Firefly Rain (21 page)

The focus on local news would serve me well, though, in my search. The debut of a new police officer, especially a female one, was always big news. No doubt Hanratty’s hiring in Maryfield would have been splashed all over the front page for a good long while. And with the
Administrator
’s reporting style being best described as “nosy neighbor peeking in your window,” I was bound to find out all that I wanted about Hanratty and probably a bit more.

The days sped by in a blur. The year 2002 was replaced by 2003 and 2004. I saw football games won, basketball games lost, mayors elected and hassled and replaced. Stores opened and closed, paving projects started, dragged on and finally ended, and occasionally someone got themselves shot in a hunting accident. There was no sign of Hanratty anywhere, though. Ten or fifteen times, I cursed under my breath and wished for an online version of the paper with a searchable index.

I was midway through 2005 when the librarian came trotting back down the stairs. “Need any help?” she asked.

“I need some inspiration, I think,” I replied. “I’m looking for a bit of local news, but so help me, I can’t dig it up.”

“Well,” she said, and she pulled up a chair next to mine, “what exactly are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

I looked over at her. Legs demurely crossed under a long navy skirt, chair a genteel distance away, eyes on the scratchy display; she seemed oblivious to the fact that I was staring at her, for which I was thankful. “I’m trying to find out about a police officer.”

“Oh, are you now?” Now she looked at me, her eyes catching mine. “And why, pray tell, are you doing that?”

We locked gazes, and then I looked away. “Well, I’ve had some reason to talk to the police lately, and I figured I’d just like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“Dealing with the police…” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute, I know who you are. You’re that man who had his car stolen, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” I said with a shrug.

“You know, between that and the drawers comment, you might want to think a bit harder about your word choice,” she said mischievously. My face must have fallen, because she leaned forward and patted my hand like a grade-school teacher reassuring a nervous student. “Oh. Don’t look like that. I read about that just the other day, and that’s how I know. Someone stole it right out from in front of your house, didn’t they?”

“Right.” I nodded. “I’m surprised the paper didn’t send someone out to interview me.”

“It would have been too much work,” she said in a stage whisper. “Besides, they’re down the block from the police station, so what more do they need?”

“What indeed?” I shoved my chair back from the reader and narrowly missed going over backward when the feet caught on the carpet. “A few leads might be nice.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, but I might be able to help with the other matter. Who are you looking for?” Her voice was prim, her manner all business, and she slid her chair over to the space mine had just vacated.

“Officer Hanratty,” I told her. “I know she’s not from around here, and I don’t remember her from the last time I was back in town. So I was wondering when she joined the force and if there was anything about her background. You know, where she came from, if she was on the police force anywhere else first, maybe why she came out to Maryfield.”

“And her home address so you could wrap toilet paper around her shrubs?” To my horrified look, she said, “I’m just joking. You are
so
easy to tease. Now hang on one minute.” She sorted through several rolls until she came up with one I’d already looked through.

“Ah,” she said. “This is it.”

“I’ve already been through that one,” I protested.

“You were looking for the wrong thing,” she said with a hint of triumph in her voice. “Hanratty’s her maiden name. When she came here, she was Officer Lee.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling like a fool as she spooled up the tape. “Did her husband die?”

Her response was distracted, her fingers full of microfilm. “He ran off two years ago. Probably running for his life, if you believe half the stories they tell, not that anyone around here repeats them. At least, not where she can hear.”

“That’s probably smart,” I agreed.

“Probably,” she echoed, and she started whipping through film. “Here you go. If I understood you correctly, this should be what
you were looking for.” She scooted her chair half out of the way, and I scooted mine halfway in. One long finger tapped the screen.

“Next time,” she added with a prim little smile, “just ask for help.”

I thought about answering, then decided against it and bent my head to see what Miss Moore had uncovered for me. The headline read “New Additions to Local Police Force,” and underneath was a picture of a man and a woman smiling uncomfortably in Maryfield police uniforms. The date in the corner was June 16, 2002, and lower down on the page were stories about the upcoming election and the exploits of a local boy who’d just been promoted to Double-A Greenville.

