A Child Is Missing (15 page)

Transfixed, the man in the light beam looked toward the hermit.

“Help! Daddy, get me out! Get me
out!”
The child's voice sounded as if it was coming from a well. In there, the hermit thought, looking at the bigger mound. In there.

“Wolf!”

The dog stopped several yards from the man, who switched the shovel over to one hand as he stooped, still looking toward the light. With his free hand, the man picked something off the ground: a newspaper. He put the paper under his arm and fumbled some more on the ground before he found what he was groping for: something box-shaped, like a camera.

The dog advanced toward the man, snarled again. The man extended the sharp edge of the shovel toward the dog's face.

“Wolf!”

The hermit put the rifle to his shoulder, pointed it toward the sky, and squeezed the trigger. The sound crashed over and over down the hills and ravines. Somewhere, an owl stirred.

“Help
me
! Get me
out
!”

The man backed out of the light beam and turned to run. The hermit worked the lever of the carbine again. Hearing a new round being chambered, the man dropped his shovel and ran off into the darkness.

“Wolf, come!”

But there was no need for the command: The dog was already digging furiously at the larger mound of dirt.

“God Almighty,” the hermit said. “God Almighty.” He walked slowly to the mound. Dirt and leaves from Wolf's digging spattered off his boots.

“Mom-MY! Get me out.…”

The hermit leaned over what looked like a stovepipe and shined his light into the opening. “Jason?”

“Dad-DY! I'm in here.”

“Jason? Jason! God Almighty!”

“Get me out!”

His father had sent a man to find him! Jamie knew his father could do it, knew his father wouldn't let him die. He knew!

Jamie could hear the scratching and digging. He shouted as loudly as he could—in joy now. He heard a dog again. He could tell it was a big dog. Jamie liked dogs.

He heard the shovel sounds, faster than before. Faster, faster, faster! He heard a man grunt. He knew that the man was shoveling as hard as he could.

Jamie shouted as loudly as he could. His own voice rang back in his ears, but he didn't care.

The dog barked again—what a big dog it must be!—and Jamie made a sound that was part laugh and part cry.

The sounds of the shovel were close now. The man was grunting hard.

Now the shovel banged on the metal. Again and again. Jamie heard the man swear. Then Jamie heard a
thump
,
thump
, and then a screeching noise like old nails being pried loose.

There was a
clang
; Jamie saw a flash of light and smelled cold, clean air. Then there was another
clang,
like something snapping shut again. Jamie heard the man say, “Shit!” Then the prying noise started again. The prying noise kept going, going, going.

Clang
.

The cold, clean air blew all over Jamie's face. A light in his eyes was so bright, it made him squint. When he opened them, he saw the upside-down head of a dog, the biggest dog he had ever seen.

“Wolf, back.”

Jamie felt big, strong hands on his shoulders, felt himself being pulled out of the metal place.

It was night.

“Jason,” the man whispered close to his ear. “Jason.”

“My name is Jamie.”

Seventeen

Will slowed his car when he saw the gouges in the earth. He pulled over and stopped.

Will got out, stood by his car, shivered in the wind. Fran had come down a curving hill—not the kind of hill you wanted to take at sixty miles an hour, but not one that seemed particularly dangerous, either. Had the accident report mentioned anything about snow, ice, whatever? No. Nor had Suzanne Glover.

“Were you really drunk, Frannie? What happened?”

Having struck out at several saloons—no bartender recalled serving schnapps and beer to a man in a dark gray suit on Thanksgiving Eve, or, if they did, they wouldn't say—Will stopped at the liquor store he'd passed earlier.

Yes, he thought, it would make sense if Fran's last great temptation had been right here: The liquor store was not that far from the expressway; it was on the two-lane heading into Long Creek. Jesus, Frannie might've been tempted after seeing a bar back there, then resisted until spotting this place.

Will parked in the dirt lot. Coming out of the store were two young men—teenagers, Will thought—in dirty work clothes. One carried a brown paper bag. They got into a battered pickup and drove away.

