The Fiend (26 page)

That might be the whole point,
Mac thought, but all he said was, “Can you think of any recent family scene or event that might make her want to run away?”

“No.”

“Has she been upset about something lately?”

Dave turned and looked out the window. The night seemed darker than any he could ever remember. It wasn't the ordinary darkness, an absence of light; it was a thick, soft, suffocating thing that covered the whole world. No morning could ever penetrate it.

“Has something upset her?” Mac repeated.

“I'm trying to answer. I—she's been talking a lot about di­vorce, fathers deserting their families like Sheridan Oakley. Ob­viously Mary Martha's fed her a lot of stuff and Jessie's taken it perhaps more seriously than it deserves. She's a funny kid, Jessie. She puts on a big front about not caring but she feels everything deeply, especially where Mary Martha is concerned. The two girls have been very close for almost a year now, in fact almost inseparable.”

Mac remembered the opening sentence of the letter he was carrying in his pocket:
Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her delicate body.
He said, “Do you consider Jessie a frail child, that is, delicate in build?”

“That's an odd question.”

“I have good reasons for asking it which I can't divulge right now.”

“Well, Jessie might look delicate to some people. Actually, she's thin and wiry like her mother, and extremely healthy. The only times she's ever needed a doctor were when she's had ac­cidents.”

“Accidents such as?”

“Falls, stings, bites. The normal things that happen to kids plus a few extra. Right now her hands are badly blistered from overuse of the jungle gym at the school playground.”

“Does she often play at the school playground?”

“I don't know. I'm at work all day.”

“Would you say she goes there twice a week? Five times? Seven?”

“All the neighborhood kids go there. Why shouldn't they?” Dave added defensively, “It's well supervised, there are organ­ized games and puppet shows and things not available in the ordinary backyard. Just what were you implying?”

“Nothing. I was merely—”

“No. I think you know something that you're not telling me. You're holding out on me. Why?”

“I have no knowledge at present,” Mac said, “that would be of any value or comfort to you.”

“That's only a fancy way of saying you won't tell me.” There was a silence, filled with sudden distrust and uneasiness. “Who are you, anyway? What are you? How did you get into this?”

“I gave you my name, Ralph MacPherson. I'm a lawyer and an old friend of Mrs. Oakley's.”

“She didn't waste much time contacting a lawyer. Why?”

“She called me as a friend, not a lawyer. I've known her since she was Jessie's age.... Let's see, I take the next turn, don't I?”

“Yes.”

All the houses in the block were dark except for two. In the driveway that separated the two, a black Chrysler sedan was parked. Mac recognized it as one of the unmarked police cars used for assignments requiring special precautions.

Except for the number of lights burning in the two houses, there was no sign that anything had happened. The streets were deserted, and if the immediate neighbors were curious, they were keeping their curiosity behind closed drapes in dark rooms.

Mac braked the car, leaving the engine running. “I'd be a damned fool if I said I'm glad to have met you, Brant. So I'll just say I hope we meet again under more pleasant circum­stances.”

“Aren't you coming inside?”

“It didn't occur to me that you might want me to.”

“I can't face Ellen alone.”

“I don't see that I'll be of much help. Besides, you won't be alone with her, the police are there.”

“I won't—I can't walk into that house and tell her I didn't find Jessie. She was so full of hope. How can I go in there and take it all away from her?”

“She has to be told the truth, Brant. Come on, I'll go with you.”

The two men got out of the car and began walking toward the house. Mac had no thought of involving himself in the situation. He felt that he was merely doing his duty, helping a person in trouble, and that the whole thing—or at least his part in it— would be over in a few minutes. He could afford a few minutes, some kind words.

Suddenly the front door opened and a woman rushed out. It was as if a violent explosion had taken place inside the house and blown the door open and tossed the woman out.

She said, “Jessie?” Then she stopped dead in her tracks, star­ing at Mac. “Where's Jessie?”

“Mrs. Brant, I—”

“I know. You must be the doctor. It happened the way I thought. Jessie was on her way to Mary Martha's by the short cut and she fell crossing the creek. And she's in the hospital and you've come to tell me she'll be all right, it's nothing serious, she'll be home in a—”

“Stop it, Mrs. Brant. I'm a lawyer, not a doctor.”

“Where is Jessie?”

“I'm sorry, I don't know.”

Dave said, “She didn't go to Mary Martha's, Ellen. I haven't found her.”

“Oh God. Please, God, help her. Help my baby.”

Dave took her in his arms. To Mac it was not so much an embrace as a case of each of them holding the other up. He felt a deep pity but he realized there was nothing further he could do for them now. He started back to his car. The letter in his pocket seemed to be getting heavier, like a stone to which things had begun to cling and grow and multiply.

He had almost reached the curb when a voice behind him said, “Just a minute, sir.”

Mac turned and saw a young man in a dark gray suit and matching fedora. The fedora made him look like an under­graduate dressed up for a role in a play. “Yes, what is it?”

“May I ask your name, sir?”

“MacPherson.”

“Do you have business here at this time of night, Mr. Mac­Pherson?”

“I drove Mr. Brant home.”

“I'm sure you won't mind repeating that to the lieutenant, will you?”

“Not,” Mac said dryly, “if the lieutenant wants to hear it.”

“Oh, he will. Come this way, please.”

As they walked down the driveway Mac saw that there was another police car parked outside the garage, its searchlight had been angled to shine on the window of a rear bedroom. A police­man was examining the window; a second one stood just outside the periphery of the light. All Mac could see of him was his gray hair, which was cut short and stood up straight on his head like the bristles of a brush. It was enough.

