took a sip of his coffee and wondered if it had been percolated. It had a slightly burned tasted. “First, tell me about this guy. How long has he been here and what does he do that you’re aware of?”
“He’s been here about a month or so. He’s gone a lot. Comes and goes at odd hours and sometimes he’s gone for days at a time. It’s hard to miss the car, especially in cold weather. We have a few other men in the neighborhood who have classic roadsters but they only take them out on warm and sunny days. This man has only this car that I know of.”
“What do you think he does for a living?”
“I have no idea if he does anything. If he has a job it’s not something with normal hours. I don’t know of anyone who’s had a conversation with him, neighborly or otherwise. Of course, these new people don’t have much to do with anyone else. It used to be that we all knew each other and our kids all played together. Now, people don’t even wave. They just double the size of their houses and stick to themselves and take their kids to play dates, whatever they are.”
Lowry spoke in the manner of someone who had said the same thing over and over to anyone who would listen. Dave thought he probably said it at family holiday dinners while his sons and their families rolled their eyes.
“Where’s the house?”
“Finish your coffee and we’ll take a walk.” Lowry raised a pinky when he sipped from the cup.
“I’m ready now. I’ve had a lot of coffee today.”
Lowry looked disappointed but he put down his coffee and stood up, stretching his back and forcing his paunch out in front like a pregnant woman. He went to a closet near the front door and took his time selecting a coat, finally choosing a wool overcoat. It was five more minutes before he was ready to go out, wrapped in a scarf and wearing a Russian fur hat and leather gloves. Dave assumed that men who have nothing to do all day take their time at everything just to make the clock move.
“Let’s go,” Lowry said, as though he had been waiting for Dave.
The sidewalks were uneven from the tree roots that had grown in the decades since the neighborhood was new and Lowry walked in the street, where the going was easier. The houses represented an era when Americans were frugal and got by with smaller kitchens and bedrooms. The homes where older people lived contrasted with the multi-story mansions that had been erected by the younger, affluent residents who had installed koi ponds, Japanese gardens, and stone terraces. It was as though the fifties were being slowly eaten by the new century.
“There, that’s it,” Lowry said, nodding in a conspiratorial way in the direction of a small house with a small yard that appeared to be neglected. There was a driveway next to the house that was two cement paths, car-width, cracked and crumbling. “The fellow who owns it doesn’t keep it up. That’s another irritation. The car’s in the garage around back.”
Dave walked up the driveway and peered into the back yard where a single-car clapboard garage appeared to be leaning slightly to the left. It had been painted many times but never scrapped, so the boards appeared to be scaly. The garage door was the type that swung open from bottom up and there was a row of dirty windows in the middle of the door. Dave had been a street reporter for a long time and had long ago lost his reticence about intruding onto someone else’s space, so he walked up the driveway and peered into the garage. If someone yelled at him he would say he was looking for someone else and was at the wrong address. He would apologize and leave. It was dark in the garage and the windows were grimy, so it took him a minute to make out what was inside. He wiped the glass with his glove and saw the rear of the red MGA. It’s small trunk was open. There was no spare tire. Dave could see that the trunk compartment protruded into the rear of the passenger compartment but it was still very small. Would there be room for a person? Elena was tiny. The car had a Massachusetts plate. It appeared to have a normal amount of road grime but no mud or anything to suggest that it had been on an unpaved road or path. He wrote down the plate number and walked to the back door of the house, planning to ask for someone he knew in another city.
The back door was located over a set of three concrete stairs that led to a small stoop. An old rusty pipe served as a banister. The screen door needed a coat of paint and the screen was torn and hanging against the frame. Dave reached through the screen and knocked on the windowless door. There was no response, so he knocked again. Still no response. This time he banged on the door with the side of his fist, pounding it.
Inside, Elena was barely consciousness and was struggling to breathe. Father Darius was on the floor next to her, delirious from loss of blood and from his proximity to the towel which he had soaked with ether and chloroform. He did not lie close to it by plan but by accident, having fallen there after losing his balance after a trip to the bathroom. If he heard the pounding, it did not register.
After a few minutes, Dave gave up. “He must have gone out or he’s sleeping.”
“Maybe he’s up to somet
hing sinister,” Lowry said, a light in his eye.
“I’ll make some calls about the car and the license plate and let you know. Thank you for the tip.” Dave felt very tired. He shook hands with Lowry and drove back to Now News, where the phones were ringing and producers were producing and reporters were reporting, but Elena was nowhere to be found.
Butterfly Knife Page 29