Scarecrow (14 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Scarecrow
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“For me, yes. But this young lady …”
He ignored my eye rolling.
“ … will have a burger and coffee.”
She turned to me. “Rare, medium, or well done?”
“Medium, please.”
When she left, taking the unused menus with her, he said, “I would have pegged you for a rare.”
“Looks are deceiving.”
“Not when it comes to turkey,” he reminded me.
I had the grace to blush.
“What is your usual?” I asked with a gleam in my eye. “Venison?”
“Tell me.” He leaned across the table, and his expression was not completely friendly. “Why are deer so much more precious to you than, say, turkeys? Because they're cuter?” He pulled a napkin from the metal container and tossed it at me. “They're both God's creatures, you know.”
He had me.
Sally returned with silverware and steaming coffee. This was a high-class place.
“You must come here often,” I said, anxious to change the subject.
“Almost every day.”
“What do you do, when you're not hunting?” I asked carelessly, not meaning to revive the sensitive subject. But this time he didn't rise to the bait.
“I'm a … carpenter.”
Involuntarily my eyes dropped to his hands. Strong and brown, one cradled his coffee cup, the other rested lightly on the Formica tabletop.
“That's right.” He followed my gaze. “Like you, I work with my hands. But,” he smiled, “I don't save lives. Just houses. I refurbish them. Make them habitable again.”
“Sounds interesting.” With a shock, the memory of a particular
old house came back to me. The emergency with the boy had temporarily wiped it from my mind. “I see a lot of old houses when I'm riding around.”
“Do you know how old?”
I shook my head.
“The average house around here is pre-Revolutionary. Sixteen-ninety to seventeen-sixty.”
“No kidding? I had a lousy teacher for American History. But I can see how it would be interesting when you're surrounded by it.”
“Down here you're surrounded by it all the time.”
Sally plunked their orders down. His “usual” turned out to be meatloaf and mashed potatoes with coleslaw on the side. My burger was done perfectly. Conversation lagged as we dug in. When we had cleaned our plates, he said unexpectedly, “You were fine back there.”
His tone of genuine respect caught me off guard. He didn't know
how
fine. He didn't know how nervous I was with that Boy Scout. And he didn't know my track record with kids. With—one kid.
“Just how serious was it?” he asked.
With a jolt, I remembered he was speaking of Bryan, not Sophie. “If Maggie or I had loosened our grip,” I said slowly, “he would have bled to death in a few minutes.”
“That's what I thought.”
“Actually, this has been an interesting day.” Impulsively I described my attack.
His expression ran the gamut from interest, to concern and then outrage. As I came to the end of the story, his brown hands clenched and unclenched on the table as if around the neck of my attacker. “Have you reported this?”
“No. I was about to when I walked in on that emergency.”
“What are we waiting for? I'll drive you to the police station right now.” He threw down a tip, grabbed the bill, and stood up.
I hesitated.
“What's wrong?”
I remained mute. He was watching me.
“This isn't the first attack.”
He sat back down.
“Someone shot out my tire a while ago.”
“For God's sake. Did you report that?”
“No. I thought it was an accident. I took it to Mike's garage. You know Mike?” Silly question. Everybody knows everybody in Bayfield.
He nodded.
“Mike told me it was probably just some kid shooting rabbits.” I kneaded my napkin into a tight ball. “But now I'm not so sure.”
“Come on. Let's go.” He stood up. “You can tell the police all about it.”
“But I can't.” I remained obstinately seated.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn't see his face and I don't know where I was.”
He stared.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Lost again.”
“But … how did you find your way back to the motel?”
“I have no idea.” I shrugged. “As soon as he fell off, I turned the throttle up all the way and kept going until I saw the motel sign. I don't know how I got there or how long it took … .” I made a zero with my thumb and forefinger.
He shook his head. “What about the house? Any details? Was it brick or wood? Two or three stories? Did it have a porch?”
“Brick. It had a wooden porch. And I think it had three stories.”
“Now we're getting somewhere. How about chimneys?”
“Don't know.”
“Color?”
“Too dark.”
“You said it was set back among some trees and the driveway was overgrown?”
I nodded.
“What about the truck? Make? Color?”
“I think it was a Ford. Same as yours, actually. But I couldn't tell the color. Light gray or white.”
