“Jenny?” asked Peggy. “You said you wanted to see it.”
“I do,” said Jenny. “But I’m tired tonight.” She couldn’t tell Peggy the real reason because then Peggy would offer to pay, and she didn’t want that.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Peggy.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, I meant anything else.”
“Something weird did happen today. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
“Okay,” said Peggy uncertainly. “Well, call me if you change your mind.”
“I will,” said Jenny, and hung up the phone. She started back to her room.
“What did Peggy want?” Karen called up the stairs.
“Nothing,” said Jenny, closing the door to her room. She lay back down on the bed and picked up the cat again and ran her finger along the design of pink strawberries and little white flowers that was painted on it. It gave her a funny feeling to think of Linda, her mother, using that same bank to save her allowance so many years ago. She wondered what kinds of things Linda saved her money for. They didn’t have CDs in those days. Records, probably. Her parents had a collection of records from the days when they were young. And clothes. Girls probably liked to get new clothes back in the caveman days. Idly Jenny turned the bank over, and the coins clinked inside.
I wonder how much she had saved, Jenny thought, sitting up and looking at the cat with a different kind of interest. She held the bank to her ear and shook it. Besides the clinking, she was sure she could hear a rustling sound. Like dollar bills, maybe. Maybe there was even enough to go to the movies. That would be all right, she thought, if she came up with the money herself. It would sort of be like a little present from Linda to her.
Curious now, Jenny tried to pry the rubber plug out of the bottom of the bank using her fingernails, but the rubber was stiff with age and had been in place a long time. Jenny laid the bank gently on her bed and went over to her bureau drawer to hunt up a nail file.
I probably should save the money, she thought, or give it to Mom. We might need it. But at the same time, she knew her mother would never take it anyway. She found a metal nail file, took it back to the bed, and inserted the tip under the edge of the plug. If it’s anything good, I’ll offer it to her, Jenny decided. Even if she says no, at least I offered. She began to jimmy the nail file, trying to work it gently so she wouldn’t scratch the bank. The dried rubber crumbled around the edges as she worked it. Someday, maybe I’ll give this bank to my own daughter, Jenny thought. And I’ll tell her about my story.
The plug came loose and Jenny popped it out. She turned over the bank, and a shower of coins bounced onto the bedspread. Then she gave the blue cat a shake and could hear the rustle inside as paper dropped toward the opening. Wiggling her fingers up inside the hollow j figurine, she felt paper, but she knew at once, with a sense of letdown, that it was not money. Carefully she worked it around with her fingers and a little help from the nail file and began to extract it from the opening.
What emerged from the hole was a piece of slightly grimy, lilac-colored stationery, folded over again and again, until it was only about two inches square. Jenny started to unfold it and then shook the bank once more for good measure. With a soft rustle, a corner of newsprint emerged from the opening. Carefully Jenny extracted the dry, yellowing clipping, which was also folded repeatedly and threatened to crumble in her fingers. The single-column clipping had been carefully cut out and stapled at the top corner. It was not a long article. The newspaper it came from was the Des Moines Register, from Des Moines, Iowa. The dateline on the article was nearly fifty years old. There was a shot of a pale, grim-faced, hollow-eyed man named Randolph Summers at the top of the column. Beneath his photo the headline read convict escapes after ambushing guard. The news story detailed the escape from a state penitentiary of Summers, a prisoner serving a twenty-year to life sentence for armed robbery and assault, and warned the public to be on the lookout for this dangerous criminal.
Jenny read the article over again, wondering why Linda would have saved this particular story—hidden it, in fact, in her bank. There had to be a good reason to hide it with your money stash. It gave Jenny a queasy feeling as she set it aside on the bedspread. Still frowning, she picked up the square of stationery with the tips of her fingers and began to unfold it.
