A Child Is Missing (9 page)

And here was a case from South Carolina. A businessman had been abducted, and a big ransom demand had been made. Will thought that the case might be worth a look, so he got out the microfilm.

The kidnapper had specified that the money be left attached to a piling under a bridge that spanned a river. Lawmen had kept the bridge under surveillance, of course, and, when a man rowed quietly up to the bridge in a boat and started nosing around the pilings, they had arrested him without trouble. After all, it is hard to escape quickly in a rowboat.

The South Carolina kidnapper seemed laughably stupid. In fact, the whole episode would have been hilarious—except that the victim had never been found.

This time, Will could tell from the microfilm, the kidnapper was on South Carolina's death row.

Will checked a few more cases, got out a few more rolls of film, took a few more notes, and abruptly decided to stop. He was getting bored. Bored and depressed. Reading the microfilm had reminded him that there was no limit to the cruelty and greed of people—some people, anyhow.

There was no limit to stupidity, either, it seemed. And when amateurs made mistakes, they were apt to panic. And kill. And then Will remembered what the FBI agent had told him: Virtually all kidnappers were amateurs.

Eleven

“Fran died.”

“Oh, Will. When?”

“Not quite an hour ago. Hospital called me. They said, uh, that his general physical condition was such…” He had to stop.

“Will, I'm so sorry.”

“I know. Thanks. I'll be here another couple of days, I guess. Sorry.”

“Just do what you have to do and get home safely.”

“I'll try.”

Will told his wife all that had happened. “And it's cold here,” he said. “Colder than Bessemer, even. I try not to think too much about that little boy.”

“I know. You pray to God, you … whatever. Sometimes shit happens.
Evil
happens. How are his parents handling it?”

“Oh, I think they're numb. Separately. They can't even lean on each other.”

“Is he dead, do you think?”

“The FBI thinks maybe. Oh, that's another thing.” Will told her about Jerry Graham's surfacing in Long Creek, and Karen told Will to send Graham her best.

They talked some more, and Will realized that Karen had steered him away from the depressing business at hand with chatter about routine, even trivial, events at home. “And Brendan has decided he wants a dog,” Karen said.

“Sure, and Cass will help him take care of it, right? Ha!”

“They've been arguing over what kind to get.”

“Figures. We'll have to get the yard fenced.”

After they said good night, Will thought about what he would say to Tom Ryan, who had sent Fran Spicer on the last reporting assignment of his life. Ry, don't worry. No, Ry, it's not your fault. (But it was, Will thought. Damn it, it was.)

No. Fran, God rest his soul, was the one who had had the drinking problem.
His
problem, Will thought. And sometimes mine. Will thought back to the time just before Fran had gone into the
Gazette
's rehab program, to the incident that had led to his entering the program, in fact.

Three, four years ago? Will had gotten the call at his desk. A county judge Will had known for years called to say that Fran Spicer was at Rotunda's, a tavern restaurant near the courthouse, and was incoherently drunk. Will had gone to Rotunda's immediately. It was one thing for reporters to drink—Will didn't give a damn about that, had even done a little in his youth—but it was intolerable for a
Gazette
reporter to be stinking drunk at Rotunda's, a hangout for judges, lawyers, and court clerks.

By the time Will got there, Fran had passed out. Will could still see the spilled schnapps on the table and the beer that Fran had been working on. The cabdriver had balked at first about taking Fran home, so Will had given him a twenty. The driver had helped to load Fran into the cab. Poor Fran, Will thought. Dead drunk and reeking of—

Oh. That's funny. Will let his mind back up, went over the thought that had stopped him. Something was not quite right. Now what the hell was it?

Will stood at the counter for half a minute before getting the sergeant's attention.

“Yeah?” the sergeant said at last. It sounded like a challenge instead of a greeting.

“Good afternoon. My name's Will Shafer and I'm…”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

Will looked into the sergeant's eyes, tried to match the steel, but it was no contest. Nice cops in this town, Will thought.

