The Traveller (52 page)

‘Try it anyway,’ Martin Jeffers said.

The clerk nodded. He punched some letters in on a computer keyboard.

‘Nope.’ he said.

‘Does that tie in with other Holiday Inn computers?’ Detective Barren asked.

‘Yeah, actually, it does,’ said the clerk. ‘Just for the three that are in this area.’

‘Try them,’ she demanded again.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I know how to do that, but let me try.’ He fiddled with the keyboard, making a rapid clicking noise as he tried combinations of letters and numbers. ‘Hey!’ he said suddenly.

‘The name!’ said Martin Jeffers.

‘No, no, no, sorry,’ said the clerk. ‘It’s just I figured it Out. Now let me check names.’ Again he punched letters. Then he shook his head. ‘Not in the last seven days,’ he told them.

‘Thanks for trying,’ said Detective Barren.

‘Is the guy in trouble?’ asked the clerk.

‘You might say that,’ said Detective Barren. ‘But at the moment he’s just one of the missing.’

The clerk nodded.

Martin Jeffers carried her duffel bag to her room. She let him do this to give it an air of innocence. She knew that if she had insisted on carrying it, he would recognize that was where she kept the gun. She knew he would probably figure it out anyway if he thought about it. But perhaps he wouldn’t, and she was always searching for whatever edge she could find.

At the door to their rooms, they looked at each other.

‘Do you want to try to find something to eat?’ Martin Jeffers asked.

She shook her head.

‘Good,’ he said.

They stood in silence. I need your word,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Promise that when I go in here, you won’t head off without me. ‘ She almost smiled. That was what she had feared from him.

‘If you’ll make the same promise.’ He nodded. ‘We’re agreed then?’ She nodded as well.

“Why don’t we start at nine,’ he said. ‘Leave a wake-up call at the desk.’

‘Eight,’ she said firmly. ‘See you then.’ Moving at the same speed, each opened the door to their room and stepped inside. It seemed an odd ballet, out of sight, but not, thanks to thin motel walls, necessarily out of hearing. They both paused, straining to hear some noise from the other’s room. Then each moved into the center of the room and, realizing that the other was next door, and probably listening with the same lack of trust, each bustled about for a moment before falling into bed.

Manchester was once a busy industrial town, and it still retained a sense of blue-collar grime and hard work, with stolid brick buildings and factories that were only partially concealed by the richness of New Hampshire’s late-summer green. Detective Mercedes Barren and Martin Jeffers ate a quiet, brief breakfast, then set out amidst the early churchgoers and bright sunshine. They spoke little, nor did they have some established plan; they merely cruised the streets, stopping at fast-food restaurants, gas stations, other motels, and hotels - anyplace that Douglas Jeffers might have settled briefly and made just enough of a connection for someone to recall his picture.

She doubted, even if someone remembered him, whether they would have any knowledge that was worthwhile. But, as Martin Jeffers pointed out, if they were to locate him, just once, then they would have some sort of idea what direction he was heading in.

She was skeptical. He was skeptical. But both concede inwardly that they felt much better doing something - even if it was only creating the illusion of doing something -than it would have been sitting around.

And both longed for the same thing: some slight contact that would bring them within reach of Douglas Jeffers. It was as if by arriving at the same location that their quarry had been, they would gain a scent.

Still, Detective Barren felt slightly foolish. She knew the probabilities of any kind for success were very small. But, she thought to herself, you’ve never disliked this part of police work. Some detectives hated the drudgery of asking the same questions over and over, trying to sort through the entire haystack, much preferring leaping ahead somehow. She, on the other hand, realized that much of her success was due to her doggedness, and she could be perfectly happy, indeed contented, asking question after question. He felt much the same; much of his work was devoted to going over and over, repetitively, the same memories, the same circumstances, the same facts, until by dint of persistence they were defused.

It was late afternoon when Jeffers asked, ‘Why don’t we try the police station? Just see if he’s gone in there.’

‘I was saving it for last,’ she replied.

