Boomtown (26 page)

We climbed back out of the car and crossed Town Square to the library. It was the largest public building in town, solid brick, three stories high, with classrooms, meeting areas, and a large basement level where newspapers, records, and rare books were kept. It was early Monday morning, but the place was buzzing with activity.

“Pretty busy for a Monday,” I commented.

“It's
always
busy,” Burton answered. “Most popular place in town. The Arts League meets here twice a month. The Boomtown Historical Society, the Men's and Women's Rotary, the Hug-A-Slug Club, and so on. That group over there is from the Lions Club. This is the place to be when people aren't working.”

“At the
library
?”

“Sure 'nough. People in Boomtown read all the time—except when they're working or shooting off fireworks.”

“Reading?”

“Everybody in Boomtown
loves
to read. It's one of the two statistics we're proud of in this town—the employment rate and the literacy rate. Both are almost 100 percent.”

By then, we were standing at the counter, and the head librarian jumped into the conversation.

“That's right. Like we always say: in Boomtown, every-body has a job and a book.”

She put out her hand and introduced herself. “Hello, my name is Helga Knutsen. And you must be Reverend Button. I saw you at the festival, but we didn't get a chance to say hello.”

I shook her hand and looked around at all the people. “Very impressive. I don't think I've ever seen this many people in a library at one time.”

“It's the usual stampede. Mondays in particular. We have a lot of meetings and classes on Mondays.”

While Burton questioned Helga about anything she might have seen or heard from her patrons, I strolled through the rows of books and said hello to some people I knew from the church and town. I saw a group of Hopontops huddled around a table studying a map and waved hello to Flaming Arrow. I bumped into Gramma Edna among the cookbooks and then Mr. O'Malley with his science class in the largest section of the library: “Explosives and Fireworks.” Jonny was with his class doing a research project on how to chemically enhance the potency of gunpowder.

Jonny looked over and saw me. “Whatcha doing here, Dad?”

“Sheriff Ernie has asked me to help him with his investigation.”

“Really?
Can I come?”

“It's the morning of a school day. You can't just skip school.”

Mr. O'Malley heard us talking. “Are you kidding? Deny one of my students an opportunity to go with a policeman on a real investigation? He can go. He
should
go.”

“Yeah, Dad, I
should
go. I'm sure Mr. O'Malley would want me to.”

I studied Jonny's eyes. I couldn't help but think he had an ulterior motive—something in his tone of voice—but I couldn't put my finger on it. Hmm. If nothing else, Janice would be happy if I took him along. “Fine, then. Get your things. I'll have to check with Burton first. This isn't going to get you out of doing your homework, buster.”

We rejoined Burton back at the main desk, where he was checking out some books he had on hold. He agreed to have Jonny tag along; they were buddies. Then, as we were saying our good-byes, I thought of one more question for Helga.

“Burton said that literacy and employment in Boomtown is
almost
100 percent. Who's the holdout around here?”

Helga smiled. “That would be Volodenka Sviatoslavova. Nobody can pronounce the name, so we just call him Denk. He lives down by the river. I'm sure Burton can tell you all about him. Nice meeting you.”

As we went out the door and crossed Town Square, I asked, “Learn anything?”

“In any given two-week period, Helga sees nearly every citizen in this town. They check out books and talk about what's going on—the local gossip, current events, upcoming activities—you name it. She's heard all the theories and rumors, but nothing specific. It's a mystery. How could anyone come and go, take what he needs, dig a tunnel, dump dirt, for almost six months as far as we know, without ever being seen? I'm stumped.”

“Don't give up yet, Burton. Something's bound to turn up. So where are we going now?”

“Your question about Denk gave me an idea. He's a good one to talk to. He's down by the river and out in the woods near the fireworks factory. Maybe he's seen some-thing. We're going out to his place.”

Jonny leaned forward from the back seat and said, “It's by the fireworks factory? Why would you go out there?” Again, I heard that anxious tone in his voice.

“Why
shouldn't
we look there? It's near Lazy's farm, and it's near TNT Trail, where I saw that man wearing my coat.”

“What man?” Jonny asked.

“Didn't I tell you about that? There was a man, and I think he was wearing my coat—you know, the one I can't seem to find? He wasn't very tall, now that I remember. The coat dragged on the ground. He had on a wool cap pulled down low and a red scarf. I remember the scarf. But I couldn't see his face.”

Jonny leaned back. He seemed relieved. “It could have been anybody.”

“Not just
anybody
,” I pointed out, studying Jonny in the rearview mirror. “I think it was our mysterious
somebody.
”

I was beginning to think maybe someone else in the car thought so too.

CHAPTER 13

Denk

A
s we drove out past the fireworks factory, Burton filled us in on the details about Volodenka Sviatoslavova. Volodenka, or “Denk” as he was called, lived with his wife and seven children down by the river west of town for as long as anyone could remember, same as his father and his grandfather before that.

