A Child Is Missing (27 page)

“No. And maybe there's nothing there. Fran was an alcoholic, after all. But damn it, it doesn't add up.” He paused.

“What you say stays at this table,” Raines said quietly.

“Ditto.” So Will went over it again, step by step: the timing of Fran's stop at the liquor store and the accident, what the doctor had said regarding the blood-alcohol level in Fran's system, what Heather Casey had said about Fran's being drenched with beer.

“So,” Raines said. “But suppose, just suppose the liquor store owner and the lady in the accident are each a few minutes off on what happened when. Maybe there was time enough for him to get drunk. One body doesn't always absorb alcohol the same way as another.”

Will had no answer to that. Then he wondered whether to tell Raines all that he knew of Fran's drinking history and his fondness for schnapps. He decided not to and said instead, “Isn't it a strange coincidence what happened to Carmine Luna?”

Raines thought that over. “He was a junkie, remember. You saw how he lived. He was a needle freak waiting to die.”

“Maybe. But he was uneasy when I talked to him. Hostile, even.”

“At the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“What'd he say?”

“Nothing much. But he was worried.”

Raines waited a long time before speaking. “How many people have you told about what you suspect?”

“Just—” Will stopped himself as he was about to mention Casey; she wouldn't want her name used. “Just my old FBI friend. He's heard some of it. And he's gone.”

“So he is. Tell you what. Let me nose around and see what I can turn up. Maybe I can find out about the accident investigation. Discreetly.”

“I'd owe you.”

“No problem. But you're leaving tomorrow. I don't know if I can do anything by then.”

“I'd come back, if I had to. Or hire someone.”

“You might not have to hire anyone if you had me looking. Some of the things that happen in that department make me sick to my stomach, Shafer.”

Sooner than he wanted, because he liked Raines's company, Will had to leave. He didn't want to wait until the last minute to write; he'd had enough deadline pressure for a while.

Will had walked to the tavern. It was dark out and getting colder, and he gladly accepted Raines's offer of a ride.

“So your FBI friend was no help,” Raines said as he stopped in front of the hotel.

“No. But what troubles me just as much is that he left town with all those loose ends. I didn't think he…” Will almost said he didn't think Graham was the kind to buckle to outside pressure.

Raines snorted. “The FBI is a great big public relations creation, if you ask me. I thought of joining them once. Then I heard what that outfit is really like.”

Will didn't feel much like defending Jerry Graham, so he said nothing.

“I'll tell you this, Shafer. A lot of criminal cases—maybe most—don't end as neatly as they do in the movies. There're always going to be questions about this one.”

“Especially if it's up to the locals to find the answers.” Will was a little surprised how the beer had loosened his tongue.

“The kid's back, Shafer. That's the important thing.”

Will shook hands with Raines and wished him well, in case he didn't see him before he left for Bessemer.

Twenty-six

From the top of the hill, he could see the cabin burning. The orange flames and swirling gray smoke were as lovely as flowers against the snow.

Where was Jo? Where was the dog? He started to draw a deep breath so he could call out to them, but his chest hurt too much. Why was that?

Suddenly, he knew why. He was lying perfectly still, on his back. It was cold beneath him, cold as snow. He remembered now: He was lying on the snow. He had to get up, had to grab the boy and run for the cabin.

No, that wasn't right. He was mixing things up. The cabin on fire, and Jo—that had happened a long time ago. Hadn't it? Now he was lying on his back in the snow, because the bullet had spun him around and knocked him down. If he opened his eyes, he would see the sky. But he couldn't open his eyes.

The creek. He could hear the creek. He held his breath to hear the water rushing over the rocks.

No. He was hearing something else. The hum of a machine, a thing that went
beep, beep, beep.…

It was hard to keep things straight. It was hard to tell what was real and happening right now.

That was the way with dreams; you could never be sure what was real until you woke up.

He went round and round, from the hill to the creek back to the … bed? Bed.

It was when he knew he was in the bed that the pain was the worst. He sensed that the bed was real, too, but as he went round and round, from hill to creek to bed, he wanted more and more just to let go and spin free. Spin free, so he could be on the hill. He wanted to go back there, back then.

If he let himself go, he could stand on the hill again (he knew he had been there before), and this time he would see Jo and the dog standing nearby, safe. He and Jo could build another cabin, fill it with laughter and the smells of bread and wood smoke.

Round and round he went, getting dizzy. It hurt to hold on to the bed. He sensed that if he let go, he could not come back. But it hurt to hold on. Why not let go?

Round and round. There was the hill again, pure white in the snow. Down there, happy and safe, was Jo. She was smiling and waving to him. The dog was next to her. They could build again, be together again.

He knew where he wanted to be. He let go.

Will was almost done writing his story; in fact, he had done everything but the beginning.

He didn't know quite how to start. He hated stories that began, “Investigators intensified their search today.…” Openings like that meant there wasn't much new. Well, there wasn't.

He was about to make a last-minute call to police headquarters when the phone rang,

“Will? Don't say my name over the telephone.” It was Heather Casey.

“Hello.”

“Do you have a few minutes? I have something to tell you.”

“I'm a little pressed, but for you I have time.”

“The man died, Will. The man from the woods died.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” What a thing for me to say, he thought. But he was.

“The powers that be are preparing a statement right now. Officially, the man is still unidentified.”

“Yes?”

“But I can tell you who he is. Or might be.”

Will listened, spellbound, as she gave her account.

“Lord,” he said when she was done. “And nobody knows yet?”

“Just you. Not even the
Long Creek Eagle
is supposed to know until tomorrow, at the earliest. Even if the
Eagle
did know, it would probably hold off if the right people asked them.”

Damn, Will thought.

