Winter and Night (8 page)

"I'll arrest you," Sullivan said calmly, breathing out smoke. "You'd beat it, but I could keep you out of circulation a couple of days. That might be all I'll need."

Or, I thought, I could drive to the next town, take out my cell phone, and call every kid in Warrenstown. Out of Sullivan's jurisdiction he'd have trouble making his threat stick. But there was no point in saying that. I'd do what I wanted and he'd do what he had to. I took a last drag on my cigarette, threw it onto the gravel. There was nothing left there. "Two things," I said to Sullivan. "If you find him, will you tell me?"

He nodded. "Once I have him."

"And I want to talk to my sister."

"I told you: No."

"Not with you. After you're done. She's my sister, Sullivan, her kid is missing and you're about to tell her he's a suspect in a homicide. I want to stay in town, see her after you're gone."

It sounded good. I didn't add that, before this morning, I hadn't seen her in years.

He fixed his eyes on me. "Then you'll leave?"

"I think you're wrong about this. But I'll leave."

"All right. I'll call you when I'm done with her. Where will you be?"

"I don't know," I said. "But I'll keep out of your way."

It took some work to get my Acura unpacked, to maneuver past the vans and cars, around the RAV4 that, according to a neighbor, had been Tory Wesley's sixteenth-birthday present from her folks. The crowd at the end of the drive parted, stared into my windows when I went past. I drove a little; where the streets were sunny and quiet, peaceful as though no one's child had died a few blocks away, I stopped, called my sister.

"Have you heard anything?" I asked. She'd picked up the phone on the first ring, the same as before. "From Scott, or anyone?"

"No. Have—?"

"Listen," I said. "Something bad's happened. Not to Gary. But the police are coming to talk to you."

"What do you mean?"

"That girl you told me about," I said. "Tory Wesley. She's dead."

Silence. Then, "Dead? I don't—"

"They think that's why Gary ran away, Helen."

"They think— what, that he knows something about it? But that's crazy. What do you mean, she's dead? What happened?"

"Detective Sullivan's on his way. He'll tell you the whole thing."

"Where are you?"

"He won't let me come. He thinks if Gary's involved I may be too."

"You— involved in what?"

In what. Jesus Christ. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, lit it. "Answer Sullivan's questions when he gets there, that's all."

A small voice: "I don't understand any of this."

"I called because I didn't want you blindsided," I said. "I'm still in town. I'll call again."

I hung up, smoked, watched a gardener wrap burlap around some shrubs not hardy enough to withstand winter on their own. A car rolled by me, turned the corner. Eventually I took out the phone again and called Lydia.

"Hi," she said. "What's up? You don't sound good." Behind her words, a horn honked, a siren shrilled. She was on the street.

"I'm not." I told her what had happened, what we'd found.

"My God," Lydia said. "How did she die?"

"That'll take an autopsy. She was on the bed, naked," I added.

"Oh, Bill." Then the obvious, though I hadn't said it: "And they think it was Gary?"

"As Sullivan says, he's the one who ran away."

"Could it be? Could he have?"

I thought of Gary's exhausted eyes, the face that looked so much like mine. "I don't know."

"What do you want to do?"

"I told them about last night, gave them Hagstrom's name and number. They'll fax Gary's picture to New York."

"That'll make three," Lydia said. "Sets of pictures going around."

"My brother-in-law's there?"

"I haven't run into him, but one of the places I went, they already had a picture. A real one," she added. "Of Gary, not you. I took a copy. I've been passing it out with the other one."

"Well, now it's different. Now the police'll be looking for him as a suspect, not a runaway. They'll look harder."

We were silent for a few moments, me out here, stopped, in a peaceful town, where a house was destroyed and a girl was dead, Lydia in action in the never-still city.

And Gary, I thought, somewhere, alone, on the run, looking over his shoulder, trying to do something important.

"Bill?" I realized Lydia had spoken, was repeating herself. "I said, do you want to hear about that camp?"

"Yes. Sorry." I didn't try to tell her it must have been the phone, because it wasn't the phone.

"Hamlin's Institute of American Sports, Plaindale, Long Island. Building Men by Building Character through Competitive Sports." Her voice told me what she thought of men built that way.