Burton said, “They've always been what you'd call mountain men, proud and independent, hunters and trappers and fishermen. There's a rumor that Denk's ancestors can be traced all the way back to the Varangian Vikings, to the three brothers themselves, Rurik, Sineus, and Truvor. No one really knows for sure because Denk's family has always kept to themselves, but you can't look at his seven-foot frame, blond hair and beard, heavy leather boots and animal skins, and not imagine him plundering the coastline of Norway with other Viking marauders.

“Two years ago, his wife died of pneumonia, leaving him to raise seven children alone. He's been on his own ever since.”

“Raising seven children by himself?”

“He's got the help of the older kids, but yeah, he's on his own.”

I was trying to imagine raising our four kids without Janice's help when we pulled up in front of their ramshackle cabin at the end of a muddy road. The house, if you could call it that, was a hodge-podge of sections culled together under a tin roof and patched with tarpaulin and sheets of bark. A pencil-thin trickle of smoke rose from a river-rock chimney, while a wan light shone through one of the window openings that were covered in thin plastic sheeting.

Two of the children were out in the front yard tending a sow with her piglets. Another stood nearby feeding the chickens. Denk was to the far right of the house split-ting wood. An older boy gathered up the pieces after they went flying under the powerful swings of his giant father. He stopped and shouldered the ax and watched us as we climbed out of the car and walked over to where he waited.

“Morning, Denk. Wasn't sure if you'd be home. Thought you might be out hunting.”

Denk towered over all of us. Two piercing blue eyes stared suspiciously out of the nest of his long hair and scraggly beard. A puff of steam curled up from his beard in the cool, morning air. He was wearing a cloak made out of beaver and fox skins with a wide leather belt around his waist that held a huge bone-handled hunting knife in its sheath. He had on deerskin pants and heavy boots and a thick, cotton shirt.

He finally answered in a heavy Slavic accent, “Got me a moose two days ago. That's enough for now.” He gestured with his thumb toward the animal hanging dead on a hook from a tree.

“That's a big one,” Burton said. “No doubt about it.”

Denk just stood there like an iceberg. It didn't look like he'd be thawing anytime soon.

Pointing at me, Burton said, “This is the new pastor from Boomtown Church, and this is his boy, Jonny. We were out looking for clues about the robberies—you heard about those? Thought maybe you'd seen or heard something while you were out hunting or fishing.”

Denk didn't answer right away. Then he said, “Yeah. I found something.”

“You did?”

“Sure. 'Bout a month ago. Down by the river.”

“Really? What was it?”

“A letter, I s'pose. You want it?”

“Yes. Of course. I'd like to see it, please.”

Denk put down his ax and led us to the cabin. A single kerosene lamp illuminated the dark interior. When my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see three more girls sit-ting on benches and gathered around a sturdy, hand-carved table. One was reading, the oldest was sewing a loose hem on a dress, and the youngest, a girl of about three years old, was perched in a high chair and playing with a rag doll. They stared at us silently and then went back to their activities.

The wood floor was bare but clean and dry. Shelves around the walls held canned goods and other supplies. At the far end was the wood stove and fireplace. A pot of some- thing was bubbling over the low fire. A rifle was pinned to the wall over the mantel. Sitting on the crude mantel was a photo of a beautiful blonde woman—their mother, I assumed—in a rough frame.

Denk tromped across the room and retrieved a single sheet of paper that was propped behind the photo. He handed it to Sheriff Ernie and said, “Can't read it. Don't know what it says. Don't care. You can have it.”

Burton took it over near the lamp and studied it for a moment. It
was
a letter—at least, part of a letter in any case. I couldn't possibly know, because it was written in carefully rendered Chinese characters. It was scribed in black ink on a thin sheet of foolscap that was frayed and yellowed with age. Burton held it up to the light and studied it.

“We'll have to find someone to translate it,” I said.

“No, I don't think so. I can read it.”

“How? It's in Chinese.”

“I know. I can read Chinese.”

“You can?”

“Sure 'nough. When I worked at the powder factory, my friends down there taught me to read and speak Chinese. I'm a little rusty, but I think I can muddle through well enough to make some sense out of it.”

He started to translate haltingly: “
follow directions . . . then I .
. .
no . . . it says
you . . . find hidden . . .
I don't know this word
. . .
something is hidden
. . . secret . . .
This word means ‘secret.'”

“What's secret?” Jonny whispered, leaning over Burton's shoulder to see.

“I don't know. It doesn't say. But there
is
a warning. Look here:
‘Tell no one . . . journey . . . come . . . trust
. . . then it says a name . . . I think it's
Change
. . . it's the old name of Boomtown! Then something about
friends
. . .”