If You Could See Me Now (19 page)

“Why didn't you or Duane remarry?” I helped myself to a good dose of bourbon.

“You could say I learned my lesson. Police work is hard on a wife. You never really stop working, if you see what I mean. And then, I never found another woman I could trust. As for good old Du-ane, I don't think he ever really did like women. He's got his girl to cook and keep house, and I reckon that's about all he wants.”

I recognized that Polar Bears was making me feel very relaxed, giving me the spurious sense that this was nothing more than a casual evening between two old friends, and I looked at him from my chair. Light silvered the thick flesh on the top of his head. His eyes were half closed.

“I think you're right. I think he hates women. Maybe he's your killer.”

Polar Bears gave a genuine laugh. “Ah, Miles, Miles. Well, he didn't always hate women. There was one that got to him, once upon a time.”

“That Polish girl.”

“Not quite. Why do you think his daughter's got that name of hers?”

I gaped at him, and found that his slitted eyes were watching me anything but sleepily.

“Truth,” he said. “I think he even lost his cherry to that little
Alison Greening. You weren't around every summer she was, you know. He was stuck on her, and I mean stuck. 'Course she mighta gone to bed with him, or done it standing up beside a haystack more likely, but she was too young for that to be public, and she treated him like shit most of the time anyhow. She just tore him up. I always thought that's why he went and engaged himself to that Polish girl.”

The shock was still ringing in my chest. “You said he lost his virginity to Alison?”

“Yep. He told me himself.”

“But she could have been no older than thirteen.”

“That's right. He said she knew a lot more about it than he did.”

I remembered the art teacher. “I don't believe it. He was lying. She used to laugh at him.”

“That's true too. He was real burned up by the way she preferred you to him whenever you were around. Jealous. Crazy jealous.” He bent forward over his belly and poured more bourbon into his glass, not bothering to add ice cubes. “So you can see why you shouldn't go tossing that name around. Du-ane might think you was deliberately rubbing salt in his wounds. Not to mention that you oughta think about protecting yourself. I hate to act like a spiritual adviser, Miles, but I think you might even try goin' to that church in the valley. People might let up on you if they see you acting more like them. Sit and absorb a little of Bertilsson's wisdom. Funny how all these Norskies took to that little Swedish rat. I can't see him for horse piss, but the farmers all love him. He gave me some story about your stealing out of Zumgo's. A book, he said.”

“Ridiculous.”

“So I told him. What's your side of this suicide business, anyhow, Miles? I don't suppose there's any truth in it.”

“None. Either it was an accident, or someone was trying to kill me. Or warn me off.” I was still mentally struggling to sit up.

“Warn you off what? You ain't
on
anything. I'm glad it didn't have anything to do with our talk yesterday.”

“Polar Bears,” I said, “did your father ever find out who called him, that night my cousin drowned?”

He shook his head, unhappy with me. “Get all that out of your head, Miles. Get it out of your system. We're talking about now, not twenty years ago.”

“Well, did he?”

“Goddam it, Miles.” He poured what was left of his drink down his throat and bent forward, grunting, to make another. “Didn't I tell you to leave that alone? No. He never did. That good enough for you? So you say this gas business was an accident. Right?”

I nodded, wondering what this conversation was really about. I had to talk to Duane.

“Well now, you see that's what I thought. I wish we could have kept Tuta Sunderson out of it, because she's bound to go around telling people what she thinks, and her version is a little hard on you. And right now, we've gotta take attention off of you. Aren't you gonna have any more of this good booze?”

My glass was empty.

“Come on. Keep me company. I gotta have a few drinks at night in order to get to sleep. If Lokken arrests you for drunken driving, I'll tear up your ticket.” His big seamed face split into a smile.

I poured two inches into my glass and added a handful of ice cubes. The bourbon appeared to have as much effect on Polar Bears as Coca-Cola.

