New Title 1 (18 page)

After buying
USA Today
, the
Wall Street Journal
and the
Chicago Tribune
, and after eating a small piece of pie mostly because I wanted to sit at the old-fashioned Coca-Cola fountain and pretend it was 1958 and that I was a popular quarterback and all-around nice guy, it having been a far, far better world back in those days, I tucked the newspapers under my arm and strolled back to the motel.

It was misting now, a chill shimmering prairie spray, and it gave me the animal desire to be in some place snug and warm, the way I'd felt passing the restaurant window earlier.

The crowd had pretty much gone. Once the body had been removed, what was the point in hanging around? The police, in and out, in and out, carrying small plastic evidence bags, sure proved to be disappointing as spectator sports. So drift home or drift to the tavern and speculate on who killed Sam Lodge, and why, and if you got a chance to embellish on the basic tale ("I heard they decapitated him; I mean, I'm not sure of that but I think that's what somebody told me"), so much the better. A couple of brewskis and some bone-chilling bullshit horror story. What could be better?

If it had resembled a lively movie set before, the parking lot now resembled its old shabby self, even shabbier in the mist. I went to the front office and asked the old-timer where I'd be sleeping tonight.

"Room 167," he said.

He got me the key and said, "Some folks're sayin' you know his wife."

"Whose wife?"

"Whose wife? Who do you think's wife? Sam Lodge's wife."

I shook my head. "You mean they're saying I had an affair with her?"

"Something like that, I guess."

"Well, I hate to disappoint them, but I've only laid eyes on her twice. And that's all I laid, too. Eyes." I held up my hands surgeon-style. "These puppies have never known her fleshy pleasures. So tell all your friends that for me."

"No reason to get mad."

"Yeah, I should enjoy being called a murderer."

"Hey, you won't find no wet eyes in this town. Sam Lodge was a grade-A jerk."

I'd had enough of this conversation. "How about the key to 167?"

"Soon as you give me the other key back."

It was like an exchange of prisoners.

We swapped small golden keys, and I started to leave.

"There was a call for you," he said.

"You know who?"

"She didn't say. Just said she'd call back."

"Thanks."

"Sorry if I made you mad."

"I'm just kind of tired. I probably overreacted. Don't worry about it."

A different set of ghosts greeted me in 167, each room being the sum of what has transpired within its walls down the years. The Agency, back in the days when they spent a lot of money on such things as telepathy and ESP, concluded that certain rooms could bring on subtle stress because they had not been warmed by sunlight for long periods of time. The humans who briefly occupied the rooms seemed to know this somehow and responded in various neurotic ways. Allegedly, the Agency people could duplicate this experiment perfectly every time out but when it was finally written up in article form several Agency scientists argued with how the test had been set up in the first place. Personally, I think the test results were probably correct. We do seem to respond in unconscious ways to rooms we're in. That's why I believe in ghosts of some sort, though not necessarily of the chain-clanking variety.

The motel folks had been nice enough to stash all my clothes in the closet, this one being the economy model, coming without a corpse included.

I called Jane Avery's house but all I got was her machine. I assumed she'd have a lot to do tonight, what with Lodge's death and all. Our pizza would likely be later than either of us wanted.

I stripped down to my underwear and did a hard fifteen minutes of exercises: five running in place, five doing pushups, five doing sit-ups. I had been starting to slide into a vexation of some sort—dead bodies having that effect on me sometimes—and usually my only out is exercising. Breaking a sweat seems to have a kind of healing effect on me.

I was in the bathroom, toweling off, when the phone rang.

I was hoping for Jane. Instead I got Eve McNally.

"Is it true?" she said.

"True about what?"

"You know. About Sam Lodge being murdered."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"My Lord. It's all getting out of control."

"What's getting out of control, Eve?"

There was a long pause. "Have you seen my husband tonight?"

"No. Was he planning to look me up?"

"No—I just meant . . . "

The pause again.

"Any word about your daughter?"

"No."

"Are you worried about your husband?"

"A little, I guess."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"He stopped back around suppertime. I—I sort of lost control. I started screaming at him and hitting him because of Melissa. I'm worried she might already be—you know."

She couldn't say the word. I didn't blame her.

"He started crying. I never saw him cry before. It was hard to watch. It was like he didn't know how to cry or something. His whole chest just kind of heaved and there were tears rolling down his cheeks and—I felt sorry for him. I'm real mad at him, for getting Melissa involved in all this, but I felt sorry for him, too. You know?"