‘We’re at the end,’ he said. ‘If he’s been there, he certainly hasn’t made much of a fuss about it.’

‘I don’t think he’s been here,’ she said. ‘Which only means that he may show up, anytime.’

Jeffers nodded.

‘But I’ve still got a job, and appointments waiting for me after an eight-hour drive back to New Jersey. If you want to hang around …’

‘No,’ she said. She thought: We’re in this together. ‘No, we’re going to stick together until…’

He interrupted. ‘Until we get this sorted out.’

‘Right.’

‘Okay, the police station.’

Martin Jeffers looked up the address of the Central Police Headquarters while Detective Barren showed the picture

to one more gas station attendant, unsuccessfully. He got directions from the attendant and they drove through a depressing series of city streets, each seemingly more run-down than the next. The police headquarters was in the grimiest portion of the city. Detective Barren noticed the number of squad cars rolling through the neighborhood and thought they must be close. She spied, to their left, a large red-brick building. ‘There,’ she said, pointing. Martin Jeffers hesitated.

That’s not it,’ he said. ‘That’s new. I mean, it’s relatively new. The building I remember was old.’

He pulled the car up next to the building. ‘Look at the cornerstone,’ he said.

She turned and followed his glance and read erected 1973 on a gray slab set on the corner of the building. Martin Jeffers parked the car and said, ‘Let’s go ask.’

Inside the building was all fluorescent lights and modern

design, but slightly scarred with use. They approached a

desk sergeant and Detective Barren produced her shield.

The sergeant was a corpulent man, probably happy to man

the desk, equally as adept at avoiding controversy as he

was at dodging a street assignment.

“Miami,” the man said, pleasantly enough. ‘My brother-in-law runs a bar in Fort Lauderdale. Once went to visit,

but too many kids, if you know what I mean. Whew. And

hot! So what can I do for you, detective from Miami?

What’s in Manchester that you need?’

He pronounced the city’s name with a broad a that made Detective Barren smile.

‘Two things,’ she said smiling. ‘Have you seen this man? And wasn’t there once an old police station in central Manchester?’

The sergeant looked at the picture. ‘No, can’t say that I’ve seen him. You want me to make some copies and have them distributed at roll call? If this guy’s wanted, we ought to know about it. What d’you think?’

Detective Barren thought hard and fast about the offer. No, she thought. He’s mine.

‘No,’ she said, ‘at the moment he’s just wanted for questioning and I don’t really have enough for you to pull him in on. I’m just making a few inquiries, you know.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘Have it your way,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to offer.’

‘And it’s appreciated,’ she replied.

He smiled.

‘Now,’ the sergeant added, ‘about that old station. There were a couple, actually. Up until the mid-sixties we were like a lot of little cities. We had station houses all over. Then they were consolidated into this new and beautiful spot you see here …’ He waved his hands about before continuing. ‘Most were torn down. One got made into a bunch of lawyers’ offices. That’s the one that was closest to the courthouse. I think one was made into a condominium. That’s in the other part of town, the nice side …’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes I think that’s what’s gonna happen to all of us when we pass on. We’re gonna be made into a condo. Right up in heaven, I guess.’ He laughed again and both Jeffers and Detective Barren smiled with him, each recognizing a certain truth to his plaint.

‘Which would have been the Central Station? The biggest?’ Jeffers asked.

‘That’d be the one across from the courthouse.’

‘How do we get there?’

‘Break the law.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just having a little joke. How do you get to the courthouse? Break the law … Oh, well, I said it was a little joke. Go straight down this street for six blocks and turn right on Washington Boulevard. That’ll take you there.’

They thanked the sergeant and left.

‘Let’s roll past,’ Detective Barren said.

Jeffers nodded in assent. ‘Lawyer’s offices. Seems appropriate. Kind of like recycling trash.’

She smiled.

‘Another little joke,’ he said.

They found the building without any trouble. Jeffers was silent for a moment, looking up at it.

