Pursuit (31 page)

Unfazed, Julie glanced at her watch. “We can still check with Child Services. Let's hustle.”

“Good afternoon, miss. My partner and I have somewhat of a problem,” Julie stated. She and Todd flashed their badges at the receptionist.

“Can we speak with the person in charge of Child Services? It's an emergency.”

Soon a woman of Julie's age approached from down the hall. “I'm Barbara Spence; you asked for me?”

Julie explained what they needed.

“Can this wait until morning? It's four thirty. I was just leaving for my son's soccer game.”

“We're dealing with an abduction, Mrs. Spence,” Todd said. “We don't have the time. How far back do your records go?”

“In some cases, quite far. What was it you needed, specifically?”

“A child, a newborn, was, we think, put into your care—”

“My care? You mean the state's care, right?”

“Yes, of course. Excuse me.” Julie knew to tread lightly here. “Some thirty-five years ago, a Benjamin Caldwell Jr. was, we believe, put into either an orphanage, hospital, or
foster home here in Clinton or nearby. Would you have a record of this?”

“Are you all right, miss?” The woman seemed to be studying Julie closely.

“Sorry, we've been running around like crazy today. Excuse me if I seem—”

Todd interrupted. “Sergeant Worth's daughter has been abducted, Mrs. Spence. She's been gone close to two weeks; we are somewhat desperate here. Can you give us a minute?”

The woman signaled for them to follow her. “Sorry, let's get right to it.”

She opened a door marked City Planning, a command office holding a number of desks with a half dozen men and women preparing to leave for the day. “Hold up, folks. I realize all of you are not with us in Child Services, but we have an emergency. Let's get together on this, please. Sarah, Jim, Roberta, get on your computers, look for a Benjamin”—she looked to Todd for confirmation—“Caldwell.”

“Did you hear the name? Benjamin Caldwell. It goes back nearly forty years, get on it, please. The rest of you, if you would, go through our paper files back as far as 1970, okay?” She motioned for Julie and Todd to sit as the room took on a frenzied energy.

They had just settled in when a woman going through the paper files shouted, “Got it!” Mrs. Spence took the single sheet of paper from her and glanced at it. “Says an infant boy was brought to the Main Street Child Care Center—our former name—that occurred on February 10, 1975.” She read the notes to herself and then continued out loud. “On June 1, 1980, which would be five years later, the child was put into a foster home run by husband
and wife J. T. and Gloria Gerard, ages thirty and eighteen, respectively.”

“Any address?” Julie asked.

“No. Just Henry County. Things must have been fairly loose back then.” She turned to a woman at a nearby desk. “Sarah, would you see if any of the old telephone directories have this fellow, J. T. Gerard?”

The woman returned, handing a note to her boss.

Mrs. Spence glanced at the memo. “A Mr. James T. Gerard, State Road 13, number 204, two miles west of Calhoun. Seems this is about the best we can do here. Hope it is of some help.” She walked them out the long hallway of the city government building and wished them well.

T
he drive to
Calhoun took only fifteen minutes. Todd and Julie spotted the weed-covered tin mailbox after having driven past it twice. They proceeded down a long dirt drive bordered by unsown fields, weeds, and mounds of dried cornstalks scattered along the fallow landscape. At a tree-lined opening, a group of chicken-coop-sized buildings were huddled among an orchard of scrawny crab apple trees.

A man with a shotgun greeted them, rising from a porch decorated with mismatched lawn chairs.

Todd showed his badge through the windshield as he slid out of the car. “Cover me, Sarge.”

Julie unsheathed her weapon and eased open her door.

“What can I do you for?” The man, a veritable department store Santa Claus, kept his shotgun at his side.

Julie positioned herself behind the car door, her Sig just peeking over the open window.

“We're State Patrol, need to ask you a few questions.”

“Well, that may be difficult. I barely graduated grade school.” He laughed and set his shotgun against the newel post of the steps. “Come on up.”

Julie holstered her weapon and took a position close to the man's shotgun. Todd looked to Julie, who motioned for him to proceed.

“Looking for a fellow, James T. Gerard. Would you be that gentleman?”

The heavyset fellow spread his arms wide on the divan lawn furniture. “Afraid not. J.T. got hisself burned up in a filling station accident.”

“What's the
T
stand for?”

The roly-poly hulk burst out laughing in short snorts. “Stands for Tucker, like the car that Detroit dude thought up.”

Julie was alerted to this Tucker being the Tuck that Venus had mentioned. “How long ago did he pass away?”

“Ah, hell's fire, I don't recall. Twenty-some-odd years, at least.”

“Did you buy this property from Mr. Gerard?”

“Nope, inherited it.”

“How so?”

“He were my daddy. When he went up in smoke, my ma and I got this spread. He had taken up with a hooker and left Ma and myself kinda high and very dry. About two years later, we got word he was ‘toast.' ” He snorted again.

Todd and Julie exchanged looks.

Julie identified herself.

“Good for you.”

Another wiseacre.
“We're on a case and need information about your father. Would you like to help us or be an asshole?”

The man's eyes narrowed. Todd took a step forward as Julie grabbed the shotgun, broke it open, and extracted the two shells. “Let's all be real comfy here, okay Big Guy?” she asked. “Were you brought up here on the ‘spread'?”

“Yeah, with the rest of the snot-nosed brats. Dad and Gloria, my ma, took in foster kids. Buncha sorry little turds.”

“Among these sorry little turds, did you ever hear the name Benjamin Caldwell?”

“Nah, don't ring no bells. Why you wanna know?”

“I'll ask the questions, Mr. Gerard.”

He smiled. “Don't often get called Mister. Sounds kinda nice.”

Todd moved a little closer. “How about Bink? Maybe a nickname for Benjamin?”

The man looked down at his hands as if taking a stab at coming up with something. “Look here, guys. I'm just a poor dirt farmer looking to make ends meet—”

“Yeah, we saw your fields as we came in.” Julie, hands on knees, went to his face level. “Not much of a crop this year, is there?”

“I've been off my feed for a while. Couldn't tend to—”

“How's about this, Slim.” Julie stayed close. “I give you fifty bucks, and you stop the bullshit and give me what I ask for.”

He played with his silver beard. “I may have known Bink. Is it worth a hundred?”

“I've got sixty.” Julie dipped into her pocket. She held the three twenties out in front of her.

He reached for it. She pulled back. “Talk first, Mr. Dirt Farmer.”

“Bink was around for a long time. I didn't think I knew his last name, is why I paused.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”

“Well, he's come from over Clinton way and grew up here on the ranch along with another group of rag tails.”

“How old was he when he left the ranch?”

“Left? Well, he didn't leave so much as he disappeared.”

“Ran away?”

“Nah. We were all on a sightseeing thing. ‘Way Things Are Made,' they called it.”

“You said ‘we.' ”

“Yeah, the foster kids—Bink and all the other brats. We were looking around in this warehouse place; factory, I guess. I was young—don't think on it too much—but Bink and this other kid got themselves seriously killed.”

Julie didn't think that to be right. After all the running around they'd done, only to find out Bink gets himself killed. She walked the length of the porch, wondering which way to jump. Todd kept his eye on Gerard and took a seat on the porch railing.

“What?” the grizzled character asked.

“You wouldn't be putting us on, would you?” Todd asked.

“Nah, it's the God's truth. Tuck wouldn't let us look, but as I think on it, they were both pretty much waffled.”

Julie moved next to Todd. “What does ‘pretty much' mean?”

The scruffy hulk dropped his sporting grin when he noticed Julie's attitude. “Damn, lady, you look like you're out for bear.”

“If I was, I wouldn't have far to look, would I?”

The man sucked in his stomach with effort.

“You want the sixty, keep talking, bro.”

“ ‘Bro'—that's funny.”

Once again he looked at her. She raised one finger in the air as if to say “Get on with it.”

“ ‘Pretty much,' I guess, means Bink was dead. Had his brain all crushed in like a smashed pumpkin. The other idiot was on the ground moaning his guts out; forget his name. Yeah, right, he weren't killed, just fucked up. Was
back on the spread after a couple months. That's all I have on the brain at the moment. About that sixty . . .”

Julie reached back into her pocket for the money. She played with it in her hands.

“Did your old man keep any records? Something to look at for names, that kind of thing?”

“Yeah, he did. After he died, Ma and I came back here. Ma burned all that rubbish, not wanting the memories, I reckon.”

“Would anyone besides you have information on names of the kids here at the time?”

He shook his head. “Don't know, don't think so. Saddle, Boots, Stinky, Mirabelle, and Tucker's beloved son, Jimbo.” He spread his arms wide. “Yours truly.”

“What was the name of the place all this smashed melon business took place?”

“Don't recall. Someplace over close to Saint Loo-ey.”

Todd walked out into the yard to answer his cell. Julie saw him hold up his arm for attention; he waved it and stepped back toward the porch while still talking. “I'll tell her, and thank you.” Todd signaled for Julie to come off the porch and follow him back into the dandelion-filled yard. “That was Walker. He just heard from section commander B. J. Dalton in Jefferson City. What he said, Sergeant, and listen to me carefully—”

Julie looked at Todd's handsome face, praying he was not about to give her bad news. “They brought a girl into St. Mary's Health Center about nine this morning, suffering from exposure and malnutrition. She's alive, and she fits Cheryl's description.”

She needed to be alone and staggered off into the weed-infested field, not knowing how she'd gotten there. “My God, oh, please.”

C
harles Clegg felt
tired; his arm had kept him up most of the night. He wrapped the hurt-like-the-devil arm in a pillowcase, which then soaked with blood. He pleasured himself for a few minutes with thoughts of how and what he would do to the little bitch when he caught her. But first, priorities. He called Deedee at work.