Picture Perfect (26 page)

“Heavy, huh? This kid say anything about talking to the cops?”

“You gotta be putting me on. He's a street kid. Street kids don't talk to the cops unless it's to tell them to drop dead. Nah, he thought I was a relative.”

Sanders put two Rolaids into his mouth. He'd give his right arm for a home-cooked meal of French toast, or pancakes, or scrambled eggs with lots of bacon on the side.

“They could have been carrying a body,” Feeley said. “You have to admit it was a clever idea, if that's the way they got him out. This Balog is our man, I'm sure of it. The locals must know it too, only they think they've got the jump on us. And who are we, anyway? Just some tired men looking for a lost kid.”

Sanders nodded. “It's adding up, that's for sure. The mothballs sort of frost it, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Feeley said, mangling the soggy end of his cigar. “While you were playing Rip van Winkle, I was watching the bird on the phone desk. He kept looking over at me while he was carrying on this conversation. Call came in a little after eight. I asked him point blank if it was something we should know, and he told me it was a personal call. You want to check it out?”

Sanders rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Do
you
think it was a personal call?”

Feeley shrugged his shoulders.

“Then let's check it out.”

Sanders got right to the point. “Now, let's make sure we understand each other,” he told the officer manning the phone. “This is a bureau office. Any calls that come in pertain to our case. My partner said you received a call a short while ago. Let me see the log sheet.”

The officer's face drained of color. “It was a personal call. A pal of mine was going off duty and they put him through here to me.”

“We can call your pal, but that would take time. Make it easy for all of us.”

The pale face flushed. “Well, you see, what I mean . . . My buddy and me know this hooker. She's okay, if you know what I mean,” he added hastily, watching Sanders's face. “Anyway, she got busted up during the night. Some dude from out of town fed her a line about making her a showgirl in Vegas, and she fell for it. Somebody found her and called the hospital in Point Pleasant. She's being operated on right now. My buddy went over after he finished his shift to see if he could get a line on how it happened.”

“And?”

“All he came up with was some guy driving a pickup which he left parked behind the garage. Gus, the guy who runs the garage, said this dude came in late yesterday to have a tire fixed. He steered him to the saloon where Candy dances. That's it.”

“Did the guy from the garage say anything about the truck, like what color it was?”

“No, but my buddy said it was one of those hippie rigs, all painted up and—Oh, Jesus, that was the guy, right? Jesus!”

“Which hospital?” Sanders barked.

“Point Pleasant General. She's being operated on now for a busted spleen, fractured collarbone, and two cracked ribs. My buddy says her face will never be the same again.”

Sanders's stomach turned sour. He chewed up two more Rolaids and turned to Feeley. “Sack out for an hour or so. I'll check the police report. No point in hanging around the hospital—we'll get to her doctor later on this morning.”

“Go away, I'm asleep already.” It was true, Sanders thought in amazement. Loud, gusty snores rippled around the room. The cigar hadn't moved.

Outside the office, Sanders stopped to gather his thoughts. Balog was still in the area—everything pointed to it. The beaten-up woman, the flat tire, the description of the pickup by the garage owner. But where was Davey? He would have staked his life on it that Davey was with Balog and his traveling companion. Sanders snapped his fingers. Right, there were two of them. One could have stayed with the boy while the other went into town. But it didn't fit. A man on the run with a kid in tow just didn't take the time to visit a hooker. It didn't fit.

Unless . . . unless Davey was already dead. He'd seen too much; Balog knew it and had disposed of him. Still, it didn't feel right. What about the woman with Balog? Elva, Feeley had called her. Would Balog have left her behind to guard the kid while he took himself off for a little relaxation? Nah, no woman would stand for that. Okay, so this Elva didn't know Balog was paying a house call. He'd left her alone somewhere with the camper and Davey—but still, where did Davey fit?

