“That’s okay,” Ralph said, getting up. His shadow stretched long, the shadow of a hanged man, and of course that made him think of Fred Peterson again. “Orders is orders.”
“Thanks for understanding. Jack Hoskins is back, and he’s going out there.”
“No problem.” He hung up and started for the short-term parking lot, telling himself it didn’t matter; Yune would keep him in the loop.
Probably.
He unlocked his car, got in, and cranked the air conditioning. Quarter past seven. Too late to go home, too early to go to the Maitlands’。 Which left cruising aimlessly around town like a self-absorbed teenager. And thinking. About how Terry had called Willow Rainwater ma’am. About how Terry had asked directions to the nearest doc-in-the-box, even though he’d lived in FC all his life. About how Terry had shared a room with Billy Quade, and wasn’t that convenient. About how Terry had risen to his feet to ask Mr. Coben his question, which was even more convenient. Thinking about that drop of ink in the glass of water, turning it pale blue, of footprints that just ended, of maggots squirming inside a cantaloupe that had looked fine on the outside. Thinking that if a person did begin considering supernatural possibilities, that person would no longer be able to think of himself as a completely sane person, and thinking about one’s sanity was maybe not a good thing. It was like thinking about your heartbeat: if you had to go there, you might already be in trouble.
He turned on the car radio and hunted for loud music. Eventually he found the Animals belting out “Boom Boom.” He cruised, waiting for it to be time to go to the Maitland house on Barnum Court. Finally it was.
18
It was Alec Pelley who answered his knock and led him across the living room and into the kitchen. From upstairs he could hear the Animals again. This time it was their biggest hit. It’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, Eric Burdon wailed, and God, I know I’m one.
Confluence, he thought. Jeannie’s word.
Marcy and Howie Gold were sitting at the kitchen table. They had coffee. There was also a cup where Alec had been sitting, but no one offered to pour Ralph a cup. I have come unto the camp of mine enemies, he thought, and sat down.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Marcy made no reply, just picked up her cup with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.
“This is painful for my client,” Howie said, “so let’s keep it brief. You told Marcy you wanted to talk to her—”
“Needed,” Marcy interrupted. “Needed to talk to me, is what he said.”
“So noted. What is it you needed to talk to her about, Detective Anderson? If it’s an apology, feel free to make it, but understand that we reserve all our legal options.”
In spite of everything, Ralph wasn’t quite ready to apologize. None of these three had seen a bloody branch jutting from Frank Peterson’s bottom, but Ralph had.
“New information has come to light. It may not be substantive, but it’s suggestive of something, although I don’t know exactly what. My wife called it a confluence.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” Howie asked.
“It turns out that the van used to abduct the Peterson boy was stolen by a kid only a little older than Frank Peterson himself. The kid’s name is Merlin Cassidy. He was running away from an abusive stepfather. In the course of his run between New York and south Texas, where he was finally arrested, he stole a number of vehicles. He dumped the van in Dayton, Ohio, in April. Marcy—Mrs. Maitland—you and your family were in Dayton in April.”
Marcy had been raising her cup for another sip, but now she set it down with a bang. “Oh, no. You’re not putting that on Terry. We flew both ways, and except for when Terry went to visit his dad, we were together the whole time. End of story, and I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Whoa,” Ralph said. “We knew it was a family trip, and that you went by air, almost from the time Terry became a person of interest. It’s just that . . . can’t you see how weird it is? The van is there when your family is there, then it turns up here. Terry told me he never saw it, let alone stole it. I want to believe that. We have his fingerprints all over the damn thing, but I still want to. And almost can.”
“I doubt it,” Howie said. “Stop trying to suck us in.”
“Would it help you to believe me, maybe even trust me a little, if I told you we now have physical evidence that Terry was in Cap City? His fingerprints on a book from the hotel newsstand? Testimony that has him leaving those prints at approximately the same time the Peterson boy was abducted?”