Drawn Into Darkness(83)

TWENTY-FOUR





Again Bernie drew missionary duty, driving the Leppo brothers back to Stoat’s house, where they had left their car. He was hungry, and he should have been on his way home, but he did not mind, for the slanting late daylight gave him a mellow mood in harmony with the yellow halos it limned on the rows of soybeans in the fields, the tousle-headed pine trees, the cows strolling home—Bernie had always liked cows. He liked simple, humble things. He noticed that someone had erected a pole with crossbars from which hung white gourds, now rimmed in saffron by sundown light, for birds to nest in. Bernie decided he wanted to do the same in his backyard.

Forrest and Quinn saw none of this, he could tell, for they looked only at their own hands. Heads bowed as if grieving a death, they did not speak. Bernie knew some Americans preferred to keep their silences, but he could not stand it. “You hear bad news from Deputy Kehm?”

The older, taller one, Quinn, shifted his bleak gaze to Bernie for an ominous moment before he spoke. “Not from Kehm. Our mother left us a note that said she, um—”

“I hear about the note,” said Bernie to spare Quinn, who seemed to be having difficulty going on. “But what Kehm say?”

“Nothing.”

This sounded like Deputy Kehm. Everyone on the force knew his good ol’ boy act was just that: an act. Really, Kehm cared about his food and his mustache but not much else.

“Nothing,” Forrest echoed, “and that’s what he expects us to do.”

“Go back to the hotel, watch TV, and go to sleep?” Quinn sounded incredulous. “As if we could sleep? Isn’t there any local TV or radio or someplace with computers—”

“We need to get the word out,” Forrest explained.

“—or photocopiers where we can put together a poster—”

Bernie said, “Down in Panama City, maybe.” Fifty miles away.

Neither of them seemed to hear him. “Not just posters. Organize a search.” With every word Forrest sounded more fervid and more desperate. “With tracking dogs, helicopters—”

Quinn interrupted. “Bernie, is anybody staking out Stoat’s house?”

“I don’t know. But Kehm will check with the Stoat family to see if they know where he is.”

“Do you think they will?”

“No,” Bernie admitted.

“He’s probably in California by now,” said Forrest morosely.

Quinn muttered, “They still should stake out his house.”

Bernie saw Stoat’s skink-tail blue shack ahead, with the Leppo brothers’ rental car parked in front. He offered his last, best advice. “For the posters, try the churches. They have offices.”

“Open after business hours?” Quinn asked.

“No. But look in the phone book, call the preachers at home. Someone will help.”

Almost in a whisper Forrest said, “It’s no use, is it, Bernie?”

In all probability, Bernie knew, he was right, but no one with a heart would say so. “More use than to lie in bed looking at the ceiling.” Bernie turned left, bumped over a culvert, and stopped in front of the bright blue shack, now embellished by even brighter CRIME SCENE DO NOT PASS tape. A large yellow X of the stuff sealed the front door.

“Thank you, Bernie. You’re a friend.” Quinn reached toward Bernie and shook his hand with sudden fervor before getting out of the cruiser.

Forrest said thank you and shook his hand too. Both gave him wan smiles as they waved and headed toward their rental car.

Bernie felt as if he should not leave them. But what could he do? He had no copy machine to make the posters, no tracking dog, no helicopter, only Tammy Lou, who was waiting for him at their casa feliz, their happy home. Bernie left.

• • •

A disturbing sensation of Stoatness awoke me, and I twisted around to look up from where I lay on the kitchen floor. Sure enough, looming over me, Stoat stood at the stove ravenously eating spaghetti sauce out of the pot with the big wooden spoon I had been using to stir it, which left smears of blood red on his face. When he sensed me staring up at him, he gave me a look of pure malice. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

The duct tape still sealing my mouth prevented me from voicing any of the several trenchant replies that came to mind.

“Goddamn spaghetti looks like Elmer’s glue,” Stoat said. “My dinner is ruined.” He kicked at me as if ruining his supper had been my intention. But the effort made him almost lose his balance, and his pointed cowboy-boot toe harmlessly hit the kitchen chair. “Now there ain’t no damn time to cook none. Git up.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to telegraph to him that he’d overlooked one important detail.