Jack grinned, his bottom teeth rising like a jagged yellow wall. “Figure Charlie’ll go peaceful, do you?”
“He’ll be wearing everything but a muzzle,” I said. “Feet and hands, both shackled. A chain running under his crotch. You won’t need help, believe me. Not to bring Charlie Younger home.”
“Well, he sure scared the shit out of Lou Powers.”
“The gun wasn’t loaded. Charlie was desperate, that’s all. He never had a problem before that. He won’t give you any trouble.”
Jack Stout grinned again. “Famous last words, Mr. Chase.”
“When are you leaving?”
“‘Bout an hour. Just gonna grab a clam roll at the Bluebird, then head out.” He crossed one leg over the other. A huge brown boot wagged in the air, the heel worn flat. “Hoping I won’t hit too much weather.” He stroked his chin. “Think I need a shave? Mr. Ferguson says I need to look professional.”
I didn’t see how Jack Stout could ever look professional. Shave, haircut, even dressed in a neat blue ready-made suit, none of it would have mattered much. Jack bore the mark of what he was, one of six brothers from a family of scavengers and poachers, the type who lived in shacks at the end of winding mountain roads. As a group, the Stouts had always preferred, as if by nature, things that were unhinged and collapsible, could be broken into pieces and dragged through the piney woods or hauled up rocky trails. Jack was the only one who’d made a life within the law, usually as a laborer, but sometimes running errands for Hap and Sheriff Pritchart, fetching prisoners back to Port Alma from the places they’d fled to, and from which they surrendered, penniless and hungry. Charlie Younger was just the latest in a growing line of such men, driven by harsh times to harsh acts, then tracked down in flophouses from Portland to Baltimore, and brought back to face consequences no less harsh. I pitied them briefly, prosecuted them energetically, and sent them, dazed, to jail.
“You look fine,” I told him.
Jack pinched off the lighted end of his cigarette, blew a speck of ash from what remained, and dropped the rest into his pocket to smoke another time. It was the sort of small economy the poor practiced in those days, and I couldn’t help admiring it, not so much for the savings as for the sheer frankness of the gesture, a raw admission of want, offered with neither apology nor resentment.
Jack slapped his knees and rose. “Well, can I bring you anything from the big city? Besides Charlie, I mean?”
At that instant, I saw Dora’s face as she’d looked up from her desk a few hours before. An idea came to me. It was one of those impulses we either act upon casually or casually deny, then live forever in the wake of a fatal choice.
“As a matter of fact, you could do something for me, Jack.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a place in New York. A residence hall for women. I’d like for you to drop by, check something out.” I took a piece of paper and wrote the address and name, 85th and Broadway, Dora March. “Find out what you can about this woman,” I said as I handed him the paper.
Jack glanced at the note. “Dora March.”
“She works at the Sentinel. It’s always good to have a little extra information.” I smiled. “I’ll pay you for this, of course.”
Jack’s bulb burned dully, but not without illuminating a small patch of ground. “Looking out for your kid brother, are you?”
“You could call it that.”
“You bet, Mr. Chase,” Jack said. He stuck the note in his shirt pocket. “I’ll be back in four or five days.”
“We can settle up then.”
“You bet,” he repeated as he left my office.
A few minutes later I saw Jack trudging through the slush toward the Bluebird Cafe, his red jacket open, his belly pressing against his plaid shirt. He’d pulled on his cap, and the earflaps dangled haphazardly, like furry black legs. He was by no means a crack investigator, of course, so I expected to learn relatively little about Dora, perhaps no more than a few scant details of her life in New York. Certainly, as I watched Jack Stout amble down Main Street that morning, I had no expectation that the information he’d bring back to Port Alma would be of any great importance. Nor did I want it to have any such gravity. It was only the surface of Dora’s life I sought to probe, not the black depths I later found.
And yet, in some way, perhaps I should have sensed that the ground was already trembling beneath my brother’s feet, should have seen at least that much in the look on my father’s face as he and I sat in his front parlor three days later, playing our weekly game of chess.
“I spoke to William yesterday,” he told me, reaching for a pawn, then drawing back, taking a bishop instead. “He just came by for a chat, but the subject turned somewhat serious.” My father was in his late seventies, and in old age, liked to think of himself as deeply sagacious, the sort of man a son would go to for advice, though he clearly understood that for any real guidance, Billy would certainly turn to his mother.
“So, what’d Billy have to say?” I asked idly, more intent upon plotting my strategy, hoping for checkmate within five moves.
He sat back, twined his fingers together. “He was asking about children.”
“What was he saying about children?”
“Just general things,” my father answered. “Having them. Raising them.” He placed his hands firmly on the armrests, a pose he associated, I think, with statues of great men. “He seemed extremely intense, Cal.”
I continued to study the board. “Billy’s always intense, Dad.”
“But what’s got him suddenly thinking about children?”
“True love,” I answered with a cynical smile.
“That never did run smooth,” my father said.
I expected him to add some grave remark, assume the worldly tone he often took with me, convinced of how alike we were, he and I, how different from Billy and my mother, we the truly knowing ones, steeped in life’s unflattering realities, they forever pursuing golden shards from the Holy Grail. But instead, he remained silent for a moment, then told a story I’d never heard before.
