Final Notice (20 page)

"Mr. Stoner," he said with a trace of bitterness in his voice. "What more can we do for you?"

"I wonder if we could come in, Jake, and talk?"

"About Haskell, you mean?"

I nodded.

He took a deep breath and said, "Why not? Mother isn't in any state to talk. Well, you can imagine. But if you want to talk to me. I mean if there's anything . . . "

He looked down miserably at the walk.

Kate patted him on the arm and Jake flinched and pulled back.

"I'm sorry," he said after a second. "It's just been an awful night. And then I've never much liked being touched. I guess it's a Lord family tradition."

He led us down that corridor to the fifties den, where we sat on the L-shaped couch. I introduced him to Kate and he nodded to her politely. Then I told him what I knew about his brother. About the speed. About the art books and the killings and the fact that Hack had been seen at the Withrow gym.

"I know it's a hard thing to ask of you, Jake. I know how you feel about your brother. But Withrow's only a stone's throw from here. Have you seen him since he moved away? Has he come by the house?"

Jake glanced about the room with the same forlorn look he'd had on his face when he'd heard his mother talking Haskell down. He shook his head sadly and said, "Yeah, I've seen him. Or what was left of him. I just didn't want Mother to know."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"A couple of months ago."

"Do you know why he was hanging around the gym and the field house?" I said. "What drew him back there?"

"Old times, I guess," Jake said with a sigh. "I guess he just couldn't believe what had happened to him."

I looked closely at the boy's face. "You don't know where he is now, do you, Jake?"

He didn't bat an eye. "No. I'd tell you if I did." Jake got up suddenly from his chair. "Can I show you something, Mr. Stoner? Can I show you what Hack used to be like? Then maybe you'll understand why he came back to the school and the house."

He led us back down the hallway, up the mahogany staircase to a second floor room. "This was Hack's room," he said as we stood outside the door. "His stuff is still inside."

He pushed the door open and we walked in.

At first glance it looked like a boy's room out of a television serial, right down to the Dartmouth pennant hung above the knotty pine bunkbeds and the trophies on the bureau. Only when you looked at it more carefully, the rah-rah flavor disappeared. Instead of black-light posters and a picture of Farrah Fawcett, you saw Haskell's water colors on the walls, matted and neatly framed like the one in Effie Reaves's trailer. Instead of Time and Newsweek there were wrestling magazines piled in a wicker basket. A family Bible sat on a lamp table, with a red ribbon sticking out of the gold leaves to mark the page. A sketch of Jesus was pasted to the closet door, His eyes looking empty and remote, as if He'd lost all interest in the inhabitants of that little room. And above the bunk beds, a single photo of Haskell and Jake, comparing biceps while their mother looked on with mixed approval -a little allegory of Lord family life.

It was all as sad as Jacob had known it would be, full of the heart-breaking ironies that define any tragic scene. The paintings, sensitive and colorful, dwindling to that bare line sketch of a remorseless Christ on the closet door. The Bible with its tatter of ribbon and its birthday cake trim, sitting on the bedstand as if that was what he'd read before sleep -searching out some reason for his own fitful, violent turn of mind. And all of it set in that never-never land of the college banners and the gilded trophies, which sat like bronzed baby shoes on. "If you could have seen him before the Reaves woman," Jake said. "Before she and mother had destroyed his confidence, you'd understand why I love him. He was so talented, Mr. Stoner. So sensitive and so strong. He was perfect." Jake blushed as if he'd said a dirty word. "I know that sounds corny, but he was very important to me. I wouldn't have survived childhood without him. Without my big brother."

Jake lowered his head. "I'll let you know if he comes back, Mr. Stoner. But I hope he doesn't. God help me, I hope you never find him. And that wherever he is, he's found peace."

We left Jacob in his brother's room and walked back down the staircase to the door.

"It's so sad," Kate said to me. "And terrible. I don't know how he can stand it."

