I walked back to the car and drove to Peru City, the county seat. After a brief stop at what passed for the local deli, I headed for the county sheriff's office. Jake Bolesh was in.
"Hello, Robby," Bolesh said, rising from the padded swivel chair behind his desk and extending his hand. "I heard you were in town."
I hadn't really expected to see all of my old enemies brought low in the fashion of Coop Lugmor, but I couldn't help but be slightly disappointed at seeing how good Jake Bolesh looked. But then, I reminded myself, Bolesh had always been smarter than Lugmor. This man was not the beady-eyed, club-fisted creature that had lurked for so many years in my memories. Bolesh had lost a lot of weight since elementary and high school; he looked tough and trim in his tailored uniform. The only remnant of the sixties in his appearance was his hair; he had kept most of it, and he still wore it in a large, wavy, out-of-date pompadour held in place with greasy pomade that gave off a slightly sweet odor. Good genes, lousy sensibility. The loss of weight made his coal-black eyes seem larger than I remembered. He still had a scar high on his right cheekbone where Garth had hit him with a two-by-four after Bolesh had worked me over in a bathroom.
"Hello, Jake," I replied, taking his hand. Bolesh was Power in Peru County, the man who probably had the answers to all my questions. There was absolutely no percentage in not accepting his gesture of truce. "It's been a time."
"Better than seventeen years, as I reckon it. I'm glad you stopped in. Sorry about your nephew."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Where's Garth?"
"He had to get back to New York." I opened the paper bag I was carrying, took out two containers of coffee, handed one to Bolesh. "Research has shown that it's impossible to remain in police work without becoming addicted to coffee. I thought you might like a fix."
Bolesh smiled thinly, opened the container. "Thanks, Robby."
"You take cream or sugar?"
Bolesh shook his head, then absently patted the sides of his head as though the motion might have messed his hair. "I like it black. Sit down, Robby."
I sat, opened my container, sipped my coffee. "You're looking good, Jake."
"You too. You've done pretty well for yourself since you left Peru County. From here to college on a scholarship, then on to star in the Statler Brothers' Circus. I saw you perform once. Did you know that?"
I shook my head.
"It was in Chicago. I was at a police convention, and your show was in town. You had a great act-especially that stunt with the rings of fire. You always were a fast little critter."
"Not always fast enough," I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
Bolesh shrugged. "Sorry about that. I sure was one mean son-of-a-bitch as a kid. Anyway, Garth always gave me as good as I gave you." He paused, stared at me over the rim of his coffee container. It struck me how his eyes, viewed by themselves, glowed with a strange, muted light, as though the thoughts moving behind them had nothing to do with the chitchat coming out of his mouth. It occurred to me that, for some reason, I had Jake Bolesh worried.
"'Mongo the Magnificent,'" Bolesh continued. "That was your billing, right?"
"Right. You seem to know a lot about me, Jake."
"Every time the local paper needs to fill up space, it runs a piece on the famous dwarf from Peru County. Also, I've seen you written up in Time and Newsweek. You earned your PhD while you were with the circus. Now you're a college professor. Criminology. Also, of course, you hire out as a private detective."
"You have my dossier up to date."
"Do I? It occurs to rite to ask what you might be investigating at the moment."
Again I reached down into the bag at my feet, drew out a jar of honey and placed it on the desk in front of Bolesh.
"First coffee, now honey," Bolesh said with a sharp, brittle laugh. "Cute."
"I thought you'd see the point."
"Sharpen it for me."
"My family still has a few questions about Tommy's death. I'm sure you understand."
"Not really. Why didn't John or Janet come to me?"
"Maybe they would have eventually. Things have happened pretty quickly. The funeral was just yesterday, and they're still pretty much in shock."
"But you're not."
"It seems to me that it would be in everyone's interest to get some of the fine points cleared up quickly so the whole matter can be laid to rest for good."
Bolesh unscrewed the cap on the honey jar, sniffed its contents. "You carrying a gun?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Because it seems to me that you're doing a private detective number, even if it's unofficial, and you're not licensed in this state. Your handgun license is no good, either, unless it's registered with me. You want to register a handgun?"