“It certainly didn’t run smooth for your mother and me,” he began. He shook his head at the difficult life they’d lived together. “Not even during the courtship.”
“That’s supposed to be the best time, isn’t it?” I asked, though with little actual interest, my attention on the board, where I had a knight in peril.
“Supposed to be,” my father replied. “I guess it is for most couples.”
I reached for my queen. “But not for you?”
“No, not for me. Your mother never made it easy.” He smiled softly. “But she was such a jewel, Cal. No one else like her. No one in the world. I didn’t want to let her go. But what could I do? From the way she acted, I couldn’t see that she gave a damn whether I came or went. So I finally told her that I couldn’t go on with her the way it was. I said, ‘Mary, I guess it has to come to an end with us.’”
I lowered the queen to the board.
“I used practically those very words,” my father went on. “While we were walking along Fox Creek, not that far from where she went to live. I said, ‘Mary, it’s time for us to part.’”
“What’d she say?”
“Nothing,” my father answered. “She just looked at me. Like I was a mannequin in a store. Finally, we walked over to my buggy and I drove her home. Neither one of us said anything all the way. When I pulled up to her house, I didn’t even walk her to the door. I just said, ‘Well, good-bye, Mary.’ And she said, ‘Good-bye, Walter,’ and got out of the buggy. She said it almost cheerily. Like I was a cousin, or just someone who’d dropped by and taken her for a buggy ride. She walked straight to her house. Didn’t so much as glance back at me.”
A terrible emptiness had swept over him after that, my father told me, a misery like none he’d ever known. “You’ve never felt it, Cal,” he said assuredly, equally convinced that I never would, certain that not even the sharpest arrow could pi
erce me as deeply as it had once unexpectedly pierced him. “Mary was everything. And she was gone.”
Or so he’d thought. Until he came home from the Sentinel one afternoon, still heartsick, to find a note slipped beneath his door, folded into a white envelope that bore no name, no address.
“I thought it was one of those anonymous tips I got about once a year,” my father told me. “Usually somebody informing on a local politician or shopkeeper.”
But it had been from her.
Four lines.
Before your love be all rescinded,
Or strikes the hour when we part,
Can you not break me till I’m mended?
Crack the will of my unwilling heart?
“There’s nothing like loneliness, Cal,” my father said, “to bring you to your knees.”
I knew then what he’d been getting at all along. “Do you think Billy’s that lonely, Dad?”
“Not anymore.” His eyes fell toward the queen I’d placed so perilously near his last remaining knight. “Not anymore,” he repeated softly. “Who is she, Cal?”
I told him her name and the few things I knew about her, but left out the fact that only a couple of days earlier I’d sent Jack Stout on a mission to find out more about Dora March. Even so, my father appeared quite satisfied by what he’d learned from me. He seemed eager to meet Dora, perhaps even half convinced that my mother had been right all along, that for such a one as Billy, there could be but one true love.
The next day I thought only infrequently of either my brother or Dora. There was plenty of work to do, sorting through the cases Hap had assigned me, deciding what prosecutions should be brought, how they might best be conducted.
Night was closing in by the time I pushed aside my paperwork and left for home. Hap had long since departed, but others were afoot on the streets of Port Alma, mostly closing up their shops, heading home.
A sea fog had moved in an hour or so before, and the moon was little more than a smudged light behind a bank of clouds. The metal sign at Madison’s General Store creaked in the breeze that swept in from the bay, and far away, a dog briefly sounded a lonely, hollow wail, then fell silent. Beyond that, nothing save the crunch of my boots on the hard-packed snow.
I headed past the grocery and the hotel, nodding to the neighbors I glimpsed through their lighted windows, then moved on along the edge of the town’s small park, its wooden benches piled with snow. Through the haze, I could scarcely see the old wharves that rose on the other side of the park. Only the great revolving light at the top of MacAndrews Island made any dent in the fog, its white beam circling in from the sea, flashing briefly on the great gray stones of the jetty, finally running along the slender cement lip of the seawall.
That was when I saw her, a woman standing at the far edge of the park, poised at the verge of the wall. She was facing the ocean, and in my brief glimpse of her before the light swept on again, she seemed to be waiting for something or someone to reach out from its vast depths.
I stopped and waited as the light made its slow circle. When it returned, I saw her once again. Then darkness swallowed her as the light moved on. I waited, watched, but when the light made its third circle, crawling along the seawall, she was gone. The place where she’d stood was empty, the park and the jetty both deserted, with nothing moving anywhere, nor any sound, save for the distant surge of the sea.
I started homeward again, tugging my collar up against the rising wind. I’d made it nearly to my car when I saw the woman emerge briskly from the shrouded alleyway that led from Main Street to the wharves. She swung swiftly to the right, like a creature on the run. She didn’t see me, and in the fog I’m not sure I would ever have guessed who she was. For she seemed very nearly carved out of that same roiling density, her long coat blending with it perfectly, so that nothing impeded my sense of her having been formed out of the smoky cloud that surrounded her, save for the flicking tongue of my brother’s dark red scarf.
