James Swain - The Night Monster

“You’re on the same wavelength,” I said.

“That’s it. Is it that way with your daughter?”

“Sometimes.”

“After Danny disappeared, I had a hard time adjusting. Even though she was gone, something in my psyche told me that she was still alive. I know this sounds crazy, but I could still feel her emotions, like that day on the playground.”

“Is that why you keep the journal?”

“Yes. I write down all the things that I think Danny would want to know about. Like friends from high school who’ve gotten married, and relatives who’ve passed away. I want to make it easier for her when she comes back.”

Over the years, the parents of missing children had told me the special things they’d done for their kids in their absence. I’d always assumed it was a way of coping.

“Sometimes, I feel like I’m flogging myself,” he said.

“You have to follow your heart.”

“Not your conscience?”

“No, your heart. It will always tell you the right thing to do.”

“Is that what guides you?”

“Yes.”

I heard a scratching sound on the door. Linderman heard it, too.

“I wonder who that is,” he said.

I rolled out of bed. Out of habit, I grabbed my Colt off the dresser, then threw open the door. Buster lay on the stoop, his tail thumping the ground. I glanced at the manager’s office. The light was off, and I let Buster in.

I awoke at dawn to the sound of rolling thunder.

I threw off the covers and went outside. The clouds had darkened and it was raining hard. My car’s windows were down, and I climbed in, and rolled them up. Then I dried the seats. My Legend had been good to me, and I was going to return the favor.

Back inside the motel room, I found Linderman clothed and brushing his teeth. He was the model of efficiency; his bed was already made, his dirty clothes put away. The only thing that looked out of place was the salt-and-pepper stubble dotting his chin.

“Since we’re telling everybody this is a fishing trip, I figured I shouldn’t shave,” Linderman said. “How’s the weather?”

“Crummy. It’s pouring rain.”

“You’re going to have to educate me. Do guys go fishing in the rain?”

“Guys go fishing if the beer is cold,” I replied.

“Is that a hint?”

“Only if you’re still buying.”

We soon hit the road. My first stop was a convenience store a few miles down the highway from our motel. I bought two coffees and a twelve-pack of cold Budweiser. The clerk gave me a harsh look as he rang up my items.

“You new around here?” the clerk asked.

“Visiting from Fort Lauderdale,” I said. “My buddy and I are looking to do a little fishing. Any places you’d recommend?”

“Best fishing is in the next county,” the clerk said.

Another born salesman. I thanked him and left with my items. Outside it was coming down hard. I got into my Legend, and gave Linderman the coffee, then put the twelve-pack on the backseat. Firing up my engine, I aimed my car toward town.

“What’s next?” Linderman asked.

“We need to buy some bait,” I said. “Shiners or minnows would be best.”

“Where do we go?”

“Normally, we’d go to a feed store, but I’m going to play stupid and visit a couple of different stores in town,” I said. “I’ve got a nasty feeling about this place.”

“Besides the sheriff being corrupt?”

We came to a four-way stop. Mine was the only vehicle on the road, and I threw my car into park and pulled the lid off my coffee. “So far, I’ve spoken to two residents, and both have tried to persuade me to leave.”

Linderman sipped his coffee and grimaced. “That could be a coincidence.”

I blew the steam off my drink and took a sip. It tasted like engine oil. I rolled down my window, and poured it out.

“I don’t believe in those,” I said.

Chatham was nothing to write home about. Main Street was a row of flat-roofed buildings with faded brick facades and dirty storefronts. Pickup trucks and old rusted cars were the vehicles of choice. The rain had pushed everyone inside, and I crawled past the buildings looking for a place to park.

“Not much in the way of parking,” Linderman said.

“Like I said, it’s a real friendly place.”

I drove down a side street and found a metered parking lot. I parked in a spot, and dug in my pockets for some change. Linderman produced a quarter.

“My treat,” he said.

He got out, and fed the coin into the meter. I saw him pull the rest of the change from his pocket, and start feeding in more coins.

“Damn meter only gives twelve minutes for a quarter,” Linderman said as we headed toward town. “Even Washington, D.C. isn’t that bad.”

We turned the corner with the rain blowing in our faces. Main Street was quiet, and I spied movement in a storefront window a block away. The fleeting image of a man’s face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“We’re being watched,” I said.

“Think your car is safe?” Linderman asked.

I glanced down the street at my Legend. The notion that someone might break into the trunk and steal Linderman’s guns felt very real to me.

“Not really,” I said.

Linderman took Buster’s leash from my hand. “Why don’t you go do some snooping? I’ll stay here, and make sure no one breaks into your car.”

“Sounds like a plan. If you need me, just make Buster bark.”

“How do I do that?”

“Nudge him with your toe.”

I headed down Main Street. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, with pools of water everywhere I stepped. I came to a pharmacy and ducked beneath the striped awning. I looked up and down the block, then went inside.

The pharmacy was empty. Along the back wall was an old-fashioned ice-cream counter with a hand churn and a penny lick. It was the first thing I’d seen in Chatham that felt friendly. Behind the counter stood a coarse-featured woman wearing blue jeans and an oversized man’s denim work shirt. Her eyes held mine suspiciously.

I can be as charming as the next guy. I flashed her my best smile.

“Good morning.”

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“My buddy and I want to do some fishing,” I replied, sticking with my script. “I was wondering if you could recommend a place to buy bait.”

“Try Reggie’s Bait and Tackle,” she suggested.

“Is that in town?”

“No. I can show you where it is on a map.”

“I’d really appreciate it.”

She moved down the counter and fetched a map that was stuck between the wall and the cash register. She walked with a pronounced limp, and used her hands to stop herself from falling. I got up close to the counter, and pressed my belly to the edge. Looking down, I saw that her right foot was missing from the ankle down.

“Aw, hell, this is the wrong map,” she said. “Hold on a minute.”

She grabbed a cane and pushed open a swinging door to a back room. A towheaded little girl darted out, holding an ice-cream cone.

“Mind your own business, Macey,” the woman said.

“Yes, Momma,” the little girl said.

The woman limped into the back of the store. Macey took her mother’s place behind the counter, the top of her head barely reaching the Formica. Her face was smeared with chocolate ice cream. I’d learned more as a cop talking to kids than I had from anyone else. I pulled a paper napkin out of a dispenser, and handed it to her.

“You’ve got ice cream on your face,” I said.

Macey wiped away the ice cream while licking her cone at the same time.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said.

“I’m a nice stranger.”