Chapter Thirty-one
The last local train to stop in Bayland left the red clapboard station house at 8:47 p.m. The lighted clock that hung above the platform read 9:00 p.m., and a gentle drizzle had begun by the time Greg reached the Bayland railroad station. The place was as quiet as a cemetery. The station itself was locked, and no passengers would be waiting on this platform tonight.
Greg lurked below the platform, studying the parking lot. He had given this a lot of thought. The fact that no other trains stopped here tonight meant that all the cars still in the parking lot were here until morning, at least. They would not be picked up by their owners until they arrived back the next day. And Greg had need of a car for the night.
He scrutinized the small variety of cars before him, running a hand over his gaunt, freshly shaven face. The Kingman house had worked out better than he hoped. The Kingmans had obviously taken flight from the construction, and although a security guard patrolled the enclave at intervals, it had been easy enough to get in. There were floor-to-ceiling windows being replaced in the kitchen. All he’d had to do was remove some opaque plastic and squeeze through. He had shaved and showered in a darkened bathroom, then borrowed some chinos and a golf shirt from Mr. Kingman’s dressing room. The sight of his dwindling frame in the mirror, even by moonlight, had given him a start, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He threw his own clothes in a hamper, figuring it was the most logical place to hide them. It would be quite a while before anyone did laundry in the house and noticed them. Then, after taking a screwdriver from a toolbox in the construction area, he’d slipped out of the house and made his way to the station.
Now, after perusing the selection of cars, he decided on a black-and-gray Toyota in the second row of parking spaces back from the tracks. He knew a little bit about Toyotas, had fixed a few in his day, and it was an unobtrusive, older car. A station car. It would do. He had to walk authoritatively right to the car, in case a police officer might be cruising by the station. He could not be seen going from one vehicle to another, trying the door handles. He had to make a smooth move, pop the lock, get in, and use the screwdriver to get it started. He’d never much liked his teenage after-school job in a gas station, he thought. But it finally came in handy.
Greg glanced over his shoulder nervously. He had been very much aware of the extra police who seemed to be everywhere in town. That couple had recognized him this morning. He was sure of it. He didn’t have the energy to berate himself for his mistake. He had to concentrate on his mission. He crossed the parking lot as casually as possible, the rain misting on his clean hair and his borrowed shirt. He had to get to the Harborview Bar and take his shot. He knew it was a long shot, but what difference did that make? It was better than no shot at all. He would use the car, bring it back, and the passenger who got off tomorrow morning’s train would never know the difference.
He walked up to the Toyota and put his hand on the door handle. Just as he did it, a police car drove slowly into the parking lot on the other side of the tracks and stopped. Greg’s stomach did a sickening flip. The cop opened his door, and the light went on in his car. Greg watched in terror as the uniformed officer groped in his glove compartment and then got out of the automobile. The officer stretched, and as he did, he spotted Greg standing beside the Toyota in the darkness. He looked curiously across the tracks. Without thinking, Greg gave the man a wave. The officer hesitated, waved back, and then removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He shook one out and, leaning back against his patrol car, cupped his hand around a lighted match to protect it from the drizzle.
In a minute the cop was goin
g to begin to wonder why Greg was standing there beside the Toyota, not getting in. Like a man with a gun held to his head, Greg lifted up the door handle and felt his legs wobble beneath him as the handle clicked and the door opened. It wasn’t locked. He couldn’t believe it. He closed his eyes and thanked God. It was a sign. An omen. He wasn’t much of a believer in that sort of thing, but it had to be. Greg opened the door, slid onto the seat, and, using the screwdriver, turned on the ignition. He was clammy from head to toe, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He switched on the lights, and the cop across the way put up a hand to shield himself from the foggy glare. Quickly Greg turned out of the parking space and, with no license, no keys, and no idea whose car he was driving, headed out into the night.