I studied the picture for a minute. The woman was much thinner than the Hanratty I knew, but now that I understood what I was looking at, I could see that it was indeed the woman I’d talked to. You could see that same determined look in her eyes, that same set of the jaw, even across the years and the lousy quality of the picture reproduction.

“Wow,” I said. “What happened?”

Moore shrugged. “Nobody really knows. I don’t like prying into other people’s private lives, but the best guess I have is that she liked the town and he didn’t, and when he left town she stayed. Other people have ideas that aren’t quite so nice, but that’s just gossip.” She crossed her arms and made a chipmunk face that explained exactly how she felt about telling tales out of school.

“Hmm,” I said, and I studied the picture. “She seems… determined.”

“Even more so now,” the librarian agreed. “You do want to be on her good side.”

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.” I skimmed the article. There was a lot about how Maryfield was very happy to have two new
officers with experience in the Durham County Sheriff’s Office and police departments. They were out here as part of a new state initiative to share expertise with rural police departments, blah blah blah, and nothing more useful. There were absolutely no biographical details on either one of them, except that vague mention of their previous employment.

That had me curious.

“Read enough?” Miss Moore asked. “I’m afraid there isn’t much else to see, at least not in the
Administrator
. When Officer Lee left, it was regarded as tasteless to report on it. There’s maybe a column inch or two, but it’s buried a couple of pages in. No pictures, of course.”

“Of course.” I turned to her. “When did that happen?”

She shrugged. “About two years ago. That’s also when she, well, it’s just not polite to talk about that sort of thing.”

I thought about the woman I’d seen in the picture, then compared it to the police officer who’d sat in my bedroom and told me how Carl had helped save my life. “I understand, I think.” With a click, I disengaged the reader and rewound the film. “I think I’m going to need to switch to the
N&O
. You don’t have the
Durham Herald-Sun
by any chance, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.” With a shake of her head that didn’t dislodge her bun one little bit, she pulled the microfilm out and shut the reader down. “Give me a minute to put these away. I’ll meet you at the microfiche reader.”

“I’ll bet you will,” I said in my best Groucho Marx, and then I cringed when she gave me a look of noncomprehension. “Never mind. And again, thank you.”

“You keep thanking me like that,” she said as she slammed one drawer shut and opened another one, “and I might get the wrong idea about why you’re down here. There’s such a thing
as being too polite, you know.” Before I could say anything in response, she held up a manila sleeve with half a dozen sheets of microfiche in it. “Start looking in here. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. It’s not likely anyone else will be in today, but if the head librarian stops by, she does like to see me at the front desk.”

She slammed the drawer shut and locked it and was halfway back to the stairs before she remembered she was still holding the microfiche. I got up out of my chair to take it from her and, accidentally, my fingertips brushed hers. Our glances locked again, and this time I couldn’t look away.

“Well,” she said, and she let go of the envelope. Before I could say a word, she was back upstairs, and the door had slammed shut behind her.

“Idiot,” I groaned to myself, and I sat back down. The fiche reader was actually simpler than the film reader was, for which I was most appreciative. Shaking hands aren’t good for working machinery, at least not if you want the damn thing to work.

With a look at the closed door, I slid the first sheet of microfiche in and flipped the machine on.
The News and Observer
was an order of magnitude thicker than the
Administrator
, but some kind soul had chopped it up into sections that let me scan it faster.

On the fourth sheet I found what I was looking for. In black and white, it read “Sheriff’s Office Scandal Probed,” and underneath was a picture of a very unhappy-looking Sheriff’s Deputy Jeremiah Lee. The article danced around words like “financial improprieties” and “prisoner mistreatment” in a way that left no doubt that there was a fine stink that had settled over the whole affair.