"Supposed to be any good?"

"If you like that kind of thing. It's been open about fifteen years. Parents send kids over weekends and in the summer. Sometimes schools send whole teams in the summer, too. And right now, they're running this thing called Seniors' Camp."

"I heard. Teams that make the play-offs, their seniors get to go to Hamlin's, to get their game ready for college."

"Right. I think there are about half a dozen schools with boys there. But Bill, it's only seniors. Gary's a sophomore, you said."

"I was hoping. Anybody out there seen him?"

"I talked to Tom Hamlin, the director. He hasn't, and he doesn't know why Gary would go there. Until Saturday," she added. "For the game. The Warrenstown underclassmen come here and play the seniors?"

"I heard about that, too. Listen, Gary has at least one friend who's there, a kid named Randy Macpherson, a receiver. See if you can talk to him."

"So you want me to keep going?"

"Yes. Sullivan told me to lay off, but he didn't tell you to lay off."

"That wouldn't be because you failed to mention me, would it?"

"Well, yes," I said. "It probably would."

Five

I closed the phone, thought how quiet it was here on this shady suburban street without Lydia's voice. The gardener was gone now; on the lawn where he'd been working a wood thrush flitted from branch to branch, tree to tree. It chirped a little on each perch, flew on to another one, seeming unable to find a place to settle. The fall weather had been warm so far, and maybe this thrush thought he wouldn't have to go south this year, could just stay and find shelter under golden-leaved trees until spring. Or maybe he already knew what he had to do, and was gathering his strength.

I sat for a while, just looking. Then I started up the car, headed into town: I was starving.

The Galaxy Diner occupied a prime spot in Warrenstown's downtown, a corner where from one part of the L-shaped room, the part that looked out on the streets, you could see who was coming and going, and from the part overlooking the parking lot you could see who'd decided to stay. I took a booth on the street side, ordered coffee and a turkey sandwich. The coffee came first. I drank it and watched the light change and tried to think of nothing.

The waiter was right on top of things, bringing back the coffeepot just before I finished my first cup. He filled it again and as he did a short girl, blond, maybe seventeen, slid onto the banquette across from me. She wore wide-legged jeans, a pink tee shirt with long white sleeves, a gray hooded sweatshirt she unzipped and pulled off as she sat. "I'll have some coffee," she told the waiter, smiling, and he smiled, too, and went to get her a cup.

"Hi." She leaned forward, turned the smile to me. "Stacie Phillips. Editor of the Warrenstown News— that's at the high school— and I cover high school affairs for the Tri-Town Gazette. That's published in Greenmeadow, but it also covers Warrenstown and a couple of other places around here."

"Sounds like a good job," I said. Her hair was chin-length and bouncy and she wore six gold earrings in one ear and eight in the other, from the lobe on up.

"Yeah." She grinned. "You're a private detective from New York. You're Gary Russell's uncle and you're looking for him. You were there when Detective Sullivan found— found Tory Wesley." The grin flagged. She looked around, luckily spotted the waiter bringing her coffee and my sandwich.

"That's true," I said.

She reached for the milk and sugar. Her hands were small and plump; her short nails were painted a pale pink. "Tell me about it." Into her coffee she dumped four sugars and as much milk as the cup could hold.

"I don't think so."

"Come on, it's news, it's not a secret." She raised her cup carefully, sipped coffee off the top.

"Ask Detective Sullivan." I salted the sandwich, took a bite.

"There's a press conference at three. Probably not Detective Sullivan, probably Chief Letourneau with his usual everything's-under-control-in-our-perfect-little-town stuff." A slight hesitation before stuff made me think that wasn't the word she'd have used if she weren't talking to a grown-up.

"If he's the police chief," I said, "then it's his job to say things like that, to make you all feel safe."

"He grew up here, I think he believes it. Anyway, I'll be there, at his press conference. But I wanted to talk to you first."

"How do you know who I am?"

"I asked Trevor." To my blank look she said, "The cop who was chasing everyone away at the driveway. He used to date my sister."

"And how'd you find me?"

