by R. R. Irvine
“They as good as killed her,” the sheriff said.
That was quite a motive, Manwaring thought, but the look on the sheriff’s face kept him from saying so.
“Maybe the fire was a punishment,” Mayor Kearns said.
“The dogs were innocent,” Manwaring replied without thinking. Vicki came to his side and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
He spoke anyway. “If there’s an animal out there in need of help, I don’t want it on my conscience.”
“You can’t save them all,” Vicki said. “It wouldn’t do Buttons any good if you could.”
Holland was right, Manwaring thought. Robot correspondents would save a lot of trouble for everybody. He was about to tell Vicki that when her telephone beeper went off.
18
VICKI SIGHED and reset the pager. Manwaring was definitely pissed, not that she blamed him. She’d had no business mentioning Buttons, whose fate had been told to her in confidence.
Rather than face the anger in his eyes, she got up from the table. “Could someone direct me to the nearest telephone?”
The mayor shrugged; the sheriff said nothing.
“I’ll show you,” Blaine Larsen said. “Otherwise you’ll never find it in this crush.”
The editor handed his bottle of Jack Daniel’s to Grady O’Dell, then led the way to one of the two exit doors on either side of the stage.
“Through there, up the stairs, and straight ahead. You’ll find a phone at the end of the hall. While you’re making your call, I’ll see if I can rustle us up another bottle.” He wandered away.
Shaking her head, she opened the door and followed his directions. The hallway was dark, lit only by a low-watt night light plugged into a baseboard socket. By sense of touch she was feeding a quarter into the wall phone, when the door opened behind her. She glanced back and saw a man’s silhouette coming up the stairs.
“I need some privacy, Blaine,” she called over her shoulder.
He caught her from behind, his hands closing on her breasts. “Surprise, my dear.”
She pivoted, trying to break free. His grip tightened. She started to scream, then realized that the accordions were at it again, this time with a full-blast version of “Red River Valley.”
Gritting her teeth, she snapped back her head, hoping to smash his nose. The blow landed ineffectively on his breastbone.
He squeezed her breasts so hard tears sprang from her eyes.
“Do you know how long it’s been?” he said.
She recognized the voice; it was Hal Romney the fire chief. “Ida, my wife, left me more than a year ago. Left me and went to live in Defiance with another man, a younger man. Well, what’s sauce for the goose, I always say. So I decided to get myself a younger woman. You win the honor.”
“All I’ve got to do is scream,” she said, trying to sound calm.
He let go of one breast to wrap an arm around her neck, squeezing just enough to let her know how easy it would be to choke her. “Try it, girlie. Try screaming and see how much noise you make.”
He nuzzled her neck. “You smell as good as my Ida. You be nice to me and I’ll tell you all about Defiance. The things they don’t want you to know.”
To hell with that, she thought, though part of her wondered if he really knew any secrets.
“Tell me first,” Vicki said, “then I’ll be nice.”
“Just like Ida, wanting to keep her cake and eat it too. But OK. I’ll tell you one thing. Out in Defiance, they thought theirs was the only way, God’s way, and that they alone would be saved when the end of the world came. „Every morning,’ Ida told me once when I saw her in town, „we get up with the sun and pray. We beg forgiveness for the rest of you.’”
He snorted. “The end of the world came for them and we’re still here.”
“You’re drunk. Walk away now and I’ll forget this,” Vicki said.
“I’m sorry, Ida.” He kissed her cheek. “Forgive me.”
Vicki took a quick breath, steeling herself, and wiggled her hips suggestively. His grip loosened. In that instant, she spun around as if to embrace him and brought her knee up sharply. The result was far better than her self-defense instructor had promised. He collapsed so abruptly his face smacked the floor.
“I expect an apology when you’re sober,” she said.
He rolled onto his side and curled up. “Don’t leave me, Ida,” he moaned.
She stepped over him to get to the phone.
19
MANWARING HAD drunk too much. Driving was now impossible. That went for Holland and Wilcox, who’d matched him round for round.
The three of them were shambling back toward the motel, linked arm in arm and singing “Billy Boy,” while Vicki brought up the rear as if prepared to rescue stragglers. The sight of the Big I’s blinking blue neon, with only their Ford parked in an otherwise deserted lot, killed their enthusiasm in midchorus.
A dim night light burned inside the office. Manwaring tried the door but found it locked.
“If you three can manage to load the car, I’ll drive,” Vicki said.
“We’re not going anywhere,” he told her.
“Reisner’s orders. I’m getting behind the wheel with or without you.” She went next door to her room.
A message slip was stuck to Manwaring’s door. He ripped it off and went inside. There’d been two calls, his mother, who said she’d call back, and Ross Eccles, who wanted Manwaring to phone him immediately.
While Holland and Wilcox packed their suitcases, Manwaring dialed his mother’s number. As usual, he got a busy signal. He banged down the phone, prompting a twinge from his swollen hand.
“Beer is a lousy anesthetic,” he said to his cameraman, who’d abandoned his suitcase to stretch out, and carefully dialed Eccles.