‘The facade seems the same,’ Jeffers said then. She

thought his voice had taken on a sudden false determination, as if by sounding strong, he would be. He parked

the car in front and stared through the car window. ‘It was

windy and dark and raining,’ he said. ‘I remember that

night it looked evil and hopeless, like it should have had a

sign over the door: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter

Here …’

Not waiting for Detective Barren, he abruptly jumped from the car and then marched up a broad flight of stairs to the front door. He seized the handle and pulled. Locked. It’s Sunday and the offices are locked.’ She looked at him.

‘Thank God,’ he said. She saw him shudder slightly. ‘Do

you know the sensation of being a child and being alone?

Children can adapt wonderfully to specific fears, like a

pain, a sickness, or a death. It is the unknown which is

truly terrifying for them. They have no fund of knowledge

in how the world operates, and so they feel completely

vulnerable. Do you know what I remember from that night?

Oh, everything is vivid and terrible, but I can also

remember that my shoes were too tight and I needed a

new pair and I thought I would never be able to get them,

and how was I going to grow up with no shoes, ever? I

remember sitting, having to go to the bathroom so much

it hurt but too scared to say anything to anybody. I just

knew I wasn’t supposed to get off that bench, where they

put us to wait. Doug took care of me. He knew, somehow.

You know, it always seemed to me, when I was young,

that he knew what I was thinking before I even thought

it. I suppose all younger brothers ascribe such magical

properties to their elder brother. Probably I was squirming

around so much. Anyway, he took me to the bathroom.

And he told me he would take care of me and not to worn-,

that he would always be close by. I don’t know how much

he meant it, but it made me feel safe and wonderful hearing

those words. I think I thought I was going to die that night, until he held my hand …’

The sun was starting to fade and Martin Jeffers’ voice slid into the shadows.

She thought: That’s what childhood is, seeking refuge from one fear after another until you become strong enough and old enough and wise enough to battle the fears awa. Only some fears can never be defeated.

She looked at Martin Jeffers. He was staring up at the building.

‘He’s my brother,’ he said. ‘Now we’re grown up and he’s doing these terrible things and I have to stop him. But he saved my life that night. I know it.’

Martin Jeffers turned away from the building.

‘Let’s leave now,’ he said. ‘Let’s just get the hell out of here.’

He grabbed her by the arm and half-pulled her down the flight of steps. She did not resist.

‘Let’s just go. Go, go back to New Jersey. Now,’ he said.

She did not say anything in reply, but nodded. She could see the conflict and agony returning to his face. For an instant she felt a kind of dual sadness, one for the memory of the abandoned child who continued to seek his lost parent throughout his life, one for the adult torn by terrible knowledge. She thought then, oddly, that it was unfortunate that she had met Martin Jeffers in this awful way, that under different circumstances she probably would have come to like him. And this made her feel sad for herself. But she shook the feeling away rapidly and moved to her side of the car. I’m sorry, Martin Jeffers, she said to herself. I’m terribly sorry, but lead on. Lead me to your brother. This, she knew he would do. But she knew too, right at that moment, as Jeffers turned away from the building, holding his head in such a way that he thought she would be unable to see his tears and threw himself behind the wheel of the car, that he would never betray his brother.

It was close to midnight, near the end of another wordless journey, when they crossed the George Washington Bridge,

passing New York City with its constancy of light on their

left and rapidly leaving it behind. Detective Barren’s eyes

were closed, and Martin Jeffers assumed she slept in the

passenger seat. He maneuvered through the still-thick

nighttime traffic. His eyes caught the series of huge green

roadway signs directing travelers in a dozen different directions, and he considered the great convergence of people

and machines and highways that came together at the

bridge: routes 4 and 46 and 9W and the Palisades Parkway

and the great ribbon that is Interstate 95 heading north—

south and the equally great black rope that is Interstate

80 heading east and west. The lights from oncoming cars

blinded him as they sliced through the darkness, a quick

rush of brightness, then disappearing. When he looked at

the lanes in the opposite roads, he could just barely make