‘To Terry? I guess I could, if he’ll agree to see me, but why?’
‘Set aside all the evidence for a minute. All of it on both sides, and answer me one question, truly and from your heart. Will you do that?’
‘Okay …’ He could hear the faraway drone of semis on the interstate. Closer, the peaceful summer sound of crickets in the grass growing alongside the brick building where he had worked for so many years. He knew what she was going to ask.
‘Do you think Terry Maitland killed that little boy?’
Ralph thought of how the man who’d taken Willow Rainwater’s cab to Dubrow had called her ma’am instead of by her name, which he should have known. He thought about how the man who’d parked the white van behind Shorty’s Pub had asked directions to the nearest doc-in-the-box, although Terry Maitland had lived in Flint City all his life. He thought about the teachers who would swear Terry had been with them, both at the time of the abduction and at the time of the murder. Then he thought about how convenient it was that Terry had not just asked a question at Mr Harlan Coben’s talk, but had risen to his feet, as if to make sure he would be seen and recorded. Even the fingerprints on the book … how perfect was that?
‘Ralph? Are you still there?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I’d coached with him like Howie … but I only watched him coach Derek. So the answer to your question – truly, and from my heart – is I just don’t know.’
‘Then go there,’ she said. ‘Look him in the eyes and ask him.’
‘Samuels is apt to rip me a new one if he finds out,’ Ralph said.
‘I don’t care about Bill Samuels, but I care about our son. And I know you do, too. Do it for him, Ralph. For Derek.’
19
It turned out that Arlene Peterson did have burial insurance, so that was all right. Ollie found the pertinent papers in the bottom drawer of her little desk, in a folder between MORTGAGE AGREEMENT (said mortgage now almost paid off) and APPLIANCE WARRANTIES. He called the funeral parlor, where a man with the soft voice of a professional mourner – maybe a Donelli brother, maybe not – thanked him and told him that ‘your mother has arrived.’ As if she’d gotten there on her own, maybe in an Uber. The professional mourner asked if Ollie needed an obituary form for the newspaper. Ollie said no. He was looking at two blank forms right there on the desk. His mother – careful, even in her grief – must have made photocopies of the one she’d gotten for Frank, in case she made a mistake. So that was all right, too. Would he want to come in tomorrow and make arrangements for the funeral and the burial? Ollie said he didn’t think so. He thought his father should be the one to do that.
Once the question of paying for his mother’s final rites was put to rest, Ollie dropped his head onto her desk and cried for awhile. He did it quietly, so as not to wake his father. When the tears dried up, he filled out one of the obituary forms, printing everything because his handwriting sucked. Once that chore was finished, he went out to the kitchen and surveyed the mess there: pasta on the linoleum, chicken carcass lying under the clock, all those Tupperwares and covered dishes on the counters. It reminded him of something his mom used to say after big family meals – the pigs ate here. He got a Hefty bag from under the sink and dumped everything in, starting with the chicken carcass, which looked especially gruesome. Then he washed the floor. Once everything was spick (something else his mother used to say), he discovered he was hungry. That seemed wrong but was still a fact. People were basically animals, he realized. Even with your mother and little brother dead, you had to eat and shit out what you ate. The body demanded it. He opened the fridge and discovered it was packed top to bottom and side to side with more casseroles, more Tupperware containers, more cold cuts. He selected a shepherd’s pie, its surface a snowy plain of mashed potato, and stuck it in the oven at 350. While he was leaning against the counter and waiting for it to heat, feeling like a visitor inside his own head, his dad wandered in. Fred’s hair was a mess. You’re all sticky-uppy, Arlene Peterson would have said. He needed a shave. His eyes were puffy and dazed.
‘I took one of your mother’s pills and slept too long,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it, Dad.’
‘You cleaned up the kitchen. I should have helped you.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Your mother … the funeral …’ Fred didn’t seem to know how to go on, and Ollie noticed that his fly was unzipped. This filled him with an inchoate pity. Yet he didn’t feel like crying again, he seemed to be cried out, at least for the time being. Something else that was all right. Must count my blessings, Ollie thought.
‘We’re in good shape,’ he told his dad. ‘She had burial insurance, you both do, and she’s … there. At the place. You know, the parlor.’ He was afraid to say funeral, because that might get his father going. Which might get him going again.
‘Oh. Good.’ Fred sat down and put the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘I should have done that. It was my job. My responsibility. I never meant to sleep so long.’
‘You can go down tomorrow. Pick out the coffin, and all.’
‘Where?’
‘Donelli Brothers. Same as Frank.’
‘She’s dead,’ Fred marveled. ‘I don’t even know how to think of it.’
‘Yeah,’ Ollie said, although he had been able to think of nothing else. How she’d kept trying to apologize, right to the end. As if it was all her fault when none of it was. ‘The funeral guy says there’s stuff you’ll have to decide about. Will you be able to do that?’
‘Sure. I’ll be better tomorrow. Something smells good.’
‘Shepherd’s pie.’
‘Did your mother make it, or did someone bring it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, it smells good.’
They ate at the kitchen table. Ollie put their dishes in the sink, because the dishwasher was full. They went into the living room. Now it was baseball on ESPN, Phillies against the Mets. They watched without talking, each in his own way exploring the edges of the hole that had appeared in their lives, so as not to fall in. After a while Ollie went out on the back steps and sat looking up at the stars. There were plenty of them. He also saw a meteor, an earth satellite, and several planes. He thought about how his mother was dead, and would see none of these things again. It was totally absurd that such a thing should be so. When he went back in, the baseball game was going into the ninth all tied up, and his father had gone to sleep in his chair. Ollie kissed him on the top of his head. Fred didn’t stir.
20
Ralph got a text on his way to the county jail. It was from Kinderman, in State Police Computer Forensics. Ralph pulled over at once and called back. Kinderman answered on the first ring.
‘Don’t you guys take Sunday night off?’ Ralph asked.
‘What can I say, we’re geeks.’ In the background, Ralph could hear the bellow of a heavy metal band. ‘Besides, I always think that good news can wait, but bad news should be passed on right away. We’re not done exploring Maitland’s hard drives for hidden files, and some of these kiddy-fiddlers can be pretty clever about that, but on the surface, he’s clean. No kiddie porn, no porn of any kind. Not on his desktop, not on his laptop, not on his iPad, not on his phone. He looks like Mr White Hat.’
‘What about his history?’
‘There’s plenty, but all stuff you’d expect – shopping sites like Amazon, news blogs like Huffington Post, half a dozen sports sites. He keeps track of the Major League standings, and he appears to be a fan of the Tampa Bay Rays. That alone suggests there’s something wrong with his head. He watches Ozark on Netflix, and The Americans on iTunes. I enjoy that one myself.’
‘Keep digging.’