John Connolly - Every Dead Thing

“This town died along with those kids. No new people came to live here and anyone with an ounce of sense or ambition got the hell out. Now the gene pool here’s so shallow you couldn’t drown a rat in it.

“In the last month or two there’s been signs that something might happen to change that. There’s a Japanese firm interested in locating around half a mile out of town. They do research and development of computer software, I hear, and they like the idea of privacy and a quiet little backwater they can call Nippon. They’d bring a lot of money to this town, a lot of jobs for locals, and maybe a chance to put the past to rest. Frankly, the people here don’t much care for the idea of working for the Japanese but they know they’re sucking shit as it is, so they’ll work for anyone as long as he’s not black.

“The last thing they want is someone sniffing around ancient history, digging up the past to come up with the bones of dead children. They may be dumb in a lot of cases. They may also be racists and shit kickers and wife beaters, but they’re desperate for a second chance and they’ll mess up anyone who gets in their way. If they don’t do it, Earl Lee will.”

He raised a finger and waved it purposefully in my face. “Do you understand what I’m saying here? Nobody wants questions asked about child killings that took place thirty years ago. If Catherine Demeter came back here, and frankly I don’t know why she would since she ain’t got no one here to come back to, then she wouldn’t be welcome either. But she ain’t here, because if she had come back it would be all over this town like shit on a shoe.”

He took a sip of his coffee and gritted his teeth. “Damn, it’s cold.” He gestured to the waitress and called for a fresh mug.

“I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to,” I said. “But I think Catherine Demeter may have come back here, or tried to come back here. She certainly wanted to talk to the sheriff and I want to talk to him too. So where is he?”

“He took a couple of days’ leave to get out of town for a while,” said Martin, twisting the brim of his hat so that the hat spun on the vinyl seat. “He’s due back-well, he was due back today but he may leave it until tomorrow. We don’t have too much crime here beyond drunks and domestics and the usual shit that goes with a place like this. But he may not be too pleased to see you waiting for him when he returns. I’m not so pleased to see you myself, no offense meant.”

“None taken. I think I’ll wait around for the sheriff anyway.” I was also going to have to find out more about the Modine killings, whether Martin liked it or not. If Catherine Demeter had reached into her past, then I was going to have to reach into that past too, or I would understand nothing about the woman for whom I was searching.

“I’ll also need to talk to someone about the killings. I need to know more.”

Martin closed his eyes and ran his hand over them in weariness. “You’re not listening to me…,” he began.

“No, you’re not listening. I’m looking for a woman who may be in trouble and who may have turned to someone here for help. Before I leave town I’m going to find out whether or not she’s here, even if it means rattling every cage in this godforsaken dump and scaring your Japanese saviors back to Tokyo. But if you help me, then this can all be done quietly and I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days.”

We were both tensed now, leaning toward each other across the table. Some of the other diners were staring at us, their food ignored. Martin looked around at them, then turned back to me again. “Okay,” he said. “Most of the people who were around then and might know something useful have either left, or died, or won’t talk about it for love or money. There are two who might, though. One is the son of the doc who was around at that time. His name’s Connell Hyams and he has a law office in town. You’ll have to approach him yourself.

“The other is Walt Tyler. His daughter was the first to die and he lives outside town. I’ll talk to him first and maybe he’ll see you.” He stood up to leave. “When you’ve got your business done you’d better leave, and I never want to see your face again, understand?”

I said nothing and followed him toward the door. He stopped and turned toward me, placing his hat on his head as he did so. “One more thing,” he said. “I’ve had a word with those boys from the bar, but remember, they ain’t got no reason to like you. Frankly, I can see a lot of people thinking the same way once they know why you’re here. And they’re going to find out. So, you’d best step lightly while you’re in town.”

“I noticed one of them, I think his name was Gabe, had a Klan shirt on,” I said. “You got much of that around here?”

Martin blew breath heavily from puffed cheeks. “There’s no klavern, but in a poor town, the dumb ones always look for someone to blame for being poor.”

“There was one guy-your deputy called him Clete-who didn’t look so dumb.”

Martin eyed me from under his hat brim. “No, Clete’s not dumb. He sits on the council, says the only way anyone’s gonna get him off it is with a gun barrel. Whipping you could be good for another twenty, thirty votes, if he had a mind to do it. Shit, maybe he’ll send you a campaign badge.

“But as for the Klan, this ain’t Georgia or North Carolina, or even Delaware. Don’t go reading too much into this. You can pay for the coffee.”

I left a couple of bucks at the till and walked out toward the car, but Martin was already pulling away. I noticed that he’d taken his hat off again inside the car. The man just didn’t seem comfortable with that damn hat. I went back into the diner, called Haven’s only cab operator, and ordered another coffee.

IT WAS AFTER SIX when I got back to the motel. Connell Hyams’s office and home address were listed but when I drove by his office all the lights were out. I called Rudy Fry at the motel and got directions for Bale’s Farm Road, where not only Hyams but also Sheriff Earl Lee Granger had homes.

I drove cautiously along the winding roads, looking for the concealed entrance Fry had mentioned and still glancing occasionally in my mirror for any sign of the red jeep. There was none. I passed the entrance to Bale’s Farm Road once without seeing it and had to go back over my tracks again. The sign was semiobscured by undergrowth and pointed toward a winding, rutted track heavy with evergreens, which eventually opened out on a small but well-kept row of houses with long yards and what looked like plenty of space out back. Hyams’s home was near the end, a large, two-story white wooden house. A lamp blazed by a screen door, which shielded a solid oak front door with a fan of frosted glass near the top. There was a light on in the hallway.

A gray-haired man, wearing a red wool cardigan over gray slacks and a striped, open-necked shirt, opened the inner door as I pulled up and watched me with mild curiosity.

“Mr. Hyams?” I said as I approached the door.

“Yes?”

“I’m an investigator. My name’s Parker. I wanted to talk to you about Catherine Demeter.”

He paused for a long time in silence with the screen door between us.

“Catherine, or her sister?” he inquired eventually.

“Both, I guess.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’m trying to find Catherine. I think she may have come back here.”

Hyams opened the screen door and stood aside to let me enter. Inside, the house was furnished in dark wood, with large, expensive-looking mats on the floors. He led me into an office at the back of the house, where papers were strewn over a desk on which a computer screen glowed.