Walter Ference chewed on his sandwich and stared ruefully at the framed Currier and Ives print that was wedged, at a drunken angle, between the kitchen table and the wall. It had fallen this morning, while he was drinking his coffee, and startled the hell out of him. He was immediately reminded of Sylvia’s prediction that it would soon fall, and he was doubly irritated because she was right. He had gotten as far as getting the hammer and nails out of the toolbox to fix it, but so far they remained on the counter where he had set them down. He knew he should rehang the print before Emily got back, but those programs tended to last for a month or more. There was no real hurry about that.
The house was so silent with Emily in the rehab center. It reminded him of his boyhood, coming home from school. He would get home before Sylvia, and his mother would be in her room with the door shut and the drapes drawn. Sylvia often told him that before their father died there were servants in the house, but he could not remember that time. In fact, he had no memory at all of Henry Ference. He just remembered the silence. For a while he would stand at his mother’s bedroom door and call out to her, but she never answered him. She was too ill, she said. Often she would not emerge from that room all day, or at least not when the children were home. She told them both Sylvia was in charge. Sylvia was the boss, and Mother did not want to hear any more about it. The door remained closed, no matter how he pleaded.
Abruptly Walter got up from the table and carried his plate to the sink. He looked out the window at the rain and ran his fingers over the wedge-shaped scar in his forehead. It was a mistake to give a pubescent girl that kind of unlimited power. He gazed down at the hammer on the counter, wondering idly if that was the same one she had hit him with. He could not remember what offense had brought on the hammer attack. She was six years older then he, bigger and stronger, and there were many things he did that made her angry.
Emily had always known that he did not like his sister. He’d never told her much about it. Just that Sylvia had a mean streak if he didn’t do what she wanted. Emily always said how their mother had placed a terrible burden on Sylvia, and Sylvia probably took it out on him. Walter just agreed with her. There was no use discussing it. Emily was always trying to excuse people’s faults. He did not tell her that there were whole days in his childhood when he fantasized about…well…he never did carry out his plans for Sylvia, and he hardly thought about it anymore. They were old now. He never would.
A knock at the door made him jump, and he looked up at the back door. Through the ruffled curtains at the window, he saw the square, plain-featured face of Phyllis Hodges, distorted by the raindrops on the pane. She gesticulated for him to open the door. The expression in her eyes was eager, almost frantic.
Walter walked to the door and opened it. “Hello, Phyllis,” he said.
Phyllis rushed past him like a whirlwind. “Walter,” she exclaimed, “I am glad I found you. Where’s Mrs. F?”
Walter frowned. “She’s not feeling well.”
“Oh, sorry.” Phyllis dropped her voice to a whisper.
“She’s not here,” said Walter. “She’s in the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Phyllis exclaimed. “Is it serious?”
“No,” said Walter shortly. “What can I do for you?”
“I tried the station, but they said you went home for supper. The chief wouldn’t see me, of course. You know how he loves me.”
There was a quality in Phyllis’s voice that got on his nerves. It was that strident, bossy tone that was self-pitying at the same time. He hated the sound of it. Phyllis had never been attractive, even as an adolescent. She had never appealed to him.
“So, I couldn’t wait. I thought, I’ll catch him at home.”
“What is it that couldn’t wait?”
“I know how to find you an eyewitness to Eddie McHugh’s murder.”
Walter stared at her. Her face was pink with excitement. His heart did a queer little flip-flop, but his voice sounded impassive. “We’re not sure it was a murder,” he said.
“Oh, it was,” said Phyllis impatiently. “We all know that.”
“Phyllis, you’re a little out of your depth on this.” He leaned back against the comer cabinet and folded his arms over his chest.
Phyllis came closer, hemming him in. “I figured it out. Do you want to hear about it?”
“Sure,” said Walter slowly. He fancied he could feel her breath, stale on his face, although that was impossible. The top of her head was barely level with his shoulders.
“Who do you think killed Eddie McHugh?” Phyllis asked. Before Walter could respond, she rattled on. “I say there’s two possibilities. First, Newhall came back and killed him. It’s possible. After all, Eddie claimed to have seen him beat up Linda Emery. But he might have made that up, thinking it was what the police wanted to hear. The other possibility is, what if he saw somebody else in that room? And that person got nervous when they read my article.”
