Safer (30 page)

I account for myself between the hours of 5 and 10 p.m. yesterday: the approximate time the police bulletin on the Seward Lexus went out, up until the approximate time at which they found the car abandoned on the Decatur toll bridge. I tell them that Maya Lamb of Channel Five Clark Falls will be able to corroborate my statements. And that’s all.

Bell asks questions, and I answer them. Occasionally he asks the same questions, and I answer them again.

We determine that because I’ve crossed no state lines, I haven’t violated the conditions of my bail agreement by traveling to Iowa City. We determine that I haven’t violated my court order, which specified contact with Brit, by approaching Rachel McNally in a public area. I could be reading too much into the conversation, but Bell seems disappointed on both counts.

At some point, the same detective who brought in lunch brings in a laptop computer. My online bank records threaten to corroborate at least part of my story, placing my ATM card at a Kwik Star gas pump in Iowa City at 10:30 p.m. last night. Even I know that the computer can’t prove the card was in my hand at the time of the transaction, but this information seems to hold Detective Bell, at least for the moment, on the question of my whereabouts during the time frame in question.

Every so often, we break. Detective Bell leaves and comes back. He comes up with more questions, then asks some of the old ones again, just in case I have different answers this time. I don’t.

Finally, a few minutes after two o’clock, Bell expresses his appreciation for my cooperation, and advises us to expect a follow- up.

“My client will be available,” Bennett says. “With the story he’s telling,” Detective Bell says, “he’ll certainly need to be.”

Whoever schedules press conferences has scheduled one for four o’clock this afternoon. From a closet in his office, Bennett selects a necktie with a subtle pattern and puts it on skillfully, by feel alone.

“We’ll tie up the media for an hour, if nothing else,” he says. He scribbles something on a notepad and tears off the sheet. He hands me the slip of paper, along with a set of keys. “Congratulations. You’re free to move about the city.”

“What’s this?”

“Eric comes home in three weeks. My son.”

I nod to indicate that I remember what he’s told me of Eric. I think about Van Stockman’s not- so- subtle threat against Bennett and his family. I want to ask him how he’s going to protect his son after he comes home. But I don’t.

“We’ve been getting the guesthouse ready for him. Those are the keys.” Bennett nods toward the slip of paper. “That’s the address, and the alarm code for the gate. I’ve told Cheryl to expect you.”

“Guesthouse?”

“You and Sara are welcome to stay.” Bennett puts on a suit coat, opens a cabinet door, finally checks himself in a mirror. It isn’t necessary; he looks like he’s been groomed by a team of professionals. “It’s not a palace, but it’s not the Residence Inn. And I think we can promise fewer reporters over these next few days.”

“This is very nice of you.”

“Call it case management.”

He doesn’t want me running around loose, I realize. I suppose I can understand his perspective. As I look at the keys to Bennett’s guesthouse, it occurs to me that my court order
mandates only that I stay away from Brit Seward. But Brit doesn’t live in Sycamore Court anymore. Technically, I could go home now.

For the first time all day, I feel something other than numbness and exhaustion.

Anger.

“Go get your things, take them over to the house,” Bennett says. “Get a bite to eat. Try and get some rest. Have you heard from Sara?”

“She has a three- thirty flight.” I look at my watch. “Couple hours in Dallas. She should be here tonight.”

“That’s good.” Bennett makes a point of catching my eye and adds, in a way that seems meant to convey extra meaning, “You could use a night in.”

I pack my bags and take my leave of the Residence Inn. I can feel the glares from various staff members as I walk out through the front lobby. They’ve seen me on the news.

Getting a bite to eat would be a good idea. Getting some rest would be a good idea. Almost anything would be a better idea than driving to see Darius Calvin.

But I can’t seem to make myself sit still. Every time I stop moving for more than a minute, I think of a frozen riverbank. A white body bag on a yellow stretcher. I see Brit Seward curled up on my reading couch, poking her tongue out at me. All I can feel is a burning in my stomach.

