“I’m out of this, Tracy. Talk to the chief.”
I felt I really was out of it. What did my suspicions amount to, really? Betty could be wrong in her assessment of how Morton Dewart died. Tiff, at the co-op, could have been killed for any number of reasons. And all that fertilizer could have been stolen by a farmer looking to save a few bucks.
And the Wickenses might have a framed picture of Timothy McVeigh on their wall because they were nuts. Simple as that. It didn’t mean they were up to anything particularly sinister.
And Alice Holland’s refusal to kick a gay rights group out of the fall fair parade could be expected to produce some nasty crank calls. People were always tough when they were anonymous. It didn’t have to mean the mayor was in any real danger.
With any luck, Dad’s ankle was nearly healed. Maybe, by the next day, or the day after that, he’d be well enough to get back to running the camp on his own.
I was ready to go home.
I grabbed a seat in the waiting room and was glancing through a hunting magazine that I cared nothing about when Bob reappeared. His hands were wrapped in gauze, and he had a couple of small bandages on his cheeks, and a third on his forehead.
“Ready?” I said.
“Ready,” Bob said.
He said nothing the whole way home, and once we were back at the camp, he said a simple “Thanks” as he got out of the truck and walked over to his cabin.
“You want to come over, have a drink, something to eat?” I asked.
Bob shook his head no and went inside.
There were tuna sandwiches on the table when I walked into Dad’s cabin. “I didn’t do a thing,” Dad said. “Lawrence here made lunch.”
I suddenly realized I was starving, and sat at the table and practically inhaled the sandwich.
Lawrence said, “Your father’s kinda been filling me in. The stuff you already told me, plus some other stuff.”
“I don’t know whether there’s anything here for you to do or not,” I said. “I’m sorry if I dragged you up here for nothing.”
“Well, from the sounds of it, these folks renting the farmhouse from your dad are bad news, no matter how you look at it. I think we start by trying to find out more about them.”
I shrugged. I just didn’t know anymore.
“I do know one thing that hasn’t changed,” I said. “And that’s May Wickens, and her boy, Jeffrey. They still need to get away from her father, Timmy. No boy should be growing up, getting indoctrinated in the kind of hate that’s preached up there by that man.”
“So this Timmy, he hates fags and niggers and Jews and probably the New York Philharmonic as well,” Lawrence Jones said thoughtfully.
“Yeah. And he decides what lessons his daughter should teach his grandson.”
He pursed his lips, nodded. “Doesn’t sound to me like a very enlightened curriculum.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked him, taking another bite of my sandwich and feeling a bit apprehensive.
“We’ll see,” Lawrence said.
When I finished my lunch, I went into Dad’s study to see whether Sarah had gotten back to me.
I signed on to the mail program. Bingo.
Sarah wrote:
When are you coming home? Angie and Paul are starting to drive me crazy. No, I take that back. They’ve always driven me crazy, but when you’re home, at least you can take some of the brunt of it. I’ve spent $60 on taxis just so I won’t have to referee all these fights over the car. I don’t want to give you something else to worry about, but the dishwasher is making a really weird noise, it goes chugga-chugga halfway through the cycle, sounds like there’s a cat in there. The dishes are coming out dirty, which means they have to be done by hand, which means I have to ask Paul or Angie to do them in the sink, which sets off World War Three because they each think it’s the other person’s turn. And while I’m on the subject of cats (see dishwasher, above), both the kids are talking about getting a dog. Where did that come from? I don’t want any part of it.
They’re making some noises around the offices about when you’re coming back. There’s a Star Trek convention in town this week and the features editor figured you’d be the perfect guy to cover it, which I happen to disagree with. I say you send someone who DOESN’T know the first thing about Star Trek, and can take a look at these sci-fi nuts, no offense intended, and offer an unbiased perspective, but what the hell do I know.
Now, your requests. I made some calls about women’s shelters. A place where this woman and her kid could go. I’ve got a contact at Kelly’s Place, the one that was named in honor of that woman whose husband killed her with a crossbow. They’ve got a spot, if you think she’s interested.