This Present Darkness (16 page)

TUESDAY AFTERNOON AT
the
Clarion
resembled a battlefield after everyone is either dead or retreated. The place was deathly quiet. George, the typesetter, usually took the day after publishing off to recover from the wild deadline race. Tom, the paste-up man, was out covering a local story.

As for Edie, the secretary/reporter/ad girl, she had resigned and walked off the job last night. Marshall had not known that she once was happily married, but gradually became unhappily married, and finally got a little thing going with a trucker that resulted in a very recent blow-up at home, with pieces of marriage flying everywhere and spouses fleeing abruptly in opposite directions. Now she was gone, and Marshall could feel the sudden void.

Bernice and he sat alone in the glass-enclosed office at the back of the little newsroom/ad room/front office. From his secondhand, ten-dollar desk Marshall could look through the glass and survey the three desks, two typewriters, two wastebaskets, two telephones, and one coffeemaker. Everything looked cluttered and busy, with papers and copy lying everywhere, but absolutely nothing was happening.

“I don’t suppose you know where everything is?” he asked Bernice.

Bernice was sitting up on the worktable adjacent to Marshall’s desk, her back against the wall, stirring a personalized mug of hot chocolate.

“Aw, we’ll find it all,” she answered. “I know where she kept the books, and I’m sure her Rolodex has all the addresses and phone numbers.”

“What about the cord to the coffeemaker?”

“Why do you think I’m drinking hot chocolate?”

“Nuts. I wish somebody would’ve told me.”

“I don’t think anybody really knew.”

“We’d better get an ad in for a new secretary this week. Edie carried more than her weight around here.”

“I guess it was a bad blow-up. She’s leaving town for good, before her husband’s black eyes heal up and he can see to find her.”

“Affairs. Nothing good ever comes of ’em.”

“So have you heard the latest about Alf Brummel?”

Marshall looked up at her. She perched on the worktable like some coy bird, trying to look more interested in her hot chocolate than in the spicy news.

“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I’m dying to hear it.”

“I had lunch with Sara, his secretary, today. Guess he’s gone for several hours every Tuesday afternoon and never says where, but Sara knows. Guess our friend Alf has a special girlfriend.”

“Yeah, Juleen Langstrat, psychology prof out at the college.”

That ruined it for Bernice. “How did you know?”

“The blonde woman you saw that night, remember? The day after one of my reporters gets busted for taking the wrong pictures at the carnival, Langstrat kicks me out of her class. Add to that Oliver Young’s ears getting all red when he told me he didn’t know her.”

“You’re brilliant, Hogan.”

“Just a good guesser.”

“She and Brummel do have
something
going. He calls it therapy, but I think he enjoys it, if you get my drift.”

“So what’s Young’s connection to either of them?”

Bernice didn’t hear his question. “Too bad Brummel isn’t already married. I could have done more with it.”

“Hey, reset your frequency, will you? We’ve got a little club here, and all
three
of these people are members.”

“Sorry.”

“What we’re really after is whatever it is they don’t want us to know, especially if—and I mean IF—it’s worth trumping up a false arrest to cover up.”

“
And
destroying my film.”

“I wonder if any of those fingerprints on the film would tell us something?”

“Not much. They’re not on file.”

Marshall twisted in his chair to face her more directly. “All right, who do you know?”

Bernice was smug. “I have an uncle who’s very close to Justin Parker’s
office.”

“The country prosecutor?”

“Sure. He does just about anything for me.”

“Hey, don’t bring them into this, not yet …”

Bernice raised her hands as if he were pointing a gun at her and assured him, “Not yet, not yet.”

“But I’m not saying they won’t come in handy.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”

“So tell me this: did Brummel ever apologize?”

“After you bowed to him the way you did, are you kidding?”

“No official, signed apology from him and his office?”

“Is that what he told you?”

Marshall had to sneer. “Aw, both Brummel and Young told me all kinds of things—how they hardly knew each other, how they were never anywhere near the carnival … boy, I just wish we had those pictures.”

