by Mike Doogan
“But one of my computer monkeys found a Feather Collins in the archives of the Fairbanks paper,” Littlefield’s voice said, “giving money to some charity or cutting a ribbon or something. Maybe she’s your girl. How many women named Feather can there be? Either way, remember that I drink the single malt. Here’s the Collins woman’s address.”
Littlefield rattled off an address and the message ended. Well, Kane thought, as he wrote the address in his notebook, that’s a long shot.
He walked back to his truck, drove to the grocery store, and emerged with some bags of groceries and a case of beer. He stopped at Café del Mundo for a couple of pounds of ground coffee. He made another stop at Lowe’s and bought a set of heavy-duty bolt cutters. He sat in the parking lot, breathing deeply and telling himself: No more excuses and no more hesitations. It’s time to go to work. He started the truck and drove back toward Rejoice.
He stopped at Summit Lake to drink coffee from a thermos. The view was as spectacular as that in any national park in the Lower 48, and there had been a time when he could have sat there and looked at it for an hour. Instead, he found himself thinking about what the priest had said: “There is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.” He had to keep moving forward now. To lose his momentum was to lose control of his new life. He gulped his coffee, tossed the dregs out the window, and drove off.
Slade opened the door of the Devil’s Toe trooper office. Kane handed him the case of beer, then went back for the bags of groceries. When he returned, Slade led him to the back and up a flight of stairs to the living quarters. They walked into a living room, furnished with a couch and a couple of easy chairs. A pocket kitchen was separated from the living room by a breakfast bar, and a hallway led to what Kane assumed were the bedrooms. Two investigators were sitting in the living room amidst paperwork and the remains of a meal. Kane knew them both.
“Hello, Harry,” he said, “Sam.”
“Killer Kane,” the one he’d called Harry said. “Shouldn’t you still be in prison?”
“Nice to see you, too,” Kane said.
“Knock if off, Harry,” Sam said. “He doesn’t mean it, Nik. We’re both just unhappy to be told we have to let a civilian poke around in the case. Nothing personal. Any civilian would be the same. You’d have felt that way, too, back in the day.”
Kane turned on his heel and walked out, down the stairs and out the front door. He retrieved his duffel bag and sleeping bag from the truck, carried them back up the stairs, and dumped them on the floor.
“Don’t anybody get in a hurry to help,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt anything.”
He pointed to the case of beer on the countertop.
“It’s an assortment of local beers,” he said. “They should be cold. Help yourselves.”
The investigators looked at one another.
“You going to tell us what you’re doing, messing around in our investigation?” Harry asked.
Kane got himself a glass of water and took a seat in one of the chairs at the counter, spinning around to face the room. His smile wasn’t friendly.
“I’m not just some civilian, Sam,” Kane said, ignoring the other trooper investigator. “And I’m not really here to investigate the mine robbery. The people over in Rejoice have asked me to find one of theirs who’s gone missing. Chief Jeffords asked me to help, too, and as I guess you found out before you left Anchorage, I have somebody high up in your chain of command I can call. Plus, I’m consulting with Charlie Simms on mine security. Is that enough for you yet?”
Harry started to reply, but Sam held up a hand.
“We just don’t want you tracking up our investigation,” he said.
“Fine by me,” Kane said. “I’ll need to borrow Jeremy here in the morning for a little while to help me with my investigation, and I certainly don’t want to get in your way. Just for curiosity’s sake, though, what is your next step?”
The two men looked at each other again. It was all Kane could do to not burst out laughing. He dug into the case and pulled out some beer bottles.
“Like that, is it?” he said, handing one to each of the troopers. “Well, let’s drink to the fact that most criminals are stupid, and whoever took the payroll will probably fuck up and catch themselves.”
The investigators looked at Kane, and suddenly all three of them were laughing.
“You might be a clown, but you got that right,” Harry said. “Cheers.”
They drank, Kane sipping his water, and told stupid criminal stories for a while.
“You remember that bank robber,” Sam said, “the one who wrote the holdup note on the back of one of his own deposit slips? Had his name and address right on it?”
“Yeah,” Kane said, “and how about that guy who killed his wife and tried to burn her up in the fireplace and when he was caught in the act claimed she’d died and fell into the fire on her own and he was just feeding her in because it wouldn’t be dignified to let her be seen in a coffin all burned like that?”
After they’d laughed and drunk some of the tension away, Kane unpacked his groceries and made himself a sandwich. The others kept drinking, Harry polishing off two bottles to everyone else’s one.
“I tried to talk to Charlie Simms when I was in Anchorage,” Kane said, around a mouthful of turkey, ham, and Havarti, “but he’d had emergency brain surgery and was in no shape to be talking. According to his wife, it’s touch-and-go if he ever talks again.”
“It figures,” Sam said. “There’s not enough evidence in this case to stick in your eye.”
“Got any results back from the lab tests on Charlie’s clothes yet?” Kane asked.
“Are you kidding?” Harry said. “With the budget the crime lab’s got, the techs are working nine to five, Monday to Friday, and that’s it. We won’t get any results for a couple of days at the earliest. Medical examiner’s office is the same way, so we won’t get anything from the body ’til then, either. Doesn’t make any difference to any of them that both victims used to be cops.”