Once I’d located the first article, the trail was easy to pick up. More allegations here, witnesses coming forward there, and then, abruptly, the end. March of 2002 brought a resignation, a short
notice, and a disappearance. It looked as if Deputy Lee had cut a deal and left town as part of it. No doubt his wife had resigned her post and followed him.

It made sense, really. Getting away from the big city and burying themselves in a small town that wasn’t likely to know much about what Deputy Lee might or might not have done was perfectly sensible. And if the rural police assistance program was invoked as a justification, there was even less reason for people to ask questions.

No wonder Hanratty—I couldn’t think of her as Lee, no matter how I tried—looked so grim in that photo. This wasn’t something she’d planned on doing, or even wanted to do. But she’d done it anyway, and stuck to it even when the man who’d brought her here had wanted to go.

There was something admirable in that, and also something sad. One of these days, I’d have to figure out the balance.

A quick look at my watch told me that it was getting on time to meet Sam back at his truck, so I tucked the microfiche back in its sleeve and shut the machine off. It had been a productive day, and I’d gotten a lot to think about. Heading back to the house to do that thinking seemed like an excellent idea.

The lights went out.

“What the hell?” I asked, and I froze. The basement was pitch black. No light came in down the stairs, not even under the door.

“Well, God damn it,” I said. Immediately my hand went to my mouth, as if to keep any more cussing from leaking out where the librarian could hear it.

I sat in the dark and the quiet for a second, then flicked the fiche reader back on so I could see by the glow of the screen.

Nothing.

“First brownout of the year. Just my luck.” Carefully, I put
the fiche down and shuffled my way over toward the stairs. The dark felt heavy, pressing in on my eyes like it wanted to blot out even the memory of light, and the air that carried it was no better. With the air-conditioning out, it had a sluggish weight to it, soaking up heat and smell and God knows what else until every breath felt like sucking weak tea through a straw.

Every few steps I banged into a chair or table, imaginary sparks of pain lighting up nothing but the space behind my eyes. I took each collision as a sign that someone wasn’t happy with me, as well as evidence I was going the wrong way. And so I took small, shuffling steps in small, shuffling circles, praying that sooner or later I’d hit the stairs or something like them.

Even the emergency exit sign was out, which worried me more than I would have liked to admit. Moving slowly, I advanced.

Somewhere between ten seconds and ten hours later, I found the banister. Leaning on it like a drunk with his new best friend, I called up the stairs. “Hello? Miss Moore? Could I get a flashlight or something down here?”

I got silence back, silence and a sense of deepening gloom. “Ah, hell,” I told the darkness, and I felt for the first step with my foot.

I couldn’t find it.

I tried again, more frantic. Nothing was there. It was as if the banister led up into nothingness, resting on thin air.

But that was impossible. It had to be resting on something, or at least that’s what the logical center of my mind told me.

Of course, it was also working overtime to remind me that the stairs had been there a minute ago, before the lights had gone out.

“Don’t panic,” I breathed. “You’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.” I took a deep breath, held it, let it out. “The stairs are there. You just missed them, that’s all. Now let’s try again.”

Slowly, I dropped down to my knees, sliding my left hand down the banister post. It went all the way down the bottom, and I nearly let out a sob when my fingers found the junction between metal and carpet. Steeling myself, I slid my hand to the right, tracing the bottom of the post in hopes of crossing the boundary to that first stair.

It wasn’t there. The banister was just next to nothing. I pushed forward, and nothing stopped my hand. There was no way out of the basement.

I fell back, rolled, got myself onto hands and knees. The floor still felt solid enough, and I needed that. Full of fear, I crawled backward, away from where I thought the steps used to be. The basement was crowded, after all. I’d bump into a chair or a table or wall soon enough. I’d find something solid as an anchor.

Two steps back. Four. Six. My breath had a rasping edge to it now, like I’d been running hard.

Eight steps. Still nothing.

“Hello?” I called out. “Somebody? Anybody! Can you hear me?”