“But, Ethan, there’s no need—”
“Look, lady, you got your ways and I got mine!”
“Maybe so,” Olivia answered, knowing such a thing was indeed true, “but I’ll wager we could find us a way to work it out.”
“I ain’t telling you nothing.”
“I won’t ask anymore.”
“I’ll bet,” he said with a sneer. “Maybe not today, but—”
“I’ll never ask again. When you’re ready you’ll—”
“What if I ain’t never ready?”
“Then you’ll never tell me,” Olivia answered with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“No trick,” Olivia crisscrossed her heart.
Ethan Allen cocked his mouth to one side in an expression of doubt. “I don’t know,” he said, “I still think I ought to be moving on.”
Olivia could see the determination in his eyes wavering. “To where?” she asked.
“I ain’t got a specific place in mind, but…”
“Then, how about staying here with me; at least until you make up your mind about where you might be going?”
“I can leave anytime I’m ready?”
Olivia nodded.
“And, I don’t have to answer no questions about what happened?”
She shook her head.
“Well…”
“I could sure use some help around here. I’ve been thinking of hiring a boy to help me with carrying up the groceries and other such chores.”
“You pay anything for doing that?”
Olivia nodded. “Twenty-five cents a week.”
“Hmm,” Ethan Allen twisted his face into an expression that could make a person believe he was giving the offer serious study. “Okay,” he finally said, “but if you start in with asking me more questions—”
“I won’t,” Olivia said, “rest assured, I won’t.”
“Dog stays too, right?”
“Right.” This, Olivia figured, was not the time to be worrying about the seven crotchety old farts who governed the Rules Committee. “Well,” she sighed, “now that that’s settled, how about some pancakes and sausage?”
“With potato chips?” Ethan asked, licking at his lips.
Olivia smiled and gave a nod, “I suppose,” she said, then turned toward the kitchen. Before starting breakfast, she called Clara and whispered, “He’s home.”
“Ethan Allen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thank the Lord! I’ll be right there.”
“No,” Olivia said, “wait until this afternoon. We need to have some time alone.”
As soon as she set breakfast on the table, Ethan Allen dug in. He shoveled up mouthful after mouthful of syrupy pancakes, while Olivia couldn’t force down a single bite. “I’m really glad you decided to come back,” she said. “When you left here and didn’t come home all night, the most awful things ran through my mind. I couldn’t imagine where you’d gone to, and I was worried blue that you might be shivering to death in some icy cold alleyway, no jacket, no sweater…”
“I wasn’t even cold.”
“Not cold? With the temperature dropped down to thirty degrees?”
“Un-uh,” he slipped a piece of sausage to the dog, “I wrapped up in a blanket.”
“Where’d you get a blanket?”
“Mister Porter’s storage bin; he’s got a lot of good stuff—”
“The storage bin in the basement?”
Ethan nodded and passed down another piece of sausage. “He’s got a hockey stick, and some shotguns, and—”
“You broke into Seth Porter’s storage bin?”
“I didn’t break in; I just pried the door open enough to squeeze through.”
“You were hiding in there.” Olivia said, perching her hands on her hips, “…and didn’t bother to answer when every last soul in this building was calling out your name?”
“I was asleep. I didn’t hear nothing.”
“Asleep? In the storage bin?”
Ethan nodded, “Mister Porter’s got a whole bunch of furniture in his bin and I figured he wouldn’t mind none if I borrowed the sofa for a bit.”
“You shouldn’t be helping yourself to other people’s belongings!” Olivia said with an artificial air of disdain; then she let go of the issue, happy that the boy had enough sense to stay inside out of the cold.
There and Gone
Sam Cobb figured the kid was gone and that was that. Driving down to talk to Tom Behrens was probably a waste of time; but he jumped at the chance because it was an opportunity to work with a detective on a double murder, which was something that didn’t come along every day. Sam was tired of patrolling a town with very few crimes other than the vandalism of run amuck teenagers; and he had been looking for a way to prove himself for well over a year. He was ready—more than ready—to make detective, to be assigned homicides on his own, not simply because he happened to be the patrolman on duty when the report of a double murder came in. “We’d be better off questioning the neighbors,” he said as if he were the voice of authority, “chasing after that boy’s a waste of time. If he wants to run off, I say let him go. The probability is a kid like that won’t talk even if he does know something.”