"That wasn't Haskell Lord we were seeing in there," I said to her. "That was Jake. The way he remembers his brother. And that is sad. But so is what his brother did to Twyla Belton and Effie Reaves. And more terrible than you could believe."

"I just feel sorry for him," she said. "That's all."
 
 

We drove silently through the cold autumn morning to Ogden Street, parked in front of the elm with the yellow X on its trunk, and walked up that dingy stairway to the third floor, to Gerald Arnold's hippie flat.

"Who lives here?" Kate said, eyeing the peace symbol and the cross on the door. "Bishop Pike?"

"Gerald Arnold," I said flatly. "A man who knows a bit about speed."

I knocked at the door and waited. If he was coming off the night shift it would take him a moment to wake up and get his bearings. But Gerald didn't take that moment. He just flung the door wide open and said, "Yeah?"

He was naked as a jay, except for a sweater cap on his hairy head and a joint he'd filed like a pencil behind his ear and apparently forgotten when he'd gone to sleep.

Kate clapped a hand to her mouth and laughed. Gerald looked down penitently at his naked body. "Oh, wow, man!" he said. "I'm sorry!"

He padded over to the mattress, pulled off the sheet, and wrapped it around his hips.

"I don't know what's come over me," he said, knotting the sheet at his waist. "I've been doing some weird things lately, man. Forgetting where I am and stuff. It's that fucking night shift, you know?" He looked down at the floor and said, "And then going to church all the time. It just wears you down, man."

"Can we come in, Gerald?"

"Oh, sure, man," he said and sat down on the mattress. "Just don't pay any attention to the mess."

The place looked exactly the same as it had on Wednesday night. Right down to the calico cat lapping milk from a saucer. I sat down on one of the Heart Mart armchairs and Kate looked at the other one and said, "I'll pass."

"So what can I do for you?" Gerald Arnold said.

"If I wanted to buy some speed, Gerald, where could I get it?"

"I'm clean, man," he said quickly. "I told you I'm clean."

"This is purely academic, Gerald. I just want to know who deals speed in Hyde Park and where I can find them."

"Academic, huh? That means not-for-real, right?"

I laughed.

He scratched his head, found the joint, blushed a little, then said, "Aw, well, what the hell!" and lit up. "You do a little smoke, man?" he said, passing the joint to me.

I shook my head. "Different generation."

"Well, I'm not!" Kate said.

"All right!" Gerald passed her the j and she took a long toke.

"It ain't real good stuff," Gerald said. "But it'll get you high."

Kate blew out the smoke and grinned at him. "This is dynamite!"

"No," he said with a tickle of pride in his voice. "It's just street-grass." He took another toke and passed it back to Kate, who was beginning to look a little glassy-eyed.

"About the speed," he said and puffed out a cloud of sweetsmelling smoke. "There was a dude selling pills up near the high school. Real ragged-looking fucker with mean eyes and black hair."

"I think I know him," I said grimly and thought that old Hack hadn't been hanging around that gym for sentimental reasons alone. "Where would you find this guy, if you wanted to score some drugs?"

He shrugged. "Up at the track, man. There are some trees behind the fieldhouse and he'd kind of mosey on back there to do his business. Only I ain't seen this guy around in awhile."

"How long a while?"

"At least 'a couple of weeks, man. And that's an eternity in the trade."

I glanced at Kate, who was now sitting in the other chair and looking very happy.

"Is there another place in Hyde Park where speed freaks hang out? Some place where they might know this guy or what happened to him?"

"Yeah," he said. 'There's a place in Oakley on Edwards Road. A coffee shop, you know? Some dudes over there used to hang out with this guy. Only..." He looked at Kate and shook his head. "I wouldn't be taking no chick over there. Especially a nice chick like her. Dudes might get the wrong idea, you know?"

"Will you come over there with me, Gerald?" I said, because I had the feeling that I wouldn't get anywhere on my own. "All I want to know is where the guy you've been talking about hangs out."

