Maybe the grocer was the gathering place for the town elders. He entered a dismal, large, crowded room, manned by one man who was placing canned goods on a shelf. Goodman strolled to the back to a large soft drink chest. The storekeeper eyed him and finally walked over. He was a rail of a man with a gray beard and dull eyes and the pasty complexion of a man who did not spend much time outside. He wore a red flannel shirt and thick wool pants held up by black galluses and protected by a clean, starched apron. His hand was so thin Goodman could count the veins and sinews crisscrossing through the back of it, and the skin was stretched tight over long, bony fingers. He appraised Goodman with the fierce eyes of an evangelist, his expression never changing.
“Got a cold Coke in that box?” Goodman asked cheerfully.
“Royal Crown’s all. Jerome supposed to be hair yest’day, didn’t make ’er.”
“Royal Crown’s fine.”
The storekeeper spoke with the quaint, peculiar lyric dialect of the Appalachians—a kind of mixture of old English and Davy Crockett in which TV would become “tay vay,” hair became “h’ar,” and year would be“yair,” and superfluous letters would fall by the wayside. There was little slang spoken among the elders.
The storekeeper popped the top on an opener attached to the side of the chest and wiped the rim of the bottle with his apron before he handed it to Goodman.
“How much?”
“Fifty cents. Jes’ went up a week ago.”
Goodman handed him a dollar. There was an openmouthed jar on the counter next to the soft drink box with what appeared to be a section of a Polaroid photo cut out and Scotch-taped to it. It was a picture of a rather burly-looking man with a cautious smile. A handwritten note was attached below the picture: “For Zachariah Donald’s funeral Died Monday Feb 14 Heart attack.” No commas or periods. A simple statement of fact. The jar was nearly full of coins of every kind and a half dozen bills of different denominations, one a ten. Goodman dropped his change into the jar.
“Know Zach, did ye?” the storekeeper asked.
“Never had the pleasure.”
“Well that’s right gen’rous of ye, then, trav’ler.”
“Least a person can do.”
“I s’pose. Not many strangers would, don’t reck’n.” He spoke in a flat monotone. No inflections, no emotion. Just words.
“You get many strangers through here?”
“Yer the third since the yair changed. All lost their way. Had to p’int ’em back towards Kreb’s Knob ’r up to Zion. You lost?”
“Nope.” Goodman took a deep swig from the bottle. The storekeeper moseyed about making work, whistling an aimless ditty to himself. As he straightened things out on a shelf, he said, “Zach farmed, didn’t work the mines. Up ’airs on Sackett’s Ridge. Ye’ll pass his place, ye go south. Kept a nice place, he did.”
“Must be pretty tough farming hereabouts,” Goodman said.
“True ’nuff. Old man Donald—that be Zach’s grandaddy—he star’d the place. Couldn’t braith down in the hole, ’s what they say. Afore my time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Want sumpin’ t’ go with that? Cheese crackers, sumpin’?”
“Crackers might be good.”
“Got malt with peanut butter ’r round uns ’n’ cheese.”
“Peanut butter’ll be fine.”
The keeper snapped a package of crackers from a display and laid them in front of Goodman.
“Be ’nother forty ceynts.”
Goodman gave him another dollar and once again put the change in the jar.
“You stay long ’nuff, trav’ler, we might kin bury old Zach t’morra,” he said without humor.
“How much is it going to take? For the funeral, I mean?”
“Don’ rightf’ly know. This time o’ yair, Charlie Koswalski, who does our undertakerin’, gets ice offa Hoppy’s Pond, up on th’ flat. That’s what he got Zach packed in over t’ the fun’ral parlor. Reck’n when the ice melts round ol’ Zach, Charlie’ll gather up these here jars—they’s all over town—that’ll be what ’t takes t’ bury him.”
“Very practical,” Goodman said.
“Well, Charlie sure ’s hell cain’t keep Zach over ’air much longer. Been gone four days a’ready.”
“Good point.”
The storekeeper nodded down the street. “Near’st roomin’ house be next holla over—Morgan’s Crik. They got th’ name afore we did.” He smiled, which was probably as close to a laugh as he would ever get.
