Jeffery Deaver - Shallow Graves

The computer's fan whirred softly; the screen was blank except for the C prompt, waiting for instructions. Keith thought about shutting it off but didn't; he figured Sam had left it on for whatever comfort the sound of the machinery might provide.

Keith sat on the edge of the bed and tucked the blankets around the boy. "How's the stomach?"

"I liked the ice cream. It didn't make me feel icky."

Keith nodded and remembered to look the boy in the eyes. Meg had once told him that he looked away from people too much. He'd explained to her that his mind wandered; he couldn't help it. She'd told him that was no excuse. When you had children, you had to give them a hundred and fifty percent of yourself.

There was a lot he wanted to say. About how he knew he wasn't as attentive as he ought to be, how he didn't like sports the way most of Sam's friends' fathers did, how he kept putting off vacations. About how if he hadn't been working today this probably wouldn't have happened. But he thought that talk like that now would just upset the boy, make him think that the incident with the drugs was worse than it was. He told himself that he simply would make it up to the boy. Not after the expansion at the factory was completed, not after the first of the year, not after the cold-season rush, but soon, very soon.

"I'm sorry about what happened, Daddy."

"We don't blame you, Sam."

"I was like pretty stupid."

"Sam," Keith leaned forward. "It is very, very important that you tell me where you got those pills."

"The candy?"

"Right. The candy. I know you didn't just find it."

Tears had started and the little boy was shaking. Keith put his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed it. "Don't worry. I won't let anything else happen to you."

"He said he'd beat me up."

"I won't let anyone beat you up. I promise you. Tell me."

"A kid from the high school."

"Who?"

"I don't know his last name. His first name's Ned. I think he's a senior."

"What does he look like?"

"He was like sort of tall. Like a football player… Oh, Daddy…" Sam bolted forward into Keith's arms. They hugged for a few minutes.

Keith stood up. "You want me to leave the light on?"

"Uh-huh. Is it okay?"

Keith mussed Sam's hair. "I'll be up later and look in on you."

"Okay."

"Goodnight, son."

The fire at the clinic wasn't too bad.

Nowhere near the excitement of the Great Fire of 1912.

Only one of Cleary's trucks was needed and the men got the blaze under control with fire extinguishers, which was a big letdown because of all the hours they'd spent at hose drill. Brush fires and burning toasters-that was all they ever got. And at the clinic they didn't even get to use an axe. Like a lot of buildings in Cleary, the clinic was left open even when the all-night nurse went out for coffee, or-as in this case-to buy batteries for her Walkman.

Most of the carnage was confined to the office. A lot of patient records were destroyed as was all the outgoing mail and a number of envelopes bound for the testing lab in Albany. The gushing water had caused the most damage.

The first chief, a lean, chiseled-faced man who ran an insurance agency in town and took both jobs equally seriously, went through the office slowly. He didn't really need to, though; it didn't take any length of time, or great forensic skill, to make the discovery. He put his find into a Hefty trash bag (the Cleary Fire Department wasn't entrusted with evidence bags) and then went to his car to call the sheriff on his CB. He had trouble getting through and went back inside to call him on the phone, which was partly melted but still working.

As he stood at the charred desk and waited for Tom to come on the line he stared at what he'd found. For some reason the fire had not completely consumed the incendiary device. He knew, from the label, that the bottle at one time had held Taylor New York State sparkling wine and, from the smell, that it had more recently held gasoline.

He knew too (from research and continuing education-never having encountered a fire bomb before) that cloth was standard procedure for fuses. But this one was different. He held it up close. The fire chief was pretty much a humorless man. But as the sheriff came on the line with a "Lo?" the chief was laughing, thinking they must be dealing with some pretty literate arsonists.

Who else'd use pages from a National Geographic to light a Molotov cocktail?

"Mark," said Mayor Hank Moorhouse, after hearing him out, "it's no crime for the man to wander around and take pictures. If it weren't for assholes taking pictures of the leaves, we'd be a much poorer town. You know that."

It was suppertime. Succulent smells-roasts and fatty potatoes-floated through the Moorhouse's Victorian home. The sound of utensils and muffled voices came from another part of the house.

The heavyset and damn-scary young man, moving a pile of chewing tobacco around inside his cheek, said, "This guy is dangerous. You heard about Meg Torrens's kid? He got his hands on some dope."

"No! I didn't hear about that. Sam?" Moorhouse's eyes flicked down to the blond moustache then up again.

"The word is he got it from Pellam. A couple guys saw 'em together."

Mark moved the chaw around his mouth.

Moorhouse's nostrils dilated at the smell of dinner. He wanted this over with, and fast. But Mark worked for Wexell Ambler and Ambler held the first and second mortgages on Moorhouse's six-bedroom Colonial and was an assemblyman on the town council. He said, "That somvabitch." He tore off a piece of Scotch tape, wadded it up and started chewing. He'd tried to stop the habit but thought now: Better'n tobacco.

"There's more."

Mark dropped a packet of white powder down onto the desk.

"What's that?"

"What do you think it is?"

Moorhouse stared at the package as if it were from the melted core at Chernobyl.

"I saw him drop it," Mark said. "Pellam."

Moorhouse leaned forward carefully. He didn't want to touch the plastic. "We don't get much of this stuff around here. Christ, I worry about my boys-" He nodded toward the dining room. "- drinking beer. They tell me they've never tried pot and I believe 'em. But this… What exactly is it, Mark? Cocaine, huh?"

"Speed, I think."

"And it's illegal?"

Mark scoffed. "Illegal? A class 1-A controlled substance."

"What do you suppose it's worth? What's the, what do they say on the news, what's the street value?"

"You're asking me?" Mark said, his voice high with surprise. "What difference does it make?"

"Can't arrest someone just 'cause you saw him drop it." Though when Moorhouse thought about this, he wasn't so sure. Maybe you could. He wondered where you could look that up. Cleary had a town attorney.

Mark smiled amiably and leaned toward Moorhouse in a way that he thought of as doing what he did best. "Then we'll have to think a little harder."

Moorhouse's eyes kept circling in on the packet like a mosquito over flesh. "I don't know."

The brown envelope hit the desk with a slap. Moorhouse jumped, hesitated a moment, then picked it up. He glanced up at Mark, who said, "There's three thousand dollars in there."

Moorhouse thumbed through the bills. "Take your word for it. Where'd it come from?"

"Let's say a bunch of folk took up a collection. We don't think this guy should be here any longer. Movie ain't gonna be made here. No reason for him to hang around."

"So what's this for?" Moorhouse asked, before he realized he shouldn't be asking.

"A magistrate's fee you could call it."

His eyes darted from the money to the white packet.

He slipped the envelope in his desk and poked the powder, soft as baby talcum, with the end of his Cross pen.