====================== A Point of Murder by Bob Liter ======================

Copyright (c)2002 Bob Liter

Renaissance www.renebooks.com

Mystery

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*A POINT OF MURDER* By *Bob Liter* A Renaissance E Books publication ISBN 1-58873-089-1 All rights reserved Copyright (C) 2002 by Bob Liter This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission. For information contact: publisher@renebooks.com -------- *CHAPTER ONE* The day I can't forget began with a slap on my bare ass that stung me awake. Maggie Atley, dressed in a smile, jumped back from the bed, leaned her face toward mine, and said, "Get up you lazy bum. Have some coffee ready when I get back." I turned away, buried my head in her pillow and assumed a fetal position. I made snoring noises and breathed in the fragrance of her apple-scented shampoo. "Please," she cooed. I moved to the edge of the bed, sat up and rubbed my eyes. She backed away and fought for balance as she hopped into a pair of faded red sweat pants. She pulled a matching sweat shirt over her short, auburn hair, shoulders, breasts and stomach. I faked a lunge. She grabbed running shoes from a chair and dodged away. She leaned against the door jam as she put them on. Musical laughter faded as I heard her prance through the basement apartment, the office, out the front door and up the steps for her morning run. In the kitchen, as the coffee perked, a cumulus cloud cruised past the window in the vastness of a blue sky. It was a welcome change from the May rains that had drenched Central City and much of the rest of Illinois for four days. I nursed a cup of coffee and anticipated the feel of Maggie's flesh when she returned. I'd peel off her sweat-wet clothes and... The phone rang. I lifted the receiver reluctantly and heard Central City's one-man detective bureau, Andy Brown, say, "Got a body I want you to see before we move it." "Where?" "In the alley behind that tavern where you used to hang out." "Right. I'm on my way." I jumped into blue jeans, grabbed a fresh T-shirt, shoved my feet into a pair of worn Reboks and ran out of the office to the back of the building and my ancient red Escort. He wanted me at a crime scene. A body, he had said. Probably some poor bum whose liver gave out. Hardly a major story. The Chicago Times, the newspaper that bought most of my free lance stuff, probably wouldn't print it. Still, I had to make the scene to satisfy Brown, my main police source. I drove south on University Street, saw only one other moving vehicle, a white Nelson Dairy truck. It stopped and a young guy jumped out. He raced across the street in front of me, a bottle of milk in each hand. He waved after I slammed on the brakes. Three blocks later I turned left on Incline Drive. From there it was downhill for four blocks to Commerce Street. My car only stalled at one stop light. My name is Nick Bancroft. Before meeting Maggie I had belittled myself for returning to Central City to escape the horror of reporting everyday crimes in Chicago. Now, back in my hometown, I pecked out a pressure-free living selling pieces to the Times and operating a half-ass one-man detective agency. A young cop I didn't know stepped in front of my car and held up a hand as I eased into the alley behind Commerce Street. "Sorry sir, you can't use this alley now." "Captain Brown called me. Where can I park?" "You Nick Bancroft?" I admitted it. "He said you'd be coming." He hesitated, pointed to a space off the alley entrance between two abandoned buildings and said, "There, I guess. You'll have to walk the rest of the way." I parked, hoped there was nothing in the debris that would puncture my tires, wormed my way out of the car and trotted toward the other end of the block where a number of uniforms had gathered. One was writing in a notebook and Brown, with his arms folded across his chest, was talking to Coroner John Connor. An ambulance was parked off to the side. Paramedics stood by. A uniformed arm blocked my path. I told the cop -- I couldn't remember his name -- "Brown sent for me." "Over there." He pointed. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked the way. Somehow, always in Chicago and usually here in Central City, whoever strung the damned stuff managed to get it high enough to make it difficult to step over but low enough to make it awkward to duck under. I managed to scissor over it. "Ever see anything like this in Chicago?" Brown said as I approached. His cigar, level with my chin, emitted foul smoke. I stepped back. He pointed at a pair of worn running shoes attached to the body of a teenage boy sprawled on its back in dirt to the side of the alley. The heels touched, the toes angled out. My gaze jumped past blue jeans to where the boy's arms sprawled from a soiled St. Louis Cardinals T-shirt, the hands clenched. The light brown face was tilted to one side. A galvanized spike extended from the left temple. Two flies nibbled on a bit of dried blood near the point where the spike violated the head. Brown steadied me, and said, "Sorry. Didn't know this would shake you that much." I knelt, tilted my head, and stared into Bobby Scalf's unseeing eyes. Tears formed in mine. I wanted to hold his head, rub the tight curls as I had only a few days before, but, of course, I couldn't disturb the scene. "Have you identified the victim?" I repeated the question before Brown said, "Not yet. I wanted you to see this because, as you know, the Central City Press is going to play it down. Trudi Seymour wouldn't want to soil the image of _her_ city." I stood, wiped my eyes, and said, "I know this kid. He's Bobby Scalf. Was Bobby Scalf." "Are you sure? I figured we'd spend half the day trying to ID him. How come you know him? You familiar with the gang murders in Chicago that involve spikes?" "I've never been at the scene of one before, but I've heard of them." "I'll want a statement from you, all the details of how you knew him. You're pale as a sheet. Come to the station in about an hour. I'll get your statement then." I nodded. My eyes were drawn again to the spike protruding from the temple of the kid who wanted to be like me. -------- *CHAPTER TWO* Maggie, on her way to work, spotted me sitting in the parked Escort behind my apartment building. "My God, Nick, you're face. You sick?" I rolled down the car window and said, "Brown called me to a crime scene while you were running. A murder. Turned out to be a boy I know ... knew. I'll be all right in a minute. Tell you about it tonight." "You sure? I can call in, stay with you." "You go to work, Maggie. I've got to shave and shower, go to the police station. Brown wants my statement. They didn't know who the kid was until I told them." She squeezed into the car beside me, took my head to her bosom, and said, "I'm so sorry, Nick. Who was he?" "I'll explain later. Go to work." By the time I got to the police station I had recovered, mostly. The sky still was blue, a mild breeze caressed my skin, people hurried about their daily tasks. And Bobby Scalf was dead. It was because of me he started playing reporter. I even gave him a cheap .35 mm camera for a birthday present after he said he didn't have a birthday. "Everybody has a birthday," I said then. "Yes sir. I must have one. But I don't know when it is." I thought he was putting me on. After my statement was recorded -- a simple recitation of how I'd met Bobby and a few of the details of our relationship -- Brown asked, "You got any idea who killed him?" "No. I'm going to try to find out, of course." "Watch your ass. This was a vicious murder. Like those things in Chicago. Why would such a killing involve a kid in Central City? He have any gang connections you know about?" "No." "The only gang stuff here is small time. Nothing connecting it with Chicago. As far as I know," Brown said. I stood. "Wait a minute. Aren't you going to ask me any questions?" "Later," I said. "Later hell. I'm busy. Do it now. I'll tell you what's obvious so far. No use you wasting my time coming back when you pull out of it and start wanting answers. As you should have noticed, there was practically no blood. This kid was killed somewhere else." I nodded. "You saw how the body was laid out. It wasn't dumped from a car. Someone took the trouble to lay the vic on his back, spread the arms. He was shot in the left leg. We didn't notice until we turned the body over. In the calf. Must have been trying to run." "Thanks Brown." I turned to leave. "Oh, and don't quote me. They're trying to find an excuse to fire me." "What about the time of death?" "My guess is around midnight. Have to wait for the coroner's report though." Back at my office I buried my grief temporarily in work and sent a story to the Chicago Times state desk through the wonders of the computer. The piece lacked inspiration. Just a recitation of the few facts I had. Still, there was enough for a Times state edition headline the next morning that screamed, "Gang-Style Murder in Central City." -------- *CHAPTER THREE* "Ask Tommy Doyle," I was told when I questioned a group of Central City High students that first morning in the study hall. They didn't yet know Bobby Scalf had been murdered. The school office looked much the same as it had twenty years earlier when I was a reluctant student. The same old files, the same old personnel, at least much of it. Miss Fordyce, the office manager, struggled out of her chair, marched into the principal's office and shouted, "That guy is here again. The one who says he is a Chicago reporter." She knew damned well who I was, knew I was a freelance reporter and private investigator. I had had many a run in with the fat bitch. I thought of telling her she needed a man to suck the sour juice out of her. I would have made it clear I was not volunteering. Gordon Hicks, the principal, came to the office door, shouted, "Come in, Nick," and went back in. I smiled at Miss Fordyce. She didn't smile back. "Coffee?" Gordon asked as I pulled up a chair and sat across from him. "Yeah, sure, thanks." I knew it was going to take a few minutes. Gordon was a member of the Kiwanis who gave long speeches about the importance of discipline in education. He wasn't the usual teacher type, if there is such a thing. His hair was cropped. His face shaved, his bones not far under his tanned skin. His chest and arms were those of a weight lifter. "I need to talk to Tommy Doyle," I said. "Miss Fordyce, is Tommy Doyle in school today?" he shouted. Miss Fordyce came to the office door and glared at Gordon. She puckered her thin lips and said, "Thomas Doyle is not here again today." She turned and left. "She hates it when I shout at her," Gordon said. "It's my way of getting even for how she treated me when I came here, what's it been, two years now? Thinks the school can't run without her." He went to a metal file cabinet in a corner of the spacious, carpeted office. This was a definite change from the wooden floor of the principal's office I had visited too often as a pupil. He apparently found a file on Tommy, copied an address and handed it to me. "Is something the matter?" Gordon asked. "No," I lied. "Why do you want to talk to Tommy? Is he in some kind of trouble?" "No, nothing like that. Just need to talk to him. A thing I'm working on." Tommy Doyle's house was on Fillmore Street five blocks from the high school in an old neighborhood of look-alike clapboard houses and mostly well-kept lawns. Knocking on the Doyle's door produced no results. The doorbell apparently didn't work. A weasel-sized dog came from two houses down and yapped from just off the porch. My insides tightened. I forced myself to march down the steps right at the miniature beast. It ran into the next yard and continued to bark. At the back of the house a boy with a thatch of red hair stood with his back to me. I said, "Hello." The boy turned. He was holding a four-foot snake, one hand near its head, the other near the tail. Green and black, it sagged in the middle. "It's sick," he said. "Are you Tommy Doyle?" "Yes. I'm sick, too. That's why I'm not in school." "I'm not a truant officer. I want to ask you some questions about Bobby Scalf." The boy carefully laid the snake on the ground. It didn't move. I stepped back. Tommy watched the snake for a moment and followed as I retreated to near the back porch steps. "Tell me about Bobby Scalf." "What about him?" "I want you to tell me what you know about Bobby Scalf. Now." "Okay, okay. What's the big deal? We were friends, sort of. Bobby kept kinda to hisself, you know, but he found snakes for me. I got six in the basement." I sat on a step, motioned him to sit beside me and took a notepad from my hip pocket. With pencil poised I said, "Tell me everything you know about Bobby, how you got to be friends, everything." I glanced at the snake. It hadn't moved. "It was when I took a garter snake to show-and-tell at school. All the other kids was scared of it, especially the girls. But Bobby took it from me and helped me talk about it. He knew more than I did about it and other Illinois snakes. The teacher, Miss Allen, hushed the screaming every time the snake squirmed as we stood in front of the class. When we were done she said it was a good presentation. "You boys are excused from class now. And take the snake with you, please," she said. Tommy stood, walked to the sick snake, nudged it with a finger and returned to sit beside me. "It's dead." He wiped his face with a grimy hand. "Bobby let my little snake go in some weeds when we got away from the school that day. Said he could get me better snakes than that, a big snake if I wanted. All we had to do, he said, was ride our bikes out to The Hollow. "When we got there we followed a neat path way into the woods to a clearing. All the weeds were matted down. He told me to stay low, like he did. It was like we were spying only there wasn't nobody there. Just a big old building, one of those Quonset hut things. "We watched the field and that building for a long time but nothin' or nobody showed up." "Bobby told me to stay put. He ran to the door of the building and tried to get in. When he came back he said it was locked." "Did he ever get you a snake?" "Yeah, a keen one. That one." He pointed to the snake he had been handling. "But now it's dead." "What else do you know about Bobby Scalf? Where did he live? What about his parents? "I'm sorry mister, I don't know. I'll bet nobody else at school does either." "They should," I said. "Otherwise how did he register?" "Don't know?" Tommy Doyle said. "Got to bury my snake." I went back to the high school and confronted Miss Fordyce. "I want to see the records on Bobby Scalf. Everything you have. How did he register? His parents, everything you have?" "That's not public information?" "Look Miss Fordyce, what I want is public information and I'll raise hell to get it. If I have to I'll investigate you. See why you think the public school system is your private domain." She raised her nose another inch or so, turned, marched into the principal's office and returned a moment later, her nose down a notch. "Mister Hicks says you can see the records. All the current registrations are in the files along that wall." She pointed to her left. Bobby Scalf's envelope was smaller than most. Mr. and Mrs. Robert Scalf of 203 Commerce St. were listed as his parents. I knew the area. The two-hundred block of Commerce Street was vacant, the victim of a wrecking ball a couple of years before. His counselor, George Tanner, had filed a note that said Bobby missed school too much. Between classes -- Tanner taught Social Studies -- I cornered him. "I need to know everything you can tell me about Bobby Scalf." He looked up at me through thick glasses that made his gray eyes resemble large marbles. "Why?" I said I was a reporter, said I would go with him to Hick's office if he wanted to confirm my identity. "I guess we don't need that. Don't have time, and besides I know very little about Bobby Scalf. He wouldn't tell me much. He managed to pass his courses even though he missed school a lot." I went back to Tommy Doyle's house. Knocking on the front door produced no response except from the neighbor's barking dog. I wasn't quite so uncomfortable around the damned thing as I had been. Familiarity -- sometimes -- breeds bravery. -------- *CHAPTER FOUR* I found Tommy in the back yard burying foul-smelling straw. "Look, you gave me the run-around earlier, but now I want answers. Did Bobby have a girlfriend?" Tommy kicked at dust with a sandaled foot. "Not exactly. Sometimes this girl would show up when we were looking for snakes. She seemed more like a sister. He wanted her to get away from The Hollow. I guess she lived there. Their arguments always ended with her telling him to mind his own business." "Do you know her name?" "Yeah, it was Roxanne. Never heard her last name." "Tell me where Bobby lived?" He hesitated and said, "It was neat. In one of those abandoned buildings down on Commerce Street. I can show you. I want to go back, but I'm afraid to go there alone." We drove past the building where I first had my office, the building where I met Maggie Atley. Fond memories. After an arsonist destroyed the building while trying to destroy me I moved up the hill away from the ruins of what had once been a prosperous commercial area. We proceeded two more blocks. Tommy directed me to a parking lot behind a boarded up building. Determined weeds squeezed up out of cement cracks. We were only three blocks from where Bobby's body was found. I parked in shade near the building. We climbed a fire escape to the third floor and crawled through a window that had been covered by plywood. Tommy replaced the cover after we climbed through. We walked down a long, dusty hallway, past several doors and into a large closet. The smell of chemicals and soap lingered in the space. At the end of the closet Tommy removed another piece of plywood, revealing an opening. We crawled into darkness, went through a large room and into another closet. An opening, hidden by a stack of newspapers, led into still another large room. Sunlight filtered through three large windows. A battered bed frame and mattress sat in one corner. A wash bowl sat on a wooden bench. A wash cloth and towel hung from a nail on its side. A dish, a couple of bowls, some spoons and forks and a large butcher knife were on an overturned wooden crate. Two folding chairs faced the crate. "Did Bobby live here by himself?" Tommy sat in one of the chairs and said, "Yeah, ain't it neat." "He was lucky vandals didn't get in here. Must have been tough for a kid to survive like this on his own. He looked healthy enough. He must have been getting plenty to eat." I sat down and chastised myself for never pushing to find out more than I had about him. "Did he have a secret place where he hid things?" "Maybe. He had a camera he carried around. Film and everything. I don't see it." I explored the large room. Outside the area where Bobby had lived there was nothing but dust and cobwebs. Three steel supports held up a steel beam that ran the length of the room. A small wooden box, back in Bobby's corner, had been nailed to the wall about eye high. Inside was a box of corn flakes, a hammer, and some rusty nails. Something didn't seem right. The box? The space inside was wrong. Not as much as there should have been. I pushed on the back. It gave a little. I discovered a false back. Behind it was a nine by eleven envelope. I tucked it in my pants and covered it with my shirt. "What's that?" Tommy asked. "Don't know. I'll look at it later." There was nothing else there except a padlock key taped to the inside surface of the false back. I put the key in my pocket and replaced the back. A scurrying sound startled me. Tommy didn't seem to notice. "Did you hear that?" "Yeah," he said. "Bobby said it's rats. Made me nervous at first." I signaled Tommy to be quiet. I listened. Nothing. "Hope we don't get caught in here," Tommy whispered. "I'm supposed to be home because I'm sick. How could I explain this?" "What about Bobby's camera? Don't you know where he kept it?" Tommy shook his head. I checked the room again without finding anything. We crawled our way out of the building, replacing the stack of newspapers and pieces of plywood as we left. I took Tommy home and advised him to get his butt back in school. "Where are your parents?" it finally occurred to me to ask. "They both work. I skip sometimes. No big deal. I fake the excuses." Later, near the police station, I sat in my car and opened the envelope. There were five eight-by-ten photos. Two of them were of Bobby holding snakes in various stages of slither. Another was of Tommy holding a snake in each of his extended hands. The fourth photo was of a thin woman in pajamas. Her face was wrinkled into a subdued smile. The last photo was that of a young girl standing in a field. Long blades of grass looked sharp enough to cut. Slender legs lead to a birth mark high on the inside of her right thigh. Her small breasts stood at attention. She was squinting against the sun. Long shadows cast by her body extended across the grass. Her hands were on her hips. Her dark hair appeared slightly windblown. A large nose was overshadowed by a fetching smile. Splendor in the grass. In Captain Brown's office I sat and pretended to sleep while he talked on the phone. The photos were evidence. I hoped to keep on his good side so I could pump information from him other reporters might not get. It had worked in the past. And, besides, I was legally required to turn over any crime evidence I turned up. "Hey, mister, if you're going to sleep, do it elsewhere. This is no flop house." I handed him the envelope. He slid the photos out, studied them, and said, "Where did you get these?" "They are photos apparently taken by Bobby Scalf. I found them in one of those abandoned buildings down on Commerce Street. That's where he lived." "You really are becoming a detective. Thanks. How did you find out where he lived?" After I'd explained my conversation with Tommy Doyle, the snakes, and that I didn't know who the girl was, he said, "She's Roxanne Draggard, or so she says. Works at Art's Palace, that quick food place on the south side." "She know anything about Bobby Scalf, his murder? How did you find her?" I asked. "Never mind how I found her. I'll have a few more questions for her now that I have these photos. Keep digging. We can only spend so much time on this. Other cases, you know." "Yeah, like who's going to wash the mayor's car this week? Or is it our esteemed publisher, Mrs. Trudi Seymour, who takes up all your time now?" "Bitter, bitter. You know the drill, live with it, I have to." I said, "How you getting along by now with the new chief? Does he still need help with his diapers?" "He's decided we shouldn't spend too much time on this Bobby Scalf thing. Says it gives the city a bad name to have a messy murder. Hasn't he urged you to think of the city's image yet?" "City? Some city. Maybe 15,000 by now and shrinking. I should leave again but Maggie likes it here. I just manage to make a living with the freelance work and the investigative junk." "Would you say you're in a rut?" "Yes, Captain Andrew Brown, I'm definitely in a rut. How about you?" -------- *CHAPTER FIVE* It was about eight when I got home. Maggie's sky-blue Mercury convertible wasn't there. A note said she had gone to the library. Again. In the office I sagged into the worn swivel chair and rested my head on the desk. The cat jumped up, rubbed its neck against my arm, and made purring noises. I shouldn't have stopped at Chester's Bar and Grill for a couple of beers. Otto was there, of course, and it was late before I realized it. Otto droned on about the Chicago Cubs and some of our experiences at his dump down on Commerce Street. Stuff I normally would have at least listened to, but I just sat there, nodded my head occasionally and remembered Bobby Scalf. I wasn't ready to talk to Otto about Bobby. Later, at my desk, I awoke with a start. The cat was asleep near my head. Where the hell was Maggie? It was past ten o'clock. The library closed at nine. Maggie Atley. She was the best thing that had happened to me since I was fifteen years old and a girl named Alice let me do it with her. The other girls and women I had known since were not the equal of Maggie. We met when she was secretary for an import company in my old building. Recently divorced, she had two sons who had grown and left home and was, although she would never admit it, fascinated with me because of what she imagined was my exciting life. Of course my natural good looks and sexy personality -- my analysis, not hers -- appealed to her, also. She admitted to being thirty something which probably meant she was closer to my forty something. I never pushed her about her age. Who cared? I never pushed her either about the reason why such an intelligent, classy woman would be interested in an underachiever like me. I was back to brooding about the case an eternity later when her heels clicked down the steps. I heard her scratching at the door with her key until she found the hole, inserted the key, turned it and locked the door. I had left it open for her. She mumbled, unlocked the door, came through it and snapped on the overhead light in my office. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" She went through the office, turned on a light in the living room, and went into the bedroom, judging from the way her voice faded. The cat followed. I stood and followed the pleasant scent of her, turning off lights as I went. A glance at my watch revealed it was past midnight. "Want coffee or something?" she said as she shed her clothes, hung the suit coat in the closet, folded the slacks, put them in the clothes hamper and pawed through her dresser's top drawer and pulled out a pair of pajamas. "I'm going to bed," I said. My stomach felt queasy, like it did when I was a kid and my mother stayed out all night. "Right to the fun and games, huh. I'm going to get something to drink. I'm dry. And no comment from you, mister." "No fun and games tonight, Maggie," I said as I undressed. I collapsed onto the bed. Silence. She turned off the light. I heard water run in the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, sloshed water in her mouth, flushed it out, turned off the lights and slid in beside me. No pajamas. "What's the matter? Are you pissed because I stayed out so late. I went to a performance by the Central City Symphony Orchestra. I would have told you in the note except it came up at the last minute while I was at the library." "What right do I have to be pissed if you stay out late. I do it often enough. No I'm not pissed about that?" "Does it have something to do with that boy who was killed? I know it was awful, but I'm surprised it upset you so. How did you know him?" "It's a long story." Silence until a freight train's whistle groaned in the night. "Maybe you'd feel better if you talked about it. Isn't it about time you confided in me ... about something?" I sighed and said, "When I was about Bobby's age, sixteen, I was headed nowhere when I got a night job at Moonlight Bowl. You remember those bowling lanes that used to be down by the tracks near Otto's tavern? The guy who owned the place moved the lanes to a couple of blocks from Chester's two years ago." "Where you practice now?" Maggie asked. "Yeah. Only it's a different owner. The guy that owned the place when I was a kid was Dave Morris. He seemed to like me. He showed me how to work on the pin setters, just small stuff. I never really wanted to be a bowling lane mechanic. But he trusted me to handle cash from the lunch counter. Later I ran the place a couple of hours whenever he wanted to get away. Made me feel like somebody." She snuggled closer. Any other time I would have stopped talking. "One night after I was off work I showed a girl a book that included a sexy scene I was trying to get her to read. "Mister Morris, who was working the desk and lunch counter, picked up the book, asked me if it was any good, riffled through it, set it down and said, 'This is a library book. It was due back two months ago.' "I had taken the book from the library without checking it out. Mister Morris gave me a lecture about stealing. I remember thinking he had no right to do that, he wasn't my father." Maggie snuggled closer. "Where was your father?" "I don't know. He left long before that. Mister Morris raved on about how a decent life for everybody was only possible if people lived by the rules. Look at this place, he said. All the work we have to do just because some of these morons won't pick up after themselves. Where would the library be if everybody stole the books? You take that book back, check it out the way you should." "I remember saying 'Yes sir' in a snotty way. I thought he was going to sock me. It wasn't until later that I understood how important it was to have a guy like Mister Morris care that much about me. I've always remembered what he said that night. 'Where would we be if nobody lived by the rules?' I guess that's why I got into journalism, to nail some of the assholes who break the rules." The next morning I awoke to birdsong coming through the open bedroom windows. The smell of fresh coffee lured me toward the kitchen. Maggie was on the floor in the living room, a vision of female pulchritude, doing her exercises. She was naked. "Is this an invitation to play?" She rolled to a sitting position, pulled her knees to her chest, smiled up at me, batted her eyes, and said, "If you brush your teeth and bring a wash cloth I'll consider it." This particular game had evolved shortly after I was living at her apartment temporarily because my place across from Otto's tavern had burned. The game started on her living room carpet when she raised one leg at a time, without bending her knee, until the leg was pointing nearly straight up. Then she lowered it slowly until her heel touched the floor while I kissed various parts of her body until she couldn't resist wrestling me into the deep squeeze. Now, in spite of our earthshaking climax, the birds continued to sing, and the coffee fragrance continued to lure. Yet, once again, I felt like the train I'd heard the night before. Alone in the dark. Later, Maggie and I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee. "You went to sleep without telling me why Bobby Scalf's death means so much to you. You're usually so jaded about things." "What _did_ I say?" She sipped coffee and looked into my eyes. "You went to sleep talking about how this guy that owned the bowling alley acted as a father figure to you." "Oh yeah, Mister Morris." "I don't understand what that has to do with the murder and you being so upset." "It's a long story." "C'mon Nick. So it's a long story. You'll feel better if you talk about it." "I'll feel better if I do something about it." I stood and paced. "I've gotta get dressed, talk to Brown. He'll probably know something more by now." Maggie stood and kissed my forehead. "Brown probably knows more about you than I do. I'm sure it's a long story." At Central City's police station I trudged up the worn cement steps to the first floor, through the swinging door that led past the long counter that kept the public at bay, and into Detective Andrew Brown's office. He was on the phone, his feet on the desk, one hand behind his head. An overhead fan fought a losing battle against smoke from his half-burned cigar. "Okay, thanks. Talk to ya later." He hung up the receiver. "Find out anything?" he asked. I dragged a folding chair to in front of his desk, sat down and said, "About what?" "About this Scalf kid's murder. Don't try that dumb act on me. I know you been asking." "You know anything about a place called The Hollow?" I asked. "I know it's out of my jurisdiction. Not even in our county. I've heard all the rumors about the place. A character named Captain Draggard runs it. What about it?" Brown slid his feet off the desk, moved his chair closer, and puffed on that damned cigar. He said, "I doubt he has a liquor license. I know he couldn't get one here in Central City. Turned down when he applied, years ago, because of his prison record." I said, "What was he in for?" "Murder," Brown said. "Have you questioned Harry Prowe yet?" "Who's Harry Prowe?" Brown asked. "C'mon Brown. Don't bullshit me. You know who Harry Prowe is. He owns the bowling lanes where Bobby Scalf worked. What did he say?" "Why don't you talk to him. You spend enough time there practicing. He might tell you more than he told my man." "You did have someone questions him then." "Get out of here. I don't want the new police chief to see us talking. He's after my ass." Harry Prowe, the owner and operator of Moonlight Lanes, sat on a stool at the lunch counter eating one of his own hamburgers and drinking a cup of coffee. He nodded when I approached him, gulped a bite of hamburger he'd been chewing on, and said, "Hi Nick. God it's awful about Bobby. Thought of you first thing. I knew you cared about the kid. As much or more than I did. Why would anyone do a thing like that to Bobby?" I sat beside him, patted his shoulder like a father even though he was only a couple of years older than me, and said, "I'm trying to find out what happened. Mind answering a few questions." "No, of course not. The police pumped me, but I don't know much of anything. He didn't show up for work the day before they found him. I was worried because it was the first time, but I had no way of contacting him. He was dependable. Not like some of the kids I've had working for me." "You didn't know where he lived?" "No. He gave me a phone number when he first started to work. I never had to use it until he didn't show up. When I called it turned out to be a phony. I bugged him about getting his Social Security number, too. After while I just forgot about it. He was such a good worker I was willing to overlook a few things." "Did you notice anything unusual the last time you saw him." "No, nothing. He did his work. Never had much to say. I paid him his weekly salary the last day he was here." "How did you pay him and keep the government happy if you didn't have his Social Security number?" Harry hesitated, said, "Can I tell you something in confidence? I could get in trouble." "Don't tell me anything that might lead to Bobby's killer if you don't want me to use it." "This has nothing to do with that. I was paying him in cash. I could have deducted the pay as part of my expenses, but it was easier than fooling with government records, all that crap. You don't need to report that, do you? The police didn't ask." I assured him his secret was safe with me and left. -------- *CHAPTER SIX* At home that night Maggie glowed as she related how she had connected with a three-year-old girl named Samantha. The girl had not uttered a word during three previous library visits. One of Maggie's things was leading the children in singing to music she provided with a cassette player. Samantha, Maggie said, first hummed a little and then, in a burst of noise, joined the other kids in singing about an alligator named Bertram. "Matthew says he's never seen children respond the way they do to me." "Matthew said that, did he? Who's Matthew?" "Oh, I thought you knew him. He's the head librarian, Mister Grove. He was an engineer in Chicago. He earned a degree in library management while he still was working. He quit his job when his wife died. Sort of like I was when you and I met. Looking for a new beginning, I mean. Enough about my exciting day. What did you do all day, practice bowling?" "Yeah, sure, that's what I did all day." "Oh, c'mon, don't pout. You still haven't told me the whole story of why it's so important to you to find out who killed Bobby Scalf." She was sitting on the end of my ancient couch. I flopped, extended my legs and placed my head in her lap. She was wearing shorts. The back of my neck was cooled by her thighs. "I spent the whole day on the case. There's more income involved than you think. Chicago wants me to keep filing stories. That's not the reason ... well, I'll get on some of that routine stuff tomorrow. What's for dinner?" "I was so excited about the breakthrough with Samantha, I thought maybe you'd take me out for dinner." "Sure, Madame. I'd be delighted. How about greasy hamburgers and fries at Chester's?" "No way, mister. We'll stop there for a couple -- two, count 'em, two -- beers, and then we go to a real restaurant." A real restaurant turned out to be Delmon's on Gilmore Street. The decor was fake Italian, with gondolas, water and sky. Lots of shades of blue and green on the walls. The tables were too small, the chairs uncomfortable, and the food was overpriced. Some of the characters I disliked most hung out there. Jayson Arthur, owner of the grain elevator and fat man about town, sat by himself in one corner of the room. I was surprised. He usually was with the group of influential citizens who -- I'd been told -- gathered once a week at Delmon's to discuss affairs of state. This apparently was the night. The group included Mayor Billy Wilfred, Warren Seymour, the husband of newspaper publisher Trudi Seymour, Police Chief Elrod William and Gordon Hicks, the high school principal. Had he become a member of the governing body? Well, actually I figured they only represented the governing body. I thought the real governing body belonged to Warren Seymour's wife. She probably was out of town. As I held Maggie's chair Mayor Wilfred got up and headed our way. "Well, Maggie, you've forced me to wear a sports coat and dress shoes and now, because you insisted on coming here, I'm going to be exposed to Mister Bullshit." "Nick, behave yourself, please. I'm hungry. Don't get us thrown out before we eat." "The police chief would like to meet you, Nick," the mayor announced. The mayor had fired a competent police chief, had the city council twisted around his greedy fingers, and now, apparently, had something in mind for me. "Oh, that's nice. I'm delighted." The sarcasm was wasted on the mayor, a suit-and-tie guy who owned a construction company, a couple of condominiums and was president of the Business Club. He had a habit of pushing his right hand away from the top of his forehead as though he was brushing hair out of his eyes. Hair he didn't have. I threw a kiss Maggie's way and followed behind the bulk of the mayor on the plush carpet. He stopped three times along the way as he glad-handed fellow business types and introduced me, although I'm sure he knew I knew each of them. "Sit down for a minute, Nick, please," he said as he moved a chair out from the table. Seymour and I were successful in avoiding eye contact. Hicks acknowledged my presence with a nod. The new police chief, a short man with beige hair, gray eyes, and an irritating grin, oozed enthusiasm and extended his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. His name, as I already knew, was Elrod William. Not Williams, just William. He was the mayor's cousin. When he was appointed chief his connection to the mayor was not announced. He had been a member of the three-man police department in Krankston, a southern Illinois town of little more than six thousand. He came to that job three years before direct from working at a gravel pit owned by none other than our new mayor. The mayor said, "We, all of us, can do so much to enhance the image of Central City, get our fair city to growing again, if we work together. Isn't that right chief?" The mayor sipped coffee and watched as William responded. "Yes, of course, if we work together. Which reminds me, Mister Bancroft, I understand you are investigating the death of this boy." "Yes, that's what I do. I'm a reporter and private investigator." "It seems a simple, unfortunate thing. I'm surprised the Chicago Times was interested. It's shameful the way they sensationalized the story." "They were interested and still are. That's what a real newspaper does. Tells all the story. But it wouldn't make any difference to me if they were not interested. Bobby Scalf was a friend. I want to know who killed him and the reason why?" "Oh, you knew him then?" The mayor asked if I'd like a drink. I said, "No, thanks. I came in with a lady. I can't leave her sitting alone. She gets vicious when I ignore her." "I should have invited her to join us. But I wanted to discuss some things. I've got a few ideas about stories you could sell to the Times, stories that would help with our image. Favorable stories in the Times would go a long way toward giving the rest of the state a better picture of us." "There are a few stories around here I haven't covered yet. I'm not sure they would improve Central City's image. Things like how a young cousin of yours, with only three years experience on a small-town police force, becomes police chief of Central City." The mayor's face reddened. Elrod stood. I remained seated and watched as he looked to the mayor, hesitated, and sat down. "You could do yourself a lot of good, Mister Bancroft, if you changed your attitude. Seems you always have a chip on your shoulder, never want to get along," the mayor said. "Maybe it's because I'm hungry. I'll join my friend and get something to eat, mellow out." "Tell Maggie Atley hello for me," Elrod said. I glared at him. He glared back. I ordered spaghetti and meatballs and nibbled at bread sticks. Maggie ordered veal. "Something the matter?" Maggie asked. "I'm annoyed about the new police chief. He's the mayor's cousin. Has no experience. The first thing the mayor did was fire a