That set off a round of bitching about the hard life of the law enforcement officer, followed by fresh beers for everyone but Kane.
“Nothing from searching their rooms?” he asked.
“You know the answer to that,” Harry said in a sour tone. “You been all through their stuff. All we found is that Simms lived like a monk and Logan lived like a slob. You didn’t happen to remove anything we might be interested in, did you?”
“Like what?” Kane said. “The minutes of their last robbery-planning meeting?”
Harry tried to struggle out of his chair. It occurred to Kane that everyone in the room except him had had too much to drink.
“You always were a superior son of a bitch,” Harry said, “but I guess you got what was coming to you.”
“Harry,” Sam said.
“Don’t Harry me,” Harry said. He looked at Kane. “You know what it was like to wear a uniform after you shot that kid? Do you? All the jokes about drunk cops and the sass from teenagers? ‘What you gonna do, off-i-cer, shoot me?’ We got new shooting protocols and mandatory alcohol counseling and stricter firearms-discharge reviews. And all because you couldn’t hold your liquor, you no-good son bitch. I should kick your ass for that.”
Harry was swaying a little now. Kane slid off his stool, walked around the breakfast bar, put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and eased him back down in his chair.
“Nobody’s fighting tonight, Harry,” he said. “It’s time for sleep.”
He turned to Slade.
“I suppose you’ve only got enough beds for the three of you,” he said.
“There’s the couch,” Slade said.
“Just give me the keys to the holding cell,” Kane said. “I’ll sleep down there. It won’t be the first night I’ve spent in a cell. Will it, Harry?”
The trooper investigator waved his hand sloppily but said nothing.
“Guy’s a drunk himsel
f,” Kane said quietly. “Probably scared to death he’ll do something that’ll cost him his pension. Or worse.”
Slade handed him some keys. Kane picked up his duffel and sleeping bag and walked downstairs. He opened the cell door, spread his sleeping bag on the bunk, and went to brush his teeth in the bathroom off the office. He set his travel alarm for seven a.m. and lay down. He tried to think about Faith Wright and what he needed to know, what he knew, and what he suspected about the mine robbery. But he couldn’t. Instead, he thought about what Harry had said. It might not have been a crime to shoot that kid, but it had been a sin. And he’d done his penance, hadn’t he? His penance, and then some. He followed these thoughts into the darkness. When the alarm dragged him into wakefulness, it seemed like he’d been asleep only a matter of moments.
18
For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any
thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.
LUKE 8:17
MISS EVELYN WISP, THE PRINCIPAL OF DEVIL’S TOE REGIONAL High School, did not look happy. She gave Kane and Slade the sort of look Kane’s fifth-grade teacher used to give him after some particularly boneheaded escapade. In fact, Miss Wisp—she insisted on the “Miss”—looked a lot like that teacher, whose name Kane could not for the life of him bring to mind. All the boys had simply called her Sister Mary Pointer, because a long, heavy wooden pointer had been her preferred tool for correcting misbehavior.
Of course, Kane thought, that nun would be five hundred years old by now. And he doubted she would have broken her vow of celibacy, even if she’d been able to find a man desperate enough to help her do it. Could be a grandniece, though, Kane thought. It was all he could do not to ask her, but he and Slade were having enough trouble with Miss Wisp without adding fuel to the fire.
The plain fact was that Miss Wisp did not want them searching Faith Wright’s locker.
“Why, the hubbub will distract the students for a week at least, and us with the exit exam coming up,” she said.
“We could come back after school,” Slade said.
“Yes, I suppose you could,” Miss Wisp said, as if he’d just said the most obvious thing in the world. “But the students would find out anyway. And so would the school board. I wouldn’t want to have to explain this to the school board.”
Kane leaned forward in his chair.
“I’ll be happy to explain this to the school board,” he said, fighting to keep his tone reasonable. “A girl is missing, and we have her father’s written permission to search her locker for clues to her whereabouts. Any more delay only adds to her jeopardy. How do you think the school board will like it if it turns out that she could have been helped, but the delay in searching her locker prevented that?”
“You don’t know that Faith is in any trouble,” Miss Wisp snapped.
“And you don’t know that she’s not,” Kane said reasonably.
The principal sat glaring at Kane, her jaw working as she sorted through her options. She’s certainly got that look down, Kane thought. They must be related.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to call the school district’s attorney and confer,” Miss Wisp said. “I’m not even certain we know the locker’s combination.”
“That’s enough,” Slade said. “I want Faith Wright’s locker number and I want it now. If anything other than that number comes out of your mouth, I’m locking you up for obstructing an official investigation, and you can talk to the school district’s attorney through the bars.”
What’s gotten into him? Kane thought. Aloud, he said, “I don’t think there will be any need for that, Jeremy. I’m certain that Miss Wisp only wants what’s best for her students.”
He poured a little more verbal oil on Miss Wisp’s wounded feelings, and after looking in a file, she gave them the locker number.
“But I was serious about the combination,” she said. “I’ll have to see if anyone knows it.”
