Steve Hamilton - The hunting wind

I looked up and down his side of the block, but I couldn’t see him. He’s probably inside one of the houses, I thought, having a cold beer with somebody. I could have gone and found him, and helped him finish up his houses. But my eyes were still hurting from looking at all the microfilm. I sat in the truck and waited for him. And eventually, I started to doze off. He scared the hell out of me when he came back and knocked on my window.

“What the hell took you so long?” I said when he got in. “You didn’t have to get everybody’s life stories.”

“We got talking,” he said. “There’s a lot of nice people in this neighborhood.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“About Maria, you mean?”

“Randy, don’t make me hurt you.”

“No, Alex. I didn’t find out anything. Nobody’s been around here for very long. How about you?”

“Same story,” I said. “Although I did prevent a teenager from having a party and trashing his house.”

“I didn’t stop at Maria’s old house. You know, Mr. Shannon’s place. And there was one house a couple doors down where nobody was home…”

“Mr. Shannon wanted us to stop and say hello,” I said. I looked at my watch. “He said he’d be home after three. You wanna go see him now?”

“Sure,” he said. “We’ll see if we can go upstairs. I’ll show you where it all happened.”

“Somehow, I don’t think it looks quite the same now,” I said.

“Yeah, but I bet you’ll feel it. You know, the raw power in the place. I bet Mr. Shannon feels it all the time. He’s walking around up there, you know, maybe putting all his laundry into his basket or something, and he stops in the middle of the room, and he says to himself, ‘Damn, I always get the strangest feeling in this room. Like something wonderful and amazing happened here once.’ ”

“I’ll let you ask him about that one,” I said. “Come on, let’s go.”

As we got out, a car passed us on the street and turned into a driveway.

“Hey, that’s the house where nobody was home,” Randy said.

The car stopped in the middle of the driveway. A man got out of the car and slammed the door.

“He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to talk right now,” I said. But Randy was already jogging down the sidewalk toward him.

“Excuse me, sir!” he yelled to the man.

The man was on his front porch when he turned around to look at us. He didn’t say anything.

“Can I ask you something real quick?” Randy said.

The man folded his arms in front of him.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Randy said, stopping in the man’s driveway. I finally caught up to him.

“What do you guys want?” the man said. “I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste your time.”

“We just want to ask you something,” Randy said. “Did you live here in 1971?”

“What kind of question is that?” the man said. “How’s it your business to know where I lived and when?”

“We’re looking for somebody who used to live down the street,” Randy said. “We thought you might remember her. If you lived here then, I mean. If you didn’t, then just say so and we’ll be on our way.”

“Be on your way, then,” the man said. “I didn’t live here in 1971. I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to walk down this street in 1971."

“Fine,” Randy said. “We’re sorry to bother you. Have a good day.”

Randy turned to go. I looked at the man one more time, and then I followed Randy.

“Hold it, guys,” the man said. He came down the steps after us.

We both stopped on the sidewalk.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a bad day. I guess I don’t need to take it out on you.”

“It’s all right,” Randy said.

“Seriously, I’ve only lived here since 1993,” the man said. “I can’t help you with 1971. Although…”

“Yes?”

“The couple I bought this place from. I remember them pretty well. They were pretty old, the last white couple on the block, I think. The wife, she didn’t want to move, but the husband, well, I think they had been fighting about it for a long time. All during the closing, in fact, I thought they’d go over the table at each other.”

“Do you have any idea where they might be now?” I said.

“They said they were moving to an apartment over in Westland. One of those assisted-living places. Kind of like half a nursing home, you know what I mean? God, Mrs. Meisner just hated the thought of going there; you could tell.”

“That was their name, Meisner?”

“Fred and Muriel Meisner,” he said. “Imagine having to get married and change your name to Muriel Meisner.”

“You don’t remember where this place was they moved to?”

“No, but I’m sure it was Westland. I remember saying to myself, ‘Look out, Westland. You don’t know what’s about to hit you.’ If you ever meet them, you’ll know what I mean.”

We thanked the man, then walked down to Mr. Shannon’s house and knocked on his door. When he opened it, we made our introductions and answered his questions. Yes, I was a real private investigator. No, I didn’t carry a gun. Randy? No, he wasn’t a private investigator, but he had pitched for the Tigers. While Mr. Shannon settled down to hear the story, I asked if I could use his phone book. And his phone.

I looked under “Assisted Living” in the Yellow Pages. It said “See Nursing Homes,” so I did. There were two listed in Westland; Azelia Park and Peach Tree Senior Community. I tried Azelia Park first, asking if I could speak to the Meisners. They didn’t live there. I tried asking if there had been any Meisners living there in the past few years, but the woman wouldn’t go for that one. I was starting to get tired of people who wouldn’t give me information just because they didn’t want to.

I called Peach Tree Senior Community and asked for the Meisners. Three seconds later, my call was transferred. Six rings later, a man’s voice answered.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Meisner? Mr. Fred Meisner?”

“Speaking! Who is this?”

“My name is Alex McKnight. I’m a private investigator.”

“A private what? Muriel, for the love of God, will you turn that thing off!”

“A private investigator, sir. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for-”

“Muriel, did you hear me? Am I just talking to myself now?”

“Mr. Meisner…”

“Excuse me, what did you say you were?”

“A private investigator, sir.”

“Muriel, in the name of all that is holy, will you please turn that stupid thing off for one second! I have a man on the phone here! Can you see me standing here with the phone next to my head? Do you think I’m doing this just because I like the way it feels against my ear?”

“Sir, maybe we could just stop by. Would that be more convenient for you? I see you’re on Cherry Hill.”

“No, it’s Peach Tree! It’s the Peach Tree place! Not cherries!”

“I know, but it’s on Cherry Hill Road, isn’t it? I see it in the phone book here.”

“The Peach Tree Senior Community! It’s quite a place! Muriel, do you want me to drop dead right now? I swear to God, if you don’t turn that thing off, I’m going to have a massive stroke right in front of your eyes! Is that what you want?”

“Mr. Meisner! We’ll be there in twenty minutes!”

“You’re coming over here? Do you know how to get here? It’s on Cherry Hill Road!”

“We’ll see you in twenty minutes! Good-bye!”

I hung up the phone. When I went to look for Randy and Mr. Shannon, they were nowhere to be found. And then a voice floated down from upstairs. “We’re up here, Alex!”

I went up the stairs and found them standing in the guest bedroom.