“I’m not looking for a rooming house. I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Stampler. Guess you know her?”
“Yess’ree,” he said, nodding, then after a moment or two, “Yer a mite late.”
“What do you mean?”
“She passed. Were, lessee, March …? Yep, ’most a yair ago. Ain’t kept in very good touch, air ye?”
“Afraid not.”
“She were al’ays a strange woman. Al’ays mumbling, like she were arguing with herself. Couldn’t buy an apple without she’d argue with herself about it.”
“Truth is, I wanted to talk to her about her son.”
“Samuel or Aaron?”
“Aaron.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Yer hair ’bout that trouble then?”
Goodman nodded. “Did you know him?”
“ ’Course. Been livin’ in Crikside fifty-four yair. Know ev’body—here, gone … and goin’.”
“What was he like?”
“Aaron? Diff’rent from most the young’uns.”
“How so?”
The storekeeper pulled up a straight-back wooden chair, sat down and leaned back against the wall, motioning to Goodman to sit on the drink box.
“Never satisfied,” he went on. “Always tryin’ sumpin’ new. Want’d t’ be a doctor, then a actor, gonna write po’try. Too smart fer his britches. Prob’ly Miss Rebecca’s doin’.”
“Miss Rebecca his mother?”
The storekeeper shook his head. “Teacher up ’t the school. Always were partial to Aaron. Even worked with ’im when he went to high school over t’ Lordsville. But, give ’im his due, good worker, he were. Did fer me couple yairs, worked for the doc. Always on time, not a complainer.”
“Did he have a bad temper?”
“Temper?” the storekeeper said, surprised. He thought a minute and shook his head. “N’ more’n anybody else. Ev’body gets riled up now and agin, ain’t that so?”
Goodman nodded and listened.
“Aaron was a thinkin’ boy. When he were no bigger’n a pissant, he come in, stand thair in fronta th’ candy tray—sometime five, ten minutes—makin’ his mind up. Same with readin’. Hell, he’d hang round back thair a hour at a time, trying t’ decide which book t’ take home.”
Goodman looked to the back of the store at several four-foot-high stacks of paperback books, some Scotch-taped together to keep them from falling apart, accompanied by a sign: BOOKS FOR BORROW. 10 CENTS A DAY.
“Big reader, was he?”
“Could read a book in a day. Two, ’twere a thick one.”
“Sounds industrious enough.”
“In some whys, reckon. Wouldn’t go in th’ hole, though. His daddy near wore ’im out, but he was steadfast. Weren’t no miner, that boy.”
“His father still alive?”
“No, no. Hole got ’im. Black lung. ’Bout four yair ago. Then his brother was kilt, lessee, that would be 1976.”
“In the mines?”
The storekeeper shook his head. “Car accident.”
“Bad luck family.”
“So ’twould appair, trav’ler. Ol’ Sackett’s Ridge got th’ h’ants, now.”
“H’ants?”
“Ghosts. Spir’ts. Were up thair a couple yairs back, in the summer? Come up over the hill with m’ dogs, they all a sudden set up a-bayin’, running around in little circles, got cold like th’ frost man were breathin’ on me. Hell, them dogs, they was scairt silly. Then I realized it was right thair, right wh
ere they found the car. Ain’t been back and I ain’t the only one’s had bad times up ’air.”
“Sackett’s Ridge, huh,” Goodman said. “Guess I’ll stay away from there.”
“Good idee, trav’ler.”
“Well, thanks for the hospitality,” Goodman said.
“Ye paid fer it,” the storekeeper answered, nodding as he left.
Goodman drove two blocks to what amounted to the edge of town. Beyond its limits, defined only by the last of the commercial places, rows of narrow two-story houses stretched on up the road a half mile or so and around the bend in the valley. On his right was a severe-looking two-story square building with a foreboding sign that announced: DR. CHARLES KOSWALSKI, GENERAL MEDICINE AND FUNERALS.
What was it the storekeeper said? He wanted to be a doctor and he worked for the doc. The house had two doors, one marked DOCTOR, the other marked PARLOR. He tossed a mental coin and went into the doctor’s side. A bell jangled over the door as he entered, and he found himself in a small waiting room with a broken-down sofa and a couple of old easy chairs. There was a large wooden sliding door at the rear of the room, which smelled like a doctor’s office always smells—of iodine, vitamins and antiseptic. And there was something else. It was a minute or two before Goodman detected it—the nauseating odor of formaldehyde, which apparently wafted in from the undertaking side. The big door rolled back and a short, chubby man, bald as a paperweight, looked in the room.
“Hep ye?” he said.
“If you’re Dr. Koswalski.”
“That I am.”
“My name’s Goodman, Doctor.” He showed Koswalski his license. “I’m asking around about Aaron Stampler.”
“Oh? Asking what?”
“Just trying to get a fix on the boy. What he was like.”
“If he done showed homicidal tendencies?”
The question took Goodman by surprise. He smiled. “Well, that too,” he said.
“Damn shame, what that boy done,” said the doctor, who had a cherubic face, no neck and thick, pudgy hands that looked like they would probably swallow a scalpel. He wore a white shirt with a turned collar that was frayed and ingrained with old dirt; his food-stained tie, which hung a quarter inch from the top button of his shirt, was twisted so the cloth lining in the back showed. He wore a black suit, hardly an encouraging sign for those who visited this side of the establishment.
“Well, we’re not sure he did it yet, sir,” Goodman said.
“Lexin’ton paper said so.”
“He worked for you, didn’t he?”
“A mite, now and agin. Smart boy. Wouldn’t a thought he’d a done that. ’Course he run off and left his maw alone. Truth be told, ’twas a blessing when she went. Crazy as a full moon dog, she was, that last yair. N’air once left the house! Used t’ look out from behind her curt’ns, talk at herself. Yell at folks.”
“Did she have mental problems before he left?”
“Well, she were always a mite strainge, but she were crazy as a bat there at the end.”
“Did you treat her?”
“Nothin t’ treat. Didn’t hurt nary. Nobody here’bouts wanted to put her away.”
“Did he have a bad temper?”
“Aaron? N’ more’n anybody else. Had his bad days. Come in, be kinda quiet, mumble t’ himself. Feisty ’n’ angrylike. But we all have a bad day now and agin, ain’t it th’ truth?”
“I’d have to agree.”
“Probably got a lickin’ the night afore, was pissed off ’bout it.”
“He get a lot of lickings, did he?”
“All boys get lickin’s, Mr. Goodman. It’s a natural thaing twixt a boy and his paw. Aaron just didn’t take t’ kindly to it.”
“The other boys took their whippings but he didn’t, that it?”
“Honor yer father and mother, says the Bible. Yuh don’t stand agin yer father, ’taint done. Here’bouts, least. Why, I can remember when the boy was only ten, eleven yair old, he pushed old Gabe Stampler over a chair, run outa the house, ’n’ hid out in my garage all night.”
“What did Aaron do for you?” Goodman asked, changing the subject.
“Cleaned up. Sometimes hepped me in operations. Gonna be a doctor, onc’t, for while anyways. Wanted t’ be a lotta things. Had a contrary notion ’bout his future.”
“He assisted you in operations?” Goodman asked with surprise.
“Well, not ’fficially o’ course. Held a light fer me, hand me m’ tools.”
“Kind of like a nurse?”
“Might say.”
“And he cleaned up after operations?”
“Yep. Little blood din’t bother ’im. Y’know, I coulda used old Aaron. Woulda made a damn fine un’taker, would’ve. Weren’t interested, though. Too busy studyin’, dreamin’ big dreams.”
“So he worked both sides, huh?”
“Yessir. Had the right att’tude, didn’t let it bother ’im. Funny, when his brother Sam and Mary Lafferty died up onna hill? He hepped bring ’em in, was like he never met ’em.”
“That was the car wreck?”
“Hell, weren’t no car wreck. Them two was up on the ridge, screwin’ in his daddy’s old Ford. Bein’ winter and all, they had the car runnin’. Carbon mo-nox-ide did ’em both.” He leaned closer to Goodman and whispered. “Din’t have a stitch on, n’ither one of ’em. Fact, Sam was still layin’ atop a her. Never knew what hit ’em. Not a bad way t’ go, eh?” He tapped Goodman with his elbow and chuckled, a phlegmy laugh that sounded like a hen clucking.
“And he helped you with the autopsy?”
“Sure ’nuff. Hell, old Aaron, he could watch a autopsy, eat a candy bar at th’ same time. Didn’t bother him a’tall.”
The single room schoolhouse, a simple, one-story white frame building with a peaked roof, was across the street. It sat hard against the cliffside with wide wooden steps leading up the hill from the road, and looked like it had been recently painted. The windows were trimmed in bright red, a departure from the color scheme of the surroundings. Goodman walked up the stairs to the front door. The brass plaque beside it was a little more formal: DONATED TO THE TOWN OF CRIKSIDE BY THE KC&M COMPANY.
He considered waiting until school was out but changed his mind and entered the building. It was a single large room, with twelve students gathered into three groups, each with half a dozen chair-desks bunched in rather haphazard order around them. One of the groups had only two students, both of whom appeared to be in their early teens. The back of the room had three doors and no windows, probably rest rooms and the cloak closet.
The teacher, a tall wisp of a woman who looked to be in her late thirties, scowled at him and said sternly, “Yes?”
“Nothing at all, Teacher.” Goodman flashed a smile, trying to be charming. “I just thought I’d sit in for a few minutes. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
She stared at him quizzically for a moment, looked away, then her pale green eyes flicked back at him.
“Huh,” she snorted, and turned back to her students.
But he didn’t listen to her, he watched her. She was dressed straight out of the sixties. She wore a denim jacket over a flowered shirt, an ankle-length appliqué skirt and black boots. Her thick, flaming red hair was streaked with gray and was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wore no jewelry or makeup. And although her features, charmed with freckles—a small nose, square chin, etched cheekbones—were delicate, she had a bold look about her, a defiant look, which, he decided, made her appear older than she probably was.
When school was over, the students filed out, glancing sideways at him as they left, probably wondering if he was the schoolmarm’s new boyfriend. She crossed the room very resolutely, her hands jammed in the pockets of her jacket, and stood a few inches from him, her eyes locked on his.
“Now, just what’re you up to?” she demanded in a voice that was resolute and had no recognizable accent.
“My name’s Goodman,” he said brusquely. “I work for the
lawyer who’s going to defend Aaron Stampler for murder.”
She stepped back, shocked.
“Oh,” she said. Her shoulders seemed to square a little more and she lifted her chin slightly. “And what d’ you do for this lawyer who’s going to defend Aaron Stampler?”
“I’m an investigator. I do the same thing the police do, only for the other side.”
“Do you know Aaron?” she commanded, her eyes scrutinizing him.
“No, not yet. I had to leave early this morning.”
“And you’re going to help defend him?”
“I have to start someplace.”
She liked the answer and her tone became less recalcitrant.
“Do you think he did that?”
“The evidence against him is very strong.”
“I didn’t ask you that.”
“At this point, he’s presumed innocent.”
“You still didn’t answer my question.”
“That’s why I’m here, Miss … your name’s Rebecca, isn’t it?”
She continued to stare at him but did not answer.
“Look, Teacher, I told you, I’m on his side. I need to find out as much as I can about him. Can we do that? Talk about Aaron?”
She went back to her desk, stacked up several textbooks and put them in a tall locker in the corner, which she secured with an old-fashioned Yale lock. He moved the desks around as she began to sweep the floor.
Suddenly she said, “Sometimes one, just one, can make it worthwhile.”
“Like Aaron?”
She stopped, leaned her chin on the end of the broomstick and stroked the handle absently with one hand. “Yes. He was the best student I ever had. Difficult. Most genius IQs are…”
“He has a genius IQ?”
Primal Fear Page 16