"Do you think I need a gun?"
"No. I'm just laying things out, Rob, so we both know where we stand. What would you like to know?"
"I'd like to see your raw file on the case and the coroner's report, if there is one."
"No."
"Why not?"
"It would be unprofessional."
"I'm a professional."
"You have no standing in this county. It would set a bad precedent. If I let you see things like that, who knows who'd be in to second-guess me next week?"
"Who would know that you let me see the files?"
"I would. I happen to take my job very seriously. I can tell you that it's an open and shut case of murder-suicide."
"Will there be a grand jury hearing or coroner's inquest?"
"Why should there be? There's no one to accuse, and we're satisfied that all the facts are known."
"It seems to me that you closed up shop pretty quickly."
"Did I? You weren't at the scene. There wasn't much to investigate. The kids were queer, Rob, as I'm sure you've heard."
"What would I have seen if I'd been there?"
"A mess. The Lugmor kid shot out your nephew's chest, then blew his own head off. My deputies and I went over that scene on our hands and knees, Robby; the only footprints there belonged to the two boys. Besides, no one else would have a motive. Things were just the way I reported, and if I had any doubts I'd still be investigating. I'm afraid you'll just have to take my word for that. We're not hicks here, Rob, despite what New Yorkers may think. The people in this county have seen fit to keep me in this office for twelve years; they must think I know my business."
"Aren't you interested in where Tommy might have been the week before he was killed?"
"I know where he was."
Surprise. "Where?"
"Shacked up with Rod Lugmor. Lugmor's folks were away."
"How do you know Tommy was with Rodney Lugmor?"
"We found his toilet kit and a bag full of his clothes in the Lugmor kid's room."
"Why didn't you tell my sister?"
"You tell her. Under the circumstances, I didn't feel Janet and John would be too anxious to find out that those two kids were alone with each other for a week, buggering- "
"It may be true that Tommy was with Rodney Lugmor. What you think they were doing is just your opinion."
"Have it your way. People are close to each other in this county, Rob, and we try to respect each other's feelings. Have any other questions?"
Not at the moment, and not for Bolesh. "I guess not. You've been very helpful, Jake. I appreciate it, and I know my family will appreciate it."
"Okay, then let me ask you one. What was Coop Lugmor whispering in your ear yesterday at the cemetery?"
"Who told you about Lugmor?"
"A source. I've extended courtesy to you, and now I'd appreciate a little from you."
"He was just saying he was sorry for what had happened."
Bolesh stared at me for some time. Again, I had the definite impression that he was worried-and growing angry. I certainly didn't want Bolesh angry at me, because he could easily and quickly close me down with nothing more than a trumped-up traffic ticket. I was a long way fr
om home, and I wanted to keep my fingers clear of the light socket that was the county sheriff-at least until I'd cut his wires.
"I don't think I believe you, Rob," Bolesh said at last, "but I'll let it pass. For now. In any case, if you've seen Coop you know he's pissed his life away. He's bitter, he's crazy, and he'll say anything just to stir up trouble. I'd hate to see him use you to try and settle some of his personal grudges."
"I'll try to keep from being used."
"Let me be straight with you, Robby. You're an old acquaintance, a private citizen with family here, and you haven't broken any laws-yet. You've got as much right to be here as anybody else."
"Thanks, Jake," I said evenly.
If he noted any sarcasm, he ignored it. "Go ahead and ask around, but I'll take it as a personal kindness if you'd be very discreet about who you talk to, what questions you ask, and how loud you ask them. This is a quiet county. Outsiders-and you are an outsider-could easily upset things."
"What things?"