competent guy and hire him. The mayor gets backing from a majority of the council for whatever he wants." "What about this new mayor? I guess I don't pay enough attention to politics. I'd never heard of him until he ran. Didn't vote for him. And you didn't even vote." "How do you know I didn't vote?" She gazed into my eyes. "Okay, I didn't vote. I should have. Too busy." "Yes, Citizen Nick, too busy to vote. How about that British guy you hate? The publisher. Does he always finger his mustache like he's doing now?" "He's not the publisher. He's a Scotch sucking leech. When Mrs. Seymour dragged him home as a prize from one of her Caribbean jaunts he was slim, his face wasn't puffy and he displayed his teeth to everyone. That all changed once they were married." I had turned my chair so my back was to Seymour and the others. "Look at him, Nick, he's still twirling his mustache and he keeps looking this way. I think his mustache is cute. You should grow one." I knew she was teasing, yet I couldn't resist responding. "I'm surprised you're watching such a vulgar display." "I know you don't like the guy, but vulgar?" "Certainly. The worm is masturbating in public." "Oh, c'mon, Nick." "Keep watching if it gives you a thrill." "God, I'm hungry. Won't they ever bring the food. It's your job to entertain me, Nick, until the food comes. What about Mrs. Seymour? Why isn't she over there if it's a meeting of the powers, as you say. Surely she has some say, being owner of the paper and president of the school board." I was saved from further comment when our food arrived. Maggie and I ate silently until she pushed her chair back, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and said, "You know, I envy men. This is when some of them look so contented. After a meal I mean, when they sit back and light up a cigar. Like the mayor over there. How come you don't smoke cigars?" "I used to," I said, "but they got such a reputation with that business in the White House." She looked heavenward, and said, "Actually I'm glad you don't. I'll bet you used to smoke a pipe though. You must have been one of those college kids who carried a pipe, sometimes even smoked it, right?" My mouth was full. I was hungry. The food was good. Probable Maggie's company had something to do with it. The waiter poured each of us more coffee. It was my turn to push the chair back. My food was gone and I was thinking about desert. "What about Mrs. Seymour?" Maggie said. "You must have known her when you worked at her newspaper." "No, not really. Richard Bowles was the editor, still is. He's just a lackey. Keeps out whatever Mrs. Seymour says. Anything an advertiser might find objectionable never gets printed as well as anything that suggests Central City isn't the best of all possible places. "I had some contact with her when I covered the school board meetings. After the initial meeting, however, she didn't bother talking to a mere reporter. And my reports never came out the way I wrote them. She must have rewritten them. They were accurate enough, as far as they went. Just one of the reasons I quit." "What is she like?" "You've probably seen her. She rides a bicycle around town. She's that woman in the red, sometimes bright yellow shorts. She wears a green bike helmet. Guess she's out checking on _her_ town and getting exercise at the same time. She does have good legs." "I've seen her. She looks at least fifty." "You should see her without the helmet. She usually wears a blonde wig. I guess it's a wig. She's nearer forty. She used to be a rebel when she was young. Ask Otto about her sometime. She got into all kinds of trouble. Her daddy cleaned up after her." -------- *CHAPTER SEVEN* The quick food place at the south end of town, Art's Palace, had a long counter, a cash register on one end, a menu painted on the wall behind the counter and young people in blue and white uniforms who took orders, money and spiked the orders on a headless nail. They talked to each other, sometimes shouted, and, as much as possible, ignored customers. "You may sit down if you like. We'll bring your order to you," a girl with pimples and dirty hair said after my order finally was taken. I turned, saw booths placed along the large glass windows. Tables filled the center of the room. I chose a booth near the east window and waited. I was surprised to see Jayson Arthur across the room sitting in a booth. He's the owner of Midwest Elevator. Last night at Delmon's and now here. A big man who often dressed in overalls, he was wearing a sports coat that had been molded to his frame. His dark hair, usually unruly, was slicked down. I hadn't seen Roxanne. I figured I'd recognize her even if she had clothes on. I waited. One of the blue and whites put a sandwich and a soda in front of Arthur and sat down. When she turned I realized it was Roxanne. She and Arthur talked, loud enough at times so a few words bounced across the room. I heard "I told you," and "no," a couple of times. There was lots of gesturing, especially by the girl. She stood, put her hands on her hips. Arthur glanced around the room, spotted me, looked down at the sandwich in front of him, shoved it aside, got up, glanced my way again, and hurried out. The girl had stepped aside so he could get by her. She turned and looked at me for a moment. She picked up the food and dumped it in one of the self-serve trash cans. A few minutes later she appeared with my order, a hamburger and a cup of coffee on a tray. "Thanks, Roxanne," I said as she placed the stuff before me. It didn't shake her, my knowing her name. It was stitched on the pocket of her uniform. "I knew Bobby Scalf, he was a close friend of mine," I said. "So?" She held the tray at her side and looked out the window as if there was something there more interesting than parked cars. "So my name is Nick Bancroft. I'm investigating his murder. I understand you were his girlfriend." "Yeah, he talked about you. You gave him all those big ideas. Girlfriend, ha. I was more like his sister." "Can you sit down?" "Maybe later, on my break. In ten minutes. I can talk to you then, I guess, though it won't do no good. I don't know nothin'." Ten minutes turned into fifteen. I watched and waited. Roxanne's long, large-knuckled hands handled food trays with ease. She wore sandals. Her long toes were highlighted by cracked red polish on her toenails. Her dark eyes scanned the place like an animal watching for enemies. Her strides propelled her among the tables and booths as she continued to deliver food. Perhaps she thought if she delayed her break long enough I would go away. Finally she slid into my booth and sucked soda through a straw from a Styrofoam cup. "Do you live at The Hollow?" She continued to drink through the straw and looked at me with tilted eyes. She raised her head, sighed, and said, "I guess you'll find out one way or the other so I might as well tell you. My name is Roxanne Draggard, I live at The Hollow, sometimes. I'm seventeen." She swiped at her eyes. A tear, maybe. "Did Bobby Scalf come from The Hollow?" "Yeah, he lived there until he was about fifteen. He took off. Draggard didn't care. He only cares about girls. He's pissed now because I'm trying to get out of there. He'll probably come and drag me back." "He's your father?" "Maybe. Who knows? He claims to be. My ma is one of his _girls._ Lots of johns could claim to be my father. He don't care if he is or not. He just wants me there for his customers. Ma told me that." "Where do you live now?" "I ain't tellin' you or nobody. Don't want Draggard to find out. He probably already knows I'm working here. Soon as I save enough money I'm gonna get the hell out. Maybe someday have enough to send for ma." "Who killed Bobby Scalf? And why?" "Bobby nosed around. Wanted to be a reporter, like you. He took pictures, took some of me once. I don't know what he got himself into. He got knocked around once when he tried to take pictures of those soldier guys that sop up beer on the weekends at The Hollow." "Soldiers?" "Well, I don't guess they's real soldiers. Bobby said they marched around in that field above The Hollow, wore those camouflage things, like hunters wear. Ma wouldn't let me get near 'em. When Draggard insisted I was old enough she sent me packing. Been about six months now. Everyday I expect Draggard to show up and drag me back." She emptied the soda container with noisy efficiency, apparently getting the last drop. She stood and said, "Got to get back to work." She turned to walk away. "How do you know Jayson Arthur?" She stopped, turned toward me, her eyes blazing, and hissed, "You leave him alone. Leave me alone. Hear me?" Her hands, at her sides, were clenched into fists. She was in a crouch, like an animal about to pounce. That evening Maggie sat across from me in the kitchen watching me not eat. "My cooking that bad?" she asked. "Or are you sick? You usually have an appetite. An appetite and an attitude. What's wrong, Nick?" "It's this Bobby Scalf thing. I talked to a girl from The Hollow today. She told me some stuff that makes it even more clear that I probably am responsible for Bobby's..." I put down the fork I had been using to shuffle the rice, cheese and broccoli bake Maggie had prepared. I sighed. Maybe Maggie was right, maybe I would feel better if I talked about it. "I met him at the bowling lanes. He worked there, I guess I told you that. One night after he got off work he was just fooling around bowling, not really interested. I was practicing on a nearby lane. I had an easy line to the pocket and should have been practicing at a more difficult angle." I picked up the fork and took a bite of the food. Rain spattered on the kitchen window. Dark, low clouds drifted by. "As you have noted at every opportunity, I have a tendency to show off, and, when I realized he was watching, I threw strike after strike." He watched for awhile, and asked, "How do you do that?" "I wiped lane dressing off the ball, set it on the ball return, and said, practice, practice, practice. "We discussed bowling. I gave him the usual bits about timing, smoothness, hand position, all the stuff I tried to get across to you shortly after we first met, remember?" "Of course I remember. All the time neither one of us, at least at the moment, were interested in bowling. I was impressed by your unusual method of trying to seduce me." "Bobby and I became friends. I became a sort of mentor. He really wasn't interested in bowling. But we often talked while I practiced, or after I finished. I tried to convince him that education was important. That he needed at least a high school diploma. I felt good about our relationship, as shallow as it was. It made me feel like I was giving something back in honor of Dave Morgan, the guy who cared about me when I was a kid. Bobby pumped me about being a private investigator and a reporter." "So, because of this you think you're responsible for his death?" I ate another bite of the food. Now I was hungry. Maggie filled her coffee cup while I cleaned off the plate. "There's some carrot cake. I thought we could have it later, okay?" "I bought Bobby a camera, a cheap 35mm, and some film. Told him to practice." "Did he?" "I guess. I saw some photos he took. They were good. I told him to concentrate on school affairs, that he, as a student, could offer an insider's view. Maybe that's why he got into something that got him killed. "Let's go to Chester's, talk to Otto. I've got to get my mind off this case. Two beers, count 'em, two," I said before Maggie could say it. "We going to walk? It's raining, you know," she said. "Sure, let's walk. We'll get soaked. Who cares." Even that didn't work out. It stopped raining just as we left the apartment. Otto wasn't there. We sat at our usual booth. Maggie played a couple of dance tunes on the jukebox. I watched the faces of the dozen or so people in the place. Otto came in, complacently picking his teeth. Maggie caught his attention. He stopped at the bar, got himself a glass of beer, and joined us. "That's all right, Otto old buddy, I didn't want another beer anyway even though my glass is nearly empty." "How ya been, Maggie? Haven't seen you for awhile." Maggie slid to the wall as Otto eased his bulk onto the seat beside her. Maggie said, "No offense, Otto, but I'm trying to break some of my bad habits, like hanging out here. Why don't you get out of this dump once in a while. Come to our place for supper. You know you're invited." Otto sighed. "I took your advice just now, ate somewhere besides here. Now you want me to go even further astray. I've got to take things in stages." Otto turned to me. "Hello junior. I didn't buy you a beer because I know you're limited now to two. Thought maybe you already had your limit." Maggie laughed and said, "Sure, like he pays any attention to _my_ limit. It's only a gag anyway. One of the first times we went out I said I would only drink two. He got me drunk." "So, do you want another Coke now?" Otto asked as he struggled out of the booth. "See, that's what I mean, Maggie. He struggles into the booth, talks for a second, and struggles out again. Never plans ahead." "That's what you think, junior. A guy my age has to take care of his health. I sat down on purpose so I'd have to get up again. Got to get my exercise." He came back with a Coke and a glass of beer. He placed the beer in front of me with great ceremony. "There's your beer. Drink it slowly because you know that's definitely your limit." Maggie smiled. "Don't humor him," I said. "Know what he calls me when you're not here? He calls me pussy-whipped." Maggie gazed at Otto. His puffy face, already an unhealthy shade of pink, turned red. "Really, Otto. What a thing to say. Whatever does it mean?" Otto gulped beer, shifted in the booth until he was facing away from Maggie, and said, "So what's going on with this murder thing you're working on?" Otto had served as a friend, fellow Chicago Cub baseball fan, and sounding board for years. I told him the little my investigation had turned up. "The Hollow's in Garwood County," he said. "I used to fish over there years ago. In those strip-mine lakes. The place always was kinda spooky, all those little lakes, the winding roads, and Gilbert. I never did like that town. Only one tavern and when a guy went in that place the natives stared like you was a Republican or something. That was a long time ago, though." His embarrassment apparently over, Otto turned and faced Maggie again. "Don't let him drag you over there," Otto advised her. "There used to be one thing of value over there. Walnut trees. Lots of tall, straight walnut trees. Lumber companies bought them all. They had agents. I used to know a guy who bought walnut trees for a Japanese company. He moved on when all the walnut trees in Garwood County were gone." The sky had cleared by the time Maggie and I walked home, hand in hand. A slight breeze had replaced the heat of the day. I freed my hand and placed it on her left cheek, the lower one. It was pleasant, strolling along and feeling her firm flesh swish back and forth as we walked. "Are you really as laid back as you pretend, Nick?" "As long as I've got your posterior to caress." "No, Nick, I'm serious." She brushed my hand away. "Usually, I guess I am, why?" She stopped walking and faced me. "I feel like I'm just drifting. It's pleasant but it doesn't lead anywhere, accomplish anything." "Are you talking about marriage?" "For heaven's sake no. I wouldn't ... What I mean is you don't have any ambition and when I'm with you I don't have any either. We just ... oh, I don't know." "You mean like drive to get ahead, make a lot of money or make a name for yourself in some way. You work your butt off, gain a little wealth, maybe fame. What good is that when you're six feet under?" She squeezed my hand. The feel of her flesh on mine sent shivers through my frame. "It's just something I've been thinking about," she said. That queasy feeling crept through me like a cold mist. -------- *CHAPTER EIGHT* "Clear out, everybody out but you, Mister Snoop," Draggard shouted as he pointed a thick finger at me from behind his bar. "You and me gonna talk about you minding your own business." "Ah, c'mon Captain, I just got here," said the guy sitting at the table with me. He clutched the beer I'd just bought him and wiped sweat from his face with a dirty handkerchief. "Stay then, you dumb bastard. Junior and Snipe will chew your ass, too." Draggard reached under the bar, pulled out a large revolver and pointed it at me. The "dumb bastard," who had listened to my questions about the murder of Bobby Scalf without answering, stood and scurried behind two women and six men who left the tavern. Twilight noises from the surrounding trees seeped into the putrid air. Draggard leaned against the bar, glared at me, and said, "I told you this afternoon, stay away from here. Now here you are again. What's a matter, you stupid? It's time for you to meet Junior and Snipe." The scene reminded me of a western movie parody only I wasn't laughing. Draggard moved to a door at the end of the bar, opened it and stood aside. Two dogs raced around the bar and slid to a stop at Draggard's command. One was a sleek, muscled Doberman and the other, judging from its size and woolly hide, had been sired by a bear. Fierce canine eyes scanned the bottle-cluttered tables until they spotted me. The dogs bared their teeth. Saliva dripped. Hair on their backs stood. They growled. "I say the word, mister, and these puppies rip your ass." He _had_ warned me that afternoon to stay out of his domain. I had driven the few miles from Central City because I wanted to ask questions about Bobby Scalf and if he had lived in one of the ratty trailers on the ridge above the tavern. I was completely aware of the two dogs then when I got out of my car. I overcame my desire to leave. The dogs were lying in the shade of a large oak tree near the tavern that afternoon. I only had about ten yards to cover before I got to the steps leading up to the tavern. As I walked toward the steps each dog stood, alert to my every move. I was relieved to see each was chained. Even so my sweating increased. The dogs didn't bark, didn't growl then, they just watched as I pretended to ignore them. I walked to the rotting stairs and climbed. The tavern sat on cement-block walls. Apparently an attempt to avoid spring flood waters from nearby Five-Mile Creek. I opened a heavy door outward and stepped out of the bright midday sunlight into stagnant air that clung to my nostrils like grease. It took my eyes a minute to adjust. I'd covered agricultural shows in the past where, at first, the smell of animal crap was overwhelming. You could get used to it. But this? Dog waste, maybe human waste as well, rotting wood, spilled booze, sweat from unclean bodies. Whatever the combination, I hoped never to get used to it. After my eyes adjusted I saw the back of a skeletal man hunched at the bar, his head propped up with one hand. He was gesturing with his free hand to the bartender, a guy with a huge bald head and bristles growing from his ears and nose. I approached the bar. The guy behind it glared at me and said, "You must be lost, mister." "No," I said. "Want to ask some questions about a kid named Bobby Scalf. Did you know him?" "My name's Draggard, Captain Draggard. I run this place. The trailers, too. I know everything that goes on down here. Nobody knows nothin' about no high school kid what got hisself murdered. The body wasn't even found down here." That was in the afternoon. I'd decided to come back, see if I could get any information from his customers, if he had any, at night. Now, as the alert dogs watched, I grabbed an empty beer bottle in each hand, rose slowly, pushed the chair back as I kept my eyes on Junior and Snipe and sidestepped toward the door. I held the bottles up, ready to strike. Beer dripped from them onto my pant legs and shoes. "Listen, you Neanderthal, I'm going to find out who killed Bobby Scalf and you aren't going to stop me." My voice quavered in spite of my anger. Each step seemed an eternity. Draggard slammed the gun on the bar. I flinched. The dogs flinched. He grinned. "Scared shitless ain't ya." Finally I reached the door. I was backing against it when Draggard shouted, "Attack." The door didn't budge. I shoved so hard I fell backward when it finally moved. I regained my balance as the dogs raced toward me. I slammed the door and put my shoulder into it like a blocking back. The dogs banged into it seconds after I forced it shut. My hands shook as I clutched the beer bottles. I leaned my back into the door and kept it closed in spite of the desperate pushing from inside. There must have been a command from Draggard because the pounding on the door stopped. Seconds passed. The customers who had left the bar stood below the stairs, waiting for the slaughter. After another minute or so I managed what I hoped was a semblance of dignity as I descended the stairs. Nervous laughter followed as I walked to my car. I locked both car doors and waited for the shaking to stop. Draggard stood at the head of the stairs with his legs spread and pointed the gun at me. The key shook in my hand. I got it inserted and turned it. The motor started, sputtered, died, started again, and with much working of the foot feed, raced. I almost stripped the gears getting out of there. I remained as tense as lightning as I drove back between farm fields dissected by the two-lane blacktop. Later I sat in Chester's parking lot waiting for the shaking to stop. Could this be happening near Central City, just a dot on the map about halfway between Chicago and St. Louis? And, why was I living in such a berg anyway? Like a lot of its other twelve thousand citizens, I was born there. The Rock Island Rocket used to zip through several times a day. Route 66 split the town. Now the Rocket was as forgotten as the pioneers who first broke ground on the prairie. Route 66 was cracked cement littered with tough weeds and replaced by Interstate 55 which skirted Central City like a snake slithering around a rock. A large percentage of the working population drove south to Springfield or east to Decatur to jobs. A local cosmetics factory employed a few hundred others. A farm implement factory made manure and fertilizer spreaders. Like most Midwest towns, Central City's streets formed a grid with only an occasional street following an old buffalo trail or the edge of a river or creek. Still, like the prairie surrounding it, Central City was not all flat. It was like the body of a slender woman, with more mounds and valleys than you might expect. I recovered enough to walk into Chester's with what I hoped was my usual aplomb. I went to the bar, ordered a glass of Old Style and joined Otto Kamp at our favorite booth. "My God, what happened to you?" Otto said. Concern registered in his ancient eyes and wrinkled face. Otto and I had know each other since before he sold his Commerce Street tavern and retired. That place was across from my AAA Detective Agency office. When the building housing the office was torched in connection with another case I moved up the hill. Otto sold his tavern and followed, claiming his business was dead without me. "Do I look that bad?" I said as I slid into the booth across from him. I must have. He didn't grouse about my not buying him a beer. "You look like cow shit warmed over," he said. "What happened?" "I went down to The Hollow. Met Captain Draggard and his dogs." "No wonder. You being scared of dogs and all. Did you piss your pants?" "Nooo, that's spilled beer. Where the hell did you get the idea I'm scared of dogs? The bastard had a gun, too." A little verve had returned to my voice. "Don't forget buddy, I know you. You never did get comfortable around that pit bull I had." "Who did?" "What kind of dogs does he have, Pekinese?" I wiped sweat from my brow with my free hand. The other was holding the beer glass. I took a sip, then a gulp. "So tell me about The Hollow. I never been there," Otto said. "It's a hell hole. Sits down in a gully." I described the place, remembering the smell, the threatening atmosphere, the rotting wood. "Sounds almost as bad as that dump I used to own." "Hey, compared, your place was a palace." I scanned Chester's with new appreciation for the clean, polished floor and bar, the booths, the matching chairs and tables. Even the smell of grease and hamburger was welcome. "Draggard's place smells awful, down there where little wind gets at it. I don't think he serves food. If he did it would crawl." "What were you doing down there? Wait a minute, I'll buy you a beer." Otto eased out of the booth, picked up both glasses and stiff-legged his way to the bar. "I must look pretty bad," I said, "if it induced you to buy me a beer." He nearly spilled his beer as he struggled into the booth, took a sip, and said, "So why did you go to The Hollow? Have to do with that boy that was murdered?" "Some answers I got led me to the place. Draggard didn't like me being there. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. How come that place is allowed to stay open? I hear he has whores in those trailer shanties on the ridge above his tavern." "He must pay off the sheriff. He's probably been doing it for years, one sheriff after the other. I bet they've all been afraid of him. I've heard some stories. What does he look like?" I sipped beer, thought about the question. "He's big," I said. "Like a wrestler or maybe a football lineman. His hairy stomach slops over a pair of grimy jeans. His T-shirt, dirty as a bar rag, looked like it might have once been white. Red lettering on it said something about a motorcycle event. "He's nearly bald, with bristles in his ears, his nose. His eyes are small, close together, and fierce, like the eyes of his dogs. He apparently hadn't shaved for a couple of days." "I get the picture," Otto said. I shifted in the booth to a more comfortable slouch and said, "Good. That's the way I'll describe the bastard when I write about him." "How did he turn you into a walking ghost?" "He ran everybody but me out and sicked a pair of dogs on me." "So how did you get away without being torn up a little? Did you dirty your pants, being scared of dogs and all." There was no use denying it. I had been scared of dogs since a neighbor's Doberman attacked me when I was about five years old. I'd stopped having nightmares about it a few years ago. The scars on my arms were gone. Not that I wouldn't deny the fear if it were anyone else. But Otto, I knew from experience, was as stubborn as any German, and, once he made up his mind about something, wasn't likely to change it. I explained about getting out the door before the dogs sank their teeth into my precious flesh. "Where's Maggie? You going to tell her about this?" "She's at one of those concerts by the municipal band. Thinks I worked just to get out of going. She doesn't know I went to The Hollow ... or that I'm going back." -------- *CHAPTER NINE* The two-lane blacktop road knifed through field after field of emerging corn. None was as high as an elephant's eye, but some was up as much as four inches. In other fields it was just up enough to show the orderly rows stretching off until they merged. The landscape changed. I guided the car on a winding road through wooded, hilly areas unsuited for farming. Strip mining of coal had left deep, narrow lakes, some visible from the road. Gilbert, the Garwood County seat, was a village with one grocery store, two gasoline stations, a tavern, and a faded-brick court house with new cement steps. The sheriff's office and three-cell jail took up half the first floor. The other half included a court room and judge's chambers. Other county offices were on the second floor, according to a directory beside the stairway. At the sheriff's office I was ignored by a beefy woman with blonde, streaked hair that partially hid dark roots. She sat behind a cluttered desk beside a typewriter. The cover of the paperback book she held included a slick color photo of a shirtless cowboy and a nearly nude young woman entangled in an embrace. I sat in a chair against the wall across from the desk. I cleaned my fingernails with a small pocket knife. After a few minutes the woman marked her place in the book with a rubber band, looked at me as though I was a piece of dirt that was somehow out of place in the cluttered office, and said, "Wadda ya want?" I was tempted to say, "I thought you'd never ask," but instead said, "I'd like to see the sheriff." "Wadda ya want to see him fer?" "I want to register a complaint." She picked up her book, removed the rubber band, and said, "Big deal. He ain't here. What kinda complaint?" "I want to file a formal complaint about lack of service to the public at the Garwood County sheriff's office." She replaced the rubber band around the book, sat it down and said, "Huh?" "I'll repeat it slowly. Would you write it down, please." "Write it down. I ain't no secretary. I'm the receptionist." I stood. "That's precisely my point. You're the receptionist, you said so yourself, and yet you are not performing your duties." "Won't do ya much good to file that complaint. My husband's the sheriff's brother." She added a so-there nod. "I guess I better go. All I wanted to do was report a murder." "A murder? Where? Who?" "I don't know her name. She was a clerk at the grocery store down the street. Snotty, unfriendly. I know they'll put me away again. They think I'm crazy just because I get upset when I can't get the kind of service the public has a right to expect." "You wait right here," she said as she jumped up with surprising agility. She scurried by a card table that sagged precariously because of the weight of a radio receiver and microphone. Static burst from the receiver as she passed it. She jumped sideways. "Elmer," she shouted as she entered a room to the side of the radio equipment. I heard a thud, like the sound of booted feet hitting the floor after sliding off a desk, the scrape of a chair and, "Clara, damn it, you scared me half to death." "There's a man out here. Wants to see the sheriff. About a murder. He's, well he's ... you just get out here and talk to him." She rushed into what must have been the bathroom. I heard a lock snap. Elmer hitched up his uniform pants as he crossed the room toward me. He was wearing a belt and holster. He brushed a hand across his wiry hair, hitched his pants again and said, "What's this about a murder?" "Did you loose your gun?" "Huh?" "Your gun. It's not in your holster." His right hand went to the holster. His eyes darted to my face, looked down, saw that my hands where below the counter. Color drained from his cheeks. "Put your hands up where I can see them," he said as he stepped back. I placed my hands on the counter, drummed my fingers, and said, "There was no murder, as far as I know, not yet anyway, but I thought that might get Miss Public Servant's attention." "Miss Public Servant? Oh, Clara. Hey, I could charge you with disturbing the peace, said there was a murder when there wasn't. Like yelling fire in a movie house when there wasn't, know what I mean?" "Would I get to see the sheriff if you charged me?" "The sheriff is home, off duty. I'm in charge here now. What do you want, anyway?" "I want to ask some questions about Captain Draggard, his classy saloon, those trailer houses on the ridge. Does he have a license to operate the tavern? Stuff like that." "What business is it of yours?" He stared as I pulled a notepad and pencil from my hip pocket, placed it on the counter, and said, "I'm with the Chicago Times. Now your name is Elmer..." "Yeah." "Elmer what? I'll probably have to quote you in the news report I'll be writing." "Not me you won't. I didn't say nothin'. I'm calling the sheriff." I slapped my hand on the counter. Elmer jumped. "Great Elmer, that's just great. That's why I'm here. I want to talk to the sheriff." He mumbled into a telephone with his back turned to me. He turned and grinned. "The sheriff will be over in a few minutes. He didn't sound happy." "Who can blame him?" I said. "Getting him out of bed at this hour. Why it's still before noon." Elmer shouted, "Clara, get your ass out here. I got work to do. You can entertain this here reporter until the sheriff gets here. And you mister, don't you quote me. I didn't say the sheriff was in bed." Clara sat up straight at her desk. She put the book she had been reading in a drawer, removed a candy bar wrapper from the desk, shuffled some papers, put a small telephone book in a basket labeled "Outgoing," picked it up again, held it for a moment, and placed it under the phone. "Maybe I should just go up stairs, look up the records. I can get the information I want from there." "Ha, you bet. If you think they's gonna let a stranger look through them records..." Before she could finish the front door slammed open and a gruff voice said, "What the hell's this all about, Clara? You know I don't want no interruptions when..." He spotted me as I stood and looked up into the longest, thinnest face I'd even seen. His abundant, curly hair, dark and apparently wet, hung over his ears and forehead. His mouth curled into a sneer and spit out, "What's this bullshit about a murder. There was no murder at the store. I called." "Boy, you must have played basketball. I'll bet Gilbert High had a hell of a team when you were in school. Was that when Gilbert went to the state?" He straightened himself to another inch taller and said, "Shucks that was twenty years ago. How come you remember?" I didn't remember. It was just a lucky guess. It helped. He forgot whatever plans he had to scald me. Yet, when it got down to the answers I sought, he refused to tell me if Draggard had a license to operate his tavern. He denied there was prostitution going on there. "We don't need no Chicago hotshot coming down here. Asking questions. None of your business." "Okay sheriff. Let's see now, what's your name." "None of your business, damn it," the sheriff said. A name plate on a desk behind Clara's spelled out, in large letters, "Sheriff Dale James." "You any relation to Jesse, Sheriff Dale James." He glared. "And there's Clara and Elmer. I'll get the last names later. I'll be back with a subpoena. Thanks a lot." I left, walked up stairs to the recorder's office and was told I couldn't see the records right then. "Come back later, got to talk to my boss before I can let anyone I don't know see the records," a small woman with gray hair tied in a bun said. She took her eyeglasses off, cleaned them with a Kleenex, put them back on and avoided looking at me. The trip to Gilbert wasn't a complete waste of time. I had planted the idea in the sheriff's head that an investigation of his office and any connection he had with Draggard was under way. Maybe it would cause Draggard to do something stupid. In the meantime I had to get back to Central City and do some exciting money-producing work like making photos of damaged cars for trial lawyers or checking property titles in the Loran County court house. Occasionally I had snooped on a wayward husband, or as I had once, on a wayward wife. But mostly it was the boring bread and butter stuff. It was at the junction of County Road 34A, the one that had taken me to Gilbert, and Bister Road, the one that went past The Hollow, that I digressed. It was only a couple of miles. I parked at the edge of the road and looked down upon a large Budweiser truck. It was parked near the steps leading to Draggard's tavern. Junior and Snipe were lying in the shade as they had when I was there before. They watched the driver. He unloaded three cases of beer onto a dolly, pushed it to beside the stairs leading to Draggard's saloon and placed the cases on the ground. He repeated this until he had twelve cases of beer stacked beside the stairs. The driver, a small, compact man with dark, short hair, leaned against the cases, pulled a large handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his forehead, the rest of his face and his neck. He hoisted the dolly into the back of the truck, slammed the doors shut, got in the cab and started the motor. I drove down the road a short distance to a gravel drive that led into a black topped parking lot. Several pre-owned cars, some of them apparently dead, judging from the rust and flat tires, sat at the end of the lot. Off to the side of the lot, toward The Hollow, were ten trailers, all set on cement blocks. One had somehow slipped off the block at one corner and leaned toward the bank. A screen door slammed as a woman carrying a basket filled with clothes came out of the second trailer from the left and went behind it. A little girl in under pants followed. I got out of the car, stretched, hitched up my nerve, and followed them to in back of the trailers. The little girl's round eyes stared as I approached. The woman was hanging up clothes. She jumped when the girl said, "Mommy, there's a man here." "Ain't open for no business at this time of day," the woman said as she held a print dress she had been about to hang on the line. She was wearing red pajamas bedecked with yellow flowers. "I just want to ask some questions. Won't take long. Do you know a kid named Bobby Scalf? Ever see him around here?" Her eyes watered. She hugged the little girl protectively. "Look mister, I don't know nothin.' If I did I wouldn't tell nobody. Get out before you get me in trouble." She dropped the dress, swore, picked it up. Dirt clung to it. She placed it on the edge of the basket and began to shake. The little girl wrapped her arms around one of the woman's legs and held on. I backed away and said, "I'll go. Don't want to get you in trouble. If you ever want to talk to me I'm Nick Bancroft. Just remember AAA Detective Agency. Right at the front of the Central City phone book." She wouldn't touch the business card I offered. I hurried to my car and drove as quietly as possible, going back the way I came. Draggard stood on the stoop leading into his tavern. He watched as I drove past. That night, after the dishes were done, the news was watched, and we were in bed, Maggie said, "Well?" I tried to divert her by time-tested foreplay. "You're wasting your time," she said as she twisted away from my hand. "No hanky-panky tonight until you finish that story." "What story?" I reached for one of my favorite parts of her again. "C'mon Nick. Stop that. I'm not interested until you tell me more about why you're obsessed with the death of Bobby Scalf. You told me about working at the bowling lanes, how the guy that owned the place, Dave something, was a father figure to you." "Dave Morgan." "So, tell me more." It was the kind of talk I hated. The kind of thing women seem to love. The personal stuff. Do you love me? Why? What were you like when you were a boy? Tell me about your goals, your dreams? I usually diverted her by getting her talking about herself. Not this time. But there was nothing more to the story as far as I was concerned. I'd told her everything. She snuggled against me, draped a leg over mine. "It's a long story," I whispered in her ear as her body respond. -------- *CHAPTER TEN* "You shouldn't be here, Bancroft," Brown announced when I settled into a chair in his office. "Oh, why not?" I didn't like the sly smile on his face. "Chief Elrod William says so. He frowns on you havin' the run of the police department. Says you should be confined to looking at reports on the outside of the counter." I stood. "Now don't give me that freedom-of-the-press business. I could keep you on the other side of the counter. Only let you see reports I wanted you to see. Did it once to a young snot of a girl from Springfield who was up here investigating something, forget what." "You wouldn't want to do that, would you?" Brown smiled, rubbed his hand on his head, sat back in his swivel chair and planted his feet on his desk. "I might enjoy it. I've thought of it in the past when you pissed me off. But, in spite of what you think, I believe in the public's right to know ... when it doesn't get in the way. And besides, the last thing I want to do is give that little prick the satisfaction of thinking I'm doing what he tells me." "And?" "And I told him I'd have to have an order, a written order, signed by him. I said I have no authority to restrict reporters. Bullshit, of course. I can keep you hounds at bay any time I want." I sat down. William, the police chief, walked by. He turned and came into the office. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he was wearing a snub-nosed .38 in a shoulder holster. "Morning chief," Brown said. He moved one foot about an inch, dropped it back on the desk. "Good morning Brown. Anything going on I should know about?" "I'm a customer," I said. "A customer? Oh, I see. Did Detective Brown tell you, oh never mind, I guess it isn't worth the trouble." Chief William nodded in my direction and left. "What isn't worth the trouble?" I asked Brown. "He was going to say that you belong on the other side of the counter. You probably stopped him when you said you were a customer. I kind of like that idea, you as a customer. I could sell you stuff, like information. I'll have to think about what to charge." "You charge enough as it is. Look at all the humiliation I go through trying to drag information out of you." "How about me?" Brown said. He swept his feet off the desk and stood. "I have to put up with your bull. For instance, you haven't told me everything you know about this Bobby Scalf case. It has been suggested that I sort of ignore it. So my interest has been stimulated. Are you really a customer? Do you want to file a complaint against someone?" "No, I just said that to protect you, give me a reason for being in your office." "How thoughtful," Brown said. "By the way, the coroner says Bobby Scalf was shot in the temple with a Colt .45. The old fashioned kind. Like cowboys used to use. The spike was shoved in the hole. Not at all like the Chicago gang killings where the spike is driven into the scalp with a hammer." "What about the time of death?" "Somewhere between eight and ten o'clock the night before the body was found." Brown strolled across the room and talked to a cop at a desk. I was dismissed. On the way out I nodded to a couple of guys I knew. So the murder was a poor imitation of the Chicago crimes. And Brown was right about my holding back information. For instance, the key I found in Bobby Scalf's room. I drove back down to the old building, parked the same place Tommy Doyle and I had before, and went through the maze we'd traveled to get to Bobby's living quarters. I stood in the middle of the large room. Where would Bobby hide his camera? I examined the floor foot by foot. No evidence of blood or of the floor having been scrubbed. No blood on any of his bedding. Apparently he hadn't been killed in that room. At the table I sat and thought about how pleased he was when I gave him the camera. "Think of it as a birthday present," I said then. "My first birthday present," he whispered. My mind drifted back to the time I took him fishing at a little lake near The Hollow. I thought I was going to teach him something, but he knew more about fishing than I ever would. He could catch fish with a string, a safety pin and a piece of worm or bug. He laughed when he caught two pan fish to my one. Now, in Bobby's room, Sun rays filtered through the dirty windows and pierced the dusty light inside. The false back to the box where Bobby kept the breakfast food, the hammer and the nails was in place. A hole had been gnawed in the breakfast food carton and crumbs were scattered about. I shuddered. The claw hammer I'd seen before was still there. It was new. I hoped Bobby hadn't stolen it. I took it back to the box-table and sat down. I stretched out, laid the hammer on the box and stared at nails driven at an angle halfway into the bottom of the wooden box. To hold it down? Why? So Bobby could pry them up when he wanted to move the box? After removing the dish, bowls and silverware from the top of the box I pried out the nails, one on each side, and lifted, revealing two large plastic bags. I placed the box on its side and examined the contents of the first bag. Bobby's clothes. Some of the stuff I had bought him. The other sack contained a winter coat and a locked metal box. The key I had found opened it. Inside was a billfold containing eighteen dollars and two faded photographs. One was of a woman, the other a small, frame house. The woman looked familiar but I couldn't place her. I almost missed the camera. It was inside a rolled up jacket. The gray carrying case and camera looked as new as the day I bought them. I set the camera aside and put the box where it had been with the sacks hidden under it. I nailed the box back to the floor, replaced the hammer, and put the utensils back on top of the box. I stood for a moment, trying to make sure things were as I found them. Outside the building I noted the number displayed on the camera indicated six photos had been made. A freight-train whistle moaned in the distance. My car no longer was in the shade. I drove to the Bosco Drug Store three blocks from my apartment and left the film. -------- *CHAPTER ELEVEN* The next morning I drank a cup of coffee and waited for Maggie to return from her morning run. I felt guilty. I should have been running with her. If nothing else, it would help keep my legs in shape for bowling. Maggie didn't fall for my pitch that it was better for me to stay home and have coffee ready when she got back. I said, "You know you love those handles around my midsection. If I ran every day I'd be as slender, as sexy as you. You couldn't stand that, admit it." She'd rolled her eyeballs, pinched my bare belly and left. My kitchen wasn't much. A counter, a small stove and refrigerator, a fold-out table and two chairs. But it was cozy. Especially when she came back all sweaty and breathing hard. It was my duty to join her in the shower and wash away the strain. I was heating up to that idea when I heard her rattle her way through the front door and into the kitchen. "See, I told you. All that running will wear you out. You don't even have enough energy left to take a shower. And beyond that, well how long has it been?" "Hey, don't blame me," she said. "It's you. Since that boy was killed. I understand, but don't blame me. Wait while I rest a minute and then you can have your way with me, you rascal." The damned telephone rang. I let it ring three times. Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Could be something important, maybe a job." "Yeah," I agreed as I picked up the receiver. "Jayson Arthur was found murdered in that place where Bobby Scalf lived. An unidentified caller told us where to look. A spike was pushed into his head. Just like the one in that boy. You didn't hear about it from me," Brown said before he hung up. "What's the matter?" Maggie asked. That was Brown. Jason Arthur has been murdered. In a building down on Commerce Street. I was there yesterday, in the room where they found him. My fingerprints are all over everything. "What were you doing there?" "Bobby Scalf lived there. I've got to get down to the police station." Maggie stood and stripped off her sweat shirt. I hesitated, and said, "To hell with it, let's take a shower." Later, at the police station, Brown said, "I suppose you think coming here now will eliminate you as a suspect." "No. I just thought I'd level with you before you got the report back on my prints being at the scene. I'll be interested in what other prints you find. A kid named Tommy Doyle was there with me. Don't suppose there will be any record of his prints." "What's this, a new policy? You're going to level with me. Bull." "C'mon Brown, I'm as level with you as you are with me. I brought you those photographs, didn't I." "Yeah, I know the game. I played it long before you started it on me. You give a little hoping to get something back." "Right," I said. "And what did I get back? You aren't telling me a thing. I don't care what the chief says, you aren't ignoring a body left in your jurisdiction. And now another one." "I don't want you hanging around here anymore. That twerp will have more ammunition to use on me if a murder suspect camps in my office." He failed to hide a grin, turned and faced the window that looked out onto the parking area behind the station. "Okay, I won't bother you again. You can read the Chicago Times if you want to know who killed Bobby Scalf. And Jayson Arthur." Back at the office Maggie was on her way out. A pair of white shorts caressed her hips and a bit of her thighs. A royal blue blouse accented the flow of her being. She wore white sandals that revealed the same pastel polish on her toes that was on her fingernails. She was going to the library for her weekly stint of reading to children. I was tempted to go along. Maybe listening to the kids respond to her stories would lift the depression I couldn't shake. Weekly stint? "Hey, I thought you were going to do this library thing once a week. You're doing it more than that now, aren't you?" "Yes, I've been going twice a week, sometimes more. I'm surprised you noticed. I get books there. That's what people do, they check out books at the library." "Okay, okay. I, well, I guess you have been reading a lot lately." She seemed to relax and said, "There's a number for you to call on your desk. A Raymond Anders. Says he wants you to find out who's crushing nearly all the cookies Heartland Distributing Company displays in Grunder's Grocery Store. I told him you'd give him a call as soon as you got back." She smiled. I threatened to crumble her cookie. "Nick, you need the money." "There's money in filing a story about the second ritual murder in Central City in less than a week," I said. I made a few calls, gathered all the information I could and filed the murder story. I was told it would get the full treatment in the next state edition. They even had a file photo of Jason Arthur. Maggie had left a fresh pot of coffee. I fetched a cup, complained about my fate to The cat, looked at the Springfield phone number she had written large enough so I couldn't miss it, and dialed. "This is the strangest thing, Mister Bancroft," Anders said after we got past the introductions. "Someone is deliberately destroying our products after we deliver them to the grocery store there. Nowhere else. Just in Central City. Especially the cookies. This person somehow crushes the bags of cookies without getting caught. No one will buy them. We're losing money, of course, but even more serious, it will hurt our reputation. We have always sold lots of cookies in Central City." "Have you been to the police?" "No, we don't want to do that, not yet anyway. We don't want the publicity. If this got out it would be a joke. Hurt our business." "Look Mister Anders, I'm sorry. I'm involved in a case that's taking all my time. Involves a couple of murders. I don't think I have time for cookie crushers." "We thought it would be cheaper to hire you than to send a detective up there from here. We'd pay you five-hundred dollars if you bring this nonsense to a halt. We don't even want to prosecute, too much publicity." "Well," I said. "I'll see if I can work it in. Get back to you in a day or two." The cat stretched, walked around the desk a couple of times, and lay back down. I considered going to the couch and doing the same thing. "Why would anyone want to crunch cookies? And only a certain brand. Kids? Suppose they think it's funny." The cat, as usual, didn't respond. I finished my coffee and headed for Grunder's. Getting my mind off the murders investigation temporarily might jab my subconscious into thinking of something. Grunder's is several blocks to the west of my place, on Lexington Avenue. It's the best grocery store in Central City, Maggie says. At the store I pushed a cart and wandered from one isle to the other, watching. I watched women of all shapes and sizes, with children and without. I watched men, usually older. It was easy to imitate them. Most apparently had nothing better to do than pick up items, read the small print, and return them to the shelf. A young professional woman raced through the store, grabbed items she'd apparently already decided to buy and, without a pause anywhere, got in the checkout line and was out of there. I moseyed down wide aisles, past islands of stacked cans or cases, looked at candy, cakes and pies, and caught whiffs of enticing smells. My nose directed me to a corner away from the entrance where fresh coffee and all sorts of delicious looking prepared food was offered. It reminded me of a seed catalog where every flower looked perfect. This, I figured, must be the picture women have in mind when they fuss over the way food looks on their tables. I followed, at a distance, two teen-age boys who should have been in school. They stopped at the candy aisle, fingered several packages of pimple producers, and selected a bag of chocolate kisses. They checked out with several over-the-shoulder glances my way. I was approaching the cookie aisle when the store manager, Charlie Booker, spotted me. I'd known him casually for a couple of years. Did a story on his yard once. He plowed the whole thing and grew county-fair prize vegetables and flowers. Not a blade of grass on his property. You'd think a guy who raised food and sold food would be fat, or at least large, but Charlie was a thin, short, nervous guy with uneven teeth. "You here to catch our cookie cruncher or are you just shopping?" he asked. "They told me you were coming. Here's the crunched cookies. I left them on the shelf so you could see what's happening. Look at them. Why would anyone keep doing this? I think it's kids, but I can't catch 'em." There were perhaps twenty bags of Heartland Cookies, each of them wrinkled and squashed as if a child who couldn't get the packages open had smashed the contents out of frustration. "Let's go to your office. I'd like to look at your employee records. You do have background information on all of them, don't you?" "Sure, more on some than others. The kids, the baggers, we don't have that much on some. They quit before we get time to completing their records." I glanced through the records Booker had placed on a desk he cleared off. It was as exciting as counting money, someone else's. I had asked for only the records of current employees and was into the last of them without seeing anything interesting. Then I noted the Roger Warner file. He worked in produce, was a retired Heartland truck driver. He worked nights -- the store was opened 24 hours a day, every day -- and he lived in Central City. I copied the address and drove to his house, only a couple of more blocks on Lexington and two blocks to the left on Bigelow. It was a small, white house set back farther from the street than the rest. Figuring he was probably asleep since he worked nights, I pounded on the door like a storm trooper. He appeared eventually, his eyes bleary, his face partially covered by a two-day growth of gray whiskers. He wore a terry cloth robe that needed washing. I opened the screen door and pushed past him. "What the hell," he grumbled as he stepped back and looked at me with suddenly alert eyes. "I'm here about the cookies. No sense in denying it. We have surveillance photos. You tell me what this is all about now or you can do it later at the police station." He backed away and sank into a worn couch. He put his hands to his face and moaned. "Well," I said. "It's my pension. They're cheating me out of my pension. The bastards. I knew it was stupid, crushing their damned cookies. But I had to get back at them somehow. Now I'm the one who's going to get it in the ass again. Oh, hell. Give me a chance to get dressed, I'll go with you?" I sat on the couch beside him. "You can relax. You're right. It was stupid. You promise me this cookie crunching will stop. Nobody needs to know it was you. One more crunch though, and you're in trouble." He started to explain how the company had fired him just before he would be eligible to collect his pension. I stopped him. There was nothing I could do about that. From my office I called Booker, told him to remove the crunched cookies and that the case had been solved. He wanted details. I didn't give any. Heartland wanted details, also. I told them I had solved the case, there would be no more cookie crunching and that they could send me the five-hundred dollars in a week or so when they were convinced the problem had been solved. The guy I was talking to, a vice president, reluctantly agreed. -------- *CHAPTER TWELVE* I should have been happy, or at least satisfied, about the shot in the dark that solved the cookie business. It was a quick five-hundred dollars that would help the balance sheet balance. Yet, I didn't get much satisfaction out of it. I did look forward to telling Maggie how brilliant I was. Maybe that would help. There were more things I should have been doing, little moneymaking things, and, of course, I should have been working on the murders. Instead I went to Moonlight Lanes, got a couple of balls out of my locker, and practiced. Sometimes, after I'd been totally absorbed in trying to execute perfect shots, my mind wandered. Occasionally something relevant to whatever case or story I was working on would pop into my mind. It didn't work this time. I never focused on bowling or anything else. I gave up, went to Central Park, a block-square bit of grass, trees and flowers near the police station, and sat. There was no breeze. A woman with two little girls in tow stopped under one of the trees and fanned herself with a wet hanky. The girls, who looked to be about three and maybe were twins, fussed with each other, ran a bit, spotted swings across the park and ran toward them. The mother shouted and followed. I left. At the office I turned on the computer and called up the schedule Maggie kept for me. It was efficiency itself. She had things for me to do days ahead. Things like, "Take pictures of wrecked cars for Wilson: Buick at Auto Wrecks, and Ford with smashed front end at police parking lot." She wrote little notes in the smallest type. Notes like, "Kiss Maggie and make her feel loved." Or, "Take shower when you get home, shave and use that bay rum stuff on your face and places." She insisted on paying her own way so she worked three days a week in an insurance office. The work at the library was volunteer stuff. She had some money from her divorce settlement but didn't touch that. Said it was her retirement fund. Between the job and the library she was gone most days. I was playing chess against a computer program I seldom defeated when she came home. "You look busy," she said. "Hey baby, I don't need to be busy all the time. I made five-hundred dollars today. All work and no play makes..." "Don't call me baby. How did you make five-hundred dollars, sweetie?" "Ah, there you go again, calling me sweetie. You know how that erodes my self-image, makes me feel less manly." We slipped out of our clothes. Our sweating bodies slid against each other as we embraced. She got to the shower first, because I let her. Later I explained my brilliant work on the cookie-cruncher case. She pretended to be impressed, or maybe she was. Our window air conditioner continued to groan, straining to defeat the heat. Still ten days left in May. Looked like a hot summer ahead. "You don't seem to be enjoying this latest victory much," Maggie said. "Latest victory? I don't think of ravishing your body as another victory." She rolled on top of me, rubbed her nose against mine, and said, "The hell you don't. But that isn't what I mean. I mean your brilliant solving of the cookie cruncher case." "Oh, that," I mumbled. It's difficult to talk plainly when your mouth is full of nipple. She was right. The silly case didn't mean much to me. I pushed her onto her back and straddled her hips. I lost myself for a few moments in her eyes, patted her cheeks and rolled off the bed. She sat on the edge, grabbed my hand as I headed for the shower, patted the bed beside her. I sat down. "Remember that date rape murder case. How depressed you were when it looked like you'd never figure it out?" "Yeah." "We talked, remember. You told me about the case, from the beginning, as if you were writing a news report. Something clicked in that fuzzy mind of yours. Eventually you solved the case, got the story, and, as I remember, bought me a rose, one lovely rose." I put my arm around her shoulder. "Just one? Are you sure? I'm the kind of guy who would have bought you a dozen, maybe two." "No fairy tales now. Just tell me about the case. Maybe something will turn up. Cancel that. Bad choice of words. Maybe something will click. I might even solve the case for you." My mind whirled backward, like the rewind on a recorder. I thought of when Bobby Scalf's body was found. I figured he was gathering information about something. "The thing that makes it so difficult to get a hold on anything is the lack of his having any connections. I haven't been able to find his parents, nor have the police. That's what I was doing at The Hollow. I think he had connections there, but I let that scum Draggard and his dogs run me off." "From your description of those dogs, you were smart to run. You'd probably still be in the hospital if you had challenged them. Wouldn't be much you could do then." She stood and paced, occasionally stopping in front of the air conditioner. "Who would want to kill him? That girl in the photo? How about this other guy that was murdered?" "Jayson Arthur," I said. "Do you think the murders are related?" I stood and looked out the window. "Nick, get away from the window. Someone will see you and call police." I stepped back. "I'm guessing the murders are related," I said. "The only connection I know of between the two is Roxanne. I saw her talking to Arthur at that quick-food place where she works. I'm going to talk to her again, of course." Maggie sat down. "Doesn't seem likely that a young girl would kill two people. And push spikes into their heads. How awful." I sat beside her and agreed it didn't seem likely. "However," I said. "So many things that happen, even in a burg like Central City, don't seem likely. I feel better. Thanks for the pep talk. You look ravishing sitting there in the all together. I'm proud to think it's because of me." "Okay, Mister Limp. I'm pleased that you're pleased. Now get out there and slay a dragon or two." At Art's Palace I watched teen-agers, some working there, others just hanging out. At the counter I asked for a cup of coffee and if Roxanne was working. I hadn't seen her. "She quit," the small black girl who waited on me said. She turned and poured a cup of coffee. "Don't know where she lived. Maybe the manager knows. He's in his office." The manager was a young man perhaps two or three years older than the rest of the employees. His name was Turner. I never knew if it was his first or last name. He produced a manila folder when I asked if he knew where I could find Roxanne. "I doubt you'll find her," he said. "She gave her address as The Hollow but I don't think she lived there." "Do you know who owns this place?" I asked. He stood, put the file back, and said, "Got to get back to work. Being manager is crap. All it means is you work harder than the rest. "Who owns the place? I don't know now. Mister Arthur did. You know, the guy whose body was found in that old building." Of course. Art's Palace. Arthur. It hadn't occurred to me. What else, I wondered, did Arthur own? I did know he lived on Ardmore Avenue in the oldest and one of the grandest houses in Central City. He had spent a lot of money renovating it. I did a story on it once. It's a Queen Ann style Victorian, includes three floors, nine rooms and only one and a half baths. Glass doors enclosed a natural wood fireplace in the sitting room. The sun room included fourteen natural wood windows, high ceiling with deep coved moldings and oak flooring. I was told when I did the story that much of the original floor had been replaced. I was shown how the new wood blended perfectly with the old. All had been sanded and polished until it glowed. The detailed stairs were late Stuart style with beautifully worked spiral oak balusters. I remembered telling Maggie all of this after I did the story. She was suspicious until she realized I knew all of it because of research. I thought of going to see Arthur's wife before I remembered she had died of cancer only a few months after I did the story. Why not go to the house anyway? Maybe some relative would be there. The doorbell chimed out a noisy tune I could hear from outside the building. I rang the bell several times. No one answered. The door was locked. I walked around the house. The grass in front and back was recently mowed. The flower beds were weed free and recently had been watered. So recent, in fact, that drops of water still clung to the leaves. In back the garage was open. A gleaming black BMW had been backed in. I thought of touching the hood to see if the car had been driven recently. Instead I tried the back door. It was unlocked and led directly into the spacious kitchen. I entered, shouted the usual "hello, anybody home" without results. Gleaming pots hung above an ancient wood stove. Inside the stove, I knew, was a modern electric unit that heated the burners and oven. How would I explain being there if I was caught? The door _was_ open. Still, that's no excuse for entering a house uninvited. I sat on a wooden kitchen chair and wondered what to do next. I was wasting my time, I figured. I should find Roxanne, but where? Maybe back at The Hollow. I knew I had to go back there sooner or later but now? No, not now. A muffled cough rippled the silence like a stone hitting a pond. The noise came from the dining room, or maybe the living room beyond. I made more noise than I intended crossing the kitchen into the dining area. The room appeared to be empty. The lush carpet muffled my steps as I entered the living room. The thud of running feet exploded from the kitchen. I got there just in time to catch a glimpse of a thin girl in shorts racing out the back door. I ran out and stood in the driveway looking. Nothing, nobody. The BMW roared, tires squealed. Roxanne Draggard and the car raced by me. I didn't expect to catch her, but I jumped in my car and followed. Maybe I could at least get an idea of where she was headed. To my surprise she pulled the BMW into a Hardee's parking lot. I pulled up along side and got out. She was crying by the time I reached her car and stooped down to talk to her. "Please," she said. "Don't tell Draggard where I am. He'll make me go back, be a whore. I'd rather die." "Why would I tell that scum anything?" "Maybe you told me a bunch of lies. Maybe you work for him. How do I know?" She wiped her face with a handkerchief, got out of the car and faced me with her hands balled into fists at her side. I stepped back a few paces and said, "Calm down. Let's go inside, have a cup of coffee. Maybe we can help each other here. I'm interested in who killed Bobby Scalf. He was a friend of mine." She relaxed her hands. As we walked inside I felt sympathy for this frightened girl. But I would have to tell Brown I found Roxanne Draggard in Arthur's house. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTEEN* Sit down, I'll get the coffee," Roxanne said. She carried two cups on a tray, skillfully balancing it as she maneuvered around an unsteady old man. "Want anything else?" she asked, apparently back in her waitress mode. I shook my head, and she sat down. "What were you doing in Arthur's house?" "What were you doing?" she fired back. "Look Roxanne, I'm a reporter, an investigator. I want to know who killed Bobby Scalf. Jayson Arthur's death may be related to that. In either case there's a story or two there. Writing news stories is part of what I do. I feel guilty because Bobby, apparently trying to emulate me, was killed. I've got to find out the reason why and who did it." "What does emulate mean?" "Copy, be like me." "Yeah, that's what he was doin'." She stared out the window with moist eyes. "Did he ever tell you what he was investigating? Anything at all." "No. He thought he was so smart. But I knew. It had something to do with those bastards that came to the saloon on weekends. The ones that wore those uniform-like coveralls and lived in the Quonset hut. Like, you know, hunters. Only they acted more like soldiers, saying 'yes sir' and 'no sir' to Captain Draggard." "We're both in trouble, you know," I said. "What ya mean, we?" I sipped coffee, watched her squirm and said, "I may be a suspect in Bobby Scalf's murder." "Tough. What's it got to do with me?" She clutched her cup, looked down at her hands, looked up and said, "I suppose cause you found me at Jay's house, Mister Arthur's house, you think I had something to do with his death." "Calm down." A woman two booths behind her turned, stared for an instant at the back of Roxanne's head and then at me. "Mister Arthur was taking care of me. He picked me up one night after I got off work at Art's Palace. I didn't even know then that he owned the place. He paid me forty dollars. I never got nothin' for it at The Hollow. Draggard kept all the money." "How long did you known Jay?" "Jay? Oh, a couple of months, maybe. He let me stay at his house. I stayed because I thought Draggard would never find me there." I admired her grit. She had been near tears since we sat down but had fought them off. She looked at me defiantly. "You gonna turn me in? Like to police, I mean. They'll pin it on me sure. Have me guilty before there's even a trial. Trash like me don't have no chance." I eased the cup from her white-knuckled grasp. "Don't call yourself trash. We're all victims of circumstances. I know a lawyer. He'll protect you, if you're innocent." "If I'm innocent," she shouted. "See, you think I'm guilty, or maybe you don't care. Get 'em off your back if they'd pin it on me. Is that what you think? Your lawyer. He'd probably help railroad me." Customers watched as we left, me with my hand on her elbow. She got into the BMW and waited. I stood beside her, wondering how I could gain her trust. Maybe she shouldn't trust me. I was thinking, with all she apparently had been through, she might be capable of the two murders. But why would she kill either of them? "Well," she said. "Well what?" "I'm waiting for you to leave so I can leave. I don't want you following me." "Where you going? How far would you get in a stolen BMW? I've noted the license plates. I'll have to tell police." She swung the door open. I stepped back just in time to keep from getting whacked. "You don't have to tell police nothin' if you don't want to. You could just let me be." She eased her way out of the seat and stood before me. "If you follow me I'll stop and hurt you. I know it looks bad, but I don't go around killin' people, even guys like you who threaten to take me to the police. But I don't stand for no bullshit. You mess with me, well..." "Roxanne. Stop being so tough. You're in deep trouble. Police are going to find you if you run. Let's go to them. You turn yourself in. It will look better. Running will make everyone think you must be guilty. Why else would you run?" "Yeah, why else would I run?" She sat back in the car. "Like maybe I would run because, no matter what, I haven't got a chance with police." Tears flowed. Was she putting on an act for me? A middle-aged couple walked by, glared at me, and walked on to their car. Roxanne wiped her face with her handkerchief and said, "You go ahead in your car, I'll follow." I guess I knew she wouldn't. She turned off Alexander, the road leading to the police station, the first chance she got. I figured she was headed for the expressway. I'd give her a little time before I reported the license number of the BMW and her description to police. I told Brown of my encounter with her two hours after she drove away. The next day he called me into his office and said, "You and Roxanne left Hardee's an hour or more before you told me about her and the stolen car. How come?" "How come? I've got a business to run. I had things in that end of town to take care of. I told you as soon as I could?" "Sure you did. Ever hear of telephones? You gave her a running start. Why? What's your connection to this girl?" "We're having an affair. She fascinates me. Don't tell Maggie. I'm hoping I'll get over it." "We'll get her. At least you got the license plate numbers. They better be right. By the way, your fingerprints were all over where Bobby Scalf lived. You'd better keep on the good side of that attorney of yours, Wilson isn't it? They'll try to talk the state's attorney into indicting you." "Maybe I'd better skip. I'll join Roxanne and we'll fade into the sunset." Brown stood, glared at me, and said, "This is no joke, Bancroft. There are people who wouldn't mind at all if these murders could be pinned on you." "I'm afraid you're right. I'm still in the dark. Don't have anything solid, just a lot of jumbled ideas." Outside I hesitated. There were a couple of routine things I could do to earn some money. It was so damned hot. I felt like going home and sitting under the shower. In the parking lot I started the car, turned on the air conditioner and stood in the shade of a maple while the car cooled off. Where would Roxanne have gone? To The Hollow? Maybe it was the only place she could go, now that Jayson Arthur was dead. Jayson Arthur. I had gone to his house to look around and had just begun when Roxanne ran out. I stepped out of the steam bath into my cool Escort and drove back to Ardmore Road and Arthur's house. Arthur's BMW was in the garage. The license plate numbers were the ones I had memorized. I parked my Escort in back, out of view from the street, and found the back door still unlocked. Inside I wandered, not sure what I was seeking. The blow to my stomach came as I entered the living room. The devil who hit me, buckling my knees, and then hitting me with hammer-like fists in the face and neck, was as hard as marble. I fell against him before I went down for the long count. I awoke in a small cement-block room. Overflowing garbage cans lined one wall. My head ached, my stomach did flip flops and I was seeing things. My mind said I was looking at a naked Roxanne Draggard huddled in the corner away from the garbage. I wiped sweat from my eyes, looked again and realized she really was sitting there staring at me. I thought of offering her my T-shirt until I realized I also was naked. "What are you going to do to me?" she asked. "Me?" "Well, how do I know? Who knows what anyone is going to do? Are you with them? They blindfolded me. Must have followed after I left you. The minute I got out of the car in the garage someone jumped me from behind. Didn't see no face. Was it you?" She stood and paced. Rivulets of sweat ran between her small breasts. She swiped sweat from her flat belly. Her slender legs ate up the distance from one wall to the other in two strides. "Seems like I been here forever," she said in a scared-little-girl voice. "You got any idea what time it is?" "Just that it's sometime after noon. Don't know how long I've been out." She said, "Not long. Some guy with a silk stocking over his head dumped you in here only a few minutes ago. Maybe I'm supposed to think you're on my side." "Why did you take Arthur's car back to his house?" She sat down again and wrapped her arms around her knees. "I had no money, didn't know where to go. I thought maybe I could get a job as a waitress somewhere, but I didn't figure to get far with that car. So I put it back. I was going to hide out at The Hollow until I could figure what to do." "And?" "Someone grabbed me from behind. A strong guy. I kicked his shins good. He just swore. Never let go of me, never let me turn around. I thought it was a cop. His sleeves were dark, like a cop's uniform. He stuffed me in a car and covered me with a blanket. Sat on me. Someone else drove. When we stopped they put a black bag with a draw string over my head. Nearly choked me. Last thing I remember I smelled something funny, then I woke up in here with no clothes." "You have any idea where we are?" I asked. "We're in a little square room with no furniture, no windows, and it's hot as hell." I tried the steel door. It was locked. We sat in silence. In one corner a wooden box contained several wrenches, some baling wire and wire clippers. "We could suffocate in here," she said after I examined the stuff in the box and decided there was nothing there that would help us escape. "I doubt that. It would take a long time. Probably some air getting in around the door." A soft scratching noise grabbed our attention. We stared as a piece of paper slid under the door. It was a piece of typing paper with words from a newspaper pasted on it. "Mind your own business or DIE," the message said. Each of the words except the last one had been clipped whole from a newspaper. The letters in the last word were half an inch high and had been cut out individually. The crudeness of the word "die" and the size of the letters made the word jump from the paper. Roxanne shivered. Time dragged. The heat made me drowsy. Minutes or maybe hours later I awoke, amazed that I had fallen asleep. Roxanne was curled in a corner, her arms around her chest, her legs drawn up. She appeared to be asleep. I stood up, almost screamed at the pain in my stomach, and took a careful step. The pain eased a little as I stretched first one leg and then the other. "They unlocked the door," Roxanne whispered. I jumped. Even a whisper was startling in the silence. "Are you sure? Why didn't you wake me?" "I'm not going out there. Maybe they're waiting. What will they do to me? I'm staying right here. Maybe it's safe here." I turned the door handle as slowly as possible. It didn't make a sound. I pulled the door toward me and snapped it closed again. "What is it?" Roxanne said from beside me. "Nothing. I don't see anything out there except a corn field." "Let me see," Roxanne said as she pushed herself between me and the door. She opened the door a few inches, opened it wider and said, "I know where we are." She opened the door all the way and closed it again quietly. "We're near The Hollow. There's a big, old hut, one of those Quonset things, behind us, I'm sure. I've never been in this place before. The door was always locked. Draggard has me for sure." Outside the building I walked cautiously on the hard, baked soil and gravel. My car was parked to the side of the building. Roxanne stood beside the door, her arms folded over her chest. We hurried to the car, opened the doors and felt a blast of heat. Our clothes were on the passenger seat. "They were just trying to scare us," I said. Roxanne stepped into her shorts without comment. -------- *CHAPTER FOURTEEN* At the office The cat jumped from my desk, sniffed at Roxanne, backed off, and left the room. Roxanne's faded red shorts were hanging on her hips, revealing her belly button. Dirt marked the front of her white T-shirt where she'd wiped her face. One strap on her sandals was broken. My computer sat in its usual place, the radio still was sitting on the window ledge with its cracked case. Maggie was at work. It was only two in the afternoon. The world still was turning as if nothing unusual had happened. "You can take a shower if you like, maybe even find some of Maggie's clothes you can wear." "What's wrong with my clothes? And who's Maggie?" Roxanne collapsed into a folding chair I kept in the office for visitors. She put her hands on her knees and rocked back and forth ever so slightly. "What are you going to do with me?" She moaned. "I don't know. Get cleaned up. I'll find something to eat. You must be tired and hungry." She stood. "What would happen if I just left? You wouldn't be involved. I could..." "You could what? Besides, I am involved. Just get cleaned up and we'll eat. You may want to sleep before we decide what to do." "Sleep. So you can call the cops. I'm not that stupid." "Look, little girl. I'm tired and hot. If you don't want a shower, I do. If I wanted to call the cops I'd call them. Sooner or later you're going to have to trust someone." "Let me curl up in a corner and sleep. I'm too tired to think. If you call police, you call police. At least I can sleep in jail. Hey, you got air conditioning. It's cool in here. I just noticed." I led her to the couch, told her she could sleep as long as she wanted and went into the bathroom. To hell with it, I decided as I let my clothes slide to the floor and stepped into the shower. I set the temperature of the water cool enough to soothe my tortured flesh, lathered and wondered what there was in the apartment she could steal. Nothing much, I decided. Maybe Maggie's jewelry. How would I explain that? Shaved and refreshed, in spite of various aches and pains, I returned to the living room and watched for a moment as Roxanne slowly stretched out of her fetal position and moaned in her sleep. After I finished some record-keeping details on the computer I petted The cat and listened to the shower run. Roxanne was up. I was considering who might have orchestrated the charade with Roxanne and me when Maggie's heels clicked down the outside stairs. The cat jumped down and rubbed itself against Maggie's ankles. She stooped and petted it. "Why is the shower running?" she asked as she laid a royal blue purse on the desk. "I suppose someone is taking a shower," I said. "You suppose. Any idea who it might be?" "Yeah, I think I know." "C'mon Nick. I'm tired. I was hoping we could talk. What's going on?" "It's a young girl I brought home to keep you company." "How thoughtful. Well, whoever it is I hope she gets out of there soon. It's my turn and I don't care if all the hot water is gone. Cold is good on a day like this." She sat on the folding chair, gave me one of her I-can-out-last-you looks, closed her eyes and kicked off her shoes. She looked crisp in a white dress with royal blue stripes. Roxanne came into the room rubbing her back with a towel. Roxanne looked at Maggie, then me, then The cat. She covered her front with the towel. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was here. Are you the one Nick said would lend me some clothes?" Maggie stood. Her eyes flashed at me and then the girl. Roxanne said, "Maybe I better go back and put on my own. They are dirty though. I was hoping I could wash them before I left." "You have beautiful hair, doesn't she have beautiful hair, Nick," Maggie said. I looked. Hair that had been tangled and dull now shined. Maggie pointed at me. "You'll have some explaining to do, Mister. In the meantime," she said as she turned to Roxanne, "let's see if we can find you some clothes." Maggie still had that "let's talk" look about her after she'd showered and changed into shorts and a revealing halter. I talked her and Roxanne into going to Chester's for hamburgers and French fries. At first Roxanne was reluctant. "What if they followed us from that room?" "Room, what room?" Maggie asked. "We'll tell you all about it at Chester's. I doubt there'd be anyone at Chester's who would recognize you. Besides, I'd hardly recognize you in that skirt and blouse. Makes you look different." Roxanne said, "I don't have any money. Those guys must have taken it." Outside a breeze moved the hot air. On the western horizon dark clouds piled up like boulders rolling down a mountain. Maggie and Roxanne were in front as we walked to Chester's. I watched the roll of their buns as their hips swayed with each step. Quite a contrast. Maggie's gait was sure, like a proud, sleek mare. Roxanne was more like a nervous, skinny filly. They were about equal height but when Roxanne stood alone she seemed taller, I suppose, because she was so thin. As we talked and ate, and after Otto joined us, Roxanne seemed to relax a little. She wanted to join us in drinking beer, but when she admitted she was only seventeen Maggie insisted she have Coke instead. Maggie seemed to accept Roxanne's story of how she happened to be taking a shower in my apartment and the reason why she was naked when she first saw her. "After all, we were naked in that small room for a long time," Roxanne said. She had Otto's attention. During the walk back to my apartment Roxanne said, "Maybe I could get my job back at Art's Palace. But I can't go back to Mister Arthur's house. That's where I was living." "We'll worry about it tomorrow," Maggie said. She seemed to like Roxanne. Maybe she represented the daughter Maggie never had. I was wondering how things would go between Maggie and me when we were alone. I forgot all that when we got to the apartment and found the front door open and the place ransacked. -------- *CHAPTER FIFTEEN* "Nick, what's going on?" Maggie demanded. "I believe someone was looking for something?" I said. Roxanne cowered in the corner. "Don't know what the hell they think I got." I scanned the room, stared at the desk. "They took a key I found. It was on the desk. Also some money I left there, the bastards. I hope they didn't mess with the computer." It didn't take long to realize they had deleted everything from the computer hard drive. It wasn't fatal. I had copies on disks in a safety deposit box at First Central Bank. Everything could be put back into the computer except the entries for the last five days, the last time I updated the disks. "Maybe they were looking for whatever you've gathered for the stories you said you were going to write about the new city government and the conflicts of interest. That stuff," Maggie said. "Yeah, maybe." Maggie sighed and comforted Roxanne. I sat down. Where to begin? The cat pussyfooted back and forth across the office floor and avoided stepping on the scattered files. It stood in front of me for a moment and, when I didn't offer to pet it, went to Maggie. She picked it up, held it to her chest with one arm and continued to hold Roxanne with the other. Two hours later we had the office back near its original shape. A vice president of the bank, Walter Arness, owed me a favor. He met me at the bank, let me in, and watched while I collected computer disks from my safe deposit box. Back at the office I fed them into the computer. I was back in business. I recorded everything on extra disks and hid them under the couch until I could get them back to the bank. I reprinted my new city government research data. "Nick, did you see what they did to my clothes? Everything is wrinkled. If you find out who did this I'll help you scalp 'em." I shooed everyone out of the office, including The cat, and sat at the computer. I waited for my anger to subside and wrote: CENTRAL CITY -- Six months after it took over, the new city government's plan, if there is one, still isn't clear. Mayor Billy Wilfred, who campaigned on the promise that he was going to bring new industry to the city, has made only one change. He fired longtime police chief Earl Henderson and named Elrod William to the post. William's only experience as a policeman was when he was a member of a three-man police force for a few months in a small Southern Illinois town. Before that William worked at a gravel pit owned by his uncle, Central City's new mayor. There was more but that was the meat of it. Not much. I hadn't reported it before because I had so little to write about. The hell with that now. I was hoping the piece would stir something up, make something happen that would give me a clue as to what was going on. The next day I went to the police station and reported the break-in by filling out a form at the counter. I spent much of the rest of the day learning what more I could about Elrod William. I met Brown at the park. He had done some checking, also. "William is not as simple as he seems," Brown said. "I think he's nuts. He's psychotic, he's maybe even dangerous. Or maybe I'm loosing it myself. I'm far from objective when it comes to our beloved chief." My checking revealed that William, while he was employed at the gravel pit, was accused by one of the other workers there of trying to kill the guy by dropping a dredge scoop on him. Apparently the charge was dropped because my source at the local newspaper there said he couldn't find any record of a trial or sentence. That night dinner was substantial. Pork chops, potatoes, gravy, peas and lemon pie. I was impressed. Maggie usually didn't go in for that much cooking. She must have decided to provide a full meal for Roxanne. Probably figured, as I did, that she hadn't been eating much of anything except junk food. Roxanne ate two helpings of everything. "It's nice to have someone enjoy my cooking," Maggie said. "I haven't cooked much lately because I never know when Nick will be here or if he's stopped somewhere and filled himself with beer." Roxanne looked at me. I raised my eyebrows. She smiled. Maggie didn't. Later Roxanne went to sleep on the couch, all comfy in bedding Maggie provided. Maggie went to our bedroom. I looked in on her a few minutes later. She was reading and ignoring me. I scooped up The cat from the end of the bed and took it to the office, sat it on the desk and petted it. It stayed a few minutes, then trotted back to the bedroom. Could Maggie really be angry because I brought Roxanne home? What else could I have done? Was it my fault she came into the office naked? Hell, Maggie wasn't concerned, or at least didn't appear to be, when I got so involved a couple of years before in the Kathleen Cameron case. I turned on some elevator music and thought of Mrs. H. Allen Cameron, Kathleen. Her husband, one of Central City's mystery men, appeared to be extremely rich. How he got that way was the mystery. I went to their home when Kathleen called and wanted to hire me to protect her from some unknown person who was threatening to kill her. I remembered the house as clearly as I remembered the taste of the meal I'd just eaten. The address was spelled out, Eleven Eleven, in pale green letters above a two-car garage housing a red Porsche. The two-story house, white with pale green shutters, reminded me of a country inn. I walked up wide steps to a stoop and the front door. A flower box filled with red petunias sat on one corner. A huge window was to my left. Windows also were above and to the right. A nudge of the door bell activated chimes. "What do you want?" I looked around but no one was in sight. The woman's voice came from the door. Checking to make sure no one was watching, I talked to the door, explaining the reason why I was there. "I'll unlock for you. Come through the house to the back. I'm down at the swimming pool," Kathleen said then. I turned the doorknob after hearing the lock click. Inside I stood for an instant as cool air caressed my sweating hide. It was August. Sweet, fresh-smelling air invaded my nostrils and lungs. A thick, cream-colored carpet spread from wall to wall in a huge living room. An orange sofa and various other pieces of brightly colored furniture made islands in the vastness. I checked to make sure my loafers were clean and walked to the rear of the house. A floor-to-ceiling window looked out upon a sloping lawn. Dining furniture inside was near the window. A huge bouquet of multicolored flowers sat on the polished table. Just beyond the window, on a large patio, lawn chairs were scattered about. The swimming pool was at the bottom of the slope nestled among flowering bushes. In the gleaming kitchen to my right -- it was as large as my apartment -- a sliding door led to the patio. I stepped through it and slid it closed. A white, wet dog the size of a grizzly came charging up the slope. A yard from me it growled, bared its teeth and crouched. My inclination was to get back inside before the beast had me for lunch. Instead I froze. A woman's voice from toward the pool shouted "General." The dog sat down. Its tail swished back and forth like a tree branch in a wind storm. Drool dripped from its mouth as it panted. "Come on. He won't bite. He likes nearly everyone. His name is General." "Nearly everyone," she had said. I hoped that included me. I didn't move. The dog watched me for an instant longer, turned and bounded away. Air rushed into my lungs. I walked down to the pool, keeping an eye on the dog, now lying in a puddle under an umbrella. As I reached the bottom of the slope a young woman glided up steps leading out of the water. She smiled as she emerged, her large brown eyes riveted on mine. I broke the eye contact as her bare breasts, her slim waist and finally her twinkie -- as devoid of hair as my recently shaved chin -- emerged from the pool. I returned my gaze to her face, enjoying the view on the way up. She still was smiling. "Hi, I'm Kathleen Cameron. Are you surprised?" "More like impressed," I said. "I hope I'm not embarrassing you. I'm a nudist. I think all this shyness about the human body is nonsense. Don't you?" She wiped water from her face and swished it from her stomach and legs with the edge of one hand. Her head came to my shoulder. I resisted an urge to touch and looked away instead, in need of a place to sit so I could hide my emerging emotion. I grabbed a lawn chair, placed it under a green and white striped umbrella and sat with my hands in my lap. Small drink tables were scattered about. "Would you like something to drink?" I said, "No thanks." She placed herself on a chaise lounge. Determined beads of water clung to choice spots of her body. The dog, a Malamute she informed me, sat beside her and placed its bony, basketball-sized head in her lap. Its drool slid down the curves thereabouts. "Why did you let me in if someone is threatening to kill you?" She twisted her body and pointed over her shoulder to a security screen on a stand behind her. "There is a camera covering the front door, the whole yard in fact. I could see you on the screen. I knew who you were because I've seen your mug shot in the newspaper where you used to work." I examined her body whenever I could, trying not to be obvious. She gazed across the pool. Her hair was short and light brown -- I suppose the shade had a commercial name like desert sand or something -- with flecks of darker brown that matched her eyes. Her red lips were full, her nose sharp, her cheek bones prominent. Individually they were nothing special but combined they shouted "sexy broad." The firm orbs of flesh at rest on her chest were accented by alert nipples. Red toe nails added to the pleasant scene. She turned toward me and said, "Now that you've examined me doctor, can we get on with this?" "Are you asleep?" Maggie said from the office doorway, breaking into my memories of Kathleen Cameron. "No, not asleep. Just thinking." "Aren't you coming to bed? It's almost midnight." "Yeah, I'll be right there." I put aside the Kathleen Cameron thoughts and once again marveled at my lack of understanding of women. I thought Maggie was angry because of Roxanne. "Didn't you ever wear pajamas?" Maggie asked after I turned out the bedroom light and lay beside her. "Sure, when I was a kid. Haven't worn them for years though. Sleeping in the nude is comfortable. No binding. I guess I toss and turn a lot." Maggie planted a hand on my stomach, just hard enough to make me flinch for a second, and said, "You toss around like a beach ball in a wind storm." "What about you?" I said. "You might as well be naked with those short things you wear. It works, that's for sure. You're about as sexy as you can get." My hands began to wander. "What are we going to do with Roxanne?" Maggie asked. It was a good sign. She had said "we." I was thinking about her question when she said, "Remember Kathleen?" Had she read my mind again? And she wasn't even in the room when I was thinking about Kathleen. "Remember how we cleaned up Otto's tavern that time to help him stay in business?" "Of course I remember. What I remember most is that day you and Kathleen teased me like a couple of harlots. God that was a hot summer. Even worse than now." "Harlots?" "Yes, harlots. You became as much an exhibitionist as Kathleen. Remember how Otto's eyes bugged." "It was fun, wasn't it. Cleaning that horrible place. It was like a game." "I guess, if you forget the heat and the pressure to raise money and save Otto's bar, then it was fun. Especially when you and Kathleen sat on that old couch with your legs spread as wide as your smiles. You had on those cutoff -- way off -- jeans and those stuffed halters." Maggie had laughed then when I commented about the halters and she laughed now. "You've never realized I fell in love then with your feet? "My feet?" Maggie said. "That day you and Kathleen were shamelessly exposing yourselves it was your bare feet that got to me most. Your toes were spattered with paint and dirt. It was awesome." Maggie turned on the bedside light, raised her legs and wiggled her toes. "Does it still work?" "No, not in the same way. It was the spattered paint and the dirt that got me. You've got other ways of getting me now. Let's forget the past and figure out what to do with Roxanne tomorrow. Turn out the light and attack me." "Not tonight, Nick. I was going to insist that we talk, but I'm too tired. It will have to wait another day." I didn't object. I hate it when women say "we have to talk." It's always something personal, something that demands answers, even though there may be none. I figured she was going to give me a lecture about my lack of business sense or maybe about my becoming more couth. -------- *CHAPTER SIXTEEN* Shortly before noon the next morning, after Maggie and Roxanne left to shop, I sat in the mayor's office noting his leather-cushioned guest chairs, his shining mahogany desk and the pictures of his condominiums, displayed prominently on the walls, along with other self-promoting photos. He came into the office from a side door, crossed the thick gray carpet and shook my hand enthusiastically. "What's on your mind?" I asked, hoping to discourage him from making a speech about civic responsibility or community progress. I was there out of curiosity. His secretary had called and asked if it would be convenient for me to visit the mayor's office. She said she didn't know the purpose of the meeting, just that the mayor had told her to call me. The sleeves of his honor's gleaming white shirt were rolled to his elbows and his royal blue striped tie was loosened. He rolled the sleeves down and took cuff links the color of the carpet from his desk and put them in place. "Thanks for coming. I thought we might go to lunch. There are some people I'd like you to meet. No public funds involved. I'll pay for the lunch." He smiled, tightened his tie, and slipped his arms into a gray suit coat that had been draped over the back of the chair. It appeared to be silk with thread-thin royal blue stripes. "Italian?" I asked. "Italian?" "The suit, is it Italian silk?" "Maybe. Just know it's comfortable and cool. Thought we'd eat at Almond's." "My favorite place," I lied. At first, as we sat at the same table I'd seen the mayor and others at previously, we were alone. Then Warren Seymour showed up with a scotch and soda in hand. I know what he was drinking because he ordered another soon after. Then the police chief joined us. He nodded in my direction, thus admitting I existed as opposed to Seymour who didn't. "Order whatever you like, of course," the mayor said, "but I recommend the cod." "Cod's fine with me," I answered. I lifted the cup of coffee that had been poured the minute we sat down. Good stuff. The silence at our table was dulled by the murmur of clinking glasses and dishes elsewhere. Whatever this was about, I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of appearing interested. "Oh look, there's Hicks," the mayor said. He called to the high school principal who joined us with handshakes all around. This was getting interesting. What was Hicks doing there? A coincidence? Seymour fingered his drink glass, sipped occasionally, and I did the same with my coffee. Finally the mayor said, "You're probably wondering, Nick, why I invited you here today." He waited. I didn't reply. He glanced at Hicks, at Seymour and back to me. "We've talked about this before, but I thought it was worth another try. You are in a position to be helpful in our efforts to promote Central City. Yet all you do is tear us down. Take this murder, the Bobby Scalf one I mean, and the other one, too, for that matter. The publicity you'll generate if you keep writing stories about the murders hurts our image. We understand that it's a matter of money. This is what you do and the Chicago Times pays for this type of sensationalism. Since it is a matter of money and since we, as citizens interested in promoting our fair city, plan to hire a public relations man, why not you?" All eyes at the table were on me. I sipped coffee, gazed directly into Seymour's eyes and said, "I hope you're offering me more than the newspaper pays its slaves." Seymour looked away, twirled his drink glass, and downed what little was left. Light reflected from a large diamond ring on his pinkie. He signaled a waiter with the glass. "Well, this is important to our fair city, to our citizens. We know we have to spend money to get quality. How about fifty-thousand dollars? We've researched the cost. That is about what we expect to have to pay." "Why do you think I'd make a quality public relations man? I have no experience in the field." Hicks raised his hand. The mayor nodded in his direction. Hicks said, "Of course, this is not my field of expertise. Maybe I shouldn't offer an opinion, but I'm sure Nick here would do a bang-up job. Publicity is all about writing, isn't it? We all know Nick can write." The food came. Conversation died as we ate. I chewed on my answer while I ate cod baked to a delicious crispness. I was inclined to ask the mayor who would pay for the bribe, the taxpayers or the business interests he obviously represented. I decided another approach might be more useful. "I'm going to have to think this over," I said. Seymour stood, emptied his glass, turned and left. He hadn't eaten much. I watched the mayor. He fidgeted with a napkin, looked at Hicks and William as if seeking support, and said, "Please let me know as soon as possible, Nick. I'm sure it would be a good deal for you and the city. Think it over real careful before you give me your answer." "I'll do that, mayor," I said. The police chief gulped a couple of last bites after he stood, excused himself while his mouth still was full of food, and stopped to talk to Seymour near the lobby. The mayor watched them, turned to me, and said, "You know, Nick, sometimes you remind me of one of those birds you see hanging from a barbed wire fence every once in a while. Do you know how they hang themselves?" He made circles on the table cloth with an extended finger. I knew, but I said, "No, mayor. I've always wondered about that." "Well, as I understand it, the birds are gathering things for their nests, bits of foliage, stuff like that. They seem to particularly like string. When they find string tangled into barbed wire the stupid things pull at it until they get it wound around their necks and thus hang themselves." "Sort of like a reporter who pulls at strings until he unravels a story. Is that what you mean? Are you suggesting I could hang myself?" Hicks stood, thanked the mayor for lunch, and left, or at least I thought he did. I waited. A waiter presented the bill on an ebony plate. The mayor signed it, stood, proffered his hand. We shook. "Think about it," he said. In the lobby Hicks was talking to a man in uniform. I thought it was a cop but it wasn't anyone I knew. As I got closer I realized the uniform was not a policeman's but something very similar. The guy he was talking to darted away. "What a surprise, being invited to lunch with the mayor," Hicks said. "Yeah. Thanks for backing me on that public relations thing. I'm not interested, but I appreciate what you said." "I meant it. You'd make a good public relations man. And you have the right connections. Maybe it is too good an offer to turn down. Got to get back to school. See you later." He marched away. -------- *CHAPTER SEVENTEEN* Thunder jarred me awake. It was a little after six. The smell of freshly brewed coffee grabbed me. Wind-driven rain slashed through the open window of the bedroom. I struggled with the damned thing, finally got it closed. I was glad Maggie wasn't there. She would have laughed and pushed me aside before I got it closed. It's just another one of those things she had the patience to learn. There was a trick to that window. She jiggled it just right and then lifted or closed it with one finger. Her usual remark was, "And women are supposed to be the weaker sex." I had tried to jiggle the window just the way she did but it never worked for me. I gave up. Why spoil her fun? In the kitchen I sipped coffee and watched rain splatter against the window. Dark, angry clouds hurried across the bit of sky I could see. Maggie would come in from her run dripping all over the place. I'd have to help her peel the sweat togs from her body. I remembered Roxanne? There'd be no peeling of Maggie's sweats. Roxanne might walk in on us. She knew about the birds and bees, of course, but I'm so bashful. I hadn't noticed her on the couch when I walked through the living room. I stood in the kitchen doorway and saw that the bed clothes on the couch were piled at one end. No Roxanne. Maybe she was in the bathroom. I turned on the radio. The song was something about rainy day love or blues, maybe both. I was thinking about getting breakfast and having it ready when Maggie got back. I sometimes did that, just often enough to impress her, not often enough to give her reason to expect it. I checked in the living room again. Still no Roxanne and no sounds from the bathroom. The door was open. I called her name. No response. Could she have gone jogging with Maggie? As young as she was I figured Maggie would run her into the ground like she did me on the few times I was foolish enough to run with her. I thought about the mayor's offer. There never was any question about me accepting it. But there was the question of why it was offered. Were they really willing to pay me that much to shut me up? Where the hell was Maggie? Had she stopped somewhere to get out of the rain? Not likely. She loved rain. Maybe Roxanne cramped up or something. Should I check on them? I knew the route. Maggie ran the same one every day. The rain was letting up and by the time I'd dressed it had stopped. I walked a block south on University, east a block on Elm, two blocks on Armstrong to the park where Maggie ran on the path that circled through the woods and back to the park entrance. No sign of Maggie or Roxanne. The sun was out by then, at first breaking through the clouds, and then having its way with the clearing sky. Steam rose from the clipped grass of the baseball diamond. By the time I circled the park I was wet with sweat and drippings from the trees. No sign of Maggie or Roxanne. Probably back at the apartment showering while I sweltered. Let them wonder where I was. I ambled back to the apartment, pouting all the way, because I'd been deprived of helping Maggie peel out of her sweats. The cat was there waiting to be let in. Maggie always let it out when she started her run. It too was wet and shook itself near enough to douse me. The apartment was silent until The cat informed me it wanted food through a series of pathetic meows. Another chore Maggie had taken over. I got a can of the awful stuff The cat loved from the cupboard, opened it and dumped it into The cat's dish. "Where the hell do you suppose they are?" The cat offered no opinion. What did a person do when someone was missing? Call police. Check with the hospital. Too soon for that. She was only half an hour late, no now it was an hour. Maybe they stopped at a quick food joint. But Maggie hated that stuff. I went into the office, checked the e-mail to see if I had any messages from the Chicago Times -- none -- and tried to work on reports and filing. One report I needed to write involved a guy who applied for a job with a Springfield industry. In his resume he said he had worked for Cromwell Heating as an engineer. Cromwell heating had moved from Central City several years before. Still, it wasn't difficult to check. According to the personnel honcho at Cromwell, now near Chicago, the guy had never worked for Cromwell. I had filed the preliminary report a couple of days before, but wasn't going to get paid until I filed a more detailed thing. So I tried to work on it. As I did I marveled again at how wasteful people were with their employer's money. You would think an employee could have checked on this reference instead of hiring me to do it. Oh well, it's their money and now some of it would be mine. Where the hell was Maggie? I called the hospital. No one had been admitted, not even to the emergency room, since the day before. I went outside again and was greeted by blazing sun and steam. I walked to the park, taking Maggie's usual route. People were beginning to stir. Occasionally a car would pull out of a drive, presumably to take someone to their job. A couple of boys were tossing a baseball in a front yard. I asked them if they had seen a woman in a red sweatshirt run past. They shook their heads in unison and looked at me as if I were from outer space. Nearer the park a lawnmower started up. A young woman in a bikini came around the corner of a house pushing it. In the park I strolled to the cinder path as I looked for anything that would indicate Maggie and maybe Roxanne had been there. Nothing. The trees had stopped dripping and the mosquitoes were out in force. They feasted on my flesh as I looked for signs of a struggle. The smell of wet earth and rotting wood filled my nostrils. What was I thinking? That they were kidnapped? Ridiculous. People weren't kidnapped in Central City. The hell they weren't, I thought. I remembered the 30-year-old man who kidnapped his mother to keep her from marrying after his father died. He was afraid if she remarried she'd cut him out of her will, stop giving him money. I noted poison ivy weaving its devious way among the low foliage just off the path. I started itching. I didn't have to touch the stuff to break out in an agony of itch. I spotted something white, whiter than the bits of paper, sacks and other trash that had gathered at the edge of the path. Did I dare reach in and retrieve it? I had to because it looked like a canvas shoe. Maggie's shoe? There probably were a dozen old shoes among the debris along the path but this, I discovered after I retrieved it, had been recently cleaned with whitener. The kind Maggie used? And it seemed about the right size. I hurried back to the office and called Detective Brown. "I'm surprised at you, Nick. You know we don't investigate missing persons when they've been gone only an hour or two. That shoe. It could be anyone's. A lot goes on in those woods, if you get my drift." "I get your drift, damn it, but I'm really worried. This is not like Maggie. She wouldn't go around in sweaty clothes. She always comes right home and takes a shower after she runs." "Maybe she took a longer route for a change. I'll have the guys keep an eye out. Contact me tomorrow if she still is missing." "Yeah, tomorrow," I growled as I hung up. I remained in the apartment the rest of the morning, waiting, waiting as seconds dripped into minutes. I had to be there in case she called. I talked to The cat. "Remember how we met? Not you and me, I mean Maggie." The cat stretched, jumped up on the desk and awaited the petting ritual. I realized that, even though I preferred to ignore cats, I was now attached to this one. And it was because of Maggie. At that time she and I shared the responsibility of feeding this then stray cat. My office was above the one where she worked in the old building down by the tracks. I sat that afternoon -- it seemed so long ago -- waiting for four o'clock to arrive so I could go downstairs, cross the street and have a beer at Otto's. On the second floor, as I headed down to the street, Maggie waved from her desk. "How you doing?" she asked as I passed her office. I went into the office and handed her the high school yearbook that was involved in the case I was on at the time. She looked at it, then up at me. I leaned over the desk, took her face in my hands, tilted it to mine, and kissed her long and tender on those sweeter-than-wine lips. "That's how I'm doing," I said. I took the yearbook from her nail-polished fingers and left before she could speak, carrying the pleasant memory of the astonished look in her wondrous blue eyes and the intoxicating smell of her. If I ever again got serious about a woman ... I tossed the thought aside then like an unpaid bill. Now? I certainly was serious about Maggie although I hated admitting it even to myself. The cat, apparently satisfied with the massage, jumped down from the desk and went to the front door. The phone rang. I grabbed it. "Nick, it's Maggie. I'm at the south end of town, a place called Roadside Inn. I've been running for several miles. Come and get me, please." She sounded exhausted, out of breath. "I'm on my way," I said. "Are you all right? Where have you been?" "I'm exhausted. Hurry. I'll explain when you get here." -------- *CHAPTER EIGHTEEN* The Roadside Inn, a dump of a tavern just outside the west edge of Central City, is at most a fifteen-minute drive from my apartment, even if a freight train gets in the way. This time it seemed an eternity. The quickest way was to go directly through the business district. Four stop lights. I saw red at every one. And, of course, an old woman had to be driving in front of me. Oncoming traffic kept me from getting around her. She idled all the way to Crawford Road. By the time she turned off I was nearly to the tavern. I skidded the car into the graveled parking lot and dashed inside. I didn't see the step leading down and almost landed on my face. Once my eyes adjusted I saw a young man behind the bar, two customers parked on bar stools and Maggie, sitting in a corner booth to my left. Her arms were folded onto the table and her head was down. I knocked over a chair getting to her. She still hadn't moved. I touched her arm and said, "Maggie." She raised her head slowly. Her eyes widened, her lips moved into a tentative smile and she said, "Oh Nick, I thought you'd never come. I thought I'd never see you again." She picked up an empty glass near her elbow and tilted it to her lips. "I'm so thirsty. They gave me a glass of water. See if you can get another one." I rushed to the bar. The bartender apparently had been watching. He had poured a glass of water and added ice by the time I got there. I noted his red hair, guessed his age to be under twenty and thought perhaps he was the owner's son. Maggie gulped the water down the moment I handed it to her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and said, "I must be dehydrated. I sweat my ass off trying to get back to civilization. It must be five miles to here from wherever I was and not a house along the road, not one." "Are you all right?" "Yes, now that you're here. I just couldn't face going through town. I must look awful." "Where have you been?" "I was kidnapped, Nick." She buried her face in her hands and smothered crying sounds. She sat up straight, wiped tears from her face and said, "At first I thought it was a couple of cops that grabbed me, forced me into a little van. They blindfolded me, took me to a small cement-block building and locked me in. It was like a steam bath in there. No water." She put her head down on her arms and mumbled, "I'm so tired. And so dirty. Take me home so I can take a shower, please." The bartender and his two customers, one a skinny guy with unruly gray hair and the other a younger man who had a baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, watched as I led Maggie out into the blazing sunlight. She shielded her eyes and collapsed into the passenger seat of my Escort. We had gone a block or so before it occurred to me to ask, "Where's Roxanne?" Maggie was sprawled in the seat next to me, her head back, her eyes closed. "Roxanne? What do you mean?" "Wasn't she with you?" "No, she was asleep on the couch when I left. Do you suppose they kidnapped her too?" "I don't think so. She's taken off. Probably thought we would turn her over to police sooner or later." After I parked behind the apartment building, Maggie winced and held her shoulder as she struggled out of the car. I helped her get undressed with sympathy rather than my usual lust. She took a shower, came into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe, poured herself coffee and sat across from me. "I'm scared, Nick. Who do these goons think they are? This isn't some third world country where people can be treated like this." "What did they do to you besides hurt your shoulder? How is it?" "The hot shower helped. One guy felt me up -- and down -- but otherwise nothing. Just shoved me into that hot room. Never saw their faces or heard their voices. There were two of them." She went to bed before finishing the coffee and was asleep moments later. I sat on the edge of the bed looking at the side of her face. I wanted to touch her, hold her, comfort her. Instead, I let her sleep. "This isn't a third world country," she had said. "Not yet, Maggie, not yet," I whispered, "but some people here are trying to make it that way." -------- *CHAPTER NINETEEN* I checked to make sure the front and back doors to the apartment were locked before I left. The note on the kitchen table said I'd be back, probably before she awoke. At the police station I opened the gate leading through the counter to Brown's office. A uniformed cop I didn't know stepped in front of me and said, "No civilians allowed behind the counter. I'm sorry Mister Bancroft. Orders." I stepped back. Heat rushed to my face. Angry words formed, words I was about to release at this young man. I managed to squelch them. He was just following orders. William orders, no doubt. I looked across the room and saw Brown standing beside his office door. He pointed and mouthed the word coffee. I nodded and left. He was telling me he'd meet me across the street at the diner. We'd talked there many times when I offered to buy to avoid drinking the police station swill. But it wasn't the diner he wanted as a meeting place. Outside he motioned me away from the diner and down the street. I walked on one side, he on the other. When we were half a block from the station he shouted, "Go through the alley to the city park. I'll join you there later." I thought of scenes from spy movies where the bad guy met some creep from an important Washington agency on a park bench and gathered secrets to be sold to the enemy. Diagonal cement walks meet in the center where a fountain dominates. Benches are scattered under elm and oak trees. A nice place to get out of the sun and watch the girls go by. I sagged onto a bench and waited. Brown appeared, sat down and said, "Don't give me any comedy about this. I hate it, but that damned William is gathering anything he can to use against me. They want me out of the department. Even offered me early retirement. "William says he wants to have his own men in key positions. Says I'm resisting his leadership. Ha, what leadership? Anyway, he's just what's out front. Someone is in the background." We speculated on who. Mrs. Seymour? Her husband? The mayor? Maybe all of them or someone else. Brown said, "I've been thinking about all the things that have happened in the last five years or so. You could do the same. Think about those stories you wrote, about the union thing, the school business. Maybe we can come up with some answers. In the meantime I'm trying to make them think I'm playing along, not antagonize anyone. You're in position to do the antagonizing." I told him about Maggie and how she was kidnapped while she was jogging. "A warning to you, no doubt. This is serious, Nick. I hate to admit it, but this is scary, like fighting an invisible enemy. My pension is at stake, too. Do you know something I don't?" "I don't even know what you know," I said. I scanned the park. A woman with three children sat near a swing set while her children played. An old man sat on a bench across the way. A woman with a shopping bag walked through the park from one direction. Two teen-agers came from across the way and settled onto a bench. The boy put his arm around the girl. She gently removed it. He slowly put in back. This time it stayed. "I'm going to play it safe until I figure out what's going on, Nick. You call me at home if you want to talk to me from now on, okay?" "Right," I said. He stood, glanced around and walked away. I hurried back to the apartment and was relieved to find Maggie still sleeping. I napped on the couch. She woke me by kissing my forehead. I reached for her but she moved away. "I'm not your number one squeeze until this shoulder feels better. Let's get dressed, go to Chester's, talk to Otto and drink beer. I need to relax." What time is it?" I asked as I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "It's past five, you slept longer that I did. Try washing your face, changing your shirt. You might learn to like it." "That's my girl," I said. "The old spunk is back." "I hope so. Those bastards, whoever they are, can't dictate my life. I'm going to keep on doing what I want. We still have to talk. I'm not going to let this change my plans." What plans? I was tempted to ask, but an inner voice warned me to shut up. At Chester's we settled in a booth and sipped cold beer. Otto showed up, got himself a beer, squeezed in beside Maggie and apologized when he realized he had bumped her sore shoulder. "Kidnapped," he exclaimed, when Maggie told him the story. "What the hell's going on, Junior?" He faced me. "I'm trying to find out," I said. "Probably has something to do with me. I haven't told Maggie yet, but I think she should go visit one of her sons for awhile." "I will not." A lantern-jawed guy with deep set eyes glared at Maggie. He had a tattoo on his muscular right forearm. He turned away when our eyes locked. Otto said he'd never noticed the guy in the bar before. "I know most of the people who hang out here," he added. Maggie excused herself and headed for the women's bathroom. "What ya gonna do, Nick?" I looked at Otto. Thought a minute and said, "Damn it. I wish I could get her out of here for awhile. Whoever grabbed her must be smart enough to know if they do anything serious to me the Chicago Times will suddenly get very interested." "That may be, but look at some of the things that have happened to you in the past. Is Draggard smart enough to care? He sounds like an animal. Burned those shacks when the pickers tried to organize. Remember?" "No, I don't remember. That was long before my time. You've been a Cub fan too long. You're mind is going." "Buy me a beer and I'll tell you about it." "Sure, just what I need. You reminiscing while I'm stuck in the present." "Draggard owned a bunch of one room shacks in a field near The Hollow. He rented them to migrant workers who came every fall to pick pumpkins. Some of them were around all summer, picking asparagus, peppers later, peaches, whatever." I crawled out of the booth and went to the bar to fetch three more glasses of beer. When I returned Otto took a long swallow, set his glass down and wiped his lips. "There aren't that many peaches grown around here are there?" I asked. "Well, they went south for that I guess, and came back for the other crops. Anyway Draggard rented those damned shacks to them. Sometimes, a Chicago newspaper reported, as many as seven people lived in one and he charged each of them rent. He had a little grocery store there then and charged the hell out of them for the food." Maggie returned and slid in beside Otto. "I'm hungry," she said. "Hungry enough to eat a greasy hamburger and some fries." "I can't get it right now," I said. "Otto's reminiscing and it would break his heart if I didn't listen." "You don't listen half the time, anyway. Go order the food. None for me, thanks. I'll talk to Maggie. She listens." At the counter I remembered hearing something about a migrant worker shack burning and somebody dying in the fire. Maybe I'd seen it when I was looking up something else in the newspaper's files. I returned to the booth, took another look at the big guy at the bar, and sat down. "Well, as I was saying," Otto said, "those migrant workers were trying to organize. Draggard must have had some connection with the canning company. Anyway, according to the stuff I heard, he tried to intimidate the workers with threats. One night when he was drunk and raging he went berserk and set one of the shacks on fire." "Why would he set his own shack on fire?" Maggie asked. She went to the counter and got our food. The guy with the lantern jaw eyed her all the way. Maggie and I ate our sandwiches as Otto continued his story. Between words he slipped french fries in his mouth. I offered to buy him some of his own. "No thanks, Junior, I'm not hungry," he said. "The story is Draggard set the shack on fire because that's where the guy who was stirring up the workers lived. That's why Draggard spent time in prison." "Let's talk about something else," Maggie said. "Okay," Otto said, "how about those Cubs?" I looked at Otto and frowned. "How old are you?" I demanded. "You know how old I am. So what." "Maggie, this guy has been a Cub fan all his life. Every year sometime during the season they do something to make him think they might really have a baseball team." "Well hell, Nick. What ya want? They've won five in a row, they're in second place, only four games out of first." "Yeah, yeah, but this time I'm not falling for the same old crap. They'll collapse like a pricked balloon just like they always do." Maggie patted my hand and said to Otto, "Yes, he's really cured." "I'll bet he hasn't changed his shorts since they started winning," Otto smirked. "You're right, he hasn't. He doesn't wear any." I said, "It's amazing, the things you two have in common." "What's that?" they said in unison. "Ripping my poor old shortless butt. Let's talk about world politics, the Metropolitan Art Museum's latest show, or maybe the newest machinery for spreading manure." It's these kinds of stimulating conversations that Otto and I had been having for years, and Maggie fitted right in. At first she didn't know a thing about major league baseball and the Cubs, but she learned and became Otto's buddy forever when she started spouting statistics and informed opinions. "Well, it's been nice you old fart, but it's time you were in bed, and I'm sure Maggie needs her beauty rest. Let's go home." Going home meant walking the two and half blocks to our apartment. For Otto it meant a half block walk in the other direction to his apartment. "I guess I never told you, but I've just loved these walks home from Chester's. I enjoy listening to you and Otto bullshit each other. I even enjoyed joining in. Remember that time I had you guys going when I said Julia Roberts was coming to Central City to make a movie?" "Had nothing to do with her," I said. "We were just interested because we thought it would be good for the city's economy." "Sure," Maggie said. Lantern jaw from the bar was following us. When I could stand it no longer I turned to face him. He was gone. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY* "My you look nice. Shaved, showered, and you're wearing your sports coat. Even with the blue jeans I'm impressed." "It's the third Thursday of the month. I'm going to the school board meeting. Want to come along?" "No thanks, I'm going to the library. Return some books, get some more." "I'd rather you didn't go places by yourself." "I know. I'm concerned, too. But I can't let a couple of goons force me to hide like a rabbit." I almost commented on all the time she had been spending lately at the library but managed to swallow the words. It was just the kind of thing I'd hated from women in the past. Always wanted to place limits on my freedom. And here I was, thinking of invading Maggie's. "I've got to go to the meeting," I said. "Don't worry about me. They were just trying to scare you. Now that they see it didn't work, well..." I had been attending the school board meetings ever since I quit the newspaper. When Mrs. Seymour censored my school board stories I vowed I'd attend every one. Make them do their dirty work in private and then nail them with a story in the Times when they did it. "You've been going to the meetings now for a long time and only got that one story. Something about a contract awarded without seeking bids," Maggie said. Dark clouds rolled by outside the kitchen window. Rain would be welcome. Maybe it would cool things off. "It's a big deal to me. Mrs. Seymour thinks the school and school funds are hers. She thinks the whole town is hers. It's her show. One of the board members knits during the meeting." I finished my coffee. Maggie was drinking milk and had a white mustache like in the ads. I kissed it away. "I wish you'd go with me. I don't like you running around alone at night. It'll probably be late when you come home. What do you do, read there all night?" "No, not always. Sometimes I go out for coffee with Mister Grove. He'll walk me home." She stood and wrapped her arms around me. I complained that she was wrinkling my coat. She kneed me gently in the groin. "Remember that move," I said, "only don't be so gentle if your kidnappers return." We laughed nervously as I departed. _"Mister Grove will walk me home."_ The words danced in my head like the refrain from a familiar tune. Heat clung like cooking spray even though the sun was sinking. Thunder rattled the atmosphere. Central City High School had been built fifteen years before. Controversy about how the construction contracts were awarded was snuffed out by Mrs. Seymour. The hallways were wide, lined with lockers, the classrooms were large and the board room near the spacious office was fit for a corporation. The room was ablaze with light when I entered. Two of the six board members already were seated at the mahogany table. Mrs. Julia Farnsworth, wife of one of the city council members, sat in her usual place knitting another sweater. George Bradford, owner of a local grocery store, sat next to her. When I first started covering the meetings for the newspaper I sat at the table with the rest of them. Mrs. Seymour sat at one end, I sat at the other, as I was told, and the board members sat on either side. The occasional visiting citizen was forced to unfold a chair from the stack against the back wall. The meetings were mostly boring recitations about routine school matters with the principal always there to answer the few questions the members might have. Principal Hicks came in, nodded to me and took his place at the table. The other board members, all of them except one in some way linked to the powers of the town, drifted in. I sat away from the table on a folding chair. A reporter from the paper, a woman named Alice Fleming, managed to get seated at my old place at the table just before Mrs. Seymour marched into the room, settled in her throne and called the meeting to order. As usual she wore a platinum blonde wig. Her eyebrows were penciled black to match her eyes. Dark shadows under her eyes added to the contrast with the wig. I wondered, as I often had, how she would look without the props. Her glance my way without admitting my existence was a part of the ritual. She was tanned and slim, a result of her bike riding and frequent vacations in the Caribbean. She wore what I imagined to be a tennis outfit. White shorts with red stripes down the sides and a blouse to match. The only wrinkles that revealed her age were on her arms. The skin on her face was as tight as a tuck could make it. I had often asked questions in the past, but my heart wasn't in it this night. Soon the droning routine business was over and the meeting was dismissed. No board member had spoken to me and I had said nothing to any of them. I was away from the apartment for a little less than two hours. I rolled the Escort into my parking space behind the apartment building after driving home in a steady downpour I knew farmers would appreciate. The blow on the back of the head that greeted me when I stepped out of the car knocked me to the ground. My brain turned off and didn't begin to work again until I felt the crushing pain of a boot smashing into my ribs. I managed to get onto my hands and knees and was trying to get my feet under me when the boot struck again, this time into my ribs on the other side. I collapsed into a puddle of mud. "Get up you miserable bastard," a deep voice said. I turned my head to look at my attacker but that damned boot was placed against my ribs and shoved. I managed to grab an ankle as I was being thrust away and pulled with all the strength anger and fear could muster. The guy crashed onto his back with a heavy thud. I still hadn't seen his face, but as he righted himself by getting on his hands and knees I saw a tattoo on his forearm. The same one I'd seen on the guy at the bar? I couldn't be sure. For an instant we both were on our knees facing each other like warring dogs. The guy had a woman's white stocking pulled over his face. His arm muscles bulged as he lifted himself. The tattoo was a faded black and blue bird. "Just a warning, punk. The next time will be serious," he said as he bounced to his feet, brushed water from his pants and walked away. I thought of chasing him, tackling him, but he was around the building and out of sight before my body responded. I struggled through the pain in my ribs and got to my feet. The first step almost threw me back to the ground. Pain shot through me like molten metal. I staggered, managed to keep my balance through the pain, and hobbled like an arthritic old man around to the front of the building. I foolishly thought I might catch a glimpse of whatever the devil was driving, but I didn't get there in time to hear a car start, let alone see it. When I entered the living room Maggie was curled up on the couch holding a book. Light from a lamp behind her cast shadows. She didn't look up. I hurried past her into the kitchen where I hoped to get cleaned up before she saw me. I should have gone to the bathroom and closed the door. There I could at least get out of my wet clothes before she started asking question. "What are you doing?" she said from behind me. "I'm wiping dirt and gravel from my bleeding hands. When I get done with that I'm going to wipe dirt and gravel from my face and then I'm going to try to get these wet clothes off." "You're dripping water all over the kitchen," she said. I eased myself onto a chair. My ribs ached. Tears stung my eyes, but I figured she wouldn't notice because of the water dripping from my hair. "Oh, Nick, what happened. I'm sorry I ... I don't care about the kitchen. I thought you were just wet, but you've been hurt. What happened? Tell me what happened." I was facing her now and she was looking at the smears of dirt on my sports coat and on the T-shirt under it. I lifted one arm straight out, agonizing over every inch, and she removed the coat with care. On one side my T-shirt was torn at the ribs where my attacker had used me for a football. "Who did this?" "A guy with a tattoo on his right forearm, that's all I can tell you. He had a stocking over his face and a kick like a mule. I don't think he liked me." I groaned as she eased the clinging shirt up across my ribs and finally over my head. She wanted me to raise my arms so she could see my ribs. The best I could do was stick them straight out as I'd done with the one before. She kneeled and said no ribs were sticking out. I guessed that was good news. I held onto the table to keep my balance while she dabbed at the scratches on my ribs, hands and face. She urged me to take off my pants and lie down "before you fall down." The first time I'd come home like this after a session with a different bully she had seemed irritated, like now, as if I planned it. Then I was a little pissed, but now I realized it was because she was concerned. "I don't think I can take off my shoes, let along my pants. It hurts too much when I move. I'll just lie down on the kitchen floor. It's already wet and dirty anyway." She pushed a chair behind my, ordered me to sit, and, after I slowly lowered my butt to the seat, she took off my loafers. "At least I don't have to peel socks off your feet. Really Nick, wearing a nice sports coat and no socks." I put my hands on the seat of the chair and lifted my rump. She pulled the blue jeans away just before I collapsed. She walked me to our bed, pulled down the covers, and helped me lie on my stomach. I discovered if I didn't breathe nothing hurt much. She turned off the air conditioner and opened the window. A cool breeze pushed the curtains aside and caressed my back. I didn't expect to sleep. The last thing I remembered was planning revenge against an unknown assailant. I awoke to birdsong and the gentle sound of Maggie's breathing. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE* Maggie hovered over me. "How do you feel? Those bruises on your ribs are beautiful. Such vivid colors." "Could you do me a favor, baby. Get out of here so I can suffer with dignity." "Okay, sweetie." She left but she'd want to mother me all day, and I had other things to do. She hadn't even gone jogging. I was glad. I'd have to start jogging with her, couldn't let her do it alone now, and I knew there was no way I was going to talk her out of it. "I'm going to fix you bacon and eggs, toast, too. Okay?" "Sounds great." My first step from the bed made me agonizingly aware of my ribs. Every step shot pain through them. A hand against the wall kept me from falling a couple of times. Gradually my muscles relaxed enough that I could walk almost naturally. I could function as long as I didn't hurry. Dressing was a problem. Getting into my jeans brought tears to my eyes. I chose a loose sack-like shirt I hadn't worn in months. It was red, green and yellow and too warm for summer, but it was the easiest thing to get into. Instead of my usual running shoes I slipped into the loafers. I hobbled through the living room and straightened as I got to the kitchen, managing two near-normal steps before I eased my frame into one of the chairs. "You're not fooling anybody, Nick. You're hurt. Why are you dressed? You should stay in bed." "Can't do that. I've got things to do, people to see. First thing, I suppose, is to report this to the police. Do you know Brown wants me to call him and meet him outside the station now. Says the new chief, Elrod William, doesn't want him talking to me and is trying to get rid of him." "Why are you gritting your teeth when you talk? It hurts, doesn't it." "Okay, so it hurts. Who gives a rat's ass. I'm going to find out who killed Bobby Scalf no matter what happens." "Nick. Don't take it out on me. And all that swearing. You're actually showing some emotion outside the bedroom." She poured coffee and ran fingers through my hair. She was right, no sense in swearing. I'd avoided it most of the time since I was a college student. I thought then I was superior to those morons who couldn't speak a sentence without fuckin' this and fuckin' that. "Shouldn't you go to a doctor, see if any ribs are broken?" "Yeah, I suppose. Maybe I'll do that later. Got to talk to Brown first." He was sitting in the shade on a park bench smoking a cigar. His feet were extended. He was gazing up at the trees. "Counting the leaves?" I asked as I eased down beside him. I'd called him earlier and he'd said the only time he could meet me was during his lunch hour. "No, not the leaves, the days until I retire. You made me loose track. I watched you walk across the park. What's wrong, hurt yourself bowling?" "I'm here to report an assault, mine. Some bastard jumped me after I attended the school board meeting last night. Probably followed me home. Jumped me in the parking lot behind my apartment." "Now why would someone do that?" Brown asked as he straightened and blew smoke toward the blue sky. "You should file a report." "That's what I'm doing. I'm telling you." He took the cigar out of his mouth, pointed it at me, and said, "Things have changed, Nick. You've got to get that through your head. Telling me when I'm on my lunch hour is no longer as good as filing a report. Everything is by the book now. You should go over to the police station and fill out a form if you want to file a report." "Bullshit." "Ah, we agree on something. Who did it?" "Don't know. Only thing I saw was a small tattoo on the guy's forearm. He was a heavy, muscular guy. Knocked me down from behind, kicked my ribs. Both sides. Warned me to stop asking questions about Bobby Scalf's death." "Could be any number of muscle beach guys. We have our share. Time for me to get back to the office, sit and wait for the chief to give me something to do. Won't be able to help you on this one. At least not officially. As usual you've been asking questions all over the place. I still know what's going on. Learn anything yet?" He offered me a hand. I took it and got up without the searing pain I expected. "No, nothing important, or at least nothing that seems important. That girl that was living with Jayson Arthur still missing?" "Roxanne Draggard, yeah," Brown said. "I'm surprised you had to ask. Tell Maggie hello. I'll bet she's fit to be tied. Can't figure out what she sees in a character like you." "Just another mystery," I said. He walked away. His shoulders sagged, his steps were slow, shuffling. He was an adversary and a friend. I didn't like what they were doing to him. I went to Bosco Drug Store to pick up whatever prints were made from the roll of film I found in Bobby's camera. The clerk, a young guy with pimples and stringy hair, thumbed through the files, found the photo envelope and handed it to me. I paid and opened the envelope. There were three photos. I checked the film. Only three exposures. One photo was of the front of a man's shirt, real close up. Another was of a man moving so rapidly toward Bobby that his image was blurred. The guy was wearing a shirt similar to the one in the close up. The third photo was of four uniformed men standing at attention. Their leader had his back to the camera. I studied the photo. I'd have to put the negative under light and enlarge the image, see if I could recognize anyone in the group. I walked to my car, started the engine to cool the interior, and sat studying the photos. The close-up shirt was dark blue. Central City police wore white shirts with their uniforms. Security guards? Could the photos be of security guards? No one that I knew of in Central City used security guards. Except that one time when there was a strike at the cosmetic factory. Remembering made me shiver even though the car was just beginning to cool from the air conditioner. The company had hired guards from Control Security, Inc., of some place I'd never heard of in Louisiana. One of the guards, a guy who had the military bearing of a gung ho marine, and eyes that bore through me like ice daggers, had ordered me to stop taking photos when I was shooting them for an article I was doing on the strike. It was the first strike inside Central City anyone could remember, and, therefore, the Chicago Times was interested. I still remembered the guy's eyes. I continued to take photos, including one of him, but just the same, I was anxious to get it over with. The guy stared at me. I stared back when I wasn't shooting. I guess it was a draw, but I doubt that his memory of me, if he had one, sent shivers down his spine. At University and Locust, one of the busiest intersections in town, I nearly caused a riot when I sat in my car without moving when the light turned green. Who could have hired security guards? Honking horns reminded me that even in Central City stopping traffic is frowned upon by certain morons, including me if I'm behind the procrastinator. I drove on, finally remembering that I was on my way to make some photos of a damaged car for a Springfield insurance company. The car had been towed from the traffic accident to a garage three blocks from the high school. I shot photos of the damaged rear end from several angles, took notes so I could include a report and wondered how the driver was doing. I figured this was the car involved in an accident several days before in which one of the drivers was taken to the hospital. I drove to the high school to check on the record of one Robert Henders. He had applied for a job with McAllister Technology, Inc., in Chicago, and they had hired me to gather information about his school days in Central City. I'd already checked on his parents who still lived in Central City. The father was a maintenance worker at the cosmetics factory and the mother was a grade school teacher. In the school office Mrs. Fordyce frowned when I approached. I handed her the letter I'd received from McAllister Tech asking me to check on Robert Henders and his high school record. Without a word Mrs. Fordyce went to her files, pulled a sheet on Robert Henders, who had graduated seven years before, and handed it to me. "You can copy the information over there," she said as she pointed at a school desk pushed against a wall. "No need to block the way for others." "Of course," I said. "Thank you so much." I had finished and was returning the record to the office counter when a man in uniform came out of the principal's office. The principal, Gordon Hicks, was right behind him. Hicks saw me, directed the guy back into his office, and came across the room and asked me if I would like to go the cafeteria and get something to drink. "You don't serve beer here, do you?" I asked. "No, but we have a nice variety of fruit drinks." I allowed him to lead me out of the office. I'd already seen what he apparently hoped I hadn't. The guy in the uniform was wearing a dark blue shirt and a uniform coat similar to the ones in the photos Bobby Scalf had taken. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO* "Nice meal," I said as I cleaned my plate with a slice of bread. Maggie had cooked spaghetti and meatballs. We even had Italian bread with garlic butter. I had noted a packed suitcase sitting in the living room by the door but had said nothing about it. I figured she was going to visit one of her sons. Referring to the meal as I helped clear off the kitchen table, I said, "Are you trying to butter me up for some reason? And with garlic butter at that." "I'm going to be gone for the weekend," she said quietly. She turned away and rinsed the dishes. When the water stopped running I said, "Why don't you stay longer than that. I'd feel a lot better if you were away from here for awhile." "What?" She rattled the dishes, stacked them, and restacked them. "You're going to visit one of your sons, aren't you? You could stay longer than a weekend." "I'm going to Chicago with Matthew Grove. We're going to see a play and Sunday we're going to spend the day at the museum." "Matthew Grove. You're going to Chicago for the weekend with Matthew Grove?" She turned, put her hands on my shoulders and said, "Sit down, Nick. This is that talk I've been trying to have with you for a month." I sat. She paced in front of me. "We agreed, remember, that neither of us wanted to be committed." She was right, I had agreed to that. I had no happy memories of my mother's life, no memories at all of my father, and no memories of being close to any person who had a happy marriage. Now a weight settled in my stomach. My chest constricted. "Matthew Grove. He's a wimp. That's why you've been spending so much time at the library? Matthew Grove?" "Nick, I love you, I really do. The times we've had together, the adventures, the sex, I'll never forget it. But I promised myself after the divorce that I would stay out of entanglements and live while I still had time. I lived with you. Now I'm moving on. Matthew and I have things in common that don't interest you." "You mean like culture. I'm short on culture, right?" "Ya, youse are a little short on culture, mister." Her laugh was as hollow as I felt. "Are you coming home Monday then?" "No Nick, I'm moving to my own place. I've already rented an apartment. I want to be independent again. We're like a married couple. You said you don't want that. I was starting to feel like I had a right to question you about where you'd been when you came in late. I had enough of that with my marriage." She raced through the words. "You moving in with Grove?" "No." "What about The cat?" "You should keep The cat. Don't forget to feed it. You know how you are when you're on a case." "The cat will miss you. You spoiled it." She looked at me with moist eyes, held my gaze, and said, "I spoiled you, too." She turned away. "This is working out just fine. You'll have _Mister_ Grove and I'll have The cat." I stood and walked out of the room. "And you'll have your freedom, don't forget that," Maggie shouted after me. A few minutes later she came through the office carrying her suitcase. "I'll come back Monday while you're working and get the rest of my stuff." She was near tears. I turned away. No sense in both of us crying. Wouldn't change anything. She closed the door quietly and climbed the stairs out of my life. Like the end of a chapter. The cat wandered into the office, snooped around the edges, and leaped from the floor to the desk top with its usual aplomb. I turned on the radio, put my feet on the desk and rubbed The cat's neck. "What do you think about this," I said. "I told her you'd miss her. You will, won't you? Good thing I won't. I'll just go back to what I was doing before she came into my life. Like maybe I'll start bowling in more weekend tournaments. And practice more. I'll practice more." It was a long weekend, and the Cubs lost a doubleheader. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE* Monday I left the apartment early, came back because I'd forgotten to feed The cat, and then stayed away until late that night. By noon I had done as much of the routine stuff as I could stand. I ate lunch at Chester's -- hamburger and fries but no beer -- man did I want a beer, but I knew drinking one for lunch would turn into an afternoon of self pity and resentment, not to mention me getting drunk. A little after one I walked into Ben Wilson's office. He's a friend, an attorney, and a guy who loves to play golf. It's his way of pretending he's doing something about his weight. He was a widower who often hired me to gather information about traffic accidents, divorce cases and other exciting events. "What's up," he said when I slouched into a chair. "I think those assholes at city hall are going to try to get a grand jury to indict me for the murder of Bobby Scalf." "Do you really?" he said as he continued to look at a document flattened on his desk. "Well, I don't know. It's been suggested. They have my fingerprints, I think, from where the victim, Bobby Scalf, lived." He looked up from his confounded paper and said, "They don't have a case against you, and they know it." "How do you know?" He put down the pencil he'd been holding, pushed the document away, slid his chair back so he could clear his stomach, and stood. "You should have come to me long before this. You are a client. A freeloading client. Nevertheless a client. I hear things and when I do I check them out. They don't have beans on you." "Thanks," I said. "That's good to know." He nodded and went back to his work. I left. Only two o'clock. Why did I have to wait to have a beer until four? Because Otto said so. Back when I was younger and less careful Otto had refused to serve me beer until four o'clock in the afternoon. He said I drank too much. He was right, of course. He agreed to wait until four o'clock to have a drink if I did, and so there we were. Now that he was retired he abandoned the rule, but I was still trying to live by it. I knew about alcoholism from taking care of my mother from the time I was ten. I watched myself as I rationalized, like an alcoholic, that just this once I could have a beer before four o'clock if I wanted. Of course I could. If I wanted to get roaring drunk and make a fool of myself. No, I decided, Otto's rule had served me well and I would abide by it. I practiced bowling. It was ten after four when I finished my last game. A lack of concentration made the practice session useless. Thoughts of Maggie and that wimp Grove, thoughts of Bobby Scalf and how I was letting him down, and thoughts of a cold beer nagged at me like a kiss denied. I thought of having a cold one in the bar at the lanes but decided against that. The place was empty. I didn't want to start drinking alone. Good old Otto was where he should be, at Chester's, when I got there. He left a group of old farts he was sitting with and joined me in our favorite booth. I'd bought two glasses of beer at the bar and offered him one. "This is a red-letter day," Otto said. "Yeah, why? Because I bought you a beer? Did the Cubs win a game?" "Naw, it's even bigger than that. You're here having a beer without your ball and chain." His grin disappeared as he looked at me. "Hey, I was only kidding. What's a matter? She sick or something?" "Well," he said, after a long silence during which I mulled over the idea of telling him Maggie had left me. There was no way I was going to keep it from him. After a couple of beers I would be spilling my guts anyway. "Maggie left me," I said. "What? Maggie left you? I don't believe it." "Why not?" I scooted back in the booth and stretched my legs along its length. My feet stuck out a ways. I bent my legs as a guy went past on his way to the can. I resisted the urge to kick him as he passed. "Well, I mean, you two seemed to get along so good. I know it changed you into a human being, almost. Why would she leave you?" I swallowed the remainder of my beer. "She left me for a librarian," I said. "I don't believe it. You trying to tell me Maggie's a dike. I don't believe it." "The head librarian. Guy named Grove. She does that reading thing for the kids twice a week. Always going there to check out books. She reads a lot. Heavy stuff. Philosophy, stuff like that." "Damn, Nick, I'm sorry." "I hate to admit it, but so am I. Probably an ego thing. Can't imagine her leaving a macho guy like me for that wimp. Let's talk about something else. How bad did the Cubs lose?" Otto sipped beer. I pushed myself to the end of the booth and stood. "It was a good day. The Cubs didn't lose, they were rained out. Take it easy. I'll buy you a beer. Wait until I finish this one. They won't run out. Tell me about those murders. Getting anywhere?" "No. I owe it to Bobby to find out who did it and the reason why. And then there's this Jayson Arthur business. Who murdered him? I don't have a clue. Well, a few clues maybe, but I'm still pretty much in the dark. There's some kind of a conspiracy behind all of this, I think. It's just a feeling. I used to work with Brown on stuff like this, but now that new police chief and the mayor have him nailed. If he crosses them they'll go after his pension." "You'll just keep diggin' like you always do, won't you?" "I should, but now, I don't know. Maybe I'll just close up shop, get a job on the newspaper down in Springfield, maybe go back to Chicago, eat big city shit instead of little city shit, I don't know." "Maybe you don't know, but I do." Otto slid out of the booth and stood. "Just sit back down and feel sorry for yourself." Damn him, I thought. He sees right through me, always has. "What do you know?" I said when he got back. "You said you know." "I know you're feeling sorry for yourself," he said as he struggled into the booth. "Cheers," he said as he raised his glass. "You know, just like I know, that you're not going to leave Central City, at least not until you get to the bottom of these murders. You may not be the greatest detective but you're a bulldog reporter. Won't give up 'til you get the story. Right?" "That's some pep talk." I said. "Hell, let's do something exciting, like going to a movie." "One or two more beers so you can cry in yours and I'm walking home. And you're walking home, too. Give me your keys. You're not going out on the town. I know you're too cheap -- and probably too poor -- to take taxis." I didn't argue with Otto about the keys. I'd seen too many drunks at his old place insist while they could hardly stand that they were going to drive. I'd even helped Otto take the keys away from a couple of his regular customers. "Okay, so you've got my keys. I'll be here at six in the morning to pick them up. Got to get to work bright and early. You be here at six." "Yeah, in a pig's ass. I'll be here about nine or maybe ten. It'll give you time to think." "Maybe I'd better walk you home, Otto. You're so damned old I'm surprised you don't get lost when you're out at night." He stuck a finger upward, said he'd see me in the morning, and left. His apartment was a block and half to the south, mine a couple of blocks to the north. I wasn't drunk. He knew that, but he was right in thinking I would go out on the town if I had my car. Maybe even drive to The Hollow and have it out with Draggard. No, I didn't have enough guts to do that. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR* The cat was glad to see me. Well, perhaps not, but it was hungry and let me know it. I fed it, turned on the radio to some she-done-him-wrong music, put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes. Maybe I went to sleep. I doubt it. I was waiting for The cat to finish eating and appear on the desk to be petted. And I was avoiding looking in Maggie's closet and dresser. She had said she would clean out her stuff while I was gone. Now I didn't want to discover if she had. Where was The cat? It usually gulped its food and was on my desk, if I was sitting there, a few seconds later. I avoided looking at the bedroom and went into the kitchen. No cat. I turned off the light, straightened my shoulders, went into the bedroom and turned on the light. The cat sat on the bed. I knew Maggie's closet and dresser were empty. Still I had to look. Nothing in the closet, not even dust. I looked on the shelf above the hangers. Nothing. I opened the dresser doors. There was nothing in the first three. There's something sad about the sound an empty dresser drawer makes when it is opened. No use in opening the bottom drawer. But I did. There, far back in the corner, was the stub of a piece of yellow paper with printing on it. I tore it into little pieces after I looked at it. It was an overdue notice from the library. There was no hint of the aroma that used to float up from her open dresser drawers. But the scent of her lingered on the bed sheets like the memory of a first love. I made a mental note to change the sheets in the morning. There was no sense in torturing myself. What's that ad message? _Waking up without orange juice is like a day without sunshine._ Something like that. Anyway, I changed it to waking up without Maggie. The words stuck with me for hours. There wouldn't have been any sunshine outside even if Maggie had been there. It was raining, a nice steady rain that would soak the ground, make the corn grow and produce steam. What to do? I had to get back on the case. Roxanne, where was Roxanne? Back at The Hollow? Back to the degrading life she said she was forced to live there? What did I owe her? I couldn't rescue every girl, every person who was in a trap of one kind or another. Still, she might be a key to my finding out who killed Bobby Scalf. In the meantime I had to earn a living. There were a couple of routine cases I could work on. One involved checking the title to some property for a client of Ben Wilson's, the other a trip to Springfield to check some state records for a guy. After I checked the records and got the information he needed I lingered in a Springfield restaurant. I found a shop that did such work and had an extra key made for my car. It was past four o'clock when I got back to Central City and Chester's. Otto was there playing cards in a front booth with three of his cronies. I sat at the bar. I had no desire to sit in the booth he, Maggie and I had shared in the past. I was on my third beer by the time he nudged me on the elbow and said, "Hey, take it easy. I've been here for two hours and you're already a beer up on me. Let's sit in a booth. You know my old butt can't take those stools." After I got the two beers I'd ordered, I followed him to a booth near the continuing card game. Otto sensitive? Maybe. At least he didn't go to the booth we had shared in the past with Maggie. "You had anything to eat?" "Sure," I said. "I was in Springfield this afternoon. I had a fish sandwich and a milk shake." "When?" "I don't know. Who cares?" Otto fingered the glass in front of him, turned it around slowly, looked directly into my eyes and said, "Look, you go on a toot if you want, but don't include me." "Include you. Who's including you? Did I invite you over? Besides, who says I'm going on a toot? What a ridiculous expression. Toot. Sounds harmless enough. Going on a toot. Ha." "Let's go to Lou's, get something to eat. Some real food. We don't need more of the grease they sell here." Thus I found myself sitting in another booth at Lou's Restaurant where the not so elite meet to eat. Lou served beer so I didn't mind being there. I nibbled at my hot roast beef dinner until I discovered I really was hungry. I cleaned up the plate like a good boy and smiled at Otto. "There, old buddy, are you satisfied? I ate. Now let's go back to Chester's and have a few beers, talk about old times." Otto pointed a finger at me. I grabbed his hand and shook it. He stood and said, "You know what I want. Give me your car keys, and I'll have a couple of beers with you. After that you're on your own. At least I'll know you're not driving." I fumbled in my pocket, got the keys and handed them to him. He looked at me with questioning eyes. "What's going on? I've been around long enough to know most guys don't give up their car keys this easy." "It's just that I know you're right, Daddy." I couldn't suppress a snicker. We walked out of Lou's into the night. While we each nursed a beer I planned my trip to The Hollow. I would drive down there as soon as I shook Otto, go to the parking lot beside the trailers and pretend to be a customer of one of the women. Maybe I'd be able to learn if Roxanne was there. After that? I decided it didn't pay to plan too far ahead. Otto's parting words were, "You're not fooling me, dummy. You're coming back here to Chester's as soon as I get out of sight." I said, "Well, maybe, if I can't sleep." He walked his way, I walked mine. After a block I returned to Chester's parking lot, watched to see if Otto was lurking, went into Chester's and bought a six-pack of Old Style and drove to The Hollow. It took a while. I didn't want to be noticed. It finally occurred to me that driving as slowly as I was could get me noticed as quickly as if I were speeding. Besides, I didn't have to go slow. I was all right. I could drive as good as anyone. Going over a curb when I turned a corner at the edge of town wasn't my fault. Besides, no one noticed. At the parking lot there were only three cars that hadn't been there when I'd visited in daylight. Candle-shaped electric bulbs beckoned from above the doors of three of the trailers. I popped open a can of beer, downed it, popped open another and drank it while I plotted how clever I was going to be. The beer was gone much sooner than I liked. Nothing to do but go knock on the door of one of the trailers. I chose the middle light of the three and knocked. "Hey, you don't have to knock the door down, there's a buzzer there," a woman in a black and white house dress said after she opened the door. She gave me the once over and said, "Well, come in. Don't just stand there. Don't need no mosquitoes inside biting my butt." She closed the door quietly after I stepped in and flipped a switch near the door. Probably the outside light, I figured. "What's your pleasure?" the woman said. She was only a couple of inches shorter than I was and looked to be about as old. Her tired eyes were sunk in a bony face that eye makeup and painted lips didn't help much. "If you don't mind, er, well, I'd like to ask some questions." "God, another one of those. Just want to talk, huh? Well the price is the same. Fifty dollars up front." "Fifty dollars. Damn, I forgot about the money. I don't think I have that much." I pulled out my billfold and counted. Two twenties a five, a one and a little more than a dollar's worth of change in my pocket. "That's all I got," I said. "Only want to ask a few questions." She sat on the bed. It took up all the space at the far end of the trailer. A small television set sat on a fold-down table. A sink and refrigerator ate up much of the remaining space. "Well, give me the money," she said. I gave her all of it, including the change. She patted the bed beside her and I sat down. The side board dug into my behind. "I'm looking for a girl named Roxanne," I said. "She used to live around here and I think she probably has come back. Have you seen here?" She leaned away from me toward the pillows and flipped another switch. I expected exotic lights or something but nothing happened. "What was that switch?" "Just the outside light, we turn it off when we've got a customer." "I thought you turned off the outside light before," I said. "Well, I didn't. What's the dif? I don't know shit about no Roxanne. I got troubles of my own. I mind my own business." "Yeah, sure. How could you live here without knowing everyone else? I know she used to live here." "So what. Maybe that was before I did. We gonna do business or not?" "Yeah, like you got so many customers I got to hurry. You got my money. Now, damn it, answer my question. What skin off your skinny ass is it anyway?" "Shows what you know. We don't answer no questions like that around here, you'll find out." The trailer door opened and was filled by the body of a large man. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans plus a pair of boots made for kicking. I stood and faced him. "What's the trouble, Dora?" "This guy's asking questions. I didn't tell him a thing." She was near tears. My money, which she still was holding before the door opened, now had disappeared. She was shaking. "She didn't tell me anything. Who cares. The hell with this place. I'm leaving." "That's right," the guy said. "You're leaving." He held the door open and I stepped outside. The back of my head exploded. My knees buckled. I had no memory of being lugged to my car but when I came to I was sitting on the passenger side. I touched the back of my aching head and felt an egg-sized knot there. Both car doors were open. Three guys now stood outside the car. One of them was Draggard. He grinned at me. "Take this dummy out in the woods, you know where, and dump him. It'll sober him up before he gets back. If he ever gets back." Draggard left. One of the guys, the largest one, said, "You got any of that bug stuff." The other said, "Bug stuff?" "You know. Mosquito repellent. Those damned things will eat us alive out there, especially since it's rained a lot lately." "I'll get some from the Bronco. You lead him around behind The Hollow. Think you can handle him alone?" "Hey, he's drunk. I can handle him and you, too, if I have to. Get the friggin' stuff." He turned to me. "You try to run from me, buddy, I smash your friggin' face in, got that?" "Don't take me into the woods, please. I get poison ivy bad. It almost killed me once when I was a kid." He shoved me out to the road. I staggered, but my mind was clearing. Poison ivy! God, I hated the stuff. There was no way this goon was going to drag me into the woods and leave me there in the middle of the night. I stumbled on purpose, turned when he grabbed me, and shoved as hard as I could manage. He was forced backward a couple of steps, but he didn't fall. I staggered away from him down the road, gaining balance with each step. Was I getting away? He shoved me into the blacktop after only a couple of yards. I landed on my knees and hands. Scratches produced blood on each. "Don't try that again, stupid. I'll break your friggin' neck. All we gonna do is take you out in the woods, leave you. You'll find your way out by morning, maybe. So what if you don't. There's no bears in there. Snakes and some wild dogs I guess, but you can handle that, right sport." We circled The Hollow. I could see lights coming from below through the trees as we passed. Raucous laughter ebbed and flowed from below. I heard a door slam. Draggard's dogs barked, then were silent. The sounds from The Hollow faded. The scuffing of my feet against the road joined the rhythm of other night sounds. The other guy appeared in front of me. He handed a pressurized can to the guy behind me. "Hope this friggin' stuff works," the guy behind me said. "Yeah, me too, I hate mosquitoes," the other guy said. "What about me?" I said. "C'mon stupid. Get moving." I was shoved from behind and we continued down the road away from The Hollow. My eyes were adjusting to the lack of light. Yet, I never got a good look at either of their faces. All I saw of the one in front was his back. The guy behind me shoved me forward each time I tried to turn and look at him. "What about me?" I repeated. "Give me some of that mosquito stuff." "No friggin' way, buddy. You come snoopin' around here, you don't get no mosquito stuff when you being punished. Draggard don't want you around here. Maybe the mosquitoes will convince you to mind your own friggin' business." We marched on a few more yards and turned to the left, off the road. "Watch yer step," the guy in front of me said as he moved aside. The guy behind shoved. I fought to keep my balance for a few steps but lost it soon enough in the darkness as I tumbled down the steep embankment. I came to a painful stop against the base of a tree. A flash of light blinded me as I heard the two guys laughing and digging their heels in as they descended. "Turn off the flash," one said. "We go in the dark from now on. There's enough light to see, once you get used to it. We don't want Mister Smart Ass here seeing too much. He might not get lost." I stumbled at first, trying to follow and keep up with the guy in front of me. The guy behind didn't help. He shoved me whenever I lagged. The guy in front said, "Ya know, I didn't sign on for this kinda stuff. I hope Draggard doesn't start hunting this guy like he was a rabbit." "Shut up," the guy behind me said. "We could be accessories to murder, that's all I'm saying," the guy in front said. No more conversation. Just night sounds as we trudged along a dirt path. I could see the dim outlines of tree trunks and brush to either side. We turned right onto another path and later to still another to the left. The sky had cleared. I tried to find a star or something to fix on, but they all looked the same. How long had we been walking? My head ached. The sound of our feet plodding, plodding, and the hum of insects didn't hide the occasional scurrying sounds coming from the woods. I was trying to concentrate on the turns and twists in the trail we were following but constant mosquito bites made it difficult. We continued on. My legs tired. I had to do something to get in shape ... if I ever got out of the woods. Were they going to kill me? Just scare me? I was scared at first but, now I was just walking, walking. Neither guy had spoken for some time. I slowed and finally stopped. Let the guy behind me shove, I had to rest. There was no shove, just silence. In a few seconds I realized I was alone. How long ago had they left? Now I was scared. What the hell did I know about finding my way out of woods in the middle of the night? I turned and started back the way I'd come. I had to keep moving or the mosquitoes would suck me dry. "The least I'll get out of this probably is some awful illness like Lime disease or whatever," I mumbled. God, I was tired ... and sober. My eyes had adjusted even more. I could see the ground. I stopped tripping over bared tree roots. I came to a fork. Left or right? I chose left. A while later, when I would have collapsed if the mosquitoes hadn't driven me on, I came to another fork. I went right. I dragged a rotting log from beside the path and laid it on the dirt. I scratched out a large arrow in the ground pointing the way I'd come. Perhaps an hour later, so weary I'd stopped fighting the mosquitoes, I came upon the log and arrow again. I sat on the log and soon realized I had disturbed a mass of maggots, their squirming bodies catching bits of moonlight filtering down through the trees. The damned things were on my shoes, crawling up my legs. I frantically brushed them away and wiped my hands in the dirt. Off in the distance I heard a dog barking, then another. Moments later the barking sounded nearer. I went into the underbrush, no longer worrying about poison ivy, just bent on finding a club of some sort. I'd smash those damned dogs if they attacked me. I found a solid dead branch, stepped out into the path, and swung it at an imaginary attacker. I stood there, alert and ready, and realized I wasn't dreading a confrontation with the dogs, I was eager for it, ready for it. Let them come. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE* The barking faded. The dogs apparently weren't headed my way. Which way to go? I headed back the way I'd come and turned left at the first intersection. "No not that way," a quiet, throaty voice said. I whirled around, my club at the ready, but saw nothing. "Go straight. I'll tell you when to turn." I turned again and saw no one. I walked, expecting to be rapped on the head at any moment. I'd walked perhaps a block when I reached a fork in the path. "Guess I should go left," I whispered. I was beginning to wonder if I had imagined the voice. I hadn't heard a sound since I started walking again. "Go right," the voice said. A woman? It could be. I went right and then left as I was instructed. It had been at least fifteen minutes since I heard from my benefactor, if that's what it was. I'd come to another choice. I could go straight ahead or to the left or right. I figured left, maybe. "Now you go straight ahead. There are no more forks. You'll come to a steep bank. Climb it and you'll see the blacktop. Go to the right to the parking lot and your car. It's still there. Push it around so it is headed out of the lot, start it and get out of there." I was looking in the direction of the voice and imagined I could see a pair of eyes. "Thanks," I said. It was like talking to a shadow. I walked on and came to the bank. I slipped back several times as I tried to climb out of the woods. I threw the club up and heard it land on something hard. The road? New cuts and bruises were added to my hands and knees before I got to the top and found my club on the other side of the road. I sat on the edge of the black top for several minutes. My legs ached as I struggled to my feet. I trudged along the edge of the road and into the parking lot. The moon slid out from behind a cloud and turned the lot into a horror movie scene. My poor little Escort sat alone. Anyone approaching it would be easily seen by lurking eyes. I hoisted the club to my shoulder and continued on to the car, too tired to care if they were waiting for me. I'd do as much damage as I could and... "I took the car out of gear. We'll push it a ways before you start it. They might be sitting around drinking beer, waiting, but I doubt it. I didn't hear anything." I nearly dropped the club. A shadow rose from beside the car. It was the voice that had been quietly directing me. I could make out a slim figure dressed in black. Even the face was covered. The door on the driver's side was open. I pushed from behind while the shadow pushed and steered the car out of the parking lot. We rolled silently down the road until I fell, unable to keep my legs moving fast enough to keep up. The shadow jumped into the front seat as I watched and stopped the car. I wiped my bleeding hands on my once-white T-shirt and struggled to my feet. The shadow still was sitting in the driver's seat so I struggled into the passenger side. "Home, James," I said. "Huh?" "Never mind. Where are we going?" "I've decided to go with you. It looks like I can trust you," the voice said. A black mask was pulled from the face of ... Roxanne. "Well, I'll be damned," I said. She started the car and drove away, shifting gears like a beginner. The various stabs of pain from my skinned knees and hands nagged at me, and I itched. I wanted to sleep but there was no way. Pain and itching denied me the blessing. Poison ivy. Not yet. I would break out in about three days, judging from past experiences. Mosquito bites were causing the itching. And, if I scratched, I might spread the agony of poison ivy. "I didn't trust you, that's why I ran away. Now I don't think you're on their side. I'm going to stay with you for a bit, okay?" "Sure," I said as I squirmed. What would Maggie think? To hell with what Maggie thought. I didn't care about anything except doing something to stop the itching so I could go to bed. "I suppose the mosquitoes had a feast on you," Roxanne said. She drove the Escort around behind my apartment building and parked in my spot. Maggie's spot was empty. Probably just as well since Roxanne was with me. Yet it seemed unbelievable that Maggie would think I had a thing going with a teen-ager. No, that wasn't the reason she left. It was because I was a step or two below in class. Got any Calamine lotion?" Roxanne said as she opened the door and got out of the car. I could see her face now. It was thinner, even, than before. "It will help stop the itching," she added. "I don't know. I do have some Tec-Nu. It's stuff for poison ivy. It stops the itching." "Got anything to eat?" she asked as I unlocked the door to my office and apartment after we descended the stairs. "Yeah, I guess. Breakfast food. Some eggs maybe. A couple of TV dinners. You eat anything you want. I'm going to get in the tub and soap up. That's supposed to help if you're a sucker for poison ivy, like me." Later, after I'd washed the bits of gravel and dirt from my hands and knees and was leaning back in the tub beginning to feel as though I might live, she came into the bathroom, sat on the stool and finished off an egg sandwich. She had taken off the black leotards and black turtle neck sweater and was partially covered by a tank top and a faded pair of blue panties. I was embarrassed, but she seemed completely at ease. "You got anything I can put on your knees and hands to prevent infections?" she said. "There's some peroxide in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Maggie used it for something." My hands and knees stung as she applied generous portions of the stuff, rubbing it in with her hands. Her staying with me wasn't going to work. I'd have to find out where Maggie was living and see if she would let Roxanne live with her. Roxanne wiped her hands on a towel and flipped the tank top over her head. She was about to drop her panties when I said, "Hey, wait a minute little girl. Let me get out of here before you do that." "Little girl hell," she said. "I don't think I ever was a little girl." "Maybe not," I said as I stood and turned my back to her. "But you're jail bait and I've got enough problems. Let me get out of here and then you can have the tub. We'll have to get you some clothes. Maggie's gone. Didn't leave anything." "I wondered," Roxanne said, "when I didn't see her in the bedroom." I retreated to the bedroom and found a pair of wrinkled pajamas that had resided in the bottom drawer of my dresser since I got them as a birthday gift from some forgotten woman. With them securely on I stood at the outside of the bathroom door and informed Roxanne, who was hidden under sudsy water, that I would sleep on the couch. "No you won't," she insisted. "I'm shorter. And where I been sleeping lately, the couch will be like heaven." I returned to the bedroom, thought of discarding the pajamas, decided against that, and crawled into bed. God I was tired. The itching had subsided. I must have gone to sleep immediately. I don't remember another thing until I awoke at dawn with Roxanne snuggled beside me. I must have moved because she whispered, "Sorry if I woke you up. Please let me stay. I just want you to hold me. I want to feel safe for a few minutes, maybe a few hours." Her voice was small, like that of a child's. I put an arm over her shoulder as she moved closer. She was fully clothed with the black stuff she had worn in the woods. It smelled of sour sweat. She moved her head next to mine. Her hair smelled sweet, clean, like Maggie's. Ignoring the sour smell as much as I could, I enclosed her in my arms and said, "Go to sleep, go to sleep." When I awoke later we still were wrapped in each other's arms. Her face was aglow with the sweet smile of innocence. I thought she still was asleep. "Thank you," she sighed. Soon she was asleep again. I wondered if Maggie would understand, or even care. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX* I slept until near ten o'clock and when I eased out of bed Roxanne was snoring quietly. Later as I sat in the kitchen I heard running water in the bathroom. Was she taking another bath? I listened to a lot of sloshing around and finally had to investigate. Sounded like she was giving herself swimming lessons in the tub. The bathroom door was open. She was on her knees with her back to me, bent over the edge of the tub. Vertebrae showed through tightly drawn skin. Hips flared. The bottoms of her feet were tucked neatly underneath her. The scene reminded me of an oriental drawing I'd seen of a naked woman doing her washing. I returned to the kitchen. What to do with her? Turn her over to police? Could I do that after she led me out of the woods? She said she trusted me. She was a friend of Bobby's. I owed him. And now I owed her. Maggie. Maybe she could stay with Maggie until I got more information. Would that be fair to Maggie? Harboring a murder suspect was no small thing. "Is there a dryer around?" Roxanne asked. She was standing in the kitchen door with her wet clothes bunched in front of her. "Yeah, there's one behind this apartment. Washer, too. You could have used that. I'll take them to the dryer. Might be someone in the laundry room." She checked to see if the clothes were covering her body. "I'll get you one of my T-shirts. I've got to get Maggie to take you until we get things straightened out. I don't even know where she lives, but I think she's living alone." Roxanne sat down, the wet clothes in her lap. Water dripped between her legs onto the floor. "Why can't I stay with you? I'll wear clothes and I won't get in bed with you again. Thanks for holding me last night. It's the best sleep I've had since, well, you know." "You're underage. I could get in big trouble. But more than the age thing, what if Draggard or some of his goons from The Hollow want you? This is the first place they'd look." "They want me, no doubt about that. I've heard them talking. They think they're so smart, parading around in that field, playing their games in the woods. In that black outfit I sneaked right up on them during their silly games, heard everything they said." "Who are _they_?" "I'm not telling anybody what I know. It's the only thing I got. If you want what I know maybe you'll protect me?" "The only way you'll ever be free of them is when they are in jail. Help me find out who killed Bobby and Arthur?" "I thought that was the cops' job. All you want is the story." I felt like smacking her. She should have known by then that I wanted to avenge Bobby's death as much as anything else. I held my tongue, waited until the blood pressure eased, and said, "The cops are working on it, I'm sure. But they have a lot of other things to do. So do I for that matter. You could help, maybe, if you'd trust someone." "Maybe, later." After several silent seconds I said, "You'd be safer with Maggie." "Well, ya, maybe. Will she want me?" "I hope so. After you eat breakfast we'll go to the public library. This is Maggie's day to read to her children's group. You join them. Maybe she'll take you in when she sees you." "Where you gonna be?" "I'll wait outside. If it doesn't work out you can leave and we'll try to figure out something else." She stood, put the clothes on the chair, and left the room. She came back wearing a T-shirt Otto had given me as a gag. Red letters across the front spelled out "Naked Coed Bowling." "Well, it covers me, doesn't it?" she said after I laughed. When her clothes had dried she put on the black leotards and the tank top. It wasn't exactly demure but I figured it was the best we could do. Maggie certainly would notice her, and so would others. "You gotta go in with me, show me where she is. I'm nervous. Never been in a library before." "Okay, I'll go with you, but I don't want Maggie to see me. She'll get upset if she sees me. She'll think I'm spying on her." Roxanne held back as we crossed the lot after parking the car. I waited. When she caught up she said, "What happened between you and Maggie?" "She left me for a better man," I said. "Don't worry about people looking at you. People in a library are interested in books, not people." I knew I was lying the minute the words came out. Roxanne looked doubtful. She hoisted the tank top, squared her shoulders and said, "Okay, let's go. I'd feel much better if you'd just let me stay with you. Guess you're afraid I'll seduce you, me being jail bait and all." "C'mon, jail bait," I said. The Central City Library, near the middle of the city at Conrad and Wilshire streets, is a one-story building spread over much of a square block. Parking is in the back and on both sides. We parked in back and walked in a back door. It already was hot. The library was cool and quiet ... at first. We walked past rows of book shelves, book displays and people wandering in an out, looking at books. Roxanne said, "Where did they get all the books?" "This is an old library, a small library really. They've been gathering books for years. Every year they get more." As we neared the center of the building we heard the children. Their voices were subdued but not enough that we couldn't hear them express wonder, fear, and excitement. And in between was Maggie's voice, low and steady, reading a story about a raccoon named Eddie. I pointed. Roxanne nodded. She hesitated, looked at me, fussed with her hair, and disappeared around a book case. It was several minutes later when Maggie stopped reading and said, "Just a minute children, I'll be right back. Keep your seats now and think about what might happen to Eddie." I had been sitting. I walked to a back window and looked out. The sun was blazing away, a wind had come up and was blowing leaves across the parking lot, a woman with two kids was headed toward her car. Someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned. It was Maggie. "We've got to talk. Outside." She marched to the back door and out into the heat. She held her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun. The breeze pushed her summer dress against her body, outlining it. "Where's Roxanne?" I asked. "What do you think you're doing? I've got a new life now. No more sneaking around breaking the law. I imagine she's still wanted by police. Right?" "Look Maggie, she's in trouble. I owe her. I've got to help her. She can't stay at my place. She's too young. And besides, that will be the first place Draggard and his henchmen look." Maggie glared at me. I took her elbow and led her to the shade of a huge oak tree that had been subject of a fuss when the library board wanted to cut it down. Maggie said, "Just take Roxanne and get out of here. What will Mister Grove think if Roxanne lives with me? What am I supposed to tell him, she's my daughter?" I couldn't hide the smile. Maggie said "Damn you, Nick. How long would it be? She can't live with me forever. You've been fumbling around with this case too long now. Will it ever be over? I've got to get back to the kids. I told Roxanne to entertain them." "Still call him Mister Grove. How exciting." She put her hands on her hips, faced me, and said, "We're just friends. You wouldn't understand that, would you, Nick? A man and woman being just friends." I tried to stop remembering how her body felt against mine, remembering our quiet moments in the morning drinking coffee and preparing for the new day. "Nah, I wouldn't understand. What about Roxanne though. I'm trying to be her friend." "Yeah, I'll bet. All right. I'll take her for a few days. I'm her friend, too, you know. She's so young and she's been through so much." "Thanks, Maggie," I said as I looked into those wondrous eyes. She matched my gaze for a moment, looked away, said, "I've got to get back to the kids. Take care of yourself, Nick. I'll call you if you need to come and get Roxanne." She turned and hurried back into the library. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN* "Fumbling around with the case," Maggie had said. Fumbling was the right word. It occurred to me that it's what I always did. Just sort of hung around, asked questions at times, held back others until something broke. What was it one of the guys who took me into the woods said? He didn't hire on to lose people in the woods in the middle of the night. Why did he hire on? Who was paying him and the others? What were they doing? They couldn't be working for Draggard, surely. How could he make enough money at The Hollow to pay for a miniature army? Who then? Chester's Bar & Grill lured me, and I wasn't hungry. I could go there, talk more with Otto about the goons that were hired in the past to keep migrant workers in line, maybe have a few beers. Before I knew it the day would turn into night and I could sit around at Chester's and drink without a guilty conscience. None of that would bring Maggie back. Did I really want her back? Now I was free to practice bowling whenever I wanted, free to enter all the tournaments I wanted, free to... I could have gone to the library to research the strike. Instead I went to the newspaper. The newspaper's home, a brick and glass building, perhaps twenty years old, was one of the newer business structures in town. A sign in front whispered, "Central City Press" in slim, black, block letters on a lime background. Inside I walked past the reception desk, stopped at the cafeteria and picked up coffee in a Styrofoam cup from the ever-ready urn, trudged up the familiar stairs to the second floor news room, went past all the cubicles housing computers, desks and censored reporters, and into the morgue. It was a room in the far left corner containing a film record of what the newspaper had published over the years. Bonita Baldwin, the head librarian, looked older than I remembered her. I probably looked older than she remembered me. Her gray eyes shone as she said, "Well hi Nick, what brings you back to the propaganda factory?" "I just couldn't stand being away from you any longer. I missed your smiling face, the slender contours of your magnificent frame, the glow of your personality." "The same old line, huh. Some things never change. The slender contours of my magnificent frame have turned even more flabby since you left. Does Mister Seymour know you're in the building? I thought he issued orders you were never to darken our doorstep again." I turned and looked back across the news room. No sign of Seymour or his wife. "They don't know I'm here. Mrs. Seymour is probably off to New York or Paris and Warren is probably at the club having a wee drink. You didn't know he and I are on a first name basis, did you?" "Right, I didn't know, and I still don't. You've lied to me in the past, remember. What's up." "I know you're too young to remember, but as always you're right on top of things. I want to do some research on migrant workers, the canning factory that used to be here, and the goons that were hired to keep the migrant workers in line when they threatened to strike just as the pumpkins were ripening." "Too young to remember. I'm past sixty and you know it. Still throwing that baloney around, trying to seduce an innocent woman. Sure, we've got some stuff. It happened thirty years ago. But if you really want to get the picture have the Chicago Times send you copies of their reports. They had a reporter and photographer down here for a couple of weeks. Told the workers' side of the story. You won't find any of that in the Central City Piss records." "Past sixty and saying nasty things about the newspaper that has paid you such a handsome salary all these years. I'm surprised." It was like old times, chit chatting with Bonita. For a wayward second I found myself going nostalgic. A voice from behind brought me quickly back to the present. "What are you doing here _Mister Bancroft._ I told you to stay away from here. Why are you talking to him, Bonita?" "Why _Mister Seymour,_ how nice to see you again. Bonita was just telling me she couldn't talk to me. Broke my heart. I came to see her. She was the love of my life. Oh how I miss her, and of course you and the newspaper atmosphere. Don't you just love the newspaper atmosphere? So different from the slave-labor plantations of your Caribbean home. It must have been tough to leave when a young woman who had just inherited a newspaper from her dead daddy came along." I had wanted to say that to him since the day I quit, but never had the opportunity before. I was out of breath by the time I got the words out. Bonita turned, but not in time to hide the little smile she couldn't suppress. She busied herself at a file cabinet in the back of the room. "Good-bye my love," I said as I brushed past Warren Seymour. I felt good. As I left the building and shielded my eyes against a bright sun I bumped into Gordon Hicks. "Sorry," I said. He extended his hand. We shook. I wasn't sure why. "I'm here on school business," he insisted. I had no reason to doubt him, did I? I sat in my parked Escort and sweltered. I didn't start the motor and turn on the air because I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I wasn't even sure of the reason why I was lurking. Several people came and went as I settled into a stakeout of the entrance to the building. Gordon Hicks came out. A few moments later Mrs. Seymour followed. They got into a black Mercedes. Mrs. Seymour drove them away. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT* I was feeding The cat and thinking of Maggie when Ben Wilson called. "Learned something today thought might interest you," Ben said, his deep, rich voice resonating in my ear. "And that is?" "A couple of parents are suing the school board because, they claim, their son was injured when guards hired by the school board manhandled him at school. Without reason, of course." "Guards? What guards, off-duty cops?" There was a pause. Wilson was eating something. "No, not off-duty cops. According to the claim, these guards are working for the school board. Some kind of security-system guards. I didn't know the school board had hired guards, did you?" I put The cat food on the floor to keep The cat from knocking the receiver out of my hand. "No, but it's not surprising. The school board does a lot of things in private. It's Trudi Seymour's private play thing, you know." "Yeah, right. Thought you might be interested. Could be a story there." "Thanks, Ben. How's the golf game these days. Still riding the golf cart instead of walking around the course like you should?" "I've gained five pounds since golf season started. How the hell do you skinny guys do it, anyway?" "Skinny. I'm not skinny, I'm all muscle." "I'm not talking about your head. How's Maggie?" "She's fine," I said. "Thanks," I added. "Keep up that intense exercise of getting in and out of the golf cart and I'm sure you'll lose weight." Silence settled over the office after The cat finished eating. I drummed my fingers on the desk. The cat landed noiselessly near my hand and awaited petting. "Do you suppose," I said as I rubbed behind one cat ear, "that there is any connection between school guards and those goons out at The Hollow?" The cat purred. Did that mean yes? I decided I'd probably get a more reliable answer if I got off my dead ass and went to the court house, read the suit and visited the parents who filed it. The Circuit Clerk's office had the usual long counter with the public on one side and the public servants on the other. I didn't recognize the clerk who asked, "May I help you." She was a little woman who wore rimless glasses and smiled like she really meant it. A welcome addition to the office. Her corn-colored hair was pulled away from her face and neatly gathered in back where an inch-wide band held it in place. "A suit has been filed against the school board by parents who claim their son was injured by guards at the high school. I'd like to see it, please." "Yes sir, just a moment, I'll get it. Lots of interest in that suit." She walked into rows of filing racks off to the right and soon was back with the document. "You can't take it away from the counter, but I guess you know that Mister Bancroft," she said. "Mister Wilson said you would be along to look at it. You are Bancroft, aren't you?" "Yes, thank you," I said. She smiled. The document stated that Mr. and Mrs. Charles Gooding, parents of Shawn Gooding, were suing the Central City High School Board for unspecified damages because guards at the school, hired by the school board, had, without cause, wrenched the shoulder of their son, thereby damaging it, causing the son discomfort, the parents' medical bills, and the family mental distress. I smiled at the clerk, ask her name, and was told it was Amanda Wonder. "Really," I said. "What a nice name. It fits you. Thanks for your help." She smiled. The Gooding family lived in a white, trimmed in green, small clapboard house on Gilmore Avenue three blocks from the high school. Mrs. Gooding and her son were home. The husband was at work. I didn't ask where. I introduced myself. Mrs. Gooding offered a cup of coffee. Shawn offered a scowl. His mother was short, overweight, and tired, judging from her sagging face. She wore a print house dress and had not yet, apparently, combed the sleep wrinkles out of her hair. Shawn's hair was longer than his mother's, he hadn't shaved for awhile, perhaps never, and his shorts were held up by his hip bones. The crotch was somewhere around his knees. He wore a pair of untied running shoes -- probably cost his parents a fortune -- and no shirt. The kind of teen-ager I always felt like busting just on principle. But then, I always reminded myself, when I was a teen I was no doubt just as annoying to any adult who suffered the misfortune of associating with me. When I asked Shawn what happened he looked at his mother and said, "Dad told us to keep quiet. I'm not tellin' nothin' and neither is ma. Why should I tell you anyway?" "I already have information from the suit. I can write a story from that. I thought you might want to explain further what happened." "They told us not to," Shawn said. "Who?" "You better leave," Mrs. Gooding said. "He's right. We were told not to discuss the case with anyone. Sorry." She opened the screen door, and I left. Had they already been offered a settlement? The next day the suit was withdrawn. -------- *CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE* The report I filed with the Chicago Times landed on an inside page. An e-mail from Joe Barnes, one of the state editors at the Times, suggested I follow up, find out who the guards were, where they came from. The guards had gone unnoticed by the general public and the media, including me. I couldn't remember the school board hiring them, I didn't know where they came from or how much they were paid. I called the newspaper and asked for Mrs. Seymour. Nothing like going to the source. I gave my name when asked, waited, waited, and was about to hang up when a distinct -- in the Midwest -- voice said, "What is it you wish to talk to Mrs. Seymour about, sir?" It was Warren Seymour himself. He wasn't lowering himself to speaking my name. "It is my desire, old boy, to talk to Mrs. Seymour about school board business. Since she is president of the school board and has been since soon after she brought you back from the Caribbean, I thought she would be the person to question. However, if you are up to snuff, as I suppose you are, perhaps you can tell me when the school board hired guards. Who are they? How much are they paid? Is it true they carry guns, threaten students and beat reporters who ask too many questions?" "I don't know the answer to your last question _Mister Bancroft_ but it seems like a good idea in your case. Mrs. Seymour is out of town and I have no desire or inclination to answer your questions." He must have replaced the telephone receiver gently because, for a couple of seconds, I didn't realize he'd cut me off. Later Gordon Hicks sat behind his large desk. I sat on an upholstered, properly sedate chair. I asked when the board voted to hire guards. "I don't believe the board voted to hire guards," Hicks said. "Does that mean that you hired guards without school board approval?" "No, it does not," Hicks said. He stood, paced behind his desk, and turned away. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked out upon the student parking lot. "We're not going to have a Columbine or any other kind of crazed shootings here at Central City High School," Hicks declared. I stood, walked around his desk and joined him at the window. He pointed toward the parking lot. "Look at those cars. Most of them expensive. These children have all the opportunities. They have it made. And yet, because their mama didn't kiss them good night or their daddy spent too much time making money so they could live like this, because of those horrible things, every once in a while, one of them goes berserk, starts shooting. No discipline. That's the trouble. No discipline at home. "It isn't tender loving care they need, it's discipline. If I could get away with it I'd march their pampered asses until they dropped. Teach them discipline." When he turned to face me his eyes were blazing, his face was flushed. "Sorry," he said, "for the speech. It's one of the problems of dealing with children, children still young mentally but at the peak of their danger to others physically. "Not all of them, of course. Not all of them by any means. But we, just like the rest of society, have our dangerous ones, the ones that have to be taught that they must comply with the rules." Hicks went back to his chair, sat down and swiveled it so he faced the chair I had left. I returned to it and sat. He looked above and beyond my head, apparently deep in thought. "I'm still asking. When did the school board authorize the hiring of guards?" "You attend all the meetings. I'm sure you were there. The board authorized an amount for school security. School security includes the hiring of guards. They all know about it." Now it was my turn to look off into space. I did recall a vote a year or so ago in which the board approved a relatively small amount for security related matters without spelling out what they were. "The only thing I remember, the board once approved a small amount for security stuff. I don't remember any mention of hiring guards. And the amount was small. Much too small to pay for guards." "C'mon Nick. What's this about? Your memory must be wrong. I've got the approval of the board. We've had no problems about security since I hired the guards. Everyone is satisfied. What's your complaint?" "It all seems so secret. School business is public business. Where are these guards? I've never even noticed them." "Aha. There, you see how unobtrusive they are. The only ones who notice them are the scum who try to disrupt the discipline of the school." His face was flushed again. "I'd like to see the minutes of the meeting when the board approved this appropriation for security. It must cost more than any amount I remember being authorized." Hicks came around the desk, forced a smile, and draped a heavy arm over my shoulder. "Nick you're one of the best reporters I've ever met. I enjoy your stuff when it appears in that Chicago paper. But I think Mister Seymour and the others are right. You should show some concern for our town. "We're trying to prevent another Columbine from happening here. If you insist on going into the details of how we are financing our efforts, well..." "Perhaps you're right," I said. "What the public doesn't know about how tax money is being spent won't hurt them, right?" "Now Nick, you know I didn't say that. I'm just, well, the money was properly appropriated. What we're doing is right." His lips curled into the shape of a smile. It was more menacing than any frown I'd ever seen. It occurred to me I didn't really know this man. "What about the minutes?" "I don't have an official copy. See Mrs. Buckley." I drove to the business district and took the elevator in the Proctor Building to the fifth floor and the office of August Warner, the school board's attorney. His secretary, Mrs. Ruth Buckley, also happened to be the school board secretary. She took the minutes of the meetings. I hoped to get to her before Hicks ordered her to keep the minutes under wraps. August Warner had always seemed to me to be over qualified for the job of school board attorney. I figured it couldn't pay the kind of fees he must get as the legal eagle for the newspaper and for other institutions about town. His office upheld my opinion. Plush was in, from the spongy carpet in the reception area to the subdued lighting and soft elegance of the upholstered furniture. I pulled one of the chairs up to the reception desk and sat across from Ruth Buckley, who was on the phone, holding the receiver expertly against her ear as she sorted a number of stamped envelopes. Apparently the day's mail had arrived. "Yes," she said after a few seconds, "I'll tell Mister Wagner as soon as he arrives." She listened a few seconds more, said "Surely," and placed the receiver in its cradle. "Mister Bancroft," she said. She smiled. I supposed it was a business smile, there for all of Mister Wagner's clients. Still, it was nice. Warm and friendly, like Maggie's. "I need to check on the school board minutes. Over the last several months. I'm not sure how far back I have to go." "Maybe I can help," she said. "What is it you want to check on?" "There was an appropriation several months ago for security. As I recall, it was for a small amount." "School security? I believe that was more than a year ago. But the amount wasn't that small. It was for five-hundred thousand dollars." "You've got quite a memory. I thought it was for a much smaller amount. That's why I didn't think much about it at the time." Her phone rang. She started to place the receiver on her shoulder but it never arrived there. She glanced at me, listened, hung up, and fussed with the letters on her desk. "I'd just like to see the minutes. Need some information for a piece on school safety." "I'm terribly busy, Mister Bancroft, you should get them to show you the minutes at the school. Those are the official ones anyway. The ones I keep here, the ones I used to keep here, are not official." I stood and put my hands in my back pockets. "When you call Mister Hicks back tell him I said 'Hello.'" She wasn't smiling as I left. At the library, after noting that Maggie wasn't there, I scanned copies of the Central City Press looking for the printed minutes of the school board meeting that included the security appropriation. By the time I found them my eyes were rolling like the damned film viewer. The minutes said an appropriation of five-hundred thousand was approved for school security. I started at the words. I read the minutes. I recalled more and more of the routine meeting. I recalled thinking then that I was wasting my time attending the meetings. As long as I was there Trudi Seymour was not going to let anything controversial be discussed, let alone acted upon. And, damn it, the amount of the security appropriation had been five thousand dollars. I remembered thinking it probably was for repairing and replacing school door locks, stuff like that. The amount had been changed after the meeting. My first thought, after my eyes adjusted and my headache subsided slightly, was to contact one or more of the school board members. See if I could get one of them to recall that the amount voted on was five thousand dollars. I sat on a bench under an elm tree outside the library and sighed. I thought it would be useless, contacting the board members. I figured they all were under Trudi Seymour's thumb. Or was it Gordon Hicks whose thumb pushed the control buttons? Mrs. Farnsworth, the knitter, was friendly. She had been on the board only a couple of years. I wondered why she ran. She just sat at the meetings knitting away. Never said anything, just sat there, knitted and smiled. Her husband, Roger, was a business man. Keeping his name in the news as she campaigned for public office probably didn't harm his furniture business. I was thoroughly depressed by late evening when I got home to a hungry cat and an empty apartment. I felt guilty as I watched "Fluffy" gulp food. That's what Maggie suggested we call The cat early on. It was a mean stray that tolerated us only because of the food and she wanted to call it "Fluffy." Later I discovered it was male and she admitted that "Fluffy" wasn't an appropriate name. "I was only kidding anyway, you dope. Fluffy! I'd just as soon call you Fluffy as call The cat that." "You've just named it," I said then. "We'll call it The cat." I was asleep when the phone rang. I reached it without taking my feet off the desk. I yawned. "Am I keeping you up?" My stupor-sluggish blood began racing through my veins. It was Maggie. "Nick?" "Yes, hello, I was, well, why are you calling?" "I wondered how you were, and how's The cat? You are feeding it, aren't you?" "Of course I'm feeding it. It lets me know in no uncertain terms when I forget." "The reason I called is, well I think you and Matthew should get together." "Let's go back to talking about feeding The cat. Why in the world would I want to _get together_ with the guy who ... What would we do? Discuss library books or compare performances? Yours or ours?" "Stop it, Nick. Don't be nasty. Matthew wants to talk to you. He asked me to ask you, that's all." "You got that right, baby, that's all." I hung up. