Frederick Busch - Girls

“So you wanted to look me over.”

“Small college security cop has the police chief, who is one of a of four in a tiny upstate town, request full cooperation, which means disclosure of physical evidence as well as a siphon on my time? You bet your paper white ass I look you over.”

I was wrestling with strings of hot melted cheese and boiling tomato. I said, “Mmmm.”

He nodded like I’d told him something, and he wiped his hands on his paper napkin, which he’d folded into sixteenths. His fingers were long, the nails pale, and he moved his hands with tremendous certainty. They looked like he could go from wiping his fingers to performing surgery.

“I’ll read your jacket when it comes in,” he said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll think about it. Because I can use … well, I can actually use anything. I can tell you that much. Anything. One answered question I might not get to ask.”

“You’re buffaloed,” I said.

“We have a little.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “You don’t have time, I figure, to take a leak more than once a day. So you get a request from Elmo St. John, who is not J. Edgar Hoover—”

“Thank Christ,” he said.

“And you drive over here, you take a lunch break when you look like you eat one meal a day, and that’s late at night, alone, because your wife doesn’t talk to you, she’s so pissed off about your work schedule. And you’re here because you got zero on the Tanner thing, and then the little kid a county over.…”

“There’s another one,” he said.

I put the other half of my sandwich down.

“You’ll see the posters soon. I think it’s unrelated. It might be. It’s outside of Buffalo, near the Canadian border. I hope it’s Buffalo’s. It feels like a fucking plague, doesn’t it?”

“Their faces,” I said.

He said, “I hate it. I have two daughters. And the pissed-off wife, you’re right. I think of my daughters. It seems to be white kids who get snatched, except in Atlanta or the Apple. But you never know. Here’s one of those times you sink down onto your knees and pray for bigotry.”

“Amen,” I said. “We really have to stop him.”

“Them.”

“You’re pretty sure they’re unrelated? There’s more than one guy doing this? Isn’t that worse?”

“I know what you mean. It’s like a condition. It’s like … weather. If it’s just a crazy person, we’ve got a possible shot.”

I said, “Will you catch the call if there’s a threat against the Vice President? He’s coming to campus in a month or two, and we might have an incident.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“I’ll brief you on it. When you get back to me on this.”

“Slyly done,” he said. “I’ll read your file. I’d bet I’ll be back in touch with my quid for your little pro quo.”

“That Latin’s Greek to me,” I said. “Can I pay for this?”

“I’d rather you owe me, just in case I get pissed off at you down the road, Jack.”

“What’s your first name again?” I asked.

“Sergeant,” he told me.

I went to Strodemaster’s house after work, but he didn’t answer. I opened the back door and called for him, but I still didn’t get an answer. The kitchen was as smelly as last time, which meant he still hadn’t taken his trash out. You get that way, living in the country, because the more trash you take out, usually to the barn or garage, the sooner you have to stick your pails or bags in the truck and get them to the county waste-management site — dump, as we once used to say.

On the chalkboard, in the Oregano hand, but under de Bergerac , someone had written Bring more stuff!

I called, “Randy!” There wasn’t an answer, and I left.

I almost went to his barn to look for him, but I wanted to get my visit over and go home. I loved his barn. It was set about twenty yards behind the house. It had a thick dry-point foundation wall, and the wood that went a story above it looked to be in wonderful shape. Inside, a fine-gauge tongue and groove divided it into bins and stalls. There were corners to go around, two sets of stairs to the upