Winter and Night (25 page)

"I didn't say Paul. I didn't say anybody's name." Kate's words were rushed, as though speed would convince me they were true.

I stood silent.

"Me talking to you," Kate said, "that's, like, me. Because the jocks… it's too fucked. But anybody else, if I talk about them, I could get them in trouble. I didn't say anybody's name."

I nodded. "Okay. I guess it doesn't matter. Reporter's instinct, trying to nail everything down. Just a few more questions?"

Kate darted her eyes toward her car. "What?" she said. "What?"

"Gary Russell. Is he a part of any of this? Does he buy drugs, deal them, anything?"

"I don't know anything about him. He's a jock. He's new."

"Okay. Who's Premador?"

She blinked. "From CyberSpawn? That mutant?"

"Gary Russell gets e-mail from someone with that screen name. Do you know who that is?"

She looked down again, shook her head. A brainy, heavy girl at a school where the jocks ran wild, she'd probably spent a lot of her teenage years looking at the ground.

"Just one more thing, Kate. You said Warrenstown has a 'famous tradition' of jocks making trouble. Were you talking about what happened twenty-three years ago?"

"Yeah, and before that, and every day since."

"Can you tell me about that?"

"About what? What happened then?" She shrugged. "I don't know, some kid raped some girl and then killed himself."

"A jock?"

"No, some geeky kid."

"What did you mean then, about the jocks, if it wasn't a jock who did that?"

"Well, because the biggest deal about the whole thing was they arrested a Warriors player. Randy Macpherson's dad. He was co-captain. The whole town went crazy. When they came to arrest the other kid, the geeky one, they had to stop a couple of jocks from beating the shit out of him. And then they beat him up again after the cops let him go."

"I didn't know that."

"That kid," she said, "he's…"

"He's what?"

"Well, it's stupid. I mean, he raped a girl, and that's really bad. But, see, she was in the jock crowd."

"And?"

"And, well, some of the guys…. It's like he's Robin Hood or something. He raped one of the jocks' girls and then he got away."

"Got away? He killed himself."

A distant, sharp light shone in Kate Minor's eyes. "Got away from them. The cops let him go, but there was only one way to get away from the jocks and he knew it. And he had the guts to take it."

"There are other ways," I said, and though she didn't move, didn't speak, I was aware of a gate closing, iron bars slamming shut between Kate Minor and me.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks. You've been a help. Kate?" I said, as she turned away from me. She turned back, waited. "I hope the dog's okay."

She shrugged, nodded. As she spun around and ran to her car I thought I saw tears in her coal-circled eyes.

* * *

After Kate left nothing moved and nothing changed on the playground or anywhere I could see. The wind was gone; everywhere was tired silence, quiet and cold. I dropped back onto the picnic table bench, arms resting on my knees, stared at the ground as Kate Minor had. The clump of grass she'd uprooted lay in the dirt. By tomorrow it would wither and the wind would carry it away.

Lydia slipped off her perch on the table, came to stand in front of me. "Bill?"

After a moment I straightened, looked at her. Her eyes were soft. I stood. "Let's get out of here."

"Where are we going?" Lydia asked as we walked across the playground, out through the fence.

"I don't know." That struck me as funny. A famous Smith family tradition. In the years after we left Louisville, none of us had ever known how long we'd stay at any post or where we'd go next. When my sister left home, no one knew where she'd gone. I didn't know where Gary was, now. And finally here I was, not knowing where I was going, either.

But I had Lydia, walking beside me. "We're going to eat," she said.

I looked at her. "We are?"

"You bet we are. Fill the stomach, feed the brain."

"That's an ancient Chinese saying?"

She shook her head. "My mother. Making sure we were well-fueled before we did our homework."

We got into our separate cars and headed out of Greenmeadow, to the strip highway that would lead us, when we were ready, back to New York. About half a mile down that highway I spotted a steakhouse among the brightly lit, interchangeable concrete buildings. I pulled into the lot, Lydia following.

Inside, low lights, heavy wood trusses, rough board paneling, and a wagon wheel or two tried their damnedest to drive the neon, the six lanes of traffic, and the last hundred years from diners' minds. It didn't work, at least not on me; but the sizzling sound of meat on the grill and the aroma that floated from someone's sirloin going by on a waiter's tray were, on the other hand, pretty persuasive.

We were seated, we ordered drinks and nachos, we left the table to wash our hands. I was back first; just after I sat the drinks and nachos came. Lydia's drink was, as usual, club soda; mine was bourbon, though the ersatz nature of the decor extended to the bar and my only choice was Jack Daniel's.

Lydia came back, sat, sipped at her drink and said nothing, except to order dinner when the waiter asked. She waited until I was halfway through the Jack, until I'd downed a few nachos, until I'd shifted in my chair, lifted my glass again, and looked around the restaurant. A young couple in a booth beside us gazed into each other's eyes. At a round corner table, three little blond kids tried to behave as their parents cut their steaks for them.

"Better?" Lydia asked.

"You were right, again."

"I'm always right. You know that."

"I forget sometimes."

"Think how much easier your life would be if you remembered."

"My life would be much easier if I could think."

I took another sip, felt the liquor cut a warm track inside me. Lydia asked, "Speaking of thinking, do you think that's it?"

"Do I think what's what?"

"What Kate Minor said."

I looked at my drink, swirled it around in the glass. Jack Daniel's might not be a favorite of mine, but I had to admit it worked. "No," I said.

"You think she's wrong?"

"I don't know if she's wrong. She could be right. A bunch of kids who think they own the world go to a party expecting the high of their lives. Probably they're already high when they find out they're not getting it. One of them gets pissed off, goes a little crazy. It could happen."

"Then what was the no for?"

"It could happen, and maybe it did, but that's not all that's going on here."

"What else?"

"It doesn't explain Gary. Unless," I said quickly, before she could, "it was him. But it doesn't explain what happened to Stacie Phillips."

"And you think it's connected."

" 'What do you have?' " I quoted Stacie. " 'What did Tory Wesley have?' "

The waiter came with my steak and Lydia's chef's salad. The steak was on a pewter platter the size of Texas, maybe to make it feel at home; Lydia's salad came in a bowl you could toboggan home in if you were caught in a sudden snowstorm.

"So," Lydia said, "what does Stacie Phillips have? Tory Wesley's drugs, do you think?"

"That thought crossed my mind." I cut into the steak; it was tender and rare. "But why beat her up? Why not just buy from her, if she's dealing now?"

"Maybe she wouldn't sell. Maybe she's not telling us the whole story."

"Maybe. But then why call me?"

Lydia nodded as she folded a lettuce leaf onto her fork. "If it's not the drugs, what does she have?"

"Me."

She looked up from her bumper crop of romaine. "You?"

"She talked to me at the diner. It wasn't a secret. We've been on the phone half a dozen times since. She faxed me that stuff from the Gazette."

"Fascinating as you are to those of us who know you," Lydia asked, reaching onto my plate for an onion ring, "in this case, what would it be about you?"

"I don't know. If you ask me, all I'm doing is looking for Gary."

"So maybe someone wants to find him as much as you do."

"Maybe. But I'm also getting the feeling someone thinks I know something about something else. And they're afraid Stacie knows it. And that Tory Wesley knew it, too."

"If that's true, why hasn't anyone asked you?"

"Someone has."

I ate steak, told Lydia about my visit to Macpherson Peters Ennis and Arkin. "He was doing more than telling me I was in trouble," I said. "For one thing, he's not the type who'd have bothered to get me up to his office for that. He was fishing."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure. He wanted to know where Gary was, what he was up to. I thought, well, he's looking for someone to blame Tory Wesley's death on, take the pressure off his son and the other kids. But then he started asking what Gary and Tory were up to. He wanted to know how I knew Tory and he didn't believe me when I said I didn't."

"Why does he think you did?"

"He said he didn't buy the whole coincidence, me being Scott's brother-in-law, Gary running away, me being there when her body was found. The more interesting question is, Why does he care if I did?"

"Because he knows his son killed her, and he's trying to find out what you know?" She frowned. "No, that wouldn't explain anything, would it?"

"No, because if I knew her, and she and Gary were up to something, it would be before that happened."

"Which goes back to what he thinks you know."

"Try this on." I finished the last of the Jack. "According to Macpherson, as much of a loser as I am, my biggest sin was digging up the old rape, his arrest, that whole story."

"I can see why that wouldn't make him happy."

"Uh-huh. But how did he know I was doing it?"

"Hmm." She came back for another onion ring. "Someone at the Gazette told him Stacie had faxed that stuff to you?"

"Possible. Or Scott told him he'd seen the faxes at my place."

"Oh," she said. "You think so?"

I looked at her, took out my cell phone. "Keep your paws off my onion rings." I dialed the number at Greenmeadow Hospital.

Lydia said, "You won't finish them."

"Especially if you eat them all first. Hi, Stacie? It's Bill. Did I wake you up?"

"No. I don't think so," Stacie said. "This Demerol, you just sort of lie there. It's very cool." Her voice was a relaxed drawl.

"I'm going to ask you something. Don't be insulted."

"If you insult me, I will be." To someone else she said, "It's okay, it's a friend of mine. Yes, okay, Daddy." Back to me: "My dad says I can't talk long. You want to talk to him when we're done, about the old days at Corny U.?"

"Some other time, thanks. Now listen: Tory Wesley was dealing drugs. Did you know that?"

"No! Are—? How—?" She stopped.

"You can't ask questions because your dad's there, right?"

"Right! So just tell me!"

"No. Later," I said, when she started to protest. "Tomorrow. Now here's the insulting part. Do you have her drugs and are you dealing them now?"

"What? No, Daddy, it's okay."

"Don't get excited," I said, "it's bad for you."

"What made you ask that? Are you crazy?"

"Yes. One more question, before your dad cuts us off. Did anyone at the Gazette know you'd faxed me that stuff from the morgue?"

"You ask the weirdest questions. I think you're nuts."

"Did they?"

"I don't think so. The morgue's in the basement. I Xeroxed the file and faxed it myself."

"What happened to the Xeroxes?"

"I put them in my background notebook for the story."

"Anyone see that?"

"No, I always keep those very private so I don't get scooped. What's going on?"

"Okay, hang up before your dad gets mad."

"You're not going to tell me why?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh, sure."

"Sorry."

"I hate you."

"You can't hate your sources, or if you do, you can't let them know."

"I'll work on the not letting you know part."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow. Get some sleep."

"How can I sleep—?" she started, but I hung up.

I put the phone away. Lydia had left me half a dozen onion rings. I ate them and finished my steak while I told her what Stacie had told me.

"That leaves Scott," she said.

"Uh-huh," I said. "Scott. Who Macpherson says is an asshole."

"One among thousands."

"Still."

I signaled the waiter, asked for coffee, tea, and the check. "Well," I said, "if what I'm supposed to know has to do with what happened back then, I think it's time we found out what happened back then." I took out my phone again, pressed in a number.

"I want you to remember who gave you your first cell phone," Lydia said.

"I remember everything you've ever done. Every move you ever made. Every time you winked at me or wiggled your hips."

"I don't wiggle my hips."

"But go ahead if you want to, I'll remember."

In my ear I heard, "Sullivan."

"Smith. I want to talk."

"Every time we talk, things get worse," he pointed out.

"Not my fault."

"So you say. Where are you?"

"At a restaurant," I fudged. "I'm finishing up. Where are you?"

"As it happens, I'm in Queens."

"You picked up Sting Ray?"

"Not me, the NYPD."

"He have anything to say?"

"Why don't I tell you," he suggested, "when we talk?"

Sixteen

Sullivan assumed I was in the city and I didn't correct him. I chose as a meeting place a bar I knew on the Upper West Side, and as a time forty-five minutes from now. I told him that was to make sure he had time to get there, traffic over the bridge from Queens being what it was.

"I hope traffic over the bridge from New Jersey isn't what it is," Lydia said as we walked through the steakhouse lot. "It would be embarassing if you were late."

"I'll just tell him I had a hard time ditching this cute little Chinese girl I was out with."

After some discussion, we'd decided Lydia wasn't coming along. She agreed, with a sigh, that it would be prudent to keep Sullivan ignorant for the time being on the subject of her, and she admitted it was curiosity, not a sense of the requirements of professional practice, that made her impatient with the demands of prudence.