Bernice was offended. “Hey, you
can
believe me, Hogan. You really can!”

Marshall looked into space for a second or two, musing. “Brummel and Langstrat. Therapy. I guess that makes sense now …”

“C’mon, let’s get all the pieces out on the table.”

What pieces? Marshall thought. How do you lay out vague feelings, strange experiences, vibes?

He finally said, “Uh … this Brummel and Langstrat … they’re both into the same kind of thing. I can tell.”

“
What
kind of thing?”

Marshall felt cornered. “How about … whammies?”

Bernice looked puzzled. Oh c’mon, Krueger, don’t make me have to explain it.

She said, “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

Oh boy, here we go, Marshall thought. “Well … now it’s gonna sound crazy, but when I talked to each of them—and you ought to try it sometime—each of them had this weird, gooney-eyed thing they did … kind of like they were hypnotizing me or something …”

Bernice started to crack up.

“Ehhh, go ahead, laugh.”

“What are you saying? That they’re all into some kind of Svengali
trip?”

“I don’t know how to label it yet, but yeah. Brummel’s not nearly as good at it as Langstrat. He smiles too much. Young might be into it too, but he uses words. Lots of words.”

Bernice studied his face for just the slightest moment and then said, “I think you need a good, stiff drink. Would a hot chocolate do?”

“Sure, get me one. Please.”

Bernice returned with another personalized mug—Edie’s—full of hot chocolate. “Hope it’s strong enough,” she said, and hopped back onto the table.

“So why do those three try to look unconnected …” Marshall mused. “And what about the other two unknowns, Pudgy and the Ghost? You’ve never seen them before?”

“Never. They could have been out-of-towners.”

Marshall sighed. “It’s a dead end.”

“Maybe not yet. Brummel does go to that little white church, Ashton Community, and I heard somebody just got kicked out of there for shacking up or something …”

“Bernice, that’s gossip!”

“What would you say, then, to my talking to a friend on the Whitmore faculty who might be able to tell me something about this mysterious professor lady?”

Marshall looked doubtful. “Please don’t make any more problems for me. I have enough as it is.”

“Sandy?”

Back to the really tough subjects. “We haven’t heard a thing yet, but we’re still calling around, checking with relatives and friends. We’re sure she’ll come home sooner or later.”

“Isn’t she in Langstrat’s class?”

Marshall answered with some bitterness, “She’s been in
several
of Langstrat’s classes—” Then he paused. “Don’t you think we might be blurring the line between unbiased journalism and … personal vengeance?”

Bernice shrugged. “I’ll only find what’s really there, and it’ll be news or it won’t be. In the meantime, I thought perhaps you’d appreciate a little background.”

Marshall couldn’t shake off the memory of his encounter with the
fiery Juleen Langstrat, and he hurt more deeply every time he recalled the professor’s ideas coming at him through the mouth of his own daughter.

“If it’s a stone, turn it over,” he said finally.

“On my time or the
Clarion
’s?”

“Just turn it over,” he said, and started pounding his typewriter.

THAT EVENING MARSHALL
and Kate set three places at the dinner table. It was an act of faith, trusting that Sandy would be there just as she always had been. They had called everyone they knew, but no one had seen Sandy anywhere. The police hadn’t turned up anything. They had called the college to check whether or not Sandy had been to her classes that day, but so far none of her professors or teaching assistants could be reached for a definite answer.

Marshall sat at the table, staring at Sandy’s empty chair. Kate sat across from him, silent, waiting for the rice to steam.

“Marshall,” she said, “don’t torture yourself.”

“I blew it. I’m a wash-out!”

“Oh, stop it!”

“And the problem is, now that I know I blew it, there isn’t much chance of a retake.”

Kate reached across the table and took his hand. “There certainly is. She’ll come back. She’s old enough to be reasonable and take care of herself. I mean, just look at how much she took with her. She can’t be planning on being gone indefinitely.”