Chapter Ten
The telephone rang just as I stepped into my office the next morning.
It was Billy.
“There’s something you need to know,” he said.
I was quite certain that this “something” I needed to know had to do with Dora March. But I was wrong.
“It’s about Carl Hendricks,” my brother told me. “Did you know he was married before?”
I tugged off my overcoat and slung it over the nearest chair. “That’s not a crime, is it?”
“He had another daughter too. She was killed. It happened around twenty years ago. She fell off the seawall right here in town.”
An image from the night before flashed through my mind, Dora, in the dense fog, poised at the edge of the seawall, facing the impenetrable water that swept out toward MacAndrews Island.
“I’d like to talk to you about this, Cal,” Billy said. “Are you free?”
I could hear the urgency in his voice. “Yeah, all right. Just give me a few minutes to get settled in.”
The clock had not yet struck nine when Billy arrived. He was carrying the battered leather briefcase my father had given him the day he’d turned the management of the paper over to him. Once he’d taken his seat in front of my desk, he opened it and took out a crumbly, yellowed copy of the Sentinel.
“Hendricks was only twenty-seven years old when it happened,” he said as he slid the paper over to me. “The child was three.”
While he waited, I read the article. It was clear that the Sentinel had given the incident quite prominent coverage at the time. My father had selected a bold typeface for the headline. From all appearances, he’d also done a workmanlike job of running down the details of the story. I learned that Hendricks’s first wife had died of tuberculosis in Royston Hospital in December 1916. According to the article, Hendricks had then moved to Port Alma, where he’d lived on Pine Road with his younger sister. On the day in question, March 4, 1917, Hendricks had come into town for supplies. He’d planned to go directly to Madison’s, he’d later told authorities, but the child, whose name was Sophie, had gotten “cranky,” and so he’d taken her along the wharf, then back to one of the benches that faced the seawall and the bay. Once there, he’d put her down and let her crawl about. At that point, a stranger had come up to ask directions. They’d talked briefly, then the stranger had departed. It was only then that Hendricks had noticed his little girl was missing.
“I talked to Dad last night,” Billy said when I looked up from the paper. “He remembered quite a lot. He said that Hendricks continued to live with his sister after his daughter died. In the very same house that burned down.”
“What happened to the sister?”
“As far as Dad could remember, she moved out west somewhere. After that, no one knows. She just disappeared.”
“Into the mist,” I said, long used to the disappearance of such witnesses, how they vanished into the ether, taking all hope of truth and justice with them. I handed the paper back to my brother. “What are you getting at?” I asked a little impatiently, thinking of the casework piled on my desk.
“Well, as it turns out, Hendricks’s second wife—Molly’s mother—died about three months ago.”
“So Carl’s not a lucky guy. So what?”
“It was three months from the time of his first wife’s death until his first daughter was killed.”
The nature of Billy’s suspicions, how dark and terrible they were, suddenly became clear, but I still felt no need to entertain them myself.
“Killed? You mean murdered? Is that what you’re getting at?” I laughed. “Does the word ‘coincidence’ mean anything to you?”
Billy stood his ground. “Do you want to hear more, or not?”
“Go ahead,” I said without enthusiasm.
“I checked the weather on the day the little girl disappeared. It was clear but very windy, so the ocean was probably whipping up quite a bit. In any case, there wouldn’t have been many people out near the water.”
“Except for that stranger.”
“Who was never found.”
That didn’t surprise me. “Did anybody actually see Hendricks near the wall?”
“No.”
“And no one saw the kid either?”
“No one saw anything.”
“Well, there must have been some sort of official investigation.”
“Not much of one,” Billy replied. “I found the police report. Carl Hendricks was the only witness. The police took him at his word.”
“Which leaves you where?”
“Wondering about that little girl.”
“I gather you don’t accept Hendricks’s account of what happened to her?”
“I have reason to doubt it.”
I was beginning to get exasperated. “Other than coincidence, exactly what reason do you have?”
“Sophie Hendricks had withered legs,” my brother said. He waited for me to speak, then added, “The lip on the seawall is twenty-eight inches high. She couldn’t have climbed it.”
“And you’re telling me that nobody raised that point when the child died?”
“Hendricks had just moved to Port Alma a few weeks before. It was winter. Sophie had probably never been seen by any local people. Except all bundled up. If that’s true, then no one would have noticed her legs until spring.”
“I’m presuming the body was swept out to sea?” “Never recovered. Yes.”
“Then, how did you find out about the little girl’s legs being withered?”
He seemed almost reluctant to tell me. “Dora,” he said finally. “Dora found a picture. At the house. Among all that rubble.”
He reached inside his briefcase again. This time he came out with a photograph. It was badly scorched, but the central image was clear, a small child with curly hair, propped up in a chair, clothed only in a white diaper, perfect from the waist up but with legs disproportionately small and undeveloped, the feet curled. Dangling at the end of Sophie Hendricks’s tiny legs, they looked like small, rounded flippers.
Places in the Dark Page 9
