John Connolly - Every Dead Thing

A Haven County Sheriff’s Office cruiser, a brown-and-yellow Crown Victoria, was pulled up in front of my car and a deputy, wearing a clean, well-pressed uniform, was leaning against my driver’s door, waiting. As I drew closer I could see the long muscles beneath his shirt. His eyes were dull and lifeless. He looked like an asshole. A fit asshole.

“This your car?” he asked in a Virginia drawl, his thumbs tucked inside a gun belt that glittered with the spotless tools of his trade. On his chest, the name Burns stood out on his perfectly straight identity badge.

“Sure is,” I said, mimicking his accent. It was a bad habit I had. His jaw tightened, if it was actually possible for it to tighten more than it was already.

“Hear you were looking up some old newspapers?”

“I’m a crossword fan. They were better in the old days.”

“You another writer?”

Judging from his tone I didn’t think he read much, at least nothing that didn’t have pictures or a message from God. “No,” I said. “You get a lot of writers around here?”

I don’t think he believed I wasn’t a writer. Maybe I looked bookish to him or maybe anyone with whom he wasn’t personally acquainted was immediately suspected of covert literary leanings. The librarian had sold me out, believing me to be simply another hack trying to make a buck out of the ghosts of Haven’s past.

“I’m escorting you to the town line,” he said. “I’ve got your bag.” He moved to the patrol car and took my traveling bag from the front seat. I was starting to get very tired of Deputy Burns.

“I’m not planning on leaving just yet,” I said, “so maybe you could put it back in my room. By the way, when you’re unpacking, I like my socks on the left side of the drawer.”

He dropped the bag on the road and started toward me. “Look,” I began, “I have ID.” I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket. “I’m-”

It was a dumb thing to do but I was hot and tired and pissed at Deputy Burns, and I wasn’t thinking straight. He caught one flash of the butt of my gun and his own piece was in his hands. Burns was quick. He probably practiced in front of the mirror. Within seconds I was up against his car, my gun was gone, and Deputy Burns’s shiny cuffs were biting into my wrists.

I WAS LEFT cooling my heels in a cell for what I reckoned to be three or four hours, since the careful Deputy Burns had taken my watch along with my gun, my wallet and ID, my notes, and my belt and laces, in case I decided to hang myself in a fit of remorse for annoying the librarians. These had been entrusted to the safe care of Deputy Wallace, who made some passing reference to Burns of my involvement in the previous night’s incident in the bar.

Still, the cell was just about the cleanest one I had ever visited in my life-even the can looked like it could safely be used without needing a course of penicillin later. I passed the time by mulling over what I had learned from the library microfiche, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle into some recognizable picture and refusing to let my mind drift to the Traveling Man and what he might be doing.

Eventually there was a noise outside and the cell door opened. I looked up to see a tall black man in a uniform shirt watching me. He looked to be in his late thirties but something about the way he walked and the light of experience in his eyes told me he was older. I guessed he might have boxed at one time, probably middle to light-heavy, and he moved gracefully on his feet. He looked smarter than Wallace and Burns put together, although no one was likely to hand out gold stars for that particular feat. This, I guessed, was Alvin Martin. I didn’t rush to get up, in case he thought I didn’t like his nice, clean cell.

“You want to stay there another couple of hours, or you waiting for someone to carry you out?” he asked. The voice wasn’t Southern; Detroit, Chicago maybe.

I stood and he moved aside to let me pass. Wallace waited at the end of the corridor, his thumbs tucked into his belt to take the weight off his shoulders.

“Give him back his things, Deputy.”

“Even his gun?” asked Wallace, not making a move to do as he was told. Wallace had that look about him, the look that told you he wasn’t used to taking orders from a black guy and didn’t like it when he had to. It struck me that he might have more in common with the Rat and his friends than was really wise for a conscientious lawman.

“Even his gun,” replied Martin calmly but wearily, giving Wallace the eye. Wallace shoved off from the wall like a particularly ugly ship setting out to sea and steamed behind the counter, surfacing eventually with a brown envelope and my gun. I signed and Martin nodded me toward the door.

“Get in the car, please, Mr. Parker.” Outside, the light was starting to fade and there was a cool wind blowing from the hills. A pickup rattled by on the road beyond, a covered shotgun rack on the back guarded by a mangy hound.

“Back or front?” I asked.

“Get in the front,” he replied. “I trust you.”

He started the cruiser and we drove for a time in silence, the a/c blasting cool air into our faces and onto our feet. The town limits receded behind us and we entered woods thick with trees, the road twisting and winding as it followed the contours of the land. Then, in the distance, a light shone. We pulled up in the parking lot of a white diner, topped by a green neon sign blinking Green River Eatery on the road beyond.

We took a booth at the rear, far away from the handful of other patrons, who cast curious glances at us before returning to their food. Martin took off his hat, ordered coffee for both of us, then sat back and looked at me. “It’s usually considered good manners for an unlicensed investigator packing a pistol to drop into the local lawmen and state his business, at least before he goes around beating up pool players and stealing library files,” he said.

“You weren’t around when I called,” I said. “Neither was the sheriff, and your friend Wallace wasn’t too keen on offering me cookies and swapping race jokes.”

The coffee arrived. Martin added creamer and sugar to his. I stuck with milk.

“I made some calls about you,” said Martin, stirring his coffee. “A guy called Cole vouched for you. That’s why I’m not kicking your ass out of town, least not yet. That and the fact that you weren’t afraid to whip some cracker ass in the bar last night. Shows you got a sense of civic pride. So maybe now you’d like to tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m looking for a woman named Catherine Demeter. I think she might have come to Haven in the last week.”

Martin’s brow furrowed.

“She anything to Amy Demeter?”

“Sister.”

“I figured. Why do you think she might be here?”

“The last call she made from her apartment was to the home of Sheriff Earl Lee Granger. She made a number of calls to your office as well the same night. Since then, there’s been no sign of her.”

“You hired to find her?”

“I’m just looking for her,” I replied neutrally.

Martin sighed.

“I came here from Detroit six months ago,” he said after about a minute of silence. “Brought my wife and child. My wife’s an assistant librarian. I think you may have met her.”

I nodded.

“The governor decided there weren’t enough blacks in the police force here and that relations between the local minority population and the cops might not be the best. So, a post came up here and I applied, mainly to get my kid away from Detroit. My father came from Gretna, just a ways from here. I didn’t know about the killings before I came here. I know more now.