“As soon as it's daylight, I want to drive you around the area. This house has to be within a five-mile radius.”
“I don't know—it might have been more. I was doing about a hundred miles per hour.”
“Well, it's worth a try. I'll pick you up at six A.M. sharp.” He got up, and this time I joined him.
With his hand between my shoulder blades, he steered me toward the cash register. As he paid the bill, Sally paused and said “so long” to both of us. But her smile was only for him.
 
 
Back in my room, I was still jazzed up from my emotional day. I couldn't sleep and I didn't feel like reading. Rummaging through a drawer, I came across Becca's sketchbook. I carried it to the bed and began browsing through it. Barns, houses, sheds. Barns, houses … house! I sat up. There it was. The house. Brick. Wooden porch. Three stories. Trees. Driveway overgrown. But Becca had done me one better. As was her custom, she had drawn it from many different angles. And she had zeroed in on details. There were two chimneys, in which she had meticulously drawn every brick. And a rear view, showing that the ground behind the house sloped down to the river. But the clincher was a side view that showed the owner's initials and a date imbedded in the brickwork: “I & S—1723.” For identification, that was as foolproof as a fingerprint or DNA sample. With this sketch in hand, there was no reason why we couldn't locate the house tomorrow.
It was a black-and-white day. Winter, on her annual laundering kick, had bleached the color out of everything. Cornstalks, once a warm yellow, were stark white. The wheat fields, once the tawny brown of fresh toast, were the sickly gray of oatmeal. And the sky, usually a variation of every color of the rainbow, was one solid color—gray. Like gray wool. No—gray clay. Instead of lifting you up, it pressed you down, like a pot lid.
Tom was on time. As I came out, he started to climb down from the cab, but I zipped around to the other door before he could open it. Would he ever learn some manners? Or rather, would he ever dump his old-fashioned ones?
The first thing I did was show him Becca's sketch.
“Who did that?”
I told him.
“This'll be duck soup. That's Israel and Sarah Wistar's place.”
“No kidding.” I had no idea who Israel and Sarah were.
“I worked on that house a few years ago. But the descendants all died and it was boarded up. I didn't know it was occupied again.”
“Maybe it isn't.”
He looked at me.
“Well, I've been thinking. Maybe that guy just parked there, waiting for me. I never saw him go into the house, you know.”
“That's true.” He was thoughtful. “Let's ride over and take a look.” He shifted gears and we moved off.
“Dreary day,” he commented.
“You're not kidding. It's rare when the scenery around here doesn't give me a lift. But not today.”
“How did you end up in this neck of the woods?”
“By accident. I got off the turnpike and landed here. I was so tired, I jumped at the first motel I came to.”
“The Oakview Motor Lodge?”
“Right.”
“Lucky us.”
I glanced at him, checking for sarcasm. There was no sign.
We drove in silence for a while. It was that kind of day.
“We're almost there.” He perked up.
I started scanning the side of the road. Sure enough, the familiar driveway, choked with dead grass and weeds, came into view. “Do you think we should stop? What if someone's there?”
“I'll cruise past.”
He drove by, neither increasing nor decreasing his speed.
I craned my neck, trying to see up the driveway. The house was shabby. And the windows were all boarded up—something that had escaped my notice in the dark. There was no truck in sight.
“Shall we go back?” he asked.
“I guess. Maybe he dropped something. Or there's some sign of our scuffle.”
He made a U-turn. As usual, there was no traffic to worry about. We pulled into the driveway.
I jumped out and started searching the ground. There was a deep gouge where I'd popped my wheelie and dumped my assailant. I bent lower, looking carefully among the bedraggled grass. It was badly trampled, but I found nothing else. After one more scan, Tom suggested we walk around the back and look at the
river. On the way, he pointed out the date and initials in the side wall. Intricately worked in blue and red bricks, they spelled out I & S, and under that, 1723, just as in Becca's sketch.
“Wow!” I said.
“You like that?”
“It's fabulous.” And I meant it. It sort of gave me goose bumps. He seemed inordinately pleased by my reaction.
The ground leading down to the river was wet and soggy. My Reeboks and his heavy work boots squished as we walked. There was a thin coating of ice at the edge of the river. Suddenly cold, I shivered. He started to put his arm around me when a noise caused us both to turn.