The bureau chief said, “I hope you’re eligible for unemployment in Idaho.”
There were times, like now, when Manwaring felt disembodied, as if he were nothing but a voice connected to other voices, kept alive only by telephone circuits.
“Did I ever tell you about my dog, Buttons?” he said.
From the next bed came an exaggerated groan.
“What are you getting at?” Eccles said.
“We heard a dog on our tape. He’s out there somewhere, in Defiance, and I want to find him.”
“Don’t start. I monitored your satellite feed and didn’t hear a damn thing but wind.”
“Animals are grabbers, you know that.”
“I don’t care if you’ve found Noah’s Ark. I want you on the road and out of there.”
“I’m on to you,” Manwaring said. “You’re not as cynical as you pretend.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“I’m over the legal limit, if that’s what you mean.”
“Goddammit, Kevin.”
“Vicki’s sober.”
“What does she say about the dog?”
“I’ve got a witness, a guy named O’Dell.”
“So?”
“He says he heard dogs barking.”
“Is he reliable?”
For a poet who needs alcohol to remember his lines, Manwaring answered to himself. To Eccles he said, “This is something I have to do.”
“Vicki’s already on my case. She’s fed up with hicksville and wants back on prime time. Animals, no matter how cuddly, won’t get her there. On top of which, Reisner has tentatively scheduled the Vice President to lead tomorrow’s Evening News.”
“What do you say if Holland and I stay here on our own?”
“You’re a pain in the ass.” Eccles sighed. “I’ll agree on one condition, if Vicki and Wilcox are back here on time.”
“If they leave now, they’ll be in Los Angeles a half-hour before the Vice President.”
“Tell her to change her clothes on the plane, something sophisticated to go with his Ivy League look.”
“She’ll need a producer when she gets there,” Manwaring said, wanting someone to cover her
back.
“I already asked Joyce to volunteer.”
“I owe you one, Ross.”
“I’m giving you one more day, that’s all. And you owe me two. I sent your mother more money.”
Manwaring started to apologize, then caught himself. That would embarrass both of them. “What are you going to tell Reisner?”
“The truth, what else. That you’ve come down with the flu and Holland has stayed behind to nurse you.”
20
MANWARING WENT next door to give Vicki the news.
“You’re making a fool out of yourself,” she told him, “taking a man like O’Dell seriously.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“If it hadn’t been for the dog, you’d be out of here.”
“You’re probably right.”
Vicki hugged herself and sat on the bed next to her suitcase. “There’s something about this place that gives me the creeps. Come on, Kevin, drive back with me.”
He sat beside her. “I’ve taken care of you. Joyce Cody will be waiting at the airport to produce your segment. I can phone her with some script ideas if you’d like.”
“Goddamn you, Manwaring. I wasn’t thinking about that.”
He ducked his head. “Admit it, Icky. You need me.”
“I hate that nickname.”
He leaned over and kissed her, chastely at first. Just as her lips opened in response, the shrill sound of the phone ringing next door cut through the thin motel wall. A moment later someone pounded on the partition.
“It’s for you!” Wilcox shouted. “Collect.”
“Have him take a message,” Vicki whispered breathlessly.
“I’m expecting a call from my mother.”
“For God’s sake.” She jerked out of his arms.
“If I don’t take it now, she’ll call back in the middle of the night.”
“You and your mother. What the hell is she like?”
“After I talk to her, I’ll come back and tell you.”
Vicki stood up and smoothed her skirt. “I’ll be on the road to Idaho Falls by then.”
Manwaring licked his lips, savoring her lipstick. He closed his eyes and imagined her making love to him.
“Don’t keep your mother waiting,” she said, shattering the fantasy.
“What would have happened if that phone hadn’t rung?”
Vicki smiled. “I need a producer, not a lover.”
******
Manwaring heard the Ford drive away just as he picked up the phone. Holland, respecting Manwaring’s privacy, had gone for a walk.
“Yes, Mother,” he said.
“I’ve been watching that fire on TV. You should have called me sooner and told me you were safe. You know how I worry.”
He shook his head. She’d been drinking, but that was normal for this late at night. The motives behind her telephone calls varied but were always demands of one kind or another.
“There’s no reason to worry,” he said, listening for background noise, for new friends, for Sorry’s coaching.
“There’s something we have to talk about.”
Here it comes.
“That man Eccles sent me the money, Kevin. It embarrassed me. Taking care of your mother is your job, not something to be fobbed off.”
“I’m covering a story. I didn’t have the time.”
“Are you trying to shame me in front of strangers?”
“You said it was an emergency. You said Sorry had to have an operation.”
“Did I?” Her pause was long enough to seek and receive signals from Sorry. “Yes, that’s why I’m calling. The operation was a success, but there have been complications. We need more money. We have more bills to pay.”
The request, so close to the last one, surprised him. Usually, his mother asked for money to impress new friends in position that month.
“What kind of complications?” he asked.
