“Thank Christ for that,” Elfman said, “dry as it’s been. What did you find? Not that I guess it matters, nothing left to steal and them old buildings half fallen down and not worth pea-turkey.”
Dougie kept looking back. The road looked empty, all right, but he wished the dust would settle faster.
“I found a pair of bluejeans that look new, and Jockey underpants that look new, and some expensive sneakers, them with the gel insides, that also look new. Only they’re all stained with something, and so’s the hay they was lyin in.”
“Blood?”
“No, it ain’t blood. Turned the hay black, whatever it was.”
“Oil? Motor oil? Somethin like ’at?”
“No, the stuff wasn’t black, just the hay it got on. I don’t know what it was.”
But he knew what those stiff patches on the jeans and underpants looked like; he had been masturbating three and sometimes four times a day since he turned fourteen, using an old piece of towel to shoot his spunk into, and then using the backyard tap to rinse it out when his parents were gone. Sometimes he forgot, though, and that piece of toweling got pretty crusty.
Only there had been a lot of that stuff, a lot, and really, who would jizz off on a brand-new pair of Adipowers, high-class kicks that cost upward of a hundred and forty dollars, even at Wally World? Dougie might have thought about taking them for himself under other circumstances, but not with that crap on them, and not with the other thing he’d noticed.
“Well, let it go and just come on home,” Elfman said. “You got those cans, at least.”
“No, Daddy, you need to get the police out. There was a belt in them jeans, and it’s got a shiny silver buckle in the shape of a horse’s head.”
“That means nothing to me, son, but I guess it does to you.”
“On the news, they said that Terry Maitland was wearing a buckle like that when he was seen at the train station in Dubrow. After he killed that little boy.”
“They said that?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Well, shit. You wait there at the crossing until I call you back, but I guess the cops will want to come. I’ll come, too.”
“Tell them I’ll meet them at Biddle’s store.”
“Biddle’s . . . Dougie, that’s five miles back toward Flint!”
“I know. But I don’t want to stay here.” The dust had settled now, and there was nothing to be seen, but Dougie still didn’t feel right. Not a single car had passed on the main road since he started talking to his father, and he wanted to be where there were people.
“What’s wrong, son?”
“When I was in that barn where I found the clothes—I’d already got the cans by then, and was lookin for that tack you said might be out there—I started to feel all wrong. Like someone was watchin me.”
“You just got the creeps. The man who killed that boy is dead as dirt.”
“I know, but tell the cops I’ll meet em at Biddle’s, and I’ll take em out there, but I’m not staying here by myself.” He ended the call before his father could argue with him.
15
The meeting with Marcy was set for eight o’clock that night at the Maitland home. Ralph got the green-light call from Howie Gold, who told him Alec Pelley would also be there. Ralph asked if he could bring Yune Sablo, if Yune was available.
“Under no circumstances,” Howie replied. “Bring Lieutenant Sablo or anyone else, even your lovely wife, and the meeting’s off.”
Ralph agreed. There was nothing else he could do. He puttered around in the cellar for awhile, mostly just shifting boxes from one side to the other and back again. Then he picked at his supper. With two hours still stretching before him, he pushed away from the table. “I’m going to the hospital to visit Fred Peterson.”
“Why?”
“I just feel like I should.”
“I’ll come with you, if you want.”
Ralph shook his head. “I’ll go directly to Barnum Court from there.”
“You’re wearing yourself out. Running your guts to water, my grandmother would have said.”
“I’m okay.”
She gave him a smile that said she knew better, then stood on her toes to kiss him. “Call me. Whatever happens, call me.”
He smiled. “Nuts to that. I’ll come back and tell you in person.”
16
As he was entering the hospital’s lobby, Ralph met the department’s missing detective on his way out. Jack Hoskins was a slight man, prematurely gray, with bags under his eyes and a red-veined nose. He was still wearing his fishing outfit—khaki shirt and khaki pants, both with many pockets—but his badge was clipped to his belt.
“What are you doing here, Jack? I thought you were on vacation.”
“Called back three days early,” he said. “Drove into town not an hour ago. My net, gumrubbers, poles, and tackle box are still in my truck. Chief thought he might like to have at least one detective on active duty. Betsy Riggins is upstairs on five, having the baby. Her labor started late this afternoon. I talked to her husband, who says she’s got a long way to go. Like he’d have any idea. As for you . . .” He paused for effect. “You’re in a hell of a mess, Ralph.”
Jack Hoskins made no effort to hide his satisfaction. A year previous, Ralph and Betsy Riggins had been asked to fill out routine evaluation forms for Jack, when he became eligible for a pay bump. Betsy, the detective with the least seniority, had said all the right things. Ralph had turned his in to Chief Geller with only two words written in the space provided: No opinion. It hadn’t kept Hoskins from getting his bump, but it was an opinion, all the same. Hoskins wasn’t supposed to see the eval sheets, and maybe hadn’t, but word of what had been on Ralph’s had of course gotten back to him.
“Did you look in on Fred Peterson?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Jack pursed his lower lip and blew scant hair off his forehead. “Lot of monitors in his room, and low lines on all of them. I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Well, welcome home.”
“Fuck that, Ralph, I had three more days, the bass were running, and I’m not even going to get a chance to change my shirt, which stinks of fish guts. Got calls from both Geller and Sheriff Doolin. Have to go all the way out to that useless dustbowl known as Canning Township. I understand your buddy Sablo is already there. I probably won’t actually make it home until ten or eleven.”
Ralph could have said, Don’t blame me, but who else was this mostly useless time-server going to blame? Betsy, for getting pregnant last November? “What’s in Canning?”
“Jeans, underpants, and sneakers. Kid found them in a shed or a barn while he was hunting out milk cans for his father. Also a belt with a horse’s head buckle. Of course the Mobile Crime Lab will already be there, I’ll be about as useful as tits on a bull, but the chief—”
“There’ll be fingerprints on the buckle,” Ralph interrupted. “And there may be tire tracks from the van, or the Subaru, or both.”
“Don’t try teaching your daddy how to suck eggs,” Jack said. “I was carrying a detective’s shield while you were still in uniform.” The subtext Ralph heard was And I’ll still be carrying it when you’re working as a mall guard at Southgate.
He left. Ralph was glad to see him go. He only wished he could go out there himself. Fresh evidence at this point could be precious. The silver lining was that Sablo had already gotten there, and would be supervising the Forensics Unit. They’d finish most of their work before Jack could arrive and maybe screw something up, as he had on at least two previous occasions that Ralph knew about.
He went up to the maternity waiting room first, but all the seats were empty, so maybe the delivery was going faster than Billy Riggins, a nervous novice at this, had expected. Ralph buttonholed a nurse and asked her to tell Betsy that he wished her all the best.
“I will when I get the chance,” the nurse said, “but right now she’s very busy. That little man is in a hurry to get out.”