Two men in psychedelic-orange vests—mandatory hunting gear—stood near the house, staring down at us. They both carried rifles.
I started walking up the slope toward them. Tom followed.
“We were just admiring the brickwork,” I said, smiling.
“I worked on this house at one time,” Tom said, “and I wanted to show it to my girlfriend.” He cast me an affectionate look.
I refrained from kicking him.
“I hope you don't mind?” I said.
The taller of the two men shrugged. But the shorter one said, “This is private property.”
“I'm sorry,” said Tom. “The place was all boarded up and looked abandoned. We didn't see a sign.”
“The house is empty, but we've got permission to hunt on the land,” he said. “We wouldn't want you to get hurt.” His look expressed the exact opposite.
Unsmiling, they followed us around the house and watched us climb back into the truck.
As we drove off, I waved.
“You shouldn't have done that.”
“Why not?”
“Those guys are tough. They might think you were making fun of them.”
“I doubt it. I don't think they have much sense of fun.”
“Did you recognize either of them?”
His question startled me. “No.”
“Could either of them have been your attacker?”
I considered. “Maybe the taller one. How do I know? I told you I didn't see him. It was dark. And he was behind me the whole time.” I was growing agitated. I didn't like the idea of having come face-to-face with my attacker.
“Easy.” He placed his hand on my knee. “I didn't mean to upset you. Did you notice the smoke?” he asked.
“Smoke?”
“From the chimneys.”
“No.”
“I think that house
is
occupied,” he said. We drove in silence until we neared the motel. “Shall we go to the police station ?” he asked.
“What would I tell them?”
He was thoughful. “I guess you're right.”
I climbed down from the cab. “Thanks,” I said.
With a nod, he drove off.
 
 
When I walked into the lobby, I had a visitor: Juri.
“Hi,” I greeted him cheerfully.
He came up and got right to the point. “Do you have Becca's sketchbook?”
Taken aback, I stammered, “Uh … yes,” and lied, “She lent it to me.”
“I'd like it. Please.”
The “please” was definitely an afterthought.
“Sure. I'll get it right away.” Actually, it was in my backpack, but I thought I'd better go through the charade of getting it from my room, or he might wonder why the hell I was carrying it around with me.
While I waited in my room for the allotted time it takes to
remove a sketchbook from a drawer, I wondered why Juri wanted it so badly. But more important, how did he know where to find it?
As I handed it to him, I asked, “Have you heard when Becca's coming home?”
“No.” Flat and uncompromising.
“Could you give me her Florida phone number?”
He frowned. “They're moving from place to place.”
“Well, the next time you talk to them, would you ask Becca to call me?'
He nodded curtly and strode out.
 
 
The rest of the day was uneventful. I went to bed early, still exhausted from the previous day's adventures.
When the telephone woke me, the clock beside my bed read 2:15. I groped for the receiver. “Yes?”
“Jo?” It was the barest whisper.
“Who is this?”
A little louder. “Becca.”
“Becca? I can hardly hear you. Where are you calling from? Florida?”
“No, I'm …”
A strong male voice with a foreign accent spoke sharply in the background.
“Becca?”
We were disconnected.
I punched the operator button.
“Hang up please and dial again,” the robot woman's voice chirped.
Trace a call. How do you trace a call
? My sleepy brain refused to function. Information? Maybe they'd know. I dialed it.
“Information. How may I help you?”
“I want to trace a call,” I said.
“Where are you calling from?” The woman's voice was annoyingly calm.
“Bayfield, New Jersey. The Oakview Motor Lodge. I just received the call a minute ago.” I gave her my number. “It's urgent.”
“Just a minute, please.” Conferring in the background.
Hurry up, for God's sake.
“Was that a local call?”
“No, I don't think so. Florida? I don't know …”
“Just a minute, please.”
Oh, hell. The whole world could blow up and you'd still be saying, “Just a minute, please.”
“I'm sorry, I'm afraid we have no record of your call.”
“Shit. Thanks a lot.” I hung up. It was only then that I remembered the magic number for tracing calls—*69. But now it was too late. Some detective I was. Now all I could do was pray Becca would call back. But who cut her off?

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