Perhaps he'd been right earlier. Perhaps Davey
had
seen Balog burying Lombardi. Davey had been spotted; he'd run. Balog couldn't have caught him, or he'd have killed the boy right there at the campsite and dumped the body into the grave with Lombardi. Sanders snapped his fingers—
that
was why the grave had been left open. Balog had chased off after Davey, and then panicked when he couldn't find the kid. He'd packed up camp and made a run for it. But where was Davey now? Sanders remembered Duffy's attempts to communicate with him. Perhaps Davey had hidden in the trailer, not realizing he was getting himself into worse trouble.

The thought that Davey had already spent a night with a probable killer, and was still nowhere to be found, made Sanders's blood run cold.

 

Tired and hungry, Davey made his way to what looked like a farm. The roof of a large barn caught his eye, along with the silver silo standing beside it. He almost laughed aloud at his discovery, but some inner voice warned him that he couldn't count on victory just yet. There was still the open field to cross, and then he had to find someone to call his aunt. Whoever lived near the barn might take him to the police, and they would let him wear a police cap and give him an ice cream. They always did that on television.

Cautiously, Davey walked to the edge of the forest and looked across the open field. He had to cross it to get to the barn. But what if the man saw him? Overhead, a squirrel scurried out onto a low-lying branch then dropped to one beneath it. Petrified by the sound, Davey dropped to his belly and dug his head into his folded arms. He waited, lying motionless, barely breathing, until the squirrel was a foot in front of him. Davey opened one eye and stared with relief into the shiny brown buttons that were the squirrel's eyes.

Crawling on his belly, he inched his way out into the field. He wriggled and squirmed across the muddy terrain. Mom sure was going to be mad when she got a look at his clothes. Aunt Lorrie would never be able to get them clean. Davey felt part of the earth now, and for a few brief seconds he reveled in the sensation of his fingers clawing through the muddy ground, pulling him closer and closer to the red barn. By the time he reached the barn he was exhausted but exhilarated. He had done it; he had gotten away from the man. Now, if only he could find someone to call Aunt Lorrie, everything would be all right.

Davey got to his knees and brushed his hands together to get them clean. Mud spattered every which way. He laughed delightedly. If Mom could see him now she would take a fit. Aunt Lorrie would just laugh and turn a hose on him. But he couldn't think about that now—he had to find someone to help him. He looked over his shoulder to see if the man was anywhere near but the open field was empty.

The hems of his new jeans flapped at his ankles as Davey trudged around the side of the barn. There were turkeys there, daintily picking at the corn that littered the barnyard. Everything smelled sweet and clean. He wished he had a drink; even toothpaste would taste good in his mouth now. As he walked toward the turkeys, they started to gobble and scatter. A white-haired woman came out of the barn, holding a pitchfork.

“Well, well, what have we here?” she said kindly.

“Lady, I need someone to help me call my aunt. Will you call her for me?”

The woman laid the pitchfork on the ground. “You're lost, is that it? Bet you wandered off from the amusement park. I thought it was closed for the winter.”

“It is. I was camping there with my aunt, and I don't know how to get back.”

“How old are you?” she asked.

“I'll be eight after Christmas,” Davey said proudly. “I would 'preciate it if you called my aunt. I have to get a shot at noontime. Do you know what time it is now?”

The old woman looked up at the sun. “Pretty near one o'clock.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “You come along with me and I'll try to clean you up a little. You need hosing down in the trough, but it's a mite too chilly for that. Wait on the back porch while I make the call. Would you like some cookies and milk? I make the best ginger cookies in these parts.”

“I'd like that,” Davey said agreeably. They walked side by side toward the farmhouse.

“Do you know the campsite number?”

“It's close to the pond—I don't know the number. But we have an RV and it's the only one in the campground.”

“How did you get so muddy?”

“I crawled on my belly across the field,” Davey replied truthfully.

“You ask a dumb question and you get a dumb answer,” the old woman laughed. “I'll be back in two shakes,” she said, leaving him on the porch.

Davey sat down on the step. His leg was aching and he was tired. The cookies and milk were going to taste good.

The screen door banged shut as the old woman brought out his food. “Here you go. What's your name so I know who I'm talking about when I call the campground?”

“Davey Taylor, but my aunt's name is Lorrie Ryan.”