Manwaring heard a hand being clamped over the receiver. Once again, she hadn’t got her story straight before calling him.
His mother came back on the line. “Sorry needs a specialist.”
Manwaring kept himself from asking if she’d forgotten the ailment he’d paid for, the root canal.
“What kind of specialist?”
There was another silence, long enough for a quick consultation. “It’s an infection.”
“It was his leg, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right, dear.”
“How much do you need?”
“You’ll send the money yourself, won’t you?”
“I won’t be able to do it until I get back to civilization.”
“How long will that be?” she asked.
“It could be a while yet.”
She said something he couldn’t hear. “I guess it will be all right to have that man Eccles send more.”
Manwaring took a deep breath. “Tell me, Mother. Do you remember Buttons?”
“I don’t think so, dear.”
“She was my dog,” he said precisely. “The one you made me give away.”
21
VICKI DECIDED to make a stop at the firehouse on the way out of town, a dark brick building catercorner from city hall. The doors to both engine bays stood open. Bright lights revealed an old-fashioned fire engine on one side and a paramedic’s van on the other. Chief Romney, in full uniform, was standing on the fire engine’s running board, polishing its chrome siren.
Vicki parked in front of the bays and told Wilcox to stay in the car before getting out herself. At her approach, Romney put on dark glasses and then began polishing all the harder.
“You’ve had time to sober up,” she told him, “so I came for my apology.”
He stepped off the running board and walked to the back of the engine.
“Did you hear me?” she said.
He breathed on a brass fitting and then began to wipe it. “It’s always the same. They stay only for the excitement. When the fire’s out, they walk away, leaving me here alone to do the dirty work.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’re talking about volunteer firemen.”
The chief bent closer to his work, a hose coupling. “You can’t let the rust start, you know. Once it does, nothing ever works right again. If I hadn’t moved out of my house to live here full time, God only knows what would have happened to my equipment.”
Vicki glanced toward the rear of the firehouse, where a folding cot stood against the wall, its khaki blanket folded with precise square corners.
“When you take care of something all your life, you expect loyalty in return,” he said.
“I’m not letting you off the hook. You attacked me. I expect an apology.
He abandoned the coupling and began stroking one of the engine’s gleaming fenders. “You won’t let me down, will you, old girl?”
Romney looked directly at Vicki for the first time, though she couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses. “If she ever did, I’d get rid of her. She knows that. I’d trade her in on a new model.”
“Like me?”
He turned away and began wiping the fender he’d just been touching. His uniform remained pressed and spotless.
“I don’t blame her for leaving you,” Vicki said.
He kept on working.
“They all will in the end,” she said.
“I told her I was sorry.”
“Your wife?”
He nodded.
“What about me?”
“When the time comes.”
Vicki shook her head and went back to the car.
“What was all that about?” Wilcox said.
“The joys of marriage.”
She thought of complaining to Manwaring about the fire chief, then dismissed the idea. She didn’t want to be responsible for another broken hand.
22
MANWARING AWOKE five minutes before the alarm was set to go off at six A.M. He swung his legs out of bed, shivered when his feet hit the cold linol
eum, and laid the clock on Holland’s bed.
When Manwaring came out of the bathroom a quarter of an hour later, the cameraman was snoring too loudly, pretending to be asleep.
“I woke up in the middle of the night,” Manwaring said, “and remembered we didn’t have a car.”
Holland sat up and stretched. “I don’t think this burg’s big enough for a rental agency.”
“We’ll eat breakfast and then call our newspaper editor. He’s got to have some kind of transportation.”
“What he’s got is a hangover, considering the way he drank last night.”
Manwaring shook his head experimentally. Except for the stale taste of beer in his mouth, he felt better than he had any right to expect. He padded over to the window and raised the blind on a rainy day. Lights showed inside the Big I Cafe.
“Come on, Lew. I hear a stack of hotcakes calling my name.”
They were dawdling over coffee an hour later when Blaine Larsen arrived in a battered, rust-spotted compact station wagon. When he joined them, he sat stiffly, averting his eyes from Manwaring’s plate, where egg yolks had turned color in the blueberry syrup left over from the pancake sandwich.
“We’d like to rent your car for the day,” Holland told the newspaperman.
Using a two-handed grip, Larsen reached for a cup of coffee, raised it to his lips, and sipped cautiously. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. “It feels like it’s going to stay down.” He took another swallow. “A hundred a day and I’ll throw in myself as chauffeur and guide.”
“I hope that car runs better than it looks.”
“Everybody laughed when I bought my Subaru. „You need a truck, something with good traction,’ they said. Well, the Japs knew what they were doing with this one. It’s four-wheel drive and can get you anywhere a Jeep can go. It wouldn’t have rusted out either, if I hadn’t rolled it after my insurance ran out.”
Holland made a face.
“Okay, Blaine,” Manwaring said, “you’ve got a deal.” They loaded the camera gear into the back of the Subaru, which already held sleeping bags, a couple of army blankets, and camping equipment. Holland used the blankets as padding for his equipment.