"Something very good has happened to this county, Rob, and everybody benefits. I'm not going to go into detail because it has nothing to do with your nephew's death, and it isn't any of your business. Even your own brother-in-law, Tommy's father, will tell you that it's better if things remain nice and quiet. The point is that you're quite a famous dwarf, Robby; if it becomes widely known that you're roaming around Peru County and investigating something sensational, it's going to attract attention from a lot of vultures in the media. It's very important that that doesn't happen here; I don't want to come to work some morning and find Mike Wallace and a camera crew camped outside my office. Understand, I'm not trying to pressure you. I'm just asking that you satisfy yourself and your family that all the facts are known, and then go back to New York. You'll be doing everybody a favor, including your relatives and yourself."
"Why myself?"
"Because a lot of people will be very pissed if you mess things up for them."
"This sounds like 'Cinderella.' Is there a golden coach parked somewhere that will turn into a pumpkin if I step into it?"
"There are a lot of guns in this county, Rob, and I can't be everywhere."
"I hear you, Jake," I said, rising to my feet.
"One more thing, Robby," Bolesh said, rising with me and staring at me hard. "We could be friends. I admire and respect you, and I'd like some respect in return. I've read your articles in Criminology and the Journal of Criminology, and I'm impressed. I wouldn't try to put anything over on you, and I'd appreciate it if you don't try to put anything over on me."
"Okay, Jake," I said, heading for the door.
"Because- " The tone was sharp, meant to stop and turn me around. It did. He continued in a softer tone: "Because I'm responsible for the well-being of the people in this county. If I think you're disturbing the peace in any way, I'm going to come down hard on you. It won't be like it used to be, Rob; now I'm the law."
"A heavy threat, Jake."
"It was meant to be. I just want to make things clear now, so there won't be any misunderstanding later." "See you, Jake."
6
Janet had called Bill Jackson's mother to make arrangements and negotiate certain ground rules for my visit with her fifteen-year-old son. I went to see him after lunch. The red and white farmhouse was close to the road, surrounded by a quaint, whitewashed picket fence. Mrs. Jackson, with her son standing slightly behind her, answered the door. She was a handsome woman, with sculpted features and alabaster skin highlighted by freckles. Her eyes were clouded with concern, but her son's were wide with excitement. Bill Jackson was a stocky, rawboned boy with reddish-blond hair and dark blue eyes that glittered with intelligence and good humor. I immediately liked him.
"Hey, you're Mongo!"
"Dr. Frederickson," Bill Jackson's mother said sternly, correcting her son.
"'Mongo' is fine, Mrs. Jackson."
"We'll compromise," the woman said, shooting her son a sharp glance. "You can call Dr. Frederickson 'Mr. Mongo.' And don't get too excited; you talk too much when you get excited." She took a deep breath, looked back at me. "Janet told you what we agreed on, Dr. Frederickson?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Aw, Mom," the boy said. "I know all about what happened. Mr. Mongo's not going to upset me."
"I'll decide what's going to upset you, Bill," the woman replied, stepping back and holding the door open for me. I stepped into the spacious house, redolent with the scent of flowers and other growing things.
Mrs. Jackson brought me a tall, cool glass of lemonade, and I went off with her son to his room which, like Tommy's, was decorated with fantasy posters and Lord of the Rings memorabilia. Bill closed the door, turned to me. His eyes were filled with tears.
"What happened to Tommy and Rodney was so terrible, Mr. Mongo."
Mrs. Jackson had known what she was talking about, I thought as I squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Thank you, Bill. Let's not discuss that, okay?"
"Okay." He wiped his eyes, brightened. "Boy, Mr. Mongo, it's really something to meet you. It's like meeting Frodo."
"I understand Tommy used me to score a lot of points."
"Yeah; that's because you're always getting involved with weird things. You know about Sorscience?"
"A little. I'd like you to tell me all about it. You scored points by matching real scientific phenomena with places and events in Lord of the Rings, right?"
"That's the basic idea, yes."
"Can you give me an example of how you'd score?"
He thought about it, shrugged. "Sure. Take Water Gel, for example. It's a clear paste that won't burn or transfer heat. If you cover yourself with it, you can walk through fire. Firemen are starting to use it."
"The correlation would be Frodo going inside Mount Doom to return the ring?"
"Right! Actually, there are a number of correlations, but that would probably be the best. Hey, you've read Lord of the Rings?"