“You see,” he said, “I'm tryin' my darnedest to keep you out
of trouble. I like talking to you, Miles. We go back a long way. And I can't allow one of our good citizens of Arden to come in and sit here and see his police chief get sloshed, can I? We've got a good little understanding going. You forgive me for the Larabee business, and I'll listen to anything you have to tell me. I forgive you for boosting a book out of Zumgo's. You probably had a lot of things on your mind.”

“Like getting anonymous blank letters.”

“Like that. Uh-huh. Real good. And like your wife dying. And right now, we got another problem here. One that means you gotta keep a low profile, old buddy.”

“Another problem.”

He sipped at his drink, and slid his eyes toward mine over the rim like a card player. “It's what I was tryin' to talk to you about two nights ago, old buddy. A new wrinkle. Are you startin' to shake, Miles? What for?”

“Just go on,” I said. I felt as cold as in the old Updahl kitchen. “This is what you've been leading up to all night.”

“That's not entirely fair, Miles. I'm just a cop trying to see all around a case. Trouble is, it keeps on growing.”

“There's another one,” I said. “Another girl.”

“Maybe. Now you're mighty clever to get that out of me, because we're trying to keep it quiet for the time being. It isn't like the other ones. We don't have a body.” He made a fist and coughed into it, stringing out the suspense. “We don't even know there
is
a body. A girl named Candace Michalski, good-looker, seventeen years old, just disappeared the other evening. Two-three hours after I dropped you off at the Nash a couple blocks from here. She told her parents she was going bowling down at the Bowl-A-Rama—we passed it going out of town, remember—and she never came back. Never even made it to the Bowl-A-Rama.”

“Maybe she ran away.” My hands were shaking, and I sat on them.

“Out of character. She was an honors student. Member of the Future Teachers of America. Had a scholarship to River Falls next year. That's part of the state university system now, you know. I took some extension courses in police science there some years back. A good girl, Miles, not the kind that lights out.”

“It's funny,” I said. “It's funny how the past keeps up with us. We were just talking about Alison Greening, who is still, ah…on my mind a lot, and you and Duane and I all knew her, and people are all remembering about her death—”

“You and Duane were a lot closer to her than I was.” He laughed. “But you gotta take your mind off her, Miles.”

My body gave a tremor. “And an Arden girl with a Polish name leaves town or disappears, like that girl of Duane's…”

“And you make a museum out of your grandmaw's house,” he said almost brutally. “Yeah, but I don't exactly see where that gets us. Now here's my thinking. I talked to the Michalskis, who are all shook up, naturally, and upset, and I said that they should keep quiet. They won't tell anyone about Candy. They'll say she went visiting her aunt in Sparta—or anything like that. I want to keep the lid on it for as long as possible. Maybe the girl will write them a postcard from a nudist colony in California. Huh? Maybe we'll find her body. If she's dead, maybe we can smoke out her killer before anybody gets the chance to get all hysterical. I'd like a nice clean arrest, and I guess the killer would prefer that too. With the sane part of his mind, anyhow.” He levered himself off the couch and put his hands in the small of his back and stretched. He looked like a tired old bear that had just missed a fish. “Why did you want to go and steal from
Zumgo's, anyhow? That was shit-stupid. Anyone would think you were asking to be put away.”

I shook my head. “Bertilsson is wrong. I didn't steal anything.”

“I'll confess to you, I wish that boy would come up to me and say, I did it, now get it over with. He
wants
to. He
wants
me to get him. He'd love to be sitting right where you are, Miles. He's all screwed up inside. He's about ready to snap. He can't get me out of his mind. Maybe he killed that Michalski girl. Maybe he's got her hid away someplace. Maybe he doesn't know what to do now that he's got her. He's in a bad spot. I feel sorry for the bastard, Miles, honest I do. If we do get a suicide, I'll say, that was him. I missed him, dammit. But he missed me too. What time is it?”

I looked at my watch. Polar Bears moved over to his front window and stood leaning against the glass, looking out into night. “Two.”

“I never get to sleep until four or five. I'm screwed up nearly as bad as him.” The gunpowder odor seemed particularly strong, along with the smell of unwashed skin. I wondered if Polar Bears ever changed his uniform. “How's that project you mentioned? Comin' along okay?”

“Sure. I guess so.”

“What is it, anyhow?”

“Historical research.”

“Real good. I still need your help, though. I hope you'll stay with us until this is all cleared up.”

He was watching my reflection in the window glass. I glanced at his revolver hanging in its holster from the side wing of a chair.

I said, “What did you mean the other day when you said
something about the killer's not just being an ordinary rapist? That he might be impotent?”

“Well, you take rape, Miles,” Polar Bears said, moving heavily across the room to lean on the back of the couch. “I can understand rape. It's always been with us. I'll tell you what I couldn't say to a woman. These cases didn't have anything to do with rape. These things were done by somebody with a bad head problem. Rape isn't perverted, the way I look at it—it's almost a normal thing. A girl gets a fellow all heated up so he can't control himself, and then she hollers rape. The way these girls dress is almost incitement to rape. Hell, the way some girls
look
is an incitement to rape. A fellow might misunderstand what some bottom-swinging little critter is all about, what she wants. He gets all steamed up and can't help himself. Fault? Both parties! That's not exactly a popular point of view these days, but it's sure enough the truth. I've been a cop long enough to see a hundred cases of it. Power, they say. Of course it's about power. All life is about power. But these cases now weren't done by any normal man. See Miles, these girls didn't have any form of intercourse at all—the examiner at the state hospital in Blundell, Dr. Hampton, didn't find any traces of semen. They were violated by other means.”

“Other means?” I asked, not really sure I wanted to hear any more.

“A bottle. A Coke bottle. We found one smashed up beside both Gwen Olson and Jenny Strand. On Strand, something else was used too. A broom handle, something like that. We're still looking for it in the field off 93. Then there was some knife work. And they were both beaten up pretty badly before the real fun started.”

“Christ,” I said.

“So it might even be a woman, but that's pretty far-fetched.
It's hard to see a woman being strong enough, for one thing, and it doesn't really sound like a woman, does it? Well.” He smiled at me from his position behind the couch, leaning forward on his arms. “Now you know as much as we do.”

“You don't really think Paul Kant did these things, do you? That's impossible.”

“What's impossible, Miles? Maybe I did it. Maybe you did, or Du-ane. Paul's all right as long as he stays inside and keeps out of trouble.” He pushed himself off the couch and went into the kitchen. I heard an explosive bubbling sound and realized that he was gargling. When he came back into the living room his blue uniform shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a sleeveless undershirt straining over his immense belly. “You want some sleep, Miles. Take care you don't run off the road on your way home. It was a nice evening. We know each other better. Now scat.”

Through the huge magnifying lenses, Tuta Sunderson's eyes looked like goggling fish. Sulky, she forced her hands into the pockets of her gray cardigan. For the three days following my late-night conversation with Polar Bears, she had sullenly arrived every morning, noisily tramped around the kitchen, wordlessly cooked my breakfast, and then busied herself cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom while I experimented with the placement of the furniture. The old bamboo and fabric couch went against the far wall, to the left of the small shelves. The glass-fronted case (I remembered it holding Bibles and novels by Lloyd C. Douglas) faced into the room from the short wall by the porch door; the only thing resembling an easy chair sat on the other side of that door; but the other chairs and small tables seemed too numerous, impossible to place—a spindly-legged table with a magazine rack? A cane-backed chair? I was not sure I could even remember them in the room,
much less where they had been situated. Perhaps a half dozen other small articles of furniture presented the same problem. Tuta Sunderson could not help.

“It wasn't always the same way. There is no right way.”

“Just think. Try to remember.”

“I think that little table there went sort of alongside that couch.” She was humoring me, half-reluctantly.

“Here?” I moved it under the shelves.

“No. Out more.”

I pulled it forward.

“If I was Du-ane, I'd have your head examined. He spent pretty near his whole rebate on that nice furniture. When he told my boy about it, Red went down and got some real nice bargains for me, too.”