"Sure," he said. "I'll go. But it'll cost you."

I reached for my wallet and Gerald shook his head.

"You gotta come to church with me, man. Talk to Brother Steams. Get a little religion, man."

I smiled and told him I'd go to church with him.
 

KATE WASN'T thrilled with the idea of splitting up. And it didn't take a detective to figure out why. She was still feeling guilty about the previous night and she didn't want to leave me with the impression that there was a drop of fear left in her body. For better than three years, she hadn't wanted to leave anyone with that impression, because for better than three years she'd been secretly afraid that it was her weakness, rather than her strength, that had cost her her marriage.

"This is a pretty lousy thing to do to your partner, Harry," she said as we pulled into the library lot.

I pointed to the back seat, where Gerald Arnold was bouncing around like a kid on a merry-go-round horse, and said, "It wasn't my idea. It was Gerald's."

"Yeah?" She gave me a look, as if to say, "You didn't put up much of a fight." And of course, I hadn't. Whether it stung her pride or not, I didn't want Kate involved with the men Gerald and I were going to, meet. I wanted her out of harm's way, even if it meant cheating on our agreement. Which was hopelessly old-fashioned and chauvinistic and probably a few other disagreeable things. But that's the way I felt.

"Well, thanks for the grass, Gerald," Kate said as she got out of the car. "And try to see that this one doesn't get into any trouble."

"Oh, I'll look out for him," he said earnestly.

"I'll be back in about an hour," I told her. "If I come up with anything, I'll call. If not, I'll probably stop at Withrow to see if I can dig up any more information about Hack."

"Uh-huh," she said grouchily and walked off to the library door. Gerald tapped me on the shoulder.

"Yeah?" I said.

"I was just wondering," he said in all innocence. "What does a housing inspector have to do with speed freaks?"

I laughed. "I'm a private detective, Gerald. Not a housing inspector."

"Oh!" He smiled as if that had taken care of all his doubts.

"Like Rockford Files, huh?"

"Like Rockford Files," I said.

"Neat," Gerald Arnold said and sat back on the seat.
 
 

Oakley is a small municipality on the northeast side of town. It's a blue-collar neighborhood, for the most part- modest homes that are as decent as well-kept graves and, here and there, a small factory or block of retail stores. Like most bluecollar neighborhoods, it has its rough spots. Bars where the boys that work at G.M. and Cincinnati Millacron go to blow off a little steam. The part of Edwards Road that Gerald directed me to was very rough, indeed. Right above old Duck Creek Road. A hillside dotted with tough saloons and eateries; full of truckers and motorcycle hoods.

We parked beneath a drooping street lamp on the west side of Edwards, and Gerald told me to wait in the car while he checked things out.

He walked across the street to one of the diners -a seedylooking spot called the Tic-Toc Lounge. Real Home Cooking, it said in decal on the window. But the two or three guys sitting side-saddle on their choppers in the parking lot didn't look as if they knew what a real home was. Or much cared. Gerald walked up to one of them and started to talk. He pointed across Edwards to where I was parked. The guy he was talking to held out his hand as if he were expecting a tip.

I figured that's exactly what he was expecting. And I was right. Gerald came trotting back across the street and leaned up against the Pinto. "He'll talk to you," he said. "But he wants some bread."

"How much bread?" I said.

"Twenty bucks."

I said all right.

Gerald waved his arm and a skinny, balding man hopped off one of the bikes and crossed the street. He had a head like a painted egg. Little curls of brown hair that lay flat against his naked skull. Big brown eyes that were almost boyish, in spite of the dark circles beneath then. A small chipmunk's mouth full of black broken teeth that looked as if they'd been knocked out, once upon a time, and then thrown back inside for storage. He was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, blue jeans, and sneakers. No shirt. And he smelled like Norris Reaves's goat shed. Speed breath. The smell of rot.