"I followed you. Trevor'd already said about the press conference, and I knew there was no way he was going to let me up to the house. I mean, he knows I'm a reporter, but he's all, Hey, yo, this is my job, man." She said the last part in a deep, dumb-cop voice. "So when you left I followed you. You parked on Gillis and made a phone call. It's all one way around there, so I drove past you around the corner to Linden and waited. You had to come out that way."

I ate more turkey, thought back to the quiet street, the gardener. "Green Corolla?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's pretty good."

"So reward me. Tell me about it."

"How'd you hear what happened?"

"I have a police scanner in my car." By now she'd drained off maybe a quarter of her coffee. She poured more milk in, added another sugar. "And so does Stuart Early, who's the police reporter for the Gazette, and sooner or later he'll figure out about you, and I want to scoop him."

"This sounds more like his beat than yours."

"Tory went to Warrenstown High. It can be mine." She grinned again. "You share, I'll share. Maybe I can tell you something about Gary that can help."

"Did you know Tory Wesley?" I couldn't help asking.

Stacie Phillips's round-cheeked face clouded. She shook her head, maybe to chase the clouds away. "Not really. She's a sophomore. I mean, I saw her around."

"Tory Wesley's dead," I said. "This is the real thing."

"I'm a reporter," she said, looking me in the eye. "This is a real story."

I drank my coffee and looked at her, a kid whose life was about to start, asking me to tell her about a kid whose life was over.

"Tory," I said. "Was she close with Gary Russell?"

"Oh no, Mr. Detective," she said. "If I tell you, you have to tell me."

The waiter returned with the coffeepot, poured us both more coffee. "You want something to eat?" I asked her.

"No, thanks. But I think we need more milk." She poured what was left of the milk into her cup, gave the pitcher to the waiter with another smile.

"Sullivan said he'd arrest me if I didn't drop the case and leave town," I told her.

"No way."

"Yes."

"For real? Can he do that?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well," she said, looking around, "this isn't exactly out of town."

"I have a reprieve, maybe an hour. Then I have to go."

"I could put that in my story," she offered. "Abuse of police power. He might back down, if it's in the paper."

"No thanks. But he won't be happy to hear I'm talking to a reporter."

"Do you care?"

I thought about it. From Sullivan's point of view he was doing what he had to do, telling me to drop it, throwing me out of town; but he was also cutting me as much slack as he thought he could, promising to let me know if he found Gary, letting me stay to talk to Helen. If he got seriously pissed off he'd keep doing the job, stop doing me favors. On the other hand, Stacie Phillips might be able to lay out Gary's life for me in a way an adult couldn't do. And Sullivan might be out of favors already.

"No," I said.

"Me, either."

"You might get in trouble," I warned her.

"For what? He didn't tell me not to talk to you."

"I hear this town's sensitive about stories that might make them look bad."

"Because of what happened before? God, that was before I was born. When do people stop being sensitive about things?"

"Things like that, maybe never."

"Well," she said, "if they don't want to look bad they should stop doing things that make news."

I couldn't argue with that. "Sullivan might stop letting you into press conferences," I said.

"I don't think that's legal. Besides, he won't bother. He doesn't take me seriously anyway. None of them do." She grinned again. "I get some good stories because of that."

"Okay," I said. "I'll tell you about the Wesley house. But Gary's mother's my client and Gary's my nephew, so I'm not going to tell you much about that. And then you'll tell me what you know about Gary and his friends."

"Deal."

I described the scene at Tory Wesley's house, the garbage and the flies, the cat, the position and location of the body. I left out some things: what a body looks like, smells like after a few days. It would take an autopsy to determine what killed Tory Wesley, but she'd been nude and bruised. Sullivan or the chief might cover some of that in the press conference, but I didn't see any reason to talk about it now, to another teenage girl in a sunny booth at the town diner.

Stacie Phillips took out a spiral pad, took notes in a round, open hand. She didn't interrupt, and except for a tiny pause, a stutter in her writing hand now and then, if anything I told her upset her, she didn't show it.

I finished, drank some coffee while she looked at her notes. She seemed to think about something, lifted her eyes to me. "Tell me the gross parts."