“Could be you’re right, but I’ve got this feeling…” Mahoney said.
They arrived at the ESSO station shortly after lunch on Thursday. Mahoney stepped out of the patrol car and walked toward the attendant, “Tom?” he asked, extending his hand in a real friendly way.
“Yep,” Tom answered, “and you gotta be Jack Mahoney.”
After Mahoney introduced Patrolman Sam Cobb, the three men went inside the office and sat down. Tom poured the last of yesterday’s coffee into paper cups and handed it to his guests. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m fresh outta cream.”
“Coffee’s not much good without cream,” Cobb replied, then took a sip of the coffee which was thick as mud and gave off the smell of burnt rubber. “Whew…ee,” he grimaced, “You can’t be expecting I’d drink this!”
Without a word, Tom Behrens took the cup from Cobb’s hand and set it to the side of the counter. After that there was an edgy bit of a silence until Mahoney started chit-chatting about how the weather this year seemed to be unseasonably cold. “Before you know it we’ll be looking at frost,” he said. “Frost, before the end of September, can you believe it? Newspaper claims we could get snow early as November!”
They hadn’t yet gotten around to the issue of Ethan Allen, when a farm truck pulled up to the pump. “I got a customer,” Tom said and stepped outside.
As soon as he was beyond earshot, Mahoney looked over at Cobb and growled, “What’s with you? Are you deliberately trying to tick this guy off so he won’t give us anything on where the kid went?”
“Of course not,” Cobb answered, “but that was the worse coff—”
“You think I give a crap? If he comes back in here and hands you a cup of warm piss, you better drink it down with a smile on your face!”
Tom, a man unaccustomed to hurrying, left them sitting in the office for almost fifteen minutes. When he finally did return, there was more chit-chat, another customer interruption, and a half-hour of telling bits and pieces of the tragedy which occurred at the Doyle house. Eventually, Mahoney was able to ask, “The boy who came by here, you think you’d know his face were you to see it again?”
“Sure. We sat nose-to-nose, right there,” Tom waggled his finger toward a spot at the far end of the curb. “Talked for a good half hour, then I closed up shop and drove him over to the truck depot on Route Thirteen.”
Mahoney reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph he had pried loose from the Doyle scrapbook shortly after Ethan Allen disappeared. It was a photograph taken two years ago, a photograph taken when they’d obviously had better times. Ethan Allen, Susanna and Benjamin were all wearing smiles as they lined up along the front step of their house; Dog was on the far side of Ethan Allen. �
�Is this the boy?” Mahoney asked, passing the photograph across to Tom.
“The one who come by here could of been a mite older,” Tom said squinting at the picture, “but that dog is sure as hell the same one.”
“The boy, you say you drove him to the truck depot?”
Tom hitched up the right side of his mouth and gave a nod. “Sure did. He had me believing every word that came outta his mouth; felt right sorry for him with his having a sick mama and all.” Tom hesitated a moment then with the sound of sadness woven through his words, added, “Of course, nowadays the truth’s so scarce a man probably ought to question his own name.”
“And, the boy told you he was headed to his grandpa’s over on the mainland?”
Tom nodded again. “He had this way of saying things, so truthful sounding, you’d swear them words was coming from his heart. When he told me the story about his poor mama, I could see the hurt leaking out of his skin. Some folks might be able to turn their backside to a sorrowful situation such as that, but I’m a man who remembers when my own mama was deathbed sick. If you ever been there, you know what it’s like!”
Mahoney, who had a way of making folks feel he was in complete agreement with whatever they were feeling, gave a sympathetic nod.
“Anyway,” Tom said, “I took it on myself to help the boy. I never once figured his story was a bunch of bare-faced lies.”
“So, you got him a ride to the Mainland?”
“Yep. Just call me a fool and stick a dunce cap on my head.”
“And did he give you the address of where he was headed?”
“Nope. Just said his grandpa’s.”