Will took a deep breath. Talk slow and steady, he told himself. “There was an accident a couple of nights ago, on the two-lane from the expressway. A friend of mine was fatally injured.”

“I know the wreck you mean. So?”

“I'd like to see the report on it.”

“By what authority?”

This cop is more than small-town officious, Will thought. He's a big-league prick. But Will didn't feel like asserting his rights: Drive an hour in any direction, and one was still in Hill County. Law and order, Hill County-style, could mean being hassled like never before.

Besides, Will thought the sergeant was on solid ground. It was part of Will's job to know what was public record and what wasn't, and, if he recalled correctly, accident reports were not automatically available for anyone to look at.

“By what authority?” the sergeant repeated.

“I was only making a request, Sergeant.” Will's knees trembled, from anger as well as from fear. He mustered all his control. “Sergeant, I'm not trying to make your job tougher. The guy who died worked for me, and he was on company business. That means, or it might mean, that the young woman who was injured is entitled to some money from my company. That's why I'm interested.”

If I keep practicing, I might get good at lies and half-truths, Will thought.

The sergeant relaxed a little. “You talk to her yet?”

“I plan to do just that. Believe me, all I want to do is help her. I can talk to our insurance carrier and…”

The sergeant had done an about-face and walked to a desk in the corner. He came back a moment later with a sheet of pink paper. “Tell you what,” he said, “I'll read the high points to you, if you like. But I can't let you see it.”

“Fine.” Will knew this was as much as he would get.

“Now then,” the sergeant read. “Driver number two appeared to have been drinking. Several empty beer cans were found in right front seat. Driver's clothing smelled of alcohol.”

Will listened intently; he wasn't interested so much in what the report said as in what it
didn't
say. Fran Spicer, God rest his soul, had been a creature of habit. Oh, in a pinch he might have drunk anything if he went off the wagon. But if he had stopped to buy alcohol, he probably would have bought schnapps and beer, if he could. And he would have started with the schnapps. What the hell did it all mean?

“Got what you need?” the sergeant asked, a shade less threateningly than before.

“Yes. Thanks for your trouble. Maybe I can help the lady get her money faster. But if I'm going to do that, I need her name.”

“Suzanne Glover. First name with a
z
and an
e
at the end.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Will had noticed what looked like a grotesque paperweight in one corner of the counter. It was like a giant wood shaving resting on a metal block, except that the shaving was of blue steel and many times larger than any wood shaving Will had ever seen.

Will picked up the object, which weighed several pounds, and studied it from several angles. He was really stalling for time, working up to asking one last question.

“That thing, that thing was made at the mill,” the sergeant said. “The mill's shut down now. Maybe you better…”

Will was about to ask his last question when Chief Robert Howe appeared next to the sergeant, whose face went white. The sergeant retreated.

Without a word, the chief took the paperweight from Will's hand, so roughly that Will's palm was scratched slightly.

“Chief, I was just admiring the office furniture,” Will said.

“My brother made this, Mr. Smart Ass from Bessemer,” Howe said. “You got a problem with that?”

“Nope. I meant no disrespect. I was just asking the sergeant about the accident report from that fatal the other night. I thought maybe I could help the woman get her insurance money faster. You see, the man involved worked for me—”

“So?”

“So I wonder if you could tell me the name of the officer who investigated the accident and wrote up the report.”

“The officer who investigated the accident is not available, for reasons that are none of your business. And no one from my department will give you any more information on the accident without checking personally with me.”

Wonderful, Will thought.

The chief slammed the paperweight onto the counter, as though he wished Will's hand was under it. Then he turned and disappeared.

Outside, Will tried to breathe slowly; the chief's behavior—just short of a physical threat—had alarmed and angered him, and given him a huge rush of adrenaline. I'm probably on the chief's bad side forever, Will thought. And what had the sergeant said? “I know who you are.”