I need something to make this burn go away, and it isn’t food. I want Sara back. I want my life back. But whatever else happens, right now, on this drive to Darius Calvin’s tattered clapboard house on the ass end of town, I only need to destroy Roger Mallory.

I park in front, climb the rotting porch, and knock on the flimsy door. I plan what I’m going to say, how I’m going to convince Darius Calvin to join the resistance. When no one answers, I take off my glove and rap harder.

Calvin works nights. His shift doesn’t start for an hour. He’s asleep, or he’s in the shower. The doorbell is two rusty wires where a doorbell used to be.

I knock again. I end up pounding the door for ten seconds straight before I remember that he doesn’t lock his door in the first place.

The little house is cold inside.

The closets are empty.

There’s a note to the landlord on the kitchen table, along with five twenty- dollar bills and a set of keys. Calvin is gone.

Can I honestly blame him?

“Mrs. Webster?”

“Yes?”

“This is Ben Holland. I spoke with you last week?”

Myrna Webster’s voice brightens with recognition. “Well, hello, Ben.” I hear pans rattling in the background. “How’s your story coming?”

I tell her it’s coming along. As far as Myrna Webster knows, I’m a reporter doing a story on Roger Mallory and the Safer Places Organization; it’s the same simple ruse that failed so miserably the day I approached Van Stockman at his home, but it’s served its purpose since. At least none of the previous owners of 34 Sycamore Court questioned my identity when I called to ask if they’d share their memories of Roger Mallory. “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you so close to supper time, but I had a couple quick follow- up questions. Do you mind?”

“I don’t mind at all.” I hear what sounds like a whisk on a stainless steel bowl. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I ran across a piece of information that I wanted to corroborate with you. But I also wanted to see how you’d feel about my using it.”

“Oh? This sounds interesting.”

“Well, it’s awkward. You just tell me if it’s none of my business, all right? I’m not out to embarrass anyone.”

“I can’t imagine. What is it?”

“It has to do with your husband, actually. James?”

“Ha.” Is it my imagination, or does the whisking get louder? “We don’t refer to him by that name here. Here we call him the son of a bitch. What about him?”

“Before you left Clark Falls, Roger helped you file a missing-person report? On the son of a bitch?”

“Good grief.” The whisking pauses. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

“I understand that Roger helped you recover child support.” Myrna Webster seems like a very nice person. She doesn’t deserve to be manipulated this way. “Is that right?”

More whisking, then the sound of water running in a sink. “Well, not entirely.”

“No?”

“There was child support, if you want to call it that.” Plates clatter together. “The son of a bitch left a college bond for ten thousand bucks on each of the boys’ pillows when he left.”

“Really.”

“He must have been planning that for a while.” Myrna snorts in my ear. “It sure as hell wasn’t money
I
knew about. But the minute I saw it I knew we’d never see the son of a bitch again.”

“I see.”

“I never told Roger about that. He’d liked James. And James…” Myrna pauses again. The silence on her end of the line seems vaguely grudging. Finally she sighs. “My husband was a son of a bitch, but he cashed in vacation days at work to go help when they were looking for Brandon. I know that always meant a lot to Roger.”

I proceed as carefully as I can. “Listen, this has nothing to do with my story. But if you don’t mind my asking, why did you report him missing?”

“I guess it won’t seem to make a lot of sense, explaining
it now,” she says. “But back then, after what happened to Brandon…”

She stops.

“Mrs. Webster?”

“I’m sorry. I still get a little choked up.”

“Please, don’t be sorry.”

“You know, I used to babysit Brandon. He and my oldest were the same age, and my youngest was only two years behind. I can’t help thinking about that sometimes.”

“Of course.”

“They played together, all three of our boys. Ran all over those woods, rode their bikes all over town. Brandon must have slept over at our place every other weekend the summer before he …” She stops again. “Well.”

“I’m sorry to bring all of this up.” I’m not lying about that. It’s not easy to feel very good about myself, playing games with this woman, but I think I can find a way to live with it. I don’t think I can find a way to live with this burning in my gut.