Naturally you would think your article was the crucial factor, Walter thought with disgust. What an arrogant fool. “You can speculate from now till doomsday,” he said impatiently. “It’s meaningless.”
“No, that’s just it,” Phyllis cried. “I have a plan.”
She was too close to him, yapping at him like one of Sylvia’s little terriers. He could not stand being cornered any longer. “Excuse me,” he said coldly.
Phyllis backed off just enough for him to brush past her. But she persisted without embarrassment. “I remembered reading about this. It just took me a while to remember where, and look it up.” She handed him a piece of paper. It had the name and address of a doctor in Philadelphia on it.
“What is this?”
“The engineer,” Phyllis exulted.
Walter frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”
“He claims he doesn’t remember seeing what happened, right? He just saw Eddie hurtling out in front of him.”
“Yes, that’s what the man said.”
“But he was probably in shock when you questioned him.”
“We took that into account, Phyllis. He was questioned again today. He’s not in shock now.”
“Yes, but he’s still traumatized.” Phyllis could barely contain her glee. “He can’t remember what he saw because he was traumatized by what happened. I mean, he killed a man. Accidentally, but all the same.”
“Well, yes, unfortunately.”
“So,” said Phyllis, her voice rising. “This is a doctor at the University of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia, who specializes in this sort of case. He hypnotizes people, and under hypnosis they are able to recall what they really saw. I remembered reading about a case exactly like this. A subway driver. And I finally found the article in the library. Anyway, we take our engineer to this guy, and have him hypnotized, and he’ll be able to recall the person who pushed Eddie onto the tracks. Maybe he can even describe the perp.”
There was something infinitely annoying about the way Phyllis used police jargon. He knew she felt entitled, because her father had been a cop. And that flushed, triumphant expression on her face was infuriating. He forced himself to think about what she was saying. He could picture the whole thing in his mind. The engineer, deep in a trance, visualizing himself once again
at the controls of the train, seeing the twilight, the tracks, the man in his path, the person who pushed him. Opening his eyes and looking straight at Walter, the answer slowly dawning on him. She was right. It was a good idea.
“What do you think?” said Phyllis proudly.
“I think it might work,” said Walter.
“That’s what I think,” Phyllis exulted. “You know, I have a feeling I am going to get a book out of this case. And I’m going to mention you in the acknowledgments. Uncle Walter,” she teased, using a sobriquet from childhood days.
“Thank you,” said Walter solemnly, slipping the piece of paper with the doctor’s name into his jacket pocket.
“Wait a minute,” she said, reaching playfully for the paper in his pocket, like a child reaching in her daddy’s pocket for candy. “It’s my lead. I want to be sure I’m in on this. And that I get the credit.”
Walter brushed her hand away like a fly and walked over to where the hammer lay on the counter.
“Now just a minute,” said Phyllis in a huffy tone. “I came to you because I need your help on this. But that doesn’t give you the right to bypass me.”
It was too bad, really, Walter thought. Stan Hodges hadn’t been a bad guy. They’d played some poker together, gone to picnics, done the things that cops do. It was a fraternity of sorts. All for one and so on. But Phyllis had brought this on herself. Even Stan would have to admit that, if he were alive. Besides, he had to silence her. This thing was mushrooming out of control, and if she yapped long enough, and loud enough, people would start to listen to her. He picked up the hammer and turned to face her.
Phyllis, who was in mid-complaint, was abruptly silenced by the look on his face. “What are you doing with that hammer?” she demanded. “If you’re trying to threaten me, that is really sick.”
Walter did not reply. Behind the glint of his glasses, his eyes were calm and cold. He was staring at her with an intense yet distant look on his face. It was weird. Scary. She had never seen a look quite like it. It made her feel small, like a speck of dirt. His hands worked on the handle of the hammer.
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