All of a sudden the turkeys started gobbling again. “Mercy me, what's that ruckus? Looks like we have another visitor. Land sakes, weeks and months go by and nary a soul stops by, and today we have two visitors.”

Davey laid the cookie he was about to eat back on the plate.

“There you are, you little rascal,” Cudge Balog accused playfully as he climbed from the pickup. “Thought you would give me a scare running off like that, did you? Excuse me, ma'am, this is my son, and he ran off on me this morning. You see, he didn't want to do his chores around the campground. I have a rule that each child does his share but this rascal likes to play. I'm sorry if he gave you any trouble, ma'am.”

Fear gave Davey the impetus to get to his feet. He moved over to the woman and clung onto her dress. “He's not my father. He's a mean, bad man and he's telling you a lie. Please, call my aunt and tell her to come and get me. He's not my father.”

“Now, why are you upsetting this nice lady with your stories? Someday this boy's going to write books. I just know it,” Cudge said airily. “He does have some imagination.”

“You're a bad man! You killed that man and tried to bury him. And you kicked my dog!” Davey stared with imploring eyes at the old lady. She didn't believe him, he could tell.

“That's enough of that,” Cudge said. “Come along now and give this nice woman some peace and quiet.”

“Now, just a minute,” Elsie Parsons said sharply. “This little boy don't look like no liar to me. What's it gonna hurt if I call the campground to see if his aunt is there? It's only going to take a few minutes.”

“What's going to take a few minutes?” a nasally voice inquired from inside the house. “What's going on here?”

“Sid, this here boy is Davey Taylor. This man claims to be the boy's father but the boy says he ain't. I found him by the barn this morning looking like this. He wants me to call the campground for his aunt. I think we should call the police and let them straighten it all out.”

“Now, Ma, you don't want to go sticking your nose in someone else's business and get yourself in trouble,” Sid said warily. “If the man says he's the kid's father, he is. Who you gonna believe—the guy or the kid? Kids lie all the time. He probably done something wrong and lit out.” There was no way Sid wanted police around the place. First thing they'd be tramping all over and find his patch in the cornfield. Smoking pot was one thing, but growing it was something else.

Cudge grinned and slapped the youth on the shoulder. “You're absolutely right. Davey wasn't in the mood to clean up the campsite this morning and just took off. He's a mighty big source of worry to his mother, I can tell you.” He turned to Davey. “Now you get your butt in that truck before I take a switch to you. Apologize to these nice people for the trouble you caused them, and we'll be on our way. Ma'am, I do want to thank you for taking care of my boy here.” Cudge held out his hand to the old lady.

Elsie backed off one step and then another. What could she do? She'd seen the look in Sid's eyes at the mention of police. Good Lord, what had he done this time? Well, your own came first, and then you worried about someone else's kids. Davey seemed like a nice little boy, well-mannered and polite. The father—if he was the father—left something to be desired.

“You mean you aren't going to help me?” Davey asked incredulously.

“No, she ain't gonna help you,” Sid told him. “You go on with your old man and stop bothering people and telling lies, or you're going to wake up some morning with a nose a mile long.”

Davey threw himself against the old woman's legs. “He's not my father! He's not! He kills people! He kicked my dog.” He could feel the lady tense as he tried to hold on to her. Just as Cudge reached for him, Davey dropped to his knees, crawled quickly around him and down the steps of the back porch.

Sid raced after him, caught him by the collar of the windbreaker and literally lifted the little boy off the ground. “Where's your respect for your old man, kid? Now you get in that truck and act the way you're supposed to. I'll personally tan your hide if I hear another peep out of you.”

Before Davey knew what was happening, he'd been thrown into the cab of the pickup. Sid's leering face staring at him through the passenger window made him want to cry, but only babies cried. He wiped at his eyes with his muddy sleeve, leaving streaks of dirt on his cheeks. He was never going to get away now. He was going to be dead. His eyes went to the CB unit on the dashboard and then to Cudge, who was stepping down from the front porch. Quickly Davey locked both doors. He had the CB speaker to his mouth before Cudge's feet had hit the ground. He switched to the emergency channel. “Breaker, do you read? This is Panda Bear. Breaker! Breaker!”