"I know."

"I told him to go see you."

"You did?"

"Uh-huh. I said maybe you could help him without going to the police. You know, have two minds working on it."

"Working on what, Eve?"

The long silence again.

"If he wants to tell you, he'll tell you. Otherwise I just have to keep my mouth shut. I'll get her killed for sure."

For the first time in this conversation, she started crying again. Soft, almost silent tears.

"I just keep saying Hail Marys over and over again but sometimes I wonder if there's any God at all. I know I shouldn't say that but that's how I feel. I mean, I hear my voice talking out loud in the silence and I think—Why am I doing this? Nobody's listening. Nobody's out there."

"We all have those doubts sometimes, Eve. It's a part of our faith, dealing with doubt."

Another long silence. "If he calls you, will you call me and tell me?"

"Sure."

"Tell him—tell him, I'm sorry I got so mad."

"Eve, you had a right to be mad. Something he did got your daughter kidnapped. I'd be pretty mad about that."

"He says he can get her back. Soon as he—"

"Soon as he what, Eve?"

"Soon as he—"

But then, of course, silence. Utter silence.

"Eve?"

"Yes."

"You can trust me."

Silence.

"You really can."

"I want to, but—"

"But the only way I can help you is if you're honest with me."

"I know." She sounded like a contrite child. "Will you have him call me?"

"Yes. I will."

"I'll talk to you later."

"All right, Eve. Good night."

Twenty minutes later, all shirted and jacketed and trousered up, I tried Jane's place again. The machine again.

I was antsy, the way I'd been in my college days before a date, pacing and eager for the night to begin.

Then I decided to call Herb Carson, a wealthy cattle rancher who'd given it all up to devote himself to a small airplane museum about twenty minutes from here.

Herb was in and happy to hear from me.

"You haven't been here since we got our parasol monoplane."

I laughed. "Still after the most exotic birds, aren't you, Herb?"

"Damn right. I want to make this the most unique museum in the country."

"Sounds like you're doing it. I'm an airplane buff, Herb, but even I don't know what a parasol monoplane is."

He laughed. "I was waiting for you to ask."

So he told me.

Back in 1929, when aviation was still the most romantic of callings, an eighteen-year-old garage mechanic with a sixth-grade education came into a very small inheritance with which he bought a Heath Airplane kit. Talk about a hardy breed. In those days, some Americans built their own airplanes. Which is what the kid did. He welded all the parts by himself, shaped all the wooden pieces by himself, stretched the oiled silk over the plane by himself, and, as the final touch, installed a Henderson motorcycle engine by himself. Most folks bet that the plane would never "fly" in any real sense. Back then, you saw a lot of would-be planes reach thirty or forty feet and then crash. Folks were scared for the kid. But on a warm October day in 1929, the kid took the plane up and it flew beautifully. The name Bobby Solbrig may not mean much to you but to old-time aviators it was legendary, Solbrig probably being the greatest stunt pilot who ever lived after getting his start in an Iowa cornfield just about the time President Hoover, another Iowa boy himself, was telling us that the economy was in great shape if we just left it alone, and that those people who worried about a Depression were just nervous nellies. Bobby Solbrig had a little more success than poor President Hoover.

"And guess what I bought last week?" Herb said after finishing his story.

"What?"

"A biplane just about like yours."

"You're kidding. Where'd you find it?"

"Louisiana, of all places. Bayou country, actually. It's in beautiful shape."

"I'll have to see it."

"You bet you will. Why don't you stop out tomorrow and I'll let you take it up?"

"I'm not sure what time I can come out."

"Just call the house before you come. Make sure I'm here."

"Thanks. It'll be good to see you."

The laugh again. "Yeah, and it'll be even nicer to see my biplane."

After we hung up, I tried Jane's place.

"Hello?"

"You're home," I said.

"I sure wish you'd tell me what's going on in this town of mine," she said, sounding tired. "Two murders yesterday and now another one tonight."

"You probably won't believe me, but I'm not sure myself. Not yet."

"Will you give me a little time to take a shower?"

"Sure."

"Let's make it an hour then."

"That's perfect. That's about how long it takes for Domino's to prepare a gourmet pizza."

"Double cheese."

"Double cheese it is."