There were times when a reporter had to have a tough hide, or pretend that he did. He thought again of Fran Spicer. What had happened to Fran was sad, so sad. No, not just sad. What happened to you, Frannie? What happened?

I'll find out, Frannie. I may have to grow some calluses, but I'll find out.

Will found the house near the end of a short street not far from the railroad tracks. Even before he mounted the creaking porch steps and knocked on the paint-peeling door, he felt sorry for the people inside.

The door opened a crack and a woman (heavy, tired-looking, fortyish going on seventy) looked out. “I don't know what it is, but we ain't buying,” she said.

“No, no,” Will said. “I'm looking into an auto accident.”

“It was my daughter who got hit. She already told the cops everything.”

“Right, right. I'd just like to talk to her to be sure she gets everything that's coming to her.” Will wasn't comfortable with the half-truth, but he had decided to take that tack.

“You an investigator or something?”

“Yes, actually. I am doing an investigation.” Will waited until he was inside to elaborate. “My investigation isn't, uh, official. The other driver, Mr. Spicer, worked for me—”

“So you ain't a cop.”

“No. I didn't mean to give you that impression,” Will lied. “I just wanted to be sure, I mean, if Mr. Spicer was at fault…”

“What do you mean
if,
god damn it! That fucking drunk son of a bitch almost killed my daughter.”

“Enough, Mother.”

Will turned to the young woman in the doorway between the living room and kitchen.

“Enough, shit! He totaled the car, and he almost killed you.”

“Enough, Mother. Okay? It's over.” Then, to Will: “What do you want with me?”

Will sat, uninvited, in an ancient easy chair and flinched when the springs sounded as if they were coming through the pillow. “As I said, Mr. Spicer worked for me. He was on assignment, actually. I can't promise anything right now, but my company…”

“You said he
worked
for you,” the young woman said. “Did he get fired over this?”

“Mr. Spicer died a short time ago,” Will said. “I'm sorry. I thought you knew.”

Their expressions softened a little. Mother and daughter sat on the sofa.

“It's a damn shame he's dead and all,” the mother said. “But it's his own fault. He almost killed Suzanne. Ask the police.”

“I did,” Will said. And they practically ran me out of the station.

“I'm Suzanne Glover,” the younger woman said.

“My name is Will Shafer. I'm the executive editor of the
Bessemer Gazette.
How do you do.”

The mother said nothing, so Will ignored her.

“I don't want to start trouble,” Suzanne Glover said, “but if there's gonna be a hassle getting paid, I'll get myself a lawyer right now. We're not rich, as you can see.”

“Who gives a shit?” the mother hissed. “Rich or not, who gives a shit? That son of a bitch ran into you. Show the bruise on your shoulder, Suzanne. Never mind being modest. And the cut on the back of your head.”

“Mother.”

“I am sorry, really,” Will said. “I know Mr. Spicer had a problem. That's why I'm here, to offer…” To offer what? Will thought. A check for a hundred bucks out of the
Gazette
's petty cash, providing the publisher would agree. Well, the
Gazette
's insurance will pay.

“The son of a bitch was drunk,” the mother said. “The police said so.”

“Did you see anything?” Will asked Suzanne. “I mean, right afterward?”

“Like what?” Suzanne said.

“Just ask the police!”

“Mother, be quiet. After he hit me, it was like every bone in my body was sawdust. When the world stopped spinning, I was in a ditch. God, it must have taken me five minutes to crawl out of the car. At least it seemed that long. It was dark, except for a set of headlights. Or maybe I was dazed like and, you know, imagining stuff. Then I heard a siren, from over the hill. Then the lights of the cop car.”

“So you didn't call the police?” Will said.

“How the hell was she gonna call the police, for Christ's sake!”

“Mother! No, I didn't. I went and sat in the cop car afterward.”

“Ah. Do you remember the name of the officer?”

“No. Just a guy. He was nice and all. Made me keep still.”

“I don't suppose you have a copy of the accident report?”