“He mention the grandpa’s name?”
“Uh-uh,” Tom mumbled, shaking his head side to side, “The boy had it writ down on the back of a folded up envelope, but I can’t for the life of me picture what it was.”
“Doyle?” Mahoney suggested, “…was the name Doyle?”
“Can’t say it was or wasn’t. But, I do recollect the name of the town—Wyattsville. It’s a little place, maybe fifty miles northwest of Richmond.”
Mahoney smiled. “Well now, at least we’ve got somewhere to start.”
“You’re going after him?” Tom Behrens asked, “Way over there?” He wasn’t usually a suspicious man, but it did seem somewhat strange for two police officers to be chasing a runaway boy clear across the state. “How come?”
“Mostly to make sure he’s okay,” Mahoney replied, “but we also have a suspicion that the night of the murders he saw something.”
“Saw something? Like what?”
“Who knows,” Cobb, who felt he’d been pushed aside on the questioning, grumbled. “A kid like that ain’t likely to tell you—”
“We’re almost done here,” Mahoney cut in, “Sam, why don’t you wait in the car.”
Cobb stood so abruptly, his chair almost tipped over; then he walked out shaking his head, to show his disdain for such an obvious waste of time.
“I got an uneasy feeling about that fella,” Tom said, once Cobb had gone. “Ain’t many I take a dislike to, but him…”
“Sometimes I dislike him myself,” Mahoney said with a smile. “Now, this fellow who gave the boy a ride to the mainland, you think he might—”
“His name’s Wheeler. Butch Wheeler.”
“Any idea where we can get hold of him?”
“Butch?” Tom shook his head. “He’s one of the few who does a run on Sunday. Sundays and Tuesdays. He generally stops at the depot on thirteen for a fill-up before heading over to Richmond; other than that, I got no idea.”
“Sundays and Tuesdays, huh?” Mahoney got a description of Butch Wheeler, then reached over and shook Tom’s hand, “Thanks,” he said, “you’ve been a real help.”
The Surprise
On the Monday that happened along three days after Ethan Allen had gone missing all night, Olivia’s doorbell rang. She could hear the crowd rustling about and whispering, long before she reached the door—thinking herself about to be evicted, she cracked it open barely wide enough for an eye to peer through. “Yes?” she said apprehensively when she saw the group of residents congregated outside the door. “Did you wish to speak to me?”
“Not actually,” Clara said with a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “We’re here to see Ethan Allen.”
“Clara!” Olivia exclaimed, flinging the door open to its full width. “You of all people! I thought you were my friend!”
“I am your friend!” Clara responded—trying valiantly to hold onto a straight face, even though the corners of her mouth kept curling. “Now, we would like to speak with Ethan Allen.”
“You most certainly will not!” Olivia defiantly perched her hands on her hips. “He’s my guest and he’s staying until he’s good and ready to leave! If the Rules Committee has decided to evict me because I have a guest, then so be it! But, I’ll not allow you to harangue the boy. Have you no shame? Have you—”
Ethan, who by now had come to see what was causing the commotion, popped his head out from behind Olivia. “Hi,” he said.
All of a sudden the word “Surprise!” rang out with such force, Olivia jumped back clutching at her heart, landed on Ethan’s foot and almost tumbled to the floor. The group of people standing at the door split apart like an eggshell and in the center, where a person would expect to see the yoke, was a brand new blue bicycle. “This here’s for Ethan,” the crowd said in unison and the boy broke into a grin that stretched the full width of his face.
Everyone started to talk at the same time. “I know you had your heart set on red,” Clara said, “but, this one’s got a horn!”
“And a basket,” Fred added, “…so you can fetch groceries for your grandma.”
“We took a collection…” someone said.
“A boy needs a bicycle.”
“Remember the school’s ten blocks away!”
“But, I don’t understand,” Olivia stammered, tears of relief rolling down her face.
“It’s simple,” Clara answered, “we decided if Ethan’s to live here, he ought to have a bicycle for errands and travelling to school.”
“Live here? But, the Rules Committee…”
“We met with them yesterday and they’ve agreed to make an exception for Ethan and his dog. Seems,” Clara said sheepishly, “they’ve known he was here all along.”