I hope the store owner's halfway friendly, Will thought. But suppose he isn't.

He started toward the door of the store, then spotted the phone booth. He had an idea.

“Good afternoon,” Will said.

The man behind the counter in the liquor store looked up, nodded, and said, “Help you?”

“I hope so. I'm checking on something, actually.”

Will saw the man's eyes harden.

“I wonder if you remember a man who might have stopped in here the night before Thanksgiving. Middle-aged, wearing a suit?”

“Suppose I did?”

Not friendly, Will thought. “I'm interested because this man is, was a friend of mine. He's dead now, from injuries in a wreck down the road.” Will paused, locked onto the man's eyes. “If my hunch is right, he might have stopped here not long before.”

“Hold it right there, mister! I don't sell to drunks, so if you're trying—”

The man cut his voice the instant the door opened and a customer walked in. Will stepped back, pretending to check the scotch brands, as the man rang up a sale to a whiskey buyer wearing overalls and a red face.

Will had heard fear as well as anger in the man's voice. He was glad he'd called the
Gazette
from the booth outside and had the paper's morgue check something.

The customer left, and the owner turned to Will. “Like I was saying, I don't sell to drunks.”

“And you don't sell to minors. The liquor commission made a mistake when it suspended your license. Twice.”

“How do you—?”

“It's public record. Look, it's okay. Just listen.” Will tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. “I believe you, all right? I can understand why you're upset. It's okay, really.” The man's eyes softened. “I'm not looking to get you in trouble. I have personal reasons for checking. I think my friend might have stopped here. Your place is the closest liquor store to where the accident happened.”

“So what? How do you know he didn't stop at a bar? Couple of them up the road a way.”

“I know. No one remembers my friend. Besides, when my friend drank and had the choice, he liked to start with peppermint schnapps. If he stopped to drink schnapps in a bar, he would have drunk until he passed out. My friend was an alcoholic. And you can't buy a bottle of schnapps in a bar to take out. Legally, you can't. You follow me, don't you? So I think my friend might have stopped at a liquor store to buy schnapps and beer. Do you remember?”

“Who buys what in here is no one's business. Now get the hell out of here.”

Will had never been much of a poker player: He couldn't bluff. Now he had to bluff. “I'm a newspaper editor, and if you don't help me I promise there'll be a team of reporters looking into how you managed to keep your license. Trust me on that.”

The man's eyes hardened again.

“Look,” Will went on, “I'm not trying to hurt you. Now, if a man came in here to buy schnapps and beer the night before Thanksgiving, you'd remember. Wouldn't you?”

“He was here just before closing.”

“Ah. And what time was that?”

“Couple minutes before seven.”

“You're sure?”

“Told you, didn't I? Night before Thanksgiving, I was closing early. Not many people get a bottle of schnapps and a six-pack, unless they're planning to tie one on. Which he was.”

“Oh? And how do you know that?”

The man snorted contemptuously. “I been selling booze a long time. I asked him if he needed any cups. He said no and acted like it never crossed his mind.”

“But you think it did?”

“Told you, I been selling booze a long time. Face like that, it's easy to tell. My guess is, he was gonna give himself a jolt as soon as he could find some privacy.”

“And you still—” Will bit off his words. He wanted to call the man every name he could think of for selling liquor to someone he thought was an alcoholic. But what was the point in that? He needed information. “So my friend would have left here just about seven?”

“He was my last customer. I about shit when I heard about the wreck. You gotta understand.…”

“Yeah, I understand.” Will turned to go, then stopped. His instinct told him to leave this man with some pride. “Look, I'll trade you promises. I'll keep quiet about this, and maybe I can keep your name out of the paper someday. And you forget I was ever here.”

“Deal.”

To seal it, Will bought a pint of scotch, which he probably wouldn't drink, put down a twenty, and left the change.