“Hello, Gallantyne.”

Gallantyne stepped forward, squinting against the light. He was of medium height with broad, heavy shoulders, slightly stooped. His posture and his movements all indicated a vast im­patience just barely kept under control. He always gave Mac the impression of a well-trained and very powerful stallion with one invisible saddle sore which mustn't be touched. No one knew where this sore was but they knew it was there and it paid to be careful.

“What are you doing here, Mac?” Gallantyne said.

“I was invited. It seems I come under the heading of suspi­cious characters seen lurking in the neighborhood.”

“Well, were you?”

“I was seen, I don't believe I was lurking,” Mac said. “Unless perhaps I have a natural lurk that I'm not aware of. May I re­turn the question? What are you doing here, Gallantyne? I thought you were tied to a desk.”

“They untie me once in a while. Salvadore's on vacation and Weber has bursitis. Come inside. I want to talk to you.”

For reasons he didn't yet understand, Mac felt a great reluc­tance to enter the house. He didn't want the missing child to seem any more real to him than she did now; he didn't want to see the yard where she played, the table she ate at, the room she slept in. He wanted her to remain merely a name and a number, Jessie Brant, aged nine. He said, “I'd prefer to stay out here.”

“Well, I prefer different.”

Gallantyne turned and walked through an open gate into a patio. He didn't bother looking back to see if he was being fol­lowed. It was taken for granted that he would be, and he was.

The back door of the house had been propped open with a flowerpot filled with earth containing a dried-out azalea. A po­liceman in uniform was dusting the door and its brass knob for fingerprints. There was no sign that the door had been forced or the lock tampered with.

The kitchen contained mute evidence of a family going through a crisis: cups of half-consumed coffee, overflowing ash­trays, a bottle of aspirin with the top off, a wastebasket filled with used pieces of tissue and the empty box they'd come in.

Gallantyne said, “Sit down, Mac. You look nervous. Are you the family lawyer?”

“No.”

“An old friend, then?”

“I've known Brant about an hour, his wife for five minutes.” He explained briefly about responding to Kate's phone call and meeting Brant on the porch of her house.

“It sounds crazy,” Gallantyne said.

“Anything involving Mrs. Oakley has a certain amount of il-logic in it. She's a nervous woman and she's been under a great strain, especially for the past few days.”

“Why the past few days?”

“Two reasons that I know of, though there may be more. She thinks the husband she's divorcing has hired someone to spy on her. And this week she received an anonymous letter warning her to take better care of her daughter.”

Gallantyne's thick gray eyebrows leaped up his forehead. “Have you read it?”

“Yes. Mrs. Oakley brought it to my office right away. She'd pretty well convinced herself that Mr. Oakley had written it to harass her. I didn't believe it. In fact, I didn't really take the whole thing seriously. Now I'm afraid, I'm very much afraid, that I made a bad mistake.”

“Why?”

“Here, see for yourself.” Mac took the envelope out of his pocket. He was appalled at the severe trembling of his hands. It was as if his body had acknowledged his feelings of guilt before his mind was conscious of them. “I realize now that I should have shown this to you right away. Oh, I have the customary excuses: I was busy, I was fed up with Kate Oakley's shenani­gans, and so on. But excuses aren't good enough. If I—”

“You're too old for the if-game,” Gallantyne said and took the letter out of the envelope. “Was it folded like this when Mrs. Oakley received it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's a switch anyway.” He read the letter through, half aloud. “ ‘Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her delicate body. Children must be guarded against the cruel hazards of life and fed good, nourishing food so their bones will be padded. Also clothing. You should put plenty of clothing on her, keep arms and legs covered, etc. In the name of God please take better care of your little girl.' “

Gallantyne reread the letter, this time silently, then he tossed it on the table as though he wanted to get rid of it as quickly as possible. The grooves in his face had deepened and drops of sweat appeared on his forehead, growing larger and larger until they fell of their own weight and were lost in his eyebrows. “All I can say is, I'm damn glad this wasn't sent to the Brants. As it is, I figure the kid decided to throw a scare into her parents by running away. Probably one of the patrol cars has picked her up by now. . . . Why the hell are you staring at me like that?”

“I think the letter was intended for Mrs. Brant.”

“You said it was addressed to Mrs. Oakley.”

“Jessie Brant and the Oakley girl, Mary Martha, are best friends. According to Brant, they're inseparable, which no doubt involves a lot of visiting back and forth in each other's houses. Mary Martha's a tall girl for her age, a trifle overweight, and inclined to be cautious. The writer of the letter wasn't describ­ing Mary Martha. He, or she, was describing Jessie.”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“I can be sure of two things. Mary Martha's at home with her mother and Jessie isn't.”

Gallantyne stood in silence for a minute. Then he picked up the letter, refolded it and put it in his pocket. “We won't tell anybody about this right now, not the parents or the press or anyone else.”

(20)

Howard Arlington woke
up at dawn in a motel room. Seen through half-closed eyes the place looked the same as a hundred others he'd stayed in, but gradually differences began to show up: the briefcase Virginia had given him years ago was not on the bureau where he always kept it, and the luggage rack at the foot of the bed was empty. When he turned his head his starched collar jabbed him in the neck and he realized he was still fully dressed. Even his tie was knotted. He loosened it but the tight­ness in his throat didn't go away. It was as if, during the night, he'd tried to swallow something too large and too fibrous to be swallowed.