“Do I get to have the bike now?” Ethan asked apprehensively, “Even if my birthday ain’t ‘til next month?”
“Next month?” Olivia repeated. “Your birthday is next month?”
He nodded. “But, they said I could have the bike now.”
“You mean,” Olivia qualified, “that next month you’ll be turning twelve?”
He nodded again, “…on the fifteenth!”
“Well now,” Olivia said with a smile, wider even than Ethan’s, “I suppose being twelve years old is cause for a party.” Yes indeed, she thought, a very big party!
Detective Jack Mahoney
I pride myself in understanding people, but Sam, he’s beyond understanding. I know he’s looking to make detective, but damn, he jams his foot in his mouth every time he opens it. He might have a valid point in thinking the runaway kid’s not worth chasing after, but the way he says it sure as hell rankles me.
Besides, I saw something in that boy’s face, it could be he’s just registering the shock of finding his parents in such a state, but my gut tells me different.
Working the Lead
Mahoney didn’t speak for the first twenty minutes of their drive home, neither did Sam Cobb. There seemed to be little to say. The two of them, although they’d worked together twice before, were used to having disagreements. Most times those disagreements were about procedural things—how something should or should not be handled. True, Sam was generally short-tempered, but never before had he been so openly antagonistic. “What’s the problem?” Mahoney finally asked. “It seems like you’re deliberately trying to sabotage any chance we�
�ve got of finding this kid?”
“It ain’t that,” Sam grumbled. “But, how am I ever to make detective if you hold me down every time we’re working together?”
“Hold you down? Telling you not to insult people is holding you down?”
“Not letting me handle the questioning—that’s what you do. I’m ready to take the lead on this case; and I’m plenty capable.”
“I’m sure you are,” Mahoney, who was known for his patience, answered. “But, when it comes to seeing the boy’s involvement in this case, you’ve got a blind spot.
“I can see the truth of things just as well as you can! But, I know for a fact that we’re just wasting our time trying to find a kid who wouldn’t tell the truth if you held a red hot poker to his tongue.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. Pop told me the kid’s a born liar; lies even when the truth’s in his favor. Pop said—”
“Oh, and your father’s an expert?”
“No expert, maybe; but he’s had a lot of experience with this kid!”
Mahoney gave Cobb a look of doubt and shook his head.
“It’s the truth! One time the kid even made up a story about his mama carrying on with Pop. The kid said he’d spread it all over town if Pop didn’t give him free pie.”
Mahoney began chuckling, “That’s a new one—a blackmailer demanding pie!”
“So laugh,” Cobb sneered, “but, I’m telling—”
“Was he?”
“Was who what?”
“Was your pop having a thing with Susanna Doyle?”
“Shit, no!”
“Face it Sam; such a thing ain’t beyond believing.”
“He’s my Pop!”
“He’s also got a reputation for chasing after women. Remember the problem with that woman from Portsmouth—”
“Forget it!” Sam growled, “Just forget I ever mentioned it.”
“Okay, it’s forgotten,” Jack answered. But, the truth was that such an idea had started him thinking.
On Tuesday, Sam Cobb, who for over a week had claimed to be having problems with his digestive tract, woke up feeling under the weather; so, even though he’d promised that Sam could take over most of the questioning, Mahoney went in search of Butch Wheeler alone. He arrived at the Route Thirteen truck stop shortly before ten; parked himself on a stool across from the plate glass window then sat and drank cup after cup of coffee. After the fourth cup, the waitress suggested he ought to have a jelly donut or crumb bun to soak up some of the caffeine he’d been downing. “That stuff will scald your insides,” she said jokingly. Without taking his eyes off of the parking lot, Mahoney smiled and told her that he was willing to take his chances. He said nothing about what he was really thinking—jelly donuts meant sticky hands; sticky hands meant a trip to the washroom—no thanks. It was close to one o’clock when the truck carrying a load of chickens pulled in. According to the description he’d been given, Mahoney figured the man would be about the size of Scooter Cobb, but Butch Wheeler was bigger—about the same height, but much wider.
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