Kane knew she was bluffing and decided to call her on it.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. Leaving Slade in the office, he walked out through the accumulating students.
It felt good to do something, to move forward, to let the role of the detective settle over him and armor him against his fears and doubts. This was a job he knew how to do, and he could feel his confidence, confidence that he could and would do this job, growing within him.
He went to his truck, took the bolt cutters he’d bought in Anchorage out of the back, and walked into the school.
Devil’s Toe Regional High School was a rectangle of one-story boxes with peaked roofs around a central court-yard. The front box was divided by a two-story entrance module with a cathedral ceiling that housed the library, administrative offices, faculty lounge, and cafeteria. In the middle of the rear box was a two-story block that Kane assumed was the gymnasium. The school housed about 250 students, Miss Wisp had told them, eighteen teachers, and an administrative staff of six. They really needed more teachers and staff, she said, but the legislature was being tight-fisted.
The first bell rang as Kane reentered the building. Some of the students began drifting toward classrooms. Others gave Kane and his bolt cutters the fish eye. They’re probably worried that it’s their lockers I’m after, he thought. He walked back into the principal’s office, where Slade and Miss Wisp sat regarding each other like boxers waiting for the bell.
“These will get us into the locker,” Kane said to Slade, holding out the bolt cutters.
“But the lock?” Miss Wisp said. “Who will pay for the lock?”
Kane extracted a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on her desk.
“This should cover the cost of the lock,” he said.
Miss Wisp looked at him with pursed lips.
Sister Mary Perpetua, Kane thought. That was her name. At least, her nun name.
“We don’t have any way to take in cash from strangers,” Miss Wisp said. “Besides, I’ve just remembered. We have a list of locker combinations somewhere.”
“Too late,” Kane said. He wondered if he was being high-handed because she looked so much like the nun. To Slade, he said, “Let’s go.”
“I’m going with you,” Miss Wisp said.
“Fine,” Slade said, “just don’t get in our way.”
Miss Wisp led them down one hallway, then halfway down the next. Students were still putting things into lockers and taking things out. Miss Wisp stopped in front of a closed locker.
“This is it,” she said, “number one-seventeen.”
“What’s going on?” asked a young man dressed, as were half the students in the school, in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a knit cap with a Carhartt label on his head.
“Nothing that need concern you, John,” Miss Wisp said. “Go to your classroom.”
“It does concern me, Miss Wisp,” the young man said. “Faith is a friend of mine.”
“You Johnny Starship?” Kane said. The boy looked surprised and nodded warily. “Maybe you’d better stick around. We’ve got some questions for you.”
“Mister—what did you say your name was?—you can’t just question underage students,” Miss Wisp said. “It’s against the law.”
Slade gave the principal a disgusted look and opened his mouth to speak. Kane cut him off.
“I’m sure this young man wants to help us find his friend,” he said, smiling. “And I’m sure that the school board would want you to let him help us. But if you’d rather wait until he can get a lawyer here from from Fairbanks or Anchorage, I’m certain the girl’s father and everyone else will understand that you are just looking out for the boy. They might question why you put his rights before her safety, but you can explain that, can’t you?”
Miss Wisp’s glare would have melted concrete, but he had her and they both knew it.
“Go ahead,” she said in a voice that dripped icicles.
“Give me the bolt cutters,” Slade said.
Kane handed
him the tool.
“You stay right where you are, pal,” Slade said to Johnny Starship.
The locker was secured by a cheap combination lock run through holes in its handle. Slade gripped the locking bar with the jaws of the bolt cutter and strained. The lock broke.
“Good bolt cutters,” he said, handing them back to Kane. Then he swiveled the locking bar to one side, pulled it through the holes, and snapped open the locker.
The second bell rang.
“Students should go to their classrooms,” Miss Wisp said, but none of the students who had formed a semicircle around the locker budged. Kane saw a couple of teachers in the crowd as well.
“Move along,” he said, raising his voice. “This has nothing to do with you.”
The teachers started herding the students away.
“Have a look,” Slade said to Kane.
The locker was as neat as everything else that belonged to Faith Wright. The walls were undecorated gray metal. No clothing hung in it. Textbooks stood in a line on the top shelf. On the floor sat a pale-blue plastic step stool supporting a dark-blue plastic crate. The crate contained binders of various colors, arranged spine up. A pair of sensible-looking shoes sat beneath the stool, to be exchanged for boots, Kane figured, and worn inside the building.
“Clean enough to do brain surgery in here,” Kane said. “You take the books, and I’ll take the binders.”
He picked up the crate and turned to Johnny Starship.
“Go ahead to your first class,” he said. “It’ll take us a while to go through these. Come and see us when it’s over. We’ll be . . .” He looked at Miss Wisp. “Where will we be?”
Miss Wisp pursed her lips so hard that they disappeared. She said nothing.
“Surely you have an empty room we can borrow for a couple of hours,” Kane said, keeping his tone light and reasonable. Miss Wisp looked like a cartoon figure of anger. All that was missing was steam coming out of her ears.
“Miss Wisp,” Slade said, his tone neither light nor reasonable.
“I suppose you can use the counselor’s office,” she snapped. “The counselor only visits once a week. This way.”