“I don’t think either of them have ever really gotten over it. My boys.” Her voice seems to tighten. “I suppose I was fibbing before, when I told you I couldn’t afford to keep up the house after the son of a bitch left. The truth is, I just couldn’t live there anymore.”

“That’s certainly understandable.”

“And my sons. I think it did them good, getting away from that house. Those woods.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Anyway.” She seems to pull her thoughts back from the same woods she’s remembering for me. “Please don’t put this in your story, but the truth is, I filed that report more for Roger’s sake than for myself.”

“For Roger’s sake? How so?”

“He seemed so concerned,” she says. “The way James just up and disappeared, without a word to anyone … well. Roger had his own experience with that.”

“Yes. I suppose he did.”

“He wanted me to be sure nothing had happened to the son of a bitch.” Myrna clears her throat. “I guess I thought that if I filed the report, like Roger wanted me to, he could put it out of his mind. Maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“I see.”

“I’m glad you called,” she says. “I wouldn’t want Roger to hear all this from a newspaper story after all these years. He’s such a good man.”

I don’t have the heart to dispute this. “I’m glad I called too.”

“Seems like you can’t believe half what you read anymore,” she says.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Webster. I certainly appreciate the information.”

“You have a merry Christmas, Ben.”

ALL THE WAY ACROSS TOWN, Myrna Webster’s voice hounds my thoughts.
My husband was a son of a bitch. But he cashed in vacation days at work to go help when they were looking for Brandon.

Surely what I’m thinking can’t really be possible. And yet I can’t shake the memory of something Roger told me, that day he took me to the hemlock grove.

One theory went that he might have made himself part of the search.
That’s what Roger had said.
He could have joined the volunteers… used the search tracks to hide his own.

According to the dates in Myrna’s police report, James Webster didn’t abandon his family until long after Brandon Mallory’s disappearance. More than two years had passed since the boy’s body had been found in the woods behind Sycamore Court.

There were other theories,
Roger told me.
None of those ever checked out either.

I stop at a drugstore on the corner of Fifth and Van Dorn. I find what I’m looking for in the electronics section, near the cameras and computer discs and batteries. I stand in line and pay at the register, return to my car and drive on.

Surely what I’m thinking can’t be possible. And yet I can’t help remembering our first Saturday morning in Clark Falls. The day after Darius Calvin broke into our house, a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

I imagine Roger walking across the circle to invite us to the emergency meeting of the Ponca Heights Neighborhood Association—all the while knowing that our wolf was a phony, a masquerade he’d arranged himself.
Just wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome.

I imagine Roger crossing the same circle eight years ago. When Myrna Webster and her two sons still lived there, after her husband James had deserted his unit.

He wanted me to be sure nothing had happened to the son of a bitch.

Surely what I’m thinking can’t be possible.

And yet I can’t stop thinking about the fact that there are four names of authority contained in the report Myrna Webster eventually did file on her missing husband.

One of them is my neighbor. Another owns the company that installed our security alarm after our break- in. Another belongs to the family of my neighbor’s deceased wife, and the last is our own Detective Harmon.

Among these names, there’s only one person left I can reasonably expect may not know me on sight. According to Debbie’s research, I can find him in Room 242 at Clark Falls Mercy General.

“Can I help you, sir?” The nurse seems to recognize me, but she’s not sure why. The name tag on her smock says Harriet.

“Ben,” I tell her. “I’m a friend of the family?”

“Of course, yes. I knew your face was familiar. I’m sorry.”

“How’s he doing?”

Harriet offers a kind smile. “We’re doing what we can to make him comfortable.”

A youth group from one of the local churches is going from room to room, singing carols. At the moment, they’re doing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” in Room 242.

“Is it all right if I step in when they’re finished? I don’t mean to stay long.”

“Of course.” Harriet touches my arm. “He might not recognize you. He goes in and out with the pain.”

“That’s okay. I just wanted to stop by.”

“I’m sure he’ll enjoy the company.” She takes a last look at me, smiles again, then goes about her business. Meanwhile, the church group wraps up with a rousing four- part rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”