“You can see why everyone's so nervous,” she went on. “It's still a source of embarrassment to the police department, that long-ago thing.”

“I'll bet. But why is the hospital being so cautious?”

“Because the hospital wants to stay on city hall's good side for any number of reasons, and city hall and the police department go hand in hand sometimes. So the hospital is giving the police brass extra time.…”

“To try to put the right spin on things. Or maybe they hope to keep it quiet until a lot more reporters have gone home. Keep the secret even if they do have to announce the guy's death.”

“Yes. You understand such things.”

“Oh, yes indeed.” Will thought fast. “How many people at the hospital know?”

“Only a very few. Myself and a couple of other nurses who have been here for a while. Is this useful to you?”

“God, yes.” Will would have someone in the
Gazette
's morgue get out the clippings and microfilm from a long time ago. He didn't have much time to verify what he thought he remembered.

In any event, he had enough to go on. The cops thought they knew who the man was. Will would have the story in his paper a full half day before any other paper or TV station reached its main audience. It was a major exclusive.

Will deliberately dampened his exhilaration. He had a lot to do before he could celebrate. “Look, I'm going to need to get a comment from the police chief.”

“You won't use my name?”

“No, I promise. If you're not the only nurse who knows, you'll be safe.” At least I think she will, he thought. “I'm going to wait until the last possible minute. Then I'll call him.”

Will sensed from the silence that Casey didn't understand, so he went on. “See, I absolutely need to give the chief a chance to comment. But by waiting until the last minute to call him, I pretty much guarantee that I beat everyone else on the story. At least I beat the other papers; the TV people can always get on the air faster than I get into print, if they want to. And my guess is that the chief won't be eager to blab about this to many people tonight.”

“I see.”

“So the only thing being announced at this moment is that the man is dead? That's all?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.” Then Will thought of something else; he asked her to hold while he checked the phone book. Just as he figured. Well, sometimes a newsman had to impose on people. “The chief's home number isn't listed. Do you think you could get it for me, in case he's not hanging around the station?”

“Oh. I know it would be on the administrator's Rolodex. Yes, I'll get it and call you back.”

“You're wonderful.”

He wondered whether he was shamelessly using Heather Casey. But he had no time to worry about anyone's feelings, including his own. He called his office to brief the editors. Tom Ryan was in charge.

“Ry? Here's what I have. Right now, it's exclusive, and I expect it to stay that way.” Speaking as soothingly as he could, Will summarized the story and assured Ryan that he would have his facts nailed down, that the story wouldn't libel anyone, and that if anyone lost his job over it, it would be Will Shafer.

“Ah, this isn't official, then?” Ryan said.

Will could almost hear Ryan sweating. “No, not official. But I have it, and it's right.” He took a deep breath, went on as calmly as he could. “If I were back in the office and a reporter I trusted came up with this story, it would be my judgment to use it, Ry. It'll be my ass if it's wrong. But it isn't.”

“Um, should we bring Mr. Glanford in on this?”

“No, God … no. Don't bother the publisher. My story will be right, and that's that. I know what the hell I'm doing, and I've been on your end, and the paper sent me to this place to cover this story.…” I was also sent to clean up the mess about Fran that you helped to create, Will thought.

“Okay, Will. It's your call, I guess.”

“Trust me, Ry.”

Will hung up, cursed to himself. No wonder the reporters complained about Ryan's spine of jelly.

The phone rang.

“Here's the chief's number, Will.”

Will wrote it down. “I owe you a drink.”

“You're welcome. I have to say good-bye now.”

Then she was gone, and it occurred to Will that he might be running out of chances to see her. Was that for the best? Or would the
Gazette
want him to stay in Long Creek another day in view of the story he was about to write?

He began to write (Please, God, don't let the computer break down now), swiftly and surely at first, then with a little hesitation as he came to parts that were trickier on attribution. He would wait until the last possible minute to talk to the police chief.

And if he couldn't reach him?

Then I guess the story can't run, Will said to himself.

If one of your reporters had a story like this and it didn't have a comment from the police chief, would you let it get in the paper?

No.

Then pray that the police chief answers the phone.

“Chief? It's Will Shafer from the
Bessemer Gazette.
Sorry to bother you at home. Look, I know that the kidnapping suspect just died. I want to give you a chance to comment on something.…”

The chief swore, sputtered about Will's having gotten his home phone number, made a few vaguely threatening remarks, then went dead quiet as Will delivered his questions. “I promise you a fair shake, Chief.”

The chief gave him what he needed and hung up. For a moment, Will wondered, Are the Long Creek cops going to hassle me before I get out of town?

Will plugged in the hole in his story, read it over quickly, and transmitted it to his office. Then he held his breath.

After a while, the phone rang. Tom Ryan had a few questions, and not altogether stupid ones.

“Will, I didn't call the publisher.”

“Good, Ry. You won't regret it. We won't.”

“Like you say, Will. It's your call.…”

It was a long time before Will got to sleep. The death of the hermit made him sad in a way he couldn't define. And there were still too many questions about the kidnapping—questions his old friend from the FBI had not faced, to Will's disappointment.

But overriding the other feelings was elation. He couldn't wait until morning, when the
Bessemer Gazette
would have a story no one else had. Will imagined the looks on the faces of his competitors. He hoped Heather Casey would be proud of him.

When he finally did fall asleep, he was smiling.

BROKAW KIDNAPPING SUSPECT DIES;
TENTATIVE I.D. IS ESTABLISHED

By Will Shafer
Special to the
Bessemer Gazette

LONG CREEK
—The strange, scarred man who was a suspect in the kidnapping of Jamie Brokaw died here last night, shortly before the
Gazette
learned exclusively that the authorities have tentatively identified him as a former member of a “hippie” colony who was badly burned in a 1970 police raid.