Just then the doorbell rang. They both jumped a little.

“Yeah,” said Marshall, “go ahead, be the mailman, or a Girl Scout selling cookies, or a Jehovah’s Witness …!”

“Well, Sandy wouldn’t ring the doorbell anyway.”

Kate got up to answer the door, but Marshall hurried ahead of her. They both reached the door at about the same time and Marshall opened it.

Neither of them expected a young man, blond and neat, college material. He carried no leaflets or religious propaganda and seemed shy.

“Mr. Hogan?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Marshall. “Who are you?”

The young man was quiet but assertive enough to do business. “My name is Shawn Ormsby. I’m a junior at Whitmore and a friend of your daughter Sandy.”

Kate started to say, “Well, please come in,” but Marshall interrupted with, “Do you know where she is?”

Shawn paused, then answered carefully, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Well?” said Marshall.

“May I come in?” he asked politely.

Kate nodded graciously, stepping aside and almost pushing Marshall aside. “Yes, please do.”

They showed him into the living room and let him have a seat. Kate held Marshall’s hand just long enough to get him into a chair and silently remind him to control himself.

“Thank you very much for coming,” Kate said. “We’ve been very concerned.”

Marshall’s voice was controlled as he said, “What’ve you got?”

Shawn was visibly uncomfortable.

“I … I met her on campus yesterday.”

“She went to
school
yesterday?” Marshall blurted, startled.

“Let him talk, Marshall,” Kate reminded him.

“Well,” said Shawn, “yes. Yes, she did. But I met her in Jones Plaza, an outdoor eating area. She was by herself and so visibly upset that, well, I just felt I had to get involved.”

Marshall was sitting on pins and needles. “What do you mean, visibly upset? Is she okay?”

“Oh, yes! She’s perfectly all right. That is, she hasn’t come to any harm. But … I’m here on her behalf.” This time both parents were listening without interrupting, so Shawn continued. “We talked for quite a while and she told me her side of the story. She really does want to
come home; I should tell you that first.”

“But?” Marshall prompted.

“Well, Mr. Hogan, that’s the first thing I tried to persuade her to do, but … if you can accept this, she feels afraid to come back, and I think a little ashamed.”

“Because of me?”

Shawn was walking on some very thin ice. “Can you … are you able to accept that?”

Marshall was ready to be tough on himself. “Yeah, I can accept that, all right. I’ve been asking for it for years. I had it coming.”

Shawn looked relieved. “Well, that’s what I’m trying, in my own weak, limited way, to accomplish. I’m no professional—my major’s geology—but I’d just like to see this family together again.”

Kate said humbly, “We would too.”

“Yeah,” said Marshall, “we really want to work on it. Listen, Shawn, you get to know me and you’ll realize I came out of a pretty bent mold and I’m really tough to straighten out …”

“No, you didn’t!” Kate protested.

“Yeah, yeah, I did. But I’m learning all the time. I want to keep on learning.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Say … I take it Sandy sent you here to see us?”

Shawn looked out the window. “She’s out in the car right now.”

Kate was on her feet immediately. Marshall grabbed her hand and settled her back into her seat.

“Hey,” he said, “who’s being overanxious now?” He turned to Shawn. “How is she? Is she still afraid? Does she think I’m going to jump on her?”

Shawn nodded meekly.

“Well,” said Marshall, feeling emotions he really didn’t want anyone to see, “listen, tell her I won’t jump on her. I won’t yell, I won’t accuse, I won’t get sly or nasty. I just … well, I …”

“He loves her,” Kate said for him. “He really does.”

“Do you, sir?” Shawn asked.

Marshall nodded.

“Tell me,” said Shawn. “Say it.”

Marshall looked right in his eyes. “I love her, Shawn. She’s my kid, my daughter. I love her and I want her back.”

Shawn smiled and rose from his seat. “I’ll bring her in.”

That evening there were four place settings at the table.