Dan Simmons - A Winter Haunting

“What kind of novel?”

“I’m not sure what kind it is,” said Dale with a self-deprecating chuckle. “A failed one, I guess. It was about kids—about growing up.”

“And about that summer of 1960?” asked McKown.

Dale’s heart rate accelerated. “I guess it was. Why do you say that, Sheriff?”

“Our uncle Bobby used to talk about that summer occasionally—very occasionally—but more often than not, he didn’t talk about it. It was like being a kid in Elm Haven back then was one long sunny day, except for that summer.”

Dale nodded, but as the silence stretched he realized that McKown wanted something more. “Bob McKown knew Duane McBride. . .” Dale gestured toward the old house around them. “Duane’s death that summer came as a real shock to a lot of us kids. We handled it in weird ways, if we handled it at all.”

“I’ve read the case files,” said McKown. “Mind if I have some more of this good coffee?”

Dale started to get to his feet, but McKown waved him back down, went to the counter, refilled his own mug, brought the pot over to top off Dale’s cup, and set the pot back in the coffeemaker burner. “Who do you think killed your friend Duane, Professor Stewart?”

“The sheriff then and the Justice of the Peace. . . J. P. Congden, C.J.’s father. . . determined that it was an accident,” said Dale, his voice unsteady.

“Yeah, I read that. Their report and the coroner’s report said that your friend Duane just started driving this combine in the middle of a July night—the combine didn’t even have its corn picker covers on—and they say that somehow this Duane, who everybody says was a genius, managed to fall out of the cab of that combine and then have the machine run over him, tearing him apart. You buy that, Professor Stewart? Did you buy that then?”

“No,” said Dale.

“I don’t either. A combine would have to drive in a full circle to run over someone who had been driving it. The corn pickers are in the front . A paraplegic would have time to get out of the way of a combine doing a full turn. I presume the coroner knew that about combines, don’t you?”

Dale said nothing.

“That particular coroner,” continued McKown, “was a good friend of Justice of the Peace J. P. Congden. Do you remember that Duane McBride’s uncle, Art, died that same summer? A car accident out on Jubilee College Road?”

“I remember that,” said Dale. His heart was pounding so hard that he had to set the cup of coffee down or spill it.

“The sheriff’s office then, all one of him, found some paint on this uncle Art’s Cadillac,” continued McKown. “Blue paint. Guess who drove a big old car those days that was blue?”

“J. P. Congden,” said Dale. His lips were dry.

“The Justice of the Peace,” agreed Sheriff McKown. “My uncle Bobby tells me that ol’ J. P. used to have the habit of racing people’s cars toward bridges like that one where Duane’s uncle got killed, and when folks hurried to cross the one-lane bridge ahead of him just to stay on the road, old man Congden used to pull them over and fine them a twenty-five-dollar ticket. Twenty-five dollars was real money back in 1960. You ever hear those stories, Professor Stewart?”

“Yes,” said Dale.

“You all right, Professor?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You look sort of pale.” McKown got up, found a clean glass, filled it with tap water, and brought it back to the table. “Here.” Dale drank.

“My uncle Bobby knew J. P. Congden and his kid, C.J., real well,” continued McKown when Dale had finished with the water. “He said they were both bullies and bastards. C.J., too.”

“You think that J. P. or C.J. ran Duane McBride’s uncle into that bridge abutment?” asked Dale, working to hold his voice steady.

“I think it would’ve been right up old J. P.’s alley, his sort of bullshit,” said McKown. “I doubt if he tried to kill Arthur McBride. Just shake him down, probably. Only the bridge ruined that plan.”

“Did anyone accuse him of it?”

“Your friend Duane did,” said the sheriff.

Dale shook his head. He did not understand.

“The report says that Duane McBride, age eleven, called the state police—you remember that the sheriff then, Barnaby Stiles, was a good ol’ boy friend of J. P. Congden—but the report says that one Duane McBride reported the paint match between his uncle Art’s Cadillac and the Justice of the Peace’s car.”

“And did they investigate?”

“Congden had a great alibi,” said McKown. “Over in Kickapoo drinking with about five of his pals.”

“So they dropped it.”

“Right.”

“ After Sheriff Barney told J. P. Congden that Duane was on to him.”

McKown sipped his coffee, showing no sign of how bitter the brew was.

“And did J. P. Congden have an alibi for the night Duane was killed?” asked Dale. His voice was shaking now, but he did not care.

“Actually, he did,” said McKown.

“Same five cronies at the bar, I bet,” Dale said.

McKown shook his head. “Not this time. Congden—J. P. Congden—was in Peoria at a traffic court seminar thing. At least half a dozen officers of the law were with him that night. But how old was C.J. Congden that year, Professor Stewart?”

“Sixteen,” said Dale. He had to force the words out through still-dry lips. “Whatever happened to C.J. Congden, Sheriff McKown?”

McKown flashed a grin. “Oh, he ended up where most small-town bullies do. . . he was elected county sheriff here four times.”

“But he’s dead now?” said Dale.

“Oh, sure. C.J. stuck the barrel of his pearl-handled.45 Colt in his own mouth in ’97, no, the summer of ’96, and blew his brains all over the inside of his double-wide.” McKown stood. “Professor Stewart, you’re not under arrest or anything, and I’d sure love to talk to you some more, but I think it’s important that you call this Dr. Williams in Missoula. You look tired, sir. How about if you get showered and shaved, and I’ll drive you into Oak Hill? You can call from the station house. Then I’ll drive you back here myself. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” said Dale. He got to his feet like an old man.

“Would you mind if I just looked around this house for a minute, Professor Stewart?”

“Search it?” said Dale. “I don’t mind. Your deputies already went through it.”

McKown laughed. For a small man, he had a big man’s easy laugh. “No, not search it, Professor. Just look around. I’ve never been in here and. . . well, you know. We lived on a farm about four miles from here when I was growing up and between local legends and Uncle Bobby’s stories and with the crazy old lady who lived here after Mr. McBride died, this was our local haunted house.”

McKown walked into the dining room. “This looks empty, but not especially haunted.”

Dale went into the study to get some clean clothes to take down to the basement for after his shower. The computer screen had his question from the day before and another line under it.

>Am I cracking up?

>Absolutely.

The sheriff walked through the front parlor and into the hall just outside the study. Dale killed the power on the ThinkPad and closed the lid.

“I’ll just be a minute,” said Dale, heading down the stairs. “Help yourself to the last of the coffee.”

FORtwo weeks after Clare had left him, Dale would call her apartment number and hang up as soon as she answered. He had blocked his number so that she could not use *69 to know who had called. After a week of almost nightly calls like this, her phone suddenly refused to accept calls from any blocked phone. Dale removed the block from his phone and called the next evening. An answering machine picked up. He called again at half-hour intervals all that night. Only the answering machine responded. Dale listened intently to the silence behind the machine’s robotic tones, beeps, and hisses, but there was no hint of Clare there. The next evening, the same thing. Dale began calling every fifteen minutes all through the third night. The phone rang. The machine picked up. Dale became certain that she was not home any of those nights.