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY* The next morning I fed the cat, straightened up the apartment and gathered my laundry. I didn't want Maggie to see the mess I had created since she left. I had no reason to think she would visit, did I? Still, she wanted me and her Matthew to meet, and she was a determined gal when she made up her mind about something. What possible reason could she have, Matthew have, to want to talk to me? Probably had some pissy-ass idea about gaining publicity for the library and thought he could do it through me. The hell with that. Still, the library was important to Central City, and maybe I would see Maggie if I agreed to talk to him. Just like a mooning teen, dying to see his true love, at any cost to his dignity. No, I wouldn't do it. If she called again I'd hang up. She didn't call. Matthew did, just after I got back from the washing machines, dryers and a yaking woman from one of the upstairs apartments. "Mister Bancroft, this is Matthew Grove. I have something important about which I'd like to speak to you." I was folding clothes, shorts in this pile, T-shirts in another. My socks and handkerchiefs were in a pile on the telephone and when I lifted the receiver they tumbled to the floor. Cursing didn't help, but I did it anyway. "Are you there? Is this Mister Bancroft?" "Yes, this is Mister Bancroft," I managed to say. "What, Mister Grove, could we possibly have to talk about?" "I'd really rather do this in private, sir. If you like we could meet at that place where you go after work, Chester's I believe, or at your office maybe. I wouldn't want to discuss this over the phone." "Would Maggie be there?" "Yes, she suggested it would be a good idea if we compared notes. I'll explain when we meet. It is important." "Compare notes? I can't believe this. Okay, we can meet at Chester's about five o'clock this evening," I said. "That's fine. I'll be off work by then and so will Maggie. We'll meet you then. Thanks, Mister Bancroft." He hung up before I could say, "You're welcome Mister Grove." The words had formed in my befuddled brain, but would I really have said that? It was a long day. I caught up on some leg work for Wilson and drove to Springfield to gather information on a guy who had made some powerful claims in a job application he sent to Framework, Inc., in Chicago. The guy claimed he was a confidant of the representative from our district, Frederick Hathaway. I could have called. However, I wanted to get out of Central City, get my mind off the murder, and kill time until I met Matthew Grove -- and saw Maggie. The day dragged until I got to Chester's about half an hour early and wrapped myself around a cold one. Otto joined me. We talked about the Cubs and another loss. "Since you're so busy I don't suppose you saw the game today," Otto said. "No." "No what? You're not so busy or you didn't see the game?" "Both," I said. "Anyway, the Cubs go into the ninth inning ahead nine to five. Four runs. They bring in Larento, our great closer, and he can't get the ball over the plate. Walks two guys. They bring in Buckner, the young guy they're trying to turn into a closer. He throws two strikes, both over ninety-five miles per. The batter, Grissom, fouls one pitch, misses the other. Buckner has two strikes, no balls on the hitter. What does he do?" I looked at the clock above the bar. Fifteen minutes to five. I'd have time for another beer. "Well," Otto said. "What?" "The Cubs, Buckner. You ain't payin' attention. Buckner's got this guy right where he wants him and instead of wasting a pitch or two, maybe getting him to chase a bad one, he grooves the next pitch and the guy knocks it into the left field bleachers. Grissom. He hit only two homers all of last year. Of course we go on to lose the game." "Typical," I said. "That's all you got to say, typical? What's with the clock. You expecting a raid or something?" "I'm meeting a guy at five o'clock. Want another beer?" "Well, why not. Since you insist." I had returned from the bar with two glasses of beer and was about to sit down when Maggie and Grove came in. Maggie was radiant. She was wearing white shorts accented by her tanned thighs, a red blouse that matched her sandals and a nervous smile. She led Grove over to our booth and introduced him to Otto Kamp. There was a bit of conversation I didn't hear. I was engrossed in looking at Maggie. She was engrossed in avoiding looking at me. "Why don't I join Otto, and you guys can talk in one of the empty booths," Maggie said. "Should I get you something to drink?" Grove asked Maggie. As an afterthought he said, "How about you Mister Kamp and you?" He looked at me. I held up my half empty glass, said I had enough and saw the hint of a smile on Maggie's face as she sat opposite Otto. Otto said, "I'm about ready," even though his glass was nearly full. "I'll take care of Otto's drink when the time comes," Maggie said. "I don't recommend the coffee here," she said to Grove. "He doesn't drink alcohol," she added. "An admirable quality," I said. Maggie's eyes darted a warning in my direction. Grove and I sat in a back booth. I got to the booth first and sat with my back to Maggie. Grove leaned on the table with his hands and eased into the booth after looking at the spot where he was going to sit. He wiped his hands on a napkin. He started to rest them on the table, changed his mind. His hands disappeared from my view, apparently resting in his lap. "I imagine you are curious as to what this is about," he said. I didn't reply. "I've been appointed as a spokesman for a small group of people. We implore you to help us." He had a view of the bar, booths and tables from his seat facing me, and his eyes roved over the joint as though he was afraid someone would see him. "Your secret is safe with me," I said. "Secret? Oh no, it's not that. It's just that this sort of thing, well it's not my cup of tea. However I'm involved now, and I must see it through." "Of course," I agreed. I was getting damned curious, but no way was I going to help him with whatever wasn't his cup of tea. And, since by then I was convinced whatever he was trying to talk about had nothing to do with Maggie, I enjoyed his discomfort. "Maggie tells me you are a freelance writer and an investigator. These people, and I'm included, have been doing some investigating on our own. We have information we would like to pass on to you without anyone knowing from where that information originated." "What kind of information?" "It concerns the high school board. We have recordings of closed meetings in which various illegal actions are discussed and sometimes taken." "Recordings. How? Recordings of closed meetings? How did you get those?" "Mister Bancroft, I can't tell you that. What I hope, what we hope is that you can use the recorded proceedings to expose the culprits." "Are you going to give me these recordings?" "Well give you a copy of one of them for a start. From a secret school board meeting. You listen to it, let me know if you can use it, and then return it to me. Please don't make a copy of it. We want to control how these recordings, tapes actually, are used." "And you're not going to tell me how you got them?" "No, I can't do that. People would be placed in unnecessary danger if it were known how the tapes were obtained or even the fact that there are such tapes." "I'm interested, of course, but I'm not sure what I can do if I don't have the tapes to back what I write. Newspapers don't like to print things they can't prove, at least the one I work with doesn't, in most cases." "Yes, I know it will be a problem. We hoped that the information, even though you can't immediately use the tapes to back it up, would be useful in helping expose what is going on. "Maggie said I could trust you. That you are resourceful. That you would find a way to get this information out to the public." "She said that?" He nodded. "What does she know about all of this?" "Very little. I don't want to put her in danger. She just knows I needed some way to get this information out. Not what the information is." He rested his hands on the booth, thought better of it, and put them back in his lap. Maggie had said I was trustworthy and resourceful. If I was so damned resourceful, how come a librarian had information I had been unable to obtain? "I'll listen to this tape, make notes if it is anything I can use, and get it back to you. How do you want me to return it?" "Just bring it to the library. In the meantime, please keep it in a safe place." He surveyed the premises once again, reached into his inside suit coat pocket and handed me a small brown paper package. I put it under my T-shirt, decided that wasn't going to conceal it, and shoved it into a back pocket of my jeans. "Thank you," he said as he edged out of the booth. He walked toward Otto and Maggie. I waited, then turned in time to see his and Maggie's backs as they left. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE* I sat for a few minutes, got up and went to the bar, bought a couple of beers and joined Otto. He took the beer, mumbled "Thanks," and looked at me like a quizzical Buddha as I sat down. "What?" I asked. He shook his head. I leaned against the wall and stretched my legs along the booth seat. He shook his head again. I thought I knew what he was going to say and I didn't want to hear it. "Well," he said. "Just enjoy your beer and pretend the Cubs won a game or maybe even two in a row," I said. "I may be a dreamer at times, Junior, but I'm not that bad. What I want to know is what the hell you and that librarian were talking about. And Maggie. She left you for that guy? You really must be slipping. You better get a prescription for that stuff, you know, Viagra." "Right," I said. "What ya mean, right?" "I need Viagra, that's why Maggie left me. I'm impotent, you know." "Sure you are? And I'm gay. Are you going to tell me or not. Maggie wouldn't tell me anything." "Bless her. There are some things you're too young to know." I finally got him off the subject by telling him Matthew Grove and I discussed a book I planned to write. I doubt that he believed that anymore than I did, but apparently he gave up because he started talking about how the fish were not biting. I was anxious to get home and play the tape. I suffered through another glass of beer after Otto bought and then left. At the office I slipped the tape in the player and sat back to listen with The cat perched on the desk waiting to be petted. After adjusting the sound, I recognized Trudi Sinclair's voice. It sounded as though she was reading a speech. "We must do all we can to protect our children, our students from this uncontrolled violence that is the scourge of our country," she said. "A small number of undisciplined scum are polluting our educational system. "We cannot depend on the police. They are spread too thin as it is and are just getting reorganized to be in a position to control unwanted behavior on our streets. We need to hire special guards to control behavior in this school. Mister Hicks can tell you about guns that have been brought into classes right here." There was a pause, the sounds of papers being shuffled, the scraping of a chair and then Gordon Hick's commanding voice. "I don't want to alarm you. On the other hand it is important that you know what is happening. We know of at least two students who have brought guns to school. As a matter of fact the guns are in their lockers right now. We've been watching them very carefully, trying to see if there are others who also are armed." "Couldn't police handle this?" a voice I didn't recognize said. "Perhaps, for now. But we need to establish in the school population's mind that guns and other types of disruptive activity will not be tolerated. We have decided, with your agreement, of course, that we need to hire guards who will establish control over any and all disruptive elements. We've already contacted Control Security, Inc., and they will provide the guards." "What about the voters?" a man's voice said. "We'll pass a proposal to spend five thousand dollars for security. They won't question that," Mrs. Seymour said after a pause. "More of that creative bookkeeping, I suppose," the voice that had asked the question said. "Armed guards in our schools. Is that what we've come to?" It was the same voice. I stopped the tape and thought about the board members. There was Mrs. Farnsworth, the knitter; Frank Elmore, the funeral director, who seldom said anything; Mrs. Cynthia Crest, who also was on the library board; Ed Marsh, a truck driver and little league baseball coach, who often was the last to arrive and always first to leave, and Mrs. Winifred Craven, who was just thrilled to be there. The voice raising the questions had to be Ed Marsh. I resumed running the tape. The motion that Mrs. Seymour had proposed was offered by a female voice -- perhaps Mrs. Craven -- after coaching from Mrs. Seymour. The motion passed. Ed Marsh cast the only dissenting vote. I turned off the machine. How in the devil did Grove get this tape? And he said he had others. I'd attended nearly every school board meeting in more than a year. I didn't see anyone taping those meetings. Perhaps only the secret meetings were recorded. It had to be one of the board members. Most of the time there was no one else there except me. Ed Marsh? I suppose somehow he could have concealed a recorder. I'd pay more attention at the next meeting. Study the board members. See if I could connect the voices on the tape with them. In the meantime what could I do with the information? I could write a piece reporting the board authorized the hiring of school guards at a secret meeting. But I couldn't prove it without the tape? If I broke my promise not to reveal the tape's existence I'd never see another one. I'd have to talk to Grove, get him to give me a little room to operate. I'd want to discuss the school board with Ed Marsh. Grove was smug the next day when I returned it and told him the information was dynamite -- if I could use it. He said, "Maybe later we can let you reveal the tapes." "Why later? Why tell me about them at all if you don't want me to use them?" "We can't discuss this here. Just be patient. We'll see what develops." I was dismissed. It reminded me of high school when I tried to argue with Mister Edgar Rich, the teacher in charge of the high school newspaper. Whenever he didn't have an answer for an argument I presented about publishing a story he simply dismissed me. This, I could see, was going to be a pain in the ass. I had to seek favors from the guy who stole my girl. And the guy. A pissy ass librarian who somehow had stolen Maggie from me and secrets from the school board, secrets I should have been able to get for myself. I had to get more information on my own. The guards? Maybe I could get one of them to talk. Could they possibly be part of that group that hung out at The Hollow? I had hoped Maggie would be at the library when I returned the tape. She wasn't, or at least I didn't see her. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO* At the high school office Mrs. Fordyce smiled. "Sure you can see Mister Hicks," she said. "Go right into his office." I hesitated for an instant and went to the closed door of Hicks' office. "Go right in," Mrs. Fordyce said. I knocked. Silence. I knocked again. Still no answer. I looked back at Mrs. Fordyce. "He's there, I know he is. Just go right in." I knocked again. The door swung open. Gordon Hicks held a lipstick-smeared handkerchief in his hand. He stuffed it into a back pocket, hitched up his pants and said, "Nick. What a surprise. Come in." The surface of his cleared off desk glowed, as though it had just been buffed. He went behind it, reached down and brought into view a pen and holder. He placed it on the desk and sat down. A familiar aroma tickled my nostrils. I tried to place it. "What is it, Nick?" "I don't know. I'm trying to remember." "Trying to remember? I don't understand. What do you want?" "Tell me about the school guards." His furrowed brows relaxed, and he said, "Oh. The guards." "Why the big secret? How long have they been here? This is public information that has been hidden." He stood. "Hidden. The guards have been here since the start of the school year. That's how unobtrusive they've been. The public doesn't care about the guards as long as they prevent another Columbine from happening here." "Perhaps not," I said, "but I care about them. I'm sure the minutes of the meeting when money was approved have been changed. The amount voted on was five thousand dollars, not five-hundred thousand. And I'd like to see the books and learn how that five-hundred thousand is being spent. Is there a secret contract with Control Security, Inc." "Control Security. Who, what do you know about Control Security?" "Not as much as I'm going to." "Look, Nick. Don't you understand? These acts of defiance against authority that have been happening in other schools, it's all because of lack of discipline in the home." He pointed a finger at me, paced, came back and stood before me. "Don't turn this into some kind of scandal just because we hired a few guards. I suppose you found out about all this because of that suit that was filed. Well it's been dropped so you can forget it." "I'm not going to forget it. I suppose you paid off the Goodings from the security fund. Will that ever show up in the records?" The muscles in his face tightened. He turned away as his body tensed. When he faced me again he forced a smile. It was as threatening as a dog's snarl. "Well, I'll be running along. Thanks for the chat. I'll remember sooner or later," I said. "Remember what?" I looked at the large closet door to the side of the room and said, "The fragrance. I'll remember where I smelled it before ... sooner or later." I didn't wait for an answer. I returned to my office and wrote. I explained the suit that had been filed, how it had been withdrawn, reported Mrs. Gooding's refusal to comment. I quoted an unnamed source as saying some Central City citizens were investigating high school board activities. The next day, after the report appeared in the state edition of the Chicago Times, I was arrested and charged with raping Roxanne Draggard. It took most of the day for Ben Wilson to get me out on bail. He posted his house as assurance that the one-hundred-thousand dollar bond would be paid if I skipped. "They're out to get you, no doubt about that," Wilson said. "Who is this Roxanne Draggard anyway? Did you rape her?" He was smiling when he said that, so I didn't bother to answer. "This girl I'm accused of raping lives with Maggie now. We've separated. I've got to talk to her, find out the reason why she filed charges against me. Thanks for getting me out of jail." "Keep me informed, Nick," Wilson said as he left me standing on the court house steps. Maggie and Mister Grove were standing near the main desk talking when I got there. I asked Maggie, without ceremony, "Where is Roxanne?" "Nick. Why are you so angry? I've been trying to reach you. Roxanne is gone. I thought she would come back but she hasn't. I'm worried about her." "Feel free to worry about me, too. She has accused me of raping her. I just got out of jail." I hurried out of the library, got in the Escort, remembered to buy gas just before I got out of town, and drove to The Hollow. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE* Mountains of gray and black clouds hung over pasture land and corn fields alike. The sprinkles came first, just one now and then. I was a mile or so from The Hollow when the wind came, then the deluge. My windshield wiper couldn't keep up. I switched on the lights and pulled to the side of the road. It rained hard for fifteen minutes. The clouds broke up. The sun broke through. I'd had time to consider what I was doing. Still, I started the car and drove on. The car skidded on the gravel and mud drive down into The Hollow. I got out and marched up the rickety stairs to the tavern. Inside the same skeletal guy I'd seen there before was seated on the same bar stool, his head supported by a bony hand connected to a bony elbow resting on the bar. Draggard, in the same T-shirt he'd worn days before and still in need of a shave, said, "Well, I'll be damned. You must be part bulldog. How many times I got to throw you out before the idea sticks?" "If you sick your dogs on me I'll shoot them, you got that. I might even shoot you. I want to know where Roxanne is. She accused me of raping her. Where is she?" Draggard stepped away from the guy he was talking to, pointed at me and snarled, "You even think about killing my dogs, I kill you." "Yeah, I suppose you might. One murder isn't enough. What you going to do, burn me like you did that farm worker? Or should I just go ahead and prove you murdered Bobby Scalf and maybe Jayson Arthur. Where is Roxanne?" Draggard's eyes narrowed, he raised his fist, slammed it into the bar and shouted, "I didn't burn no migrant worker, I didn't kill Bobby Scalf and I don't know nothin' about that Arthur guy. "You wanna do some real reporting pin them murders, all of 'em on that dandy Trudi Seymour married. He's a dangerous man." "Are you telling me where Roxanne is or do I have to check every trailer up on the ridge?" "Won't do no good. She's not there. I heard she's living with Trudi, Mrs. Seymour now." "Mrs. Seymour. That's ridiculous. Why would Mrs. Seymour? Maybe she would." "That's what I heard. I know she ain't around here. Ain't been around here, where she belongs, for several weeks." -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR* "I want to see Mrs. Seymour," I announced. The young woman receptionist said, "Do you have an appointment?" "I'm a former employee. Nick Bancroft. Mrs. Seymour knows me." The young woman of the polished nails and teased hair went into the inner sanctum. The executive offices of the Central City Press, on the second floor of the building off the news room, were another world. No hollering from one newsman or woman to another, no cubicles crowded with computers and bodies, no sign of the constant turmoil of putting out a daily newspaper. "She's not in," the young woman said after she returned from the inner sanctum. "Tell her I want to see her about Roxanne Draggard, about two murders, and why the hell she's trying to railroad me with a rape charge." "She's not in." "If you check again I'll bet you'll learn that she is in. Her bicycle is locked in the stand in front of the building" I was right, Mrs. Seymour was in. The receptionist didn't seem a bit embarrassed when she said Mrs. Seymour would see me. "Mister Bancroft, I really don't see why I should talk to you. Surely you don't expect me to keep the rape charge out of the paper." "Of course not," I said. I settled into a well-cushioned chair in front of her polished mahogany desk. "This newspaper prints all the news. All the news that fits the goals of the owners. I'm sure my being charged with rape will fall into that category." "What do you want?" "I'm looking for Roxanne Draggard, the girl who accused me of raping her. I've been told she's living with you." Mrs. Seymour, her eyes locked on me, reached under the front of her desk, fumbled with something, and stood. A side door opened and Warren Seymour entered the room. "What kind of trouble are you trying to stir up now, Mister Bancroft?" Warren Seymour said. "All kinds," I said. Mister Seymour looked at Mrs. Seymour and said, "What's he talking about?" "Never mind, just get him out of here." "You don't look like you've had a drink yet this morning, Mister Seymour. The shaking is still with you. I'll go, no need to embarrass you." Later I sat on a park bench waiting for Brown. I'd called and said I'd meet him there. It was a bit ridiculous, our meeting in the park only a block from city hall. Anyone who was checking on Brown would know. "I hear they finally caught up with you," he said. Brown sat down, gazed around the park and added, "Nice afternoon. Looks like in might rain though." I turned and faced him. "This is serious. I think the Seymours have Roxanne. They must have talked her into filing the rape charge. You know anything about this?" "No." "Got anything new on anything?" "I'm working on some things. I'll fill you in when the time comes. Got to get back. Our intrepid chief wants to know where everyone is every minute. I think the guy is psycho. He thinks he's a general or something. Wouldn't surprise me if he showed up soon in a Patton outfit." At the court house I read the charges against me. Roxanne, through attorney Edward Hodges -- Mrs. Seymour's attorney -- alleged that I raped her after luring her into my apartment. I read the particulars and made notes. I went to the library to talk to Maggie about Roxanne. Maggie wasn't there. Matthew Grove was. "We have decided to let you have a copy of the tape you heard the other day. You can quote from it, send it to the Chicago paper, turn a copy of it into the state's attorney. Whatever you want." "When will I get it?" "I'll bring two copies of it to that place you hang out, Chester's, tonight. How about six o'clock?" "Great," I said. I shook his hand. "By the way, I need to see Maggie. Where does she live?" "I don't know," Grove said. "You don't know?" "No. She has been quite secretive about it. I didn't push her. She didn't even want to know where I live. I tried to tell her once. She stopped me." I left the library in a much better mood than I entered. The mood faded as I thought about Bobby Scalf. Maybe writing a story about what was recorded on the tape would stir something up. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the murders at all. I was engrossed in getting around a glass of Chester's beer when Otto joined me. "The Cubs womped the Giants this afternoon. Did you hear?" He didn't wait for an answer as he went into a glowing report of hits, runs and good pitching by the Cubbies. "Are they still in last place?" "You know damned well they are. Don't try to fool me. I know, no matter how low your nose is to the ground, you follow the Cubs. I was thinking of buying you a beer, too." "Don't bother. I'm going to meet the head of the library, Matthew Gore, here in a few minutes. I'd rather he didn't see me with the likes of you. He might think I do this sort of thing all the time." "What kind of snobbery is this? After all these years of being buddies you turn on me like this. To hell with you." He began his struggle to get out of the booth. "Hey, wait a minute. I was only kidding. We've insulted each other for years. Why so sensitive now? Come on Otto." He eased back down, took a sip of his beer, frowned and then laughed until the wrinkles in his neck shook. "Got you again. Still can't tell when I'm serious and when I'm not can you?" It was true and I was pleased about it because he seemed to be so delighted when I was fooled. "I knew you were kidding all the time," I said. "Yeah, sure you did. I'm leaving now. Go join my real buddies. The guys that don't run me off every time some big shot joins them. He chuckled to himself as he waddled to a front booth and joined a couple of old coots who where playing cards, probably rummy. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE* After standing in the doorway blinking for a few seconds Matthew Grove spotted me. He raised a hand in greeting and walked to the booth. "You must really like beer. I never could acquire a taste for it. Used to try to drink it some in college." I nodded. "Maggie was going to come along but then she changed her mind. She said she had to wash her hair." I nodded. "Do you suppose I could get a cup of coffee?" "Sure, let me get it." I went to the bar, got the coffee and returned. He reached for his billfold but let me convince him that the coffee was my treat. "Down to business then," he said. "I've got the original tape you heard and two others. There still are more but these two seem to be the most interesting. I'll need your assurance that you won't reveal where they came from." "You have my word," I said. "No reporter can afford to reveal sources that want to remain unnamed. The word would get around that he couldn't be trusted." Grove handed me a brown paper bag secured around the tapes with a rubber band. "Maggie's fine," he said. I nodded. "She said to tell you hello." I finished my beer, said, "Thanks," and we left the tavern together. He'd only taken one sip of the coffee. Grove went to his car, I went to mine. At my office I listened to the tapes. There was the usual reading of the minutes, some routine stuff about book purchases, janitor supplies, the hiring of a new teacher. The meeting was adjourned. The machine droned on. Voices again. "Now that Mister Bancroft has gone we can get down to business. What are we going to do about this lawsuit. Gordon, er Mister Hicks, what do you think?" "Thank you, Mrs. Seymour. I think we should settle out of court. If this goes to court, Bancroft, and perhaps others will hear all the testimony, make a big deal out of the fact that an irresponsible student got roughed up a little." "What did he do?" Ed Marsh asked. "He refused to leave when a guard tried to break up a group of students who had congregated in a hallway after school." "Is that a crime?" "It's against the rules," Gordon Hicks said. Mrs. Seymour moved that the case be settled out of court. She got a second and the motion was passed. Only Ed Marsh dissented. The motion should have been made by a board member, but there didn't seem to be any concern about rules. The second tape was of a continuation of the meeting. Mrs. Seymour made a motion, then apparently remembered the rules, and asked one of the others to make a motion authorizing the payment of twenty-thousand dollars to the Goodings to settle the suit. Ed Marsh protested. "It probably would cost us more if the suit were taken to court. Certainly the publicity would be undesirable," Mrs. Seymour said. The motion passed without Ed Marsh's vote. I went to the computer, composed my thoughts, and wrote a piece based on the information on the tapes. When I finished I knew the story lacked confirmation from something other than the tapes. I couldn't report where I got them. How about Ed Marsh? I looked up his number in the phone book, called, and was told by a woman, apparently his wife, that he was at a Little League game at one of the diamonds laid out on the high school football practice field near the stadium. I spotted Marsh on diamond three. He was talking to another guy, gesturing instructions to his outfielders about where to play and, in general, making like a coach. I stood behind the portable backstop and watched. The players, aged from nine to eleven, I was told, were, for the most part, enthusiastic. The game, I discovered, was in the last inning and Marsh's team was behind. They lost. There was the usual lineup and high-fiveing as the two teams mingled. Ed Marsh was putting a last bat in a heavy canvas bag when I said, "Hi Ed, I'm Nick Bancroft. I want to talk to you about the school board. Could we do it now?" "Why me?" "Why not you?" "Yeah, that's right, why not me? If not me, who? Yeah I'll talk to you. It's been eating at my gut for a long time. Just a minute." He carried the bats to the back of a station wagon, talked to the guy he had been talking to before, came back and said, "Okay, it's all set. Mind if we talk at Augie's. I'm ready for a beer." "I'll meet you there, and I'll buy," I said. Augie's, a bar with a discreet neon sign in pink and green, was in a square, cinder-block building that once housed a neighborhood grocery store. It was back from the street with parking space in front. Three blocks from the baseball diamonds, it included a pool table, a couple of jukeboxes and a room-wide bar in the back. I stood at the bar and ordered two glasses of beer. I didn't see Ed. I waited. "Sorry, I got hung up on some Little League business. Thanks," he said when I handed him the beer. "Let's sit at a booth, one back in the corner," he said. After we settled in he said, "I don't know if this will mean my job or not. I don't think my boss is in with these monkeys, but you never know." "You work for Anheim Trucking don't you?" I said. "Yeah, and it's not the main terminal here, that's in Springfield. I don't think they squat there every time the Seymours say shit." "Tell me about the hiring of the school security force and how the appropriation went from five thousand dollars to five-hundred thousand." "Mrs. Seymour said there was no reason to worry about it when I brought it up. She said if it ever came up she would claim it was a mistake made by the newspaper." "What about the settlement in the Gooding case? Was that approved during a secret meeting?" "Yeah, how did you know?" "I've got a source," I said. We sipped our beer. I watched the pool game in progress for a few moments and said, "Nice little bar. How did you happen to run for the school board? It seems everyone else on the board is hand picked by Mrs. Seymour." "Guess so. They always vote the way she wants. I ran because I got two kids nearing high school age. I think the guy I ran against was Mrs. Seymour's boy. Anyway he was in a car accident and was in the hospital before and during the election. I guess maybe that's why I got elected." "There'll be a story in the Chicago Times tomorrow morning. I won't quote you now but I need to know that you'll back what I report if it becomes necessary." "Yeah, I will. The way it is now you'd think the high school belonged to Mrs. Seymour." "How about the principal, Hicks?" "Yeah, him, too. Mrs. Seymour always consults him. They whisper while the rest of us twiddle our thumbs." "Want another beer?" I said. "No thanks. One's my limit during the week. Got a long haul in the morning." I thanked him and said I'd be in touch. The Chicago Times played the piece on the front page of the state edition. I was drinking coffee and talking to The cat when Mrs. Seymour called. "You bastard," was her greeting. "Hello, this is Nick Bancroft. You bastard doesn't live here." "I'm going to sue you. I know you don't have any money, you, you ... But I'll ruin your reputation, you'll never get another newspaper job." I stroked The cat's neck. "Are you there? Don't you dare hang up on me." "I'm listening," I said. "Why do you do this? Don't you understand that people have to be guided. What's wrong with demanding obedience in a school, trying to prevent the morons from shooting each other?" "Was that your father's code? When he willed you the newspaper did he insist you run the town like he did for so many years?" "He didn't have to insist. I knew it was my duty. There's no use talking to you. There are other ways to shut you up." She hung up. I was on my way out of the office when Ed Marsh called. "Hey Bancroft, you stirred up the hornets. Mrs. Seymour has called for a school board meeting at noon today at Almons. Says the lunch is on her. I told her I couldn't make it because I had to work. She didn't seem disappointed." I thanked him for calling and walked out into sunshine. Dark clouds loomed off to the west, but it was too early to worry about them. I wondered if Maggie had read the story. Surely she had. Matthew Grove must have. I was tempted to go to the library and bask. Instead I checked on a couple of property titles for a client, went to Ben Wilson's office and was told he was in Chicago, called Detective Andrew Brown and asked it there was anything new. "Yeah, a little item that might interest you. I know it did some others. Be over to the park in a few minutes." It was about 10 when we met. Humidity was high, the temperature was rising, and Brown was nervous. He lit a half-smoked cigar and said, "Can't even smoke in the office now. One of that twerp's rules. Great story in the Times." He drew on the cigar, breathed deeply, and said, "Here's a little something that might make your day. Roxanne Draggard has flown away. William was called to Mrs. Seymour's office, I'm told, and not too long after he came to me and ordered me to find Roxanne. "I didn't find her. Even if I had I wouldn't have told him. Anyway she's skipped. Took a bus headed south. Looks like you're off the hook on that rape charge." "Great. I hope Roxanne makes out all right. She's had a tough life. Anything new on the murders?" "Nah, not with me," Brown said. "I can't make a move without William knowing about it. He probably knows I'm here with you. He can't do a thing about it though as long as it's not in the office." A little girl in a flared skirt trotted up and sat on a bench across from us. She swung her legs back and forth and stared at Brown. He stood and tossed his cigar in the grass. The little girl looked at him then the cigar. Brown stooped, picked it up and tossed it in a trash can. "See ya," Brown said as he left. I walked a couple of blocks to in front of the library. I hesitated, turned around, started to walk away, turned back and went inside. A woman with eyeglasses suspended to below her face on colorful elastic string was at the main desk. She informed me that Matthew Gore was out of town. "Is Maggie Atley, the woman who reads to the children, is she here?" "No, I saw her and Mister Gore leave earlier. May I help you?" "No thanks," I said. "They'll both be back tomorrow," she said. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX* I fidgeted in Almons as I waited for the unofficial school board meeting to start. All school board members except Ed Marsh drifted in. Finally Mrs. Seymour showed. She placed her green helmet on the floor beside her head-of-the-table chair. The chair to her left was empty. Gordon Hicks hurried in and sat there. He looked around the room, spotted me. I waved in a friendly manner. He whispered to Mrs. Seymour. She glared at me. I waved. She didn't wave back. All eyes at the table were on me when I walked up and said, "What a surprise to see all of you together. Is this a board meeting?" No one offered me a chair. Mrs. Farnsworth fumbled with the knitting in her lap. Just the hint of a smile appeared before she doused it. "Hello Nick. This is a social gathering. Nothing official," Gordon Hicks said. "I guess I'll run along then. I checked the menu. I think I'll just skip lunch today." After I unlocked my apartment I stepped on a folded piece of paper. It was from Roxanne. She said: Mister Bancroft. I am sorry I accused you of raping me. Mrs. Seymour gave me money to say it. I took the money, got mama and my little sister and by the time you read this we'll be gone. I'm sorry. Roxanne The cat jumped up on the desk, purred, rubbed my hand and insisted I pay attention. "What?" I said. "Oh, food, you want food. Sorry, I'll get it. Mrs. Seymour paid Roxanne to say I raped her. She plays dirty. How much do you suppose she paid? Roxanne didn't say. I hope it was enough for her to get set up and find a job." Mrs. Seymour refused to see me and had her editor, Richard Bowles, tell me that if I didn't stay away from her newspaper she would have me arrested for trespassing. "Nice woman, that boss of yours," I said to poor Richard. He put his hand on my shoulder, led me gently toward the door and said, "I know what you think of me. Easy for you. You don't have a family to support. Where could I go at my age anyway. I'm just a small town editor who probably couldn't get a job anywhere else." "Hey, you do your thing, I do mine. I don't judge. Have you thought about the fact that there are other small town newspapers? There must be jobs out there." "Yeah," he said as we reached the front door. "I'm thinking about it. Especially now that my youngest kid is a high school senior." "What do you know about those guards at the high school?" I asked. He shoved me. I almost fell. "What the hell?" "I'm sure that bitch is watching. I don't want her to think I'm getting too chummy with you." "Why Richard, you called Mrs. Seymour a bitch. I never knew you cared." "You'd call her a bitch, too, if you had to lick her boots all these years like I have. I can't talk to anyone on the staff. It will go right back to her. Where do you hang out these days?" "Chester's Bar & Grill, why?" "I may decide I want to talk to you. We'll see." He shook his fist at me and went back into the building. I resisted the urge to look up at the second floor windows to see if Trudi dear was watching. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN* I sat in my car, parked among the cars in the high school parking lot. It was amazing, the cars some of these kids drove to school. Most were newer than mine and most had been polished to a brilliant shine. The little surveillance work I'd done had been boring. This wasn't. School was letting out and young people were drifting toward their cars. Some of the girls were knockouts. And some of them were in deep relationships with boys, judging from the way they pawed each other. How many of these affairs would end in unwanted children, marriage and divorce? Or unwed mothers? I wasn't there, however, to ogle the young girls. It was just a job benefit. I was there to spy on the school guards. The parking lot gradually emptied except for one Bronco. I drove across the street from the lot, parked behind another car and waited. Two uniformed guards came out. Then two more. At first glance they looked like policemen. They got in the Bronco. It left the parking lot, and I followed. The Bronco pulled into Grinders, two of them went into the store. In a few minutes they came out carrying grocery bags. I followed the Bronco a few more blocks to One-Stop Liquors. One guy went in and soon came out carrying a case of Old Style. After we left Central City I figured we were headed for The Hollow. Well, almost. About half a mile before we got there they turned off into a narrow lane hidden by trees. I didn't dare follow. Instead I went beyond The Hollow and parked off the road in a tractor lane beside a corn field. Tommy Doyle had talked about a path he and Bobby had followed to a Quonset hut. Maybe that's where the guards were headed. I crept along the edge of the corn field until I came to the woods behind Haggard's trailers. Music came from one of them. I circled around toward The Hollow. I tripped over a loose root about the size of a ball bat. I picking it up, brushed dirt from my pants and shirt and swung the root a couple of times. I carried it on my shoulder like a rifle. Near the steep bank above Haggard's tavern I found the path. It was narrow but well traveled. I followed it deep into the woods, my club at the ready. From the edge of the clearing Tommy Doyle had described I heard raucous laughter. I was perhaps twenty-five yards from the Quonset hut. The guards were gathered around a picnic table near the hut. One guy dug sandwiches from a grocery bag. Another, a lean guy with long legs and arms, got up, went into the hut and returned with a coffee pot and a tray loaded with cups. He poured. They ate and chattered. A breeze moved air toward me and pushed mosquitoes away. It also carried their voices. One guy said, "Only fifteen more days and we get out of this rat nest. Be glad to get back to Selma and sleep in my own bed again. At least for awhile. Wonder where they'll send us next." "Yeah, and maybe you can find a decent-looking woman to sleep with. Be a good thing to get away from Draggard's stable. What a bunch of bags." The breeze shifted and died. Now I could only hear bits of their conversation, nothing significant, and the mosquitoes stayed for lunch. I backed out of my hiding place among the weeds and underbrush and headed for my car. The sound of snarling petrified my legs. I stood with the root raised, ready to strike ... what? Two dogs, Haggard's dogs, came from either side of the trail and stood in front of me making mean noises and displaying their teeth. "Take my dogs for a run and what do I find? Mr. Snoop. You gonna get yerself kilt yet." "Roxanne told me you love these dogs. If that's true you better keep them away from me because I'm going to bury this club in the head of one of them, and I'll come back and shoot the other. I guarantee it." I kept my eyes on the dogs. "Sit," Draggard demanded. The dogs sat. Their snarling was replaced by panting. I stepped back, lowered the club and looked at Draggard. "Let me pass," I said. "Sure, right after you tell me what you're doing in my woods." "You know damned well what I'm doing. I'm trying to find out who killed Bobby Scalf and why. You better hope I don't find out it was you." "I got nothin' to do with any of this. Just like that mess with them farm workers. They say I set the fire that killed the strike leader. Spent time in prison for it. Mister Seymour, Trudi's dad, and me, we drank that night. He brought good whiskey. I got drunk and he left me alone holding the bottle and the bag. I don't know who set that fire, but it wasn't me. I was arrested and charged. Never had a chance." He looked old and harmless, just a beefy old man with a couple of dogs. I pointed the makeshift club at him. "If you're so damned innocent you better start thinking about what's going on. It has something to do with these school guards that are living in that Quonset hut. You'll be linked to them. If I was you I'd tell police what I know." "Yeah, sure. Tell Sheriff James. He don't know which way's up." "I'm going to go back up this path to get to my car. You could go into Central City, talk to Detective Brown. He could help you if you're not involved." I rested the club on my shoulder and walked toward the dogs. One actually stepped aside as I approached, giving me room to continue toward Draggard. Draggard held up a hand. I tensed. The dogs were behind me. "How about you? What if I tell you what I know about these guards? I ain't telling no police. They wouldn't listen to me before." "I'll listen, but I'm going to take notes," I said. "I've got pencil and paper in my car. Are you serious?" "Yeah, you get your stuff, come down to the tavern." I drove the Escort down into the hollow and climbed the stairs to Haggard's tavern. I left the club in my car. I had to trust Draggard, for now, if I expected him to talk. The dogs? If he sicked them on me I'd kick their heads off. If he pulled the gun I'd, well maybe he wouldn't. The bar was empty of customers except for the old guy I'd seen the first time I was there. "Take a walk, Elmer," Draggard said to the guy. "Huh," the guy mumbled as he raised his head. "Take a walk, I'll buy you a beer when you get back in about twenty minutes." "Okay, okay," Elmer said. He slid off the bar stool. His knees collapsed. He grabbed the bar, recovered, and staggered out of the tavern. "First thing, I don't own this tavern, the trailers, the woods. I'm paid to run the place." "By whom?" Draggard opened a can of beer and had it up to his mouth. He held it there and stared toward the door. He set the beer on the counter, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, "Miss Trudi." I turned and looked into the eyes of Trudi Seymour. She wore green shorts and a green halter, each matching the color of her bike helmet. "You shouldn't ride clear out here on such a hot day, Miss Trudi," Draggard said. She continued to glare at me and said, "What's he doing here?" Draggard wiped the bar with a soiled rag, picked up his beer and set it down. I put the pencil and paper in my shirt pocket. "I came in to get a beer. This guy has refused to serve me. I was about to take my business elsewhere. Maybe he'll let me buy you a drink. There are some things we should talk about." _Miss Trudi_ whipped off her helmet, and said, "We have nothing to talk about." She looked at Draggard and asked, "Could I get a drink of water before I ride back to town." "Sure lady, coming right up." "Lady? You called her Miss Trudi, like you've known each other for a long time." "I thought you were leaving, Mister Bancroft." "Yes Miss Trudi, I was. Somehow I don't feel welcome here." -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT* I left, figuring he wouldn't talk while Miss Trudi was there. Draggard had called her Miss Trudi. Had he known her since she was a girl? Could be. He claimed to know her father. What was she doing there? Would Draggard keep his promise to tell me what he knew about the guards? A Bronco was parked in the parking space next to mine behind the apartment building. A warning light went on in my brain, but it wasn't bright enough to penetrate the fuzzies there. The Escort engine still was running when a guy with a woman's white stocking pulled over his face stepped from the Bronco. I put my car in reverse and spun gravel. I whipped the Escort around and raced to the street. Where to go? The police station. The Bronco came roaring out of the drive and in seconds was right on my tail. I floored the pedal. The Escort responded like a choked turtle. The Bronco rammed my car, making it veer toward the curb. I managed to get it back under control, and the Bronco rammed it again. I made a sharp left turn onto Angora, a residential street lined with expensive houses and large yards. The street was slightly downhill and led to a stretch where it dissected wooded ravines. The Bronco nudged the rear end of the Escort and then speeded up, sending my car careening into a parked Caddy. I bounced away from it as the ravines loomed up. The Bronco smacked into my car again, driving it off the road. The left front end caught the edge of a sturdy Oak tree and the car almost flipped. It skidded sideways down the incline, smacked into another tree, bounced off and tipped over. It was leaning onto the driver's side. I could open the door only a few inches before the ground stopped it. I struggled to the passenger door, tried to push it up and open with my right leg. The leg collapsed as pain made my body quiver. I pushed with my left leg after I released the lock again. The door swung open but threatened to slam closed every time I released the pressure from my leg. The smell of gasoline spurred me on. I managed to turn and get my shoulder to the door, push it open and crawl out. I scurried up and away from the car on my hands and one knee. My right leg was useless. When I stopped half way to the top of the ravine pain caught up with me. There was something wrong between my right knee and ankle. I didn't feel any bone protruding as I touched the screaming part. A bruise? Whatever, I nearly threw up. Still, I had to get out of the ravine and seek help. "C'mon up out of there you turkey or do we have to come and get you?" "Come and get me. I've got a club here. I'll beat your brains out. If you have any. What the hell's the matter with you? You anxious to face a murder charge?" "Remember, they told us to bring him back alive," one of the two men who now were above me, said. Their ghostly faces stared down at me. "Yeah, well you go down and get him then, I'd just as soon shoot him and forget it." "Don't be stupid," the other said as he descended toward me. He dug in his heels, sending dirt and sand tumbling into my face. I ducked away from the dirt and screamed when pain shot up my leg. "Shut that bastard up before he rouses the whole neighborhood." The guy skidded to a stop next to me and said, "If you scream again I'll knock you out." "My leg hurts like hell. You'd be smart to just get out of here. You already face an assault charge. Kidnapping is a lot more serious. You getting paid enough for that?" "Damned right. Besides, all we're doing is taking you to the boss. Now shut up and crawl up there." I dragged myself and the useless leg to the top. They lifted me, one on each side, and pushed me into the back of the Bronco. "What's going to happen to this clown? And the woman? I didn't sign on to get involved in no murder. We turn 'em over and that's the end of it for me. No sir, I ain't getting connected with no murder." "Just shut up. Nobody said nothing about murder. What happens later is none of our concern. Just drive." Woman? What woman? Roxanne? Would they call Roxanne a woman? Not Maggie. No it couldn't be Maggie. Why would they go after Maggie when she had left me? How would they know where she lived? Maybe they snatched her from the library parking lot. "Keep an eye on that bozo," the driver said. "He's awful quiet back there." The Bronco turned off the blacktop road when we neared The Hollow. It was the road through the woods that lead to the Quonset hut. We continued past it and to a cement block building. The one I'd been locked in with Roxanne before? I managed to get out of the Bronco as instructed and was standing on one leg when one of them pushed me toward the building. I sprawled in the dirt. It clung to the sweat on my face and arms. "You idiots, my leg is hurt, maybe broken. I can't walk." "Okay, okay. Stop whining. We'll help you then."

They each grabbed me under an arm and hoisted me upright. My right leg dragged on the ground, pain shooting through it like fireworks. One of them opened the door, and I was shoved inside. I hopped on the good leg until I reached the corner of the far wall where I slid to the floor. I extended the injured leg, and lifted it. It hurt. I bent the knee, a little at a time. That hurt too, but if it was broken could I do that? I didn't think so. The center of the pain was just below the knee. I pulled my pant leg up until I saw the reddened area there. The leg must have slammed into the car's steering column when the car was careening down the hill. "Nick." I turned. Maggie was huddled in the corner to my left, her knees to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. He face was swollen. A bruise had bloomed under her right eye. Her ripped blouse hung open, revealing a pink brassiere. "What have these bastards done to you?" I said. I shimmied toward her. "Don't try to move. You're hurt. I'll come to you." She settled beside me and leaned her face against my neck. We held each other until body heat drove us apart. "I fought them when they jumped me in the library parking lot. They beat the hell out of me." "I hurt my leg when they forced my car into a ravine," I said. She returned her arm to around my neck and her head to my shoulder. "Give them whatever they want, Nick. No, don't do that. Who do they think they are?" We held each other as sweat poured from our bodies. "I think I know what they want, but I can't give it to them. It's locked in my safe deposit box at the bank." "What?" "It must be the photos Bobby Scalf took. Maybe they killed him when he wouldn't give them up. Somehow they knew he took 'em. Maybe he escaped into the woods before they could catch him. Caught up with him later. That could be it. The photos aren't as damming as they seem to think. Once we get out of here I'll turn them over to police." "Sure, once we get out of here. Nick, I'm scared. This is the same place they held me once before. Then it was just a warning. This is more than that." There was no point in agreeing with her and scaring her even more. I needed something to bargain with. What? There was no way I was going to give up the photos. How about the tapes of the school board meetings. Was that involved in this? If so I could give them the tapes. All I had were copies. The originals still would be safe. The door banged open. "Get up," one of the guys who had brought me in demanded. He still was wearing the stocking stretched over his face. He had removed his uniform jacket. The T-shirt that stretched across his wide, thick chest was wet with sweat. The tattoo I'd seen before was on his arm. "Get up," he repeated. I struggled to one knee. Maggie stood and lifted from under my arm as I unfolded to a one-legged standing position. "Can you walk?" Mister Muscle asked. "Does it look like it? I can hardly stand. My leg hurts like hell, thanks to you and the other goon." "Hey, I need some help in here," he shouted. Another goon came into the room. He too was wearing a white stocking stretched down over his face. However, it didn't hide his heavy beard shadow or his jutting, square jaw. "Why don't we knock off all this ceremony crap and just pound on the dame until he tells us what the boss wants to know?" "You know why. Cause the boss wants the ceremony." "Weird, if you ask me. Lets get them out there. You and the dame can help him get to the table. I'll make sure he doesn't run away." His raucous laugh rattled off the walls. Maggie was pushed onto a picnic table bench and I was dumped beside her. A card table was placed over our knees. The four guards I had followed from school were there, all with stockings over their faces. Now they all had on their uniform coats in spite of the heat and stood at attention. Their height was emphasized by the stockinged face of a short person who stood to the side thwacking a riding crop against a pant leg. "The jury may be seated," riding crop chirped. A woman? Trudi Seymour? It did not sound like her, exactly, still... "This trial will now begin. Do you, Nick Bancroft, and you, Maggie Ackley, swear to tell the truth, so help you God?" "Margaret Atley, my name is Atley, you, you..." "Atley then, whatever." The voice resumed its high pitch on the last word. The sun was setting. A chorus of cicadas erupted from the trees around us. The director of this sham pointed the riding crop at me and said, "You have some photographs and film I want. Tell me where they are or we'll have to take measures against the woman." I stood on one leg, raised my right hand while I placed my left hand on the table for balance, and shouted, "I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth to this audience of hoodlums. It won't make any difference because none of you have the intelligence to recognize the truth when you hear it. For instance, apparently you don't know the penalties for kidnapping and whatever other charges, like murder, your _boss_ will dodge and push off on you." "Who said anything about murder, I don't want no part of murder," one of the guards said. "Quiet in the ranks, absolute quiet, do you hear," riding crop said. The same guard, the guy with the lantern jaw, said, "I've had enough of this bullshit. I'm in charge of these guards we hired on to keep order at the high school. None of this shit is in the contract. C'mon men, lets knock this crap off. Let the little general here play games. Untie those two so called prisoners. We never should have gone along with this. The little general is crazy. I'm going to report to headquarters." "This is treason," riding crop screamed. "Bullshit," lantern jaw said. He turned to one of his companions. "Untie those two, let 'em go." Riding crop, hands on hips, watched, turned and marched into the woods. I would have followed if I thought there was a chance of catching whoever it was, but I couldn't catch a cold at the moment. -------- *CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE* We were left alone at the table. The guards were piling sleeping bags, suitcases and other traveling stuff into the back of two pickups. The second one must have been parked in the woods because it hadn't been visible before. They all piled into the trucks and left. "How are we going to get back to Central City?" Maggie asked. I stood, managed to take a clumsy step on my damaged leg, waited until the pain subsided a little, and took another step. The second one was a little less painful. "I think I can walk. There's a tavern back along that path." I pointed to an opening across the field in the woods. "It leads to the place you've heard me and Otto talk about. If we can get to that we'll be able to get a ride or call a cab, something." We trudged along in silence, me leaning on Maggie, she doing all she could to keep as much weight as possible from my leg. After we'd gone perhaps a block I said, "So, how have you been?" "So, how have I been?" Maggie repeated. "We've just been through some kind of hell and you ask casually 'How have you been.' I've been insulted, assaulted, battered, embarrassed, threatened, and you ask, 'how have I been.'" "Well, I meant outside of all that, of course." "Of course." We trudged on. "You didn't answer my question," I said. We had reached the path and the walking was a little easier. "I've been, well, I've been serene, that's the word, serene. I read good books, get satisfaction from my work with the children at the library, go to musical performances with Matthew, Mister Grove. I enjoy my work at the insurance office. I spend serene evenings in my apartment. I still run in the morning and sometimes take long walks in the evening. That's how I've been." "Serene, huh." We had reached the ridge where the trailers sat above The Hollow. "You can't go down that steep incline. I'll go down there and see if I can get someone to help us. What about these trailers?" "I don't think any of the women in these trailers have cars. At least I've never seen one around during the day that looks like it would run. And you're not going down to that dump alone. We'll go around to the road leading down off the highway. I'll be able to manage that, I think." I fell on my butt once about half way down to the tavern when my feet slide on loose gravel. Maggie tried to stop my fall and wound up on her rump beside me. She laughed, a little hysterically, I thought. I rubbed my leg. "Sorry Nick, I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at this ridiculous situation we're in. That little hooded martinet slapping the riding crop around, those stupid guards with stockings over their heads. It's like something out of a bad comedy." "Yeah, it may be a comedy, but two people being murdered is not a laughing matter." "I know that." I turned and faced her. Kissing her dirt-smeared face seemed a good idea. I leaned toward her. She leaned away. "Okay," I said. "Let's get down there and find a ride home. I don't even know where you live." "Just get us to the library and my car. I'll drive you home first." I rode my rump the rest of the way down. Maggie helped me struggle to my feet and up the stairs into The Hollow. I was so aware of the pain in my leg I ignored the rotting smell of the place. Maggie said, "Ugh." "Let's get over to the bar. Maybe the guy behind it, Draggard, will call us a cab." "What is it now, Bancroft? Why bring the lady down here. Hey, what happened to you two? Get in a wreck?" "Yeah, that's it. We were in a wreck. Can you call a cab for us?" Before Draggard could answer a voice from behind said, "No need to call a cab, I'll give you guys a ride back to Central City." I turned and looked down into the face of Elrod William. He was wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes. He looked at Maggie and said, "Maybe I better get you two to the hospital." "That would be fine, sir," Maggie said. "I think Nick should have someone look at his leg." "What are you, I mean, well, I never expected to see you down here," I said. "I don't suppose. I was just driving around, trying to get to know the country around Central City, you know, when I saw this place. I was thirsty." He didn't have a drink in his hand. "Where were you sitting," I said. "I would like to rest my leg for a minute." "Well, I wasn't. I finished my drink and was getting ready to leave when you came in." I looked at Draggard. He moved his head from side to side ever so slightly. We stood there for an awkward moment before William said, "Well then, I'll park my car up near the steps and come help you get down there. In the meantime you can rest your leg." When he left I asked Draggard, "How long has that guy been here. He's Central City's police chief, or did you know?" "I've never seen the twerp before. He didn't buy no drink here." William was back before I got a chance to sit down. He grabbed me under one arm, Maggie grabbed me under the other, and we maneuvered our way down the stairs. "Would you mind driving Mrs. Ackley?" Elrod said. "I want to sit in back with Nick, talk to him." "No," Maggie said, "Anything to get out of here." "Is your leg comfortable?" Elrod asked after I'd managed to maneuver myself into the back seat of his Buick. My leg was stretched out at an awkward angle, but Elrod managed to get seated beside me. Maggie started the car, shifted into drive and spun a little gravel as she drove up the incline and onto the road. "I'm not sure I know the way," Maggie said. "To your left for now, and I'll tell you when to turn again," Elrod said. "That is an awful place back there, isn't it," Elrod said as we put some distance between us and The Hollow. "Awful," Maggie agreed. I didn't add to the conversation. What was Elrod doing at The Hollow? I didn't buy his story about exploring the countryside. "You're quiet, Nick," Elrod said. "Something on your mind?" "I'm thinking of trying to bring state police into this mess. I don't think I can rely on the Garwood County sheriff, Dale James. Do you know him?" "No, we've never met," Elrod said. "Why would you call in the state police. What mess? I thought you said you were in an automobile accident." "Elrod moved so he was facing me, reached under his T-shirt, pulled a small hand gun from where it was tucked under his belt, and pointed it at my face. "What the hell. Is this an arrest? What are the charges?" "Yes you could call it an arrest. Maybe a citizen's arrest. I have no authority outside Central City. Turn left at the next road up here. Left. Slow down and turn left." His voice had changed. It sounded like his throat had run out of lubricant. Squeaky, like the voice behind the mask at the phony trial. It wasn't Trudi behind the mask, it was Elrod. Maggie pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked it across from the road where Elrod had instructed her to turn. "Why do you want to turn here? This won't take us to a hospital, will it?" "He's got a gun, Maggie, I guess you better do what he says." Maggie twisted so she could see us and said, "My God, Nick, what's going on?" "We're under citizen's arrest, at least until we get back to Central City. Isn't that right, Elrod." The wooden sign across the road read, "Private Property" with an arrow pointing where Elrod had directed Maggie to drive. Now I knew where he wanted to take us. At the end of the road, about a mile from the blacktop, was a strip-mine lake. A deep one. I had fished there once with Otto. -------- *CHAPTER FORTY* "Get going," he squeaked as he pointed the gun briefly at Maggie. She drove the car across the blacktop and onto the gravel road. We bumped along the single lane until we came to the lake, its water calm and black in the fading light. Streaks of brilliant orange and red shot across the sky as dark clouds partially obscured the setting sun. Elrod ordered us out of the car. "Why should we get out? You're not going to get me out of this car," Maggie said. Elrod pushed the barrel of the gun against her left ear. "Get out or I'll shoot you right now, say you were resisting arrest, threatening my life." "What should I do, Nick?" "Guess we better get out," I said. I was hoping there would be a better chance to get the gun away from Elrod if we were outside where we had more room. Maggie got out, came around to the passenger side and helped me ease my injured leg out the door. Elrod stood on the other side of the car pointing his gun at me. "Don't try anything Bancroft. I'll blow your head off." "What the hell am I going to try, Elrod? I can hardly walk." "Come around to this side of the car, both of you." His eyes glowed like lightning bugs in the night. "Stay calm, Elrod. You're in charge here. We'll do what you say. Just stay calm." I leaned against Maggie as we made our way around the front of the car. It was tough going in the soft sand. There didn't seem to be a fisherman around. The time I'd been there with Otto two guys were fishing from the shore across from us and there were two boats on the water with fishermen in them. Now there wasn't a damned fisherman in sight. "The guys who catch those big catfish at night will be along soon. You'd better think about what you're doing, Elrod." "We're going over to that boat, the one that says "Chief" on it. You two are going to drag it to the water for me. Hurry." The boat, unlike several others that were lined up on the beach away from the water, was not turned over. Rain water sat a couple of inches deep in it. A light chain was fastened to the bow of the boat and attached to a tree with a padlock. Elrod unlocked it, flipped the chain into the bow of the boat and ordered us the shove the boat to the water. I insisted we had to empty the water out of it first. I whispered to Maggie to pretend we couldn't tip it over because of the weight of the water. We strained and failed, strained and failed. "If you're stalling, Bancroft, I'll shot you right here. The woman, too. You both get on the stern. I'll help from the bow." He positioned himself at the bow, said, "When I count to three we all lift." He put the gun in his belt. "One, two, three." His face turned red with the effort. I nudged Maggie when she started to protest because I was holding the boat down instead of lifting. "It can't be that heavy," Elrod protested. "Lots of water," I said. "Maybe if I get one of the oars out and pry up while you two lift." "Yeah, sure. Do you think I'm that dumb?" "You've got the gun. Why should we help you anyway. You just want to take us out in the lake, shoot us and dump us in the water, right, Elrod?" He pulled the gun from his belt, pointed it at me, and said, "All right, wise guy, take the oar out of the boat slow like. Shove it into the sand under the boat and then we'll all lift." I did as I was told. I maneuvered the paddle of the oar into the sand under the boat so that it was loose enough to pull out quickly. Elrod ordered Maggie to get ready to lift, took a long look at me, tucked the gun under his belt, and readied himself to lift. "I'll count to three again and then we all lift. One, two..." I pulled the oar from under the boat and swung it in one motion. The flat side of the paddle smacked into the side of Elrod's head. He crashed onto his back and lay unconscious in the sand. I placed the oar across his neck and told Maggie to put her foot on it. "If he starts to move put pressure with your foot on the oar," I told Maggie. I scrounged around the beach and found a plastic bag with a couple of dead minnows in it. I washed the thing with lake water the best I could and slid it around the handle of Elrod's gun. I removed it from under his belt and slid the rest of it down into the bag. "Let's take his car and get out of here," Maggie said. "No, "I'm making a citizen's arrest. The same thing he pulled on us. We'll take him to city jail, call Brown and see what we can do from there." Maggie sighed. "Nick, I'm beaten and half scared to death. Just take me to my car at the library, let me go home and I'll pretend this never happened." Elrod groaned. Maggie said, "Oh, I can't do this. You put your foot on the oar." I lifted the oar from Elrod's neck, threw sand in his face and watched the creep gradually rejoin the living. He sat up and held his head with both hands. He got on his knees, paused, tried once to get to his feet, failed, tried again and stood. He held his head again and glared at me. "I'm the chief of police, you can't do this to me. I'll add assault and battery to the charges against you." "We're going into Central City, Maggie's going to go home, and you and I are going to the police station where I'm going to file attempted murder charges against you, mister police chief." I patted the bulge under my T-shirt. "My .45. You've got my gun." "Yes, the same one you used to shoot Bobby Scalf, the same one you used to kill Jayson Arthur. And it's in an evidence bag of sorts. Just your fingerprints on it. But I can still shoot it if you insist." "No one is going to arrest me, I'm the chief of police." "Brown will. He'll relish the idea. You've been trying to ruin his career. Now yours is over. You think that uncle of yours will stand behind you now? He'll turn on you like the snakes you both are." Elrod's shoulders sagged. Maggie drove. I tried to find a comfortable angle for my leg. Maggie parked Elrod's Buick next to her car, got out, said, "Good-bye, Nick," got in her car and drove away. I ordered Elrod to get in the front seat, punched a hole in the plastic bag so I could reach the trigger and kept the gun on him as I hobbled around to the passenger side, and then directed him as he drove to in back of my apartment parking lot and parked. The little color that remained in Elrod's face evaporated when I ordered him out of the car and into my apartment. "What are you going to do? You can't get away with murdering me. I'll confess, you don't have to kill me, please don't kill me." I managed to get him inside the apartment and seated in my office. The cat hopped up on the desk when I sat down. I pushed it aside, laid the gun down so it pointed at Elrod and dialed Brown's number. He answered after four rings. I explained the situation. He said, "You must be drunk, Bancroft. Having fancies. You think I'm sucker enough to believe this shit?" "C'mon Brown, do I sound drunk? This is serious. Who else but you would have the guts to arrest the police chief? Maggie is a witness. So is Draggard." "You gonna sign the complaint?" "Absolutely," I said. "My leg hurts like hell, let's get this done. How soon can you get to the police station?" "I'll be there as soon as you are. This better be the real thing. I admit I like the idea. Jailing that twerp. I'm on my way." Elrod lifted his head and said, "Brown knows you two can't get away with this. He won't show up. Nobody else will dare arrest me, you'll see." Had Brown agreed to show up just to be rid of me? I directed Elrod out of the apartment and ordered him to drive us to the police station. My concern about how I was going to pull this off if Brown didn't show up grew with each step Elrod and I took up into the police station. Byron Mitchell, an old sergeant who had been helpful when I first started covering the police beat, was working the desk. His tired eyes widened when he saw the chief. He studied the gun in a sack I held on the police chief. "What are you doing, Bancroft?" he said. "He's insane," Elrod squeaked. "He thinks he's arresting me, the police chief. A citizen's arrest he calls it." "That's right, sergeant. "I'm making a citizen's arrest. Charging this pipsqueak with murder, attempted murder, assault and battery, the whole bit." A young cop I didn't know walked into the station, stared at me and Elrod's .45, stepped back and started to draw his gun. I stared into his eyes. He let his gun hand fall to his side. Where the hell was Brown? I should have waited to make sure he was there before I went in. "You men do your duty, now. Arrest this idiot or I'll have your jobs, your pensions," Elrod said. "Don't be foolish. Brown will be here in a minute or two. He'll take charge. Don't do something foolish and make me shoot Central City's distinguished police chief. You wouldn't want that would you, Elrod." He didn't reply. Another policeman, the first guy's partner probably, came into the station. His mouth dropped open. He made a move toward his gun, stopped and looked at the sergeant. "Just stay calm. Everybody stay calm," the sergeant said. "If Brown is coming he'll straighten this out. Just stay calm." Brown came into the area from the back. He walked to the counter, put his hand on the sergeant's shoulder, and said, "Hello Mitchell." Brown looked at me. "Well Bancroft," he said, "you're a little mixed up, I see. Police do the arresting, you just make those little scribbles you call notes." "My leg hurts like hell, I'm tired and pissed off. I told you on the phone what this is all about. So now, what?" "First thing is, you give me the gun." "Yeah, I give you the gun, you put me in a cell and Elrod goes home, right." Brown came around the counter, held out his hand as he stood in front of me. The gun went to his hand as if drawn by a magnet. "That's evidence. That's why it's in that plastic bag. Got his fingerprints all over it." "I'll bet it does. It's his gun, isn't it?" "Come along Mister William. I'll put you in a nice cell until we get this thing straightened out." "You can't do that. I'll fire you first thing in the morning." "No, I don't think so. First thing in the morning you'll be going before a circuit judge on several charges." "It'll be my word against this, this reporter." "There is other evidence. This gun will be the topper. I had everything sewed up except I needed the gun. Thanks for giving it to Bancroft." Elrod William sagged onto the bench across from the counter. His face brightened. He straightened his shoulders and said, "What about my cousin, the mayor. He won't stand for this." "He's already thrown you to us wolves, shorty. You're on your way to prison." Brown turned to me. "You don't look so good, Bancroft. I'll get someone to take you home or to the hospital." "Home will be fine," I said as I sat beside Elrod and extended my leg. -------- *EPILOGUE* Mrs. Seymour testified that it was Gordon Hicks who insisted on hiring the guards. Gordon Hicks testified that he was a hired hand himself as principal and could insist on nothing. All the board members testified that Mrs. Seymour ran the show. Warren Seymour -- once the romance between his wife and Gordon Hicks was revealed -- testified against everyone. Mrs. Seymour escaped with a gentle slap on the wrist -- she was convicted of misappropriating school funds. She agreed to resign from the school board. Mrs. Julia Farnsworth never admitted recording the secret meetings by hiding the recorder under her knitting, but I knew. She was elected by the other board members to be interim president. I wrote a story suggesting that they all should be replaced, with the excepting of Mrs. Farnsworth and Ed Marsh, because they did nothing to oppose Mrs. Seymour. Meanwhile, Elrod William sat in jail awaiting trial for murder. His plea, it already had been announced, was going to be insanity. He tried to implicate others in the murders, but he never claimed that someone else pulled the trigger. Why did he kill Bobby Scalf and Jayson Arthur? Brown and I speculated about that as the trial was delayed while the state's attorney tried to find Captain Draggard who had disappeared with his dogs. Brown said, "I think William killed Bobby Scalf because he was taking pictures of William playing general with the guards. What I don't understand is the reason why the guards put up with it?" "What about Arthur? Why did he kill Arthur?" "Look Bancroft, I can't give you all the answers. You're supposed to be a private eye. You tell me." "Are you goin' to accept appointment as police chief?" "Hell no. I'm already sick of being acting chief. I've told them to find someone else." "How about James, the Garwood County sheriff?" "That's another reason why they want to find Draggard, get him to testify against that guy. James already has announced he won't run for re-election." "What about the mayor?" "Why don't you, as the good citizen you are, start a recall action against him?" "Maybe I will," I said. I knew I never would. My business is reporting the news, not making it. Maybe I could convince someone else to do it. "How is Maggie?" Brown asked. I hesitated, said she was fine and avoided Brown's questioning gaze. They never did find Draggard. I went out to The Hollow after my leg returned to near normal. The place was abandoned. The door to the tavern was locked but the empty trailers were left open. During William's trial he said he killed Jason Arthur because his uncle, the mayor, said Arthur had threatened to expose the school board and the city council for plotting to run things outside the law. He said killing Bobby Scalf was an accident. He said he shot the boy in the leg when he ran and then had to kill him. The spikes were an attempt to make the killings look like Chicago gang crimes. I was practically a fulltime reporter for the Chicago Times before and during the trial. Readers in Central Illinois wanted all the details I could give them. A note from Maggie, mailed a few days after we eluded William's plan to eliminate us, said she had gone to visit her grandchildren again. She said she didn't know when or if she was coming back. 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