"Where do you think I get my inspiration?" I asked with a wry smile.
Bill Jackson laughed. "I like you, sir."
"And I like you. What are some other examples?"
"Oh, changing lead into gold. Physicists have been able to do that in atomic reactors for years, but the process costs more than the gold is worth."
"Ah, yes, elementary wizardry; something Gandalf might do as a limbering up exercise before breakfast."
That earned another chuckle. "Yeah," the boy said, "but knowledge of the process isn't worth many points. First, none of us could duplicate it; second, Gandalf never actually changed lead into gold. You could score a couple of points by arguing that he could have done it if he'd wanted to." He paused, snapped his fingers excitedly. "Here! Let me show you something! I just charged up this stuff this morning."
He opened a deep drawer in a desk and took out a capped cylinder full of what looked like water but which smelled vaguely like a dentist's office when he took off the lid. He went across the room and took a fat gerbil out of its cage. Holding the wriggling animal by its tail, he came back to the desk and unceremoniously plopped the gerbil into the solution; the animal paddled around, its pink nose sniffing the air. I started to protest when Bill pushed it under and screwed the cap on.
"It's okay, Mr. Mongo, I'm not going to hurt him. As a matter of fact, he likes this. Watch."
Sure enough, the gerbil seemed to like it. I gaped in astonishment as the animal, obviously having undergone the experience before, didn't even bother trying to come back up to the sealed-off surface; it paddled about in the depths of the liquid, to all appearances as content and adjusted as your average trout. At first I thought that Bill had somehow taught the gerbil to hold its breath, but when I looked closer I could see its rib cage moving as if it were breathing. Since that was obviously impossible, I examined the surface of the desk, the wall behind it, and even the ceiling, for mirrors. There weren't any.
"That's one hell of a trick," I said. "How's it done?"
"No trick," Bill said, beaming with pleasur
e. "It's Fluosol-DA, an oxygenated perfluorochemical; PFC, for short. As a matter of fact, it's a distant cousin of Teflon. The Japanese have been making the stuff for years. It's used as artificial hemoglobin, and the FDA has approved its use for blood transfusions in certain circumstances, like with Jehovah's Witnesses. It exchanges oxygen and carbon dioxide, just like blood. As you can see, lab animals can actually 'breathe' the stuff, if it's been oxygenated."
"What purpose does that serve?"
"None. It's just an interesting phenomenon associated with Fluosol-DA."
The boy seemed to be immensely enjoying my stunned silence as he opened the cannister, plucked the gerbil from the fluid, and returned it to its cage, where it began plodding happily on its running wheel.
"How many points is that worth?"
Bill shrugged. "I think Obie was awarded twenty-eight out of a possible hundred for that. It's spectacular, and he had physical possession, but the correlations are weak. Nobody actually breathes underwater in Lord of the Rings. He matched it to the slaying of the Seeker in the lake. The Seeker could have been air-breathing, and the slayer had to hold his breath for a long time."
"Obie is another player?"
"Yes, sir. Obie-Auberlich-Loge. His father was the official scorer and arbitrator. In fact, Dr. Loge invented Sorscience."
The name Loge, Richard Wagner's God of Fire, rang a big, Nobel Prize-winning bell. Loge was certainly not a common name, and the Dr. Loge I knew of had earned doctorates in virtually every one of the life sciences. He'd won two Nobels-one for the invention of his Triage Parabola, a statistical model used for predicting the survival rates of various endangered species. But Siegmund Loge was into animals, not plants; he certainly didn't grow corn. Indeed, Siegmund Loge didn't do much of anything any longer, except make a fool of himself. At the age of seventy-four he'd gone instant bonkers, resigned all his positions, abandoned his research projects, and when last heard of was roaming around the country as "Father," a new brand of mystical messiah preaching Armageddon and Resurrection to people in the wilderness communes he had set up around the world. At last membership estimate, he'd passed the Rosicrucians and was breathing hard on the neck of the Reverend Moon. Some people will insist on believing anything.
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