He drove back toward Long Creek. The accident report said the wreck had happened at 7:30. Will drove at the speed limit, then slowed down a little. Maybe Fran had slowed for a time because of the darkness? The weather? The unfamiliarity?

Sure enough, before many minutes passed, Will came to the top of the hill down which Fran Spicer had driven to his doom. It was clearly marked with a diamond-shaped yellow sign and an arrow indicating the direction of the curve. Will slowed a little more, took the hill curve without trouble, came to a stop on the shoulder at the bottom. It had taken Will less than ten minutes to travel from the liquor store to the accident site. And he hadn't been speeding at all, not like Frannie had been, at least at the end.

What happened, Frannie? What happened in the other twenty minutes? Was the police report that far off?

On the way back to Long Creek, he saw a small, low building with the windows covered with plywood; it was one of a dozen or more boarded-up buildings he'd seen around Long Creek. The sight depressed him; what was happening here could happen in Bessemer (hell, it
was
happening in spots), although his home city at least had a state university branch and a couple of fledgling high-tech companies going for it.

He thought of Suzanne Glover's shabby house. He hoped the insurance company would treat her all right. He'd check when he got back to Bessemer. Then something else occurred to him; he had a reason to see her again.

“Hello, remember me? Will Shafer.”

“Yes, hi,” Suzanne Glover said. “I'm sorry my mother was so rude to you.”

“Oh, no. That's okay.” Shivering on the porch, Will was pleased at his good luck: the mother must not be home.

“It isn't, really,” Suzanne Glover went on. “She's just protective, is all.”

“I understand.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Oh no, thanks. What I wanted to ask you, you're sure the accident happened near seven-thirty? Not closer to seven, maybe? Or perhaps later?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, possibly.”

Before Will was forced to improvise, Suzanne Glover went on: “Anyhow, I-am sure. I was watching the seven o'clock news with my mother before going out to the store for a couple of things. You know how the news ends like at seven twenty-six or so? I left right after that.”

“I see. Thank you again.”

“It shouldn't matter, should it? The time?”

“No.”

But it does, Will thought. He turned to go, then thought of something else. “And you're sure you don't know the police officer who helped you that night?”

“No. I told you before.”

“I know. I just thought, small town and all…”

“I might have seen him around, and I might not. He was just a cop.”

One last thing occurred to him. “Did you say something before about a second set of headlights the night of the wreck?”

“I, I don't know. Don't remember. I was dazed. I was almost killed, for God's sake.”

Even before she shut the door, Will knew from Suzanne Glover's face that he probably wouldn't be welcome again.

Back in his room, Will called Tom Ryan on the
Gazette
city desk and told him he expected to file a fairly routine story on the kidnapping, saying in effect that there was nothing new to report. Then he got to what was really on his mind.

“Ry, what time did Frannie leave the office to head for Long Creek? Do you remember approximately?”

“Late afternoon sometime. Things were winding down here. It was getting toward dark.”

“And did he seem eager to go?”

“I guess.”

Will had a hunch. “Switch me back to the coffee shop, Ry.… Yes, the coffee shop.”

Will's hunch turned out to be a good one. After talking for no more than a minute to the counterman in the
Gazette
's coffee shop, Will had himself switched upstairs, to the medical department. He was lucky again: Doc Quick, the
Gazette
's company physician and about the only good internist in Bessemer, was in.

When Heather Casey finished her shift, Will was waiting for her in the lobby. She had agreed to talk to him again.

“Have you been waiting long?” she said.

“Hi. Just a few minutes.” Will felt as awkward as a teen-ager—and almost as eager. “So, how are you today, um…?”

“Just call me Heather. Fine, thank you.”

They went to the same dingy-looking diner they'd visited the first time. This time, the man behind the grill was noticeably more pleasant. The nurse let Will buy her coffee, and he ordered a hamburger and a soft drink.

“You said you wanted to talk about your friend, Mr. Shafer.”

“I said you could call me Will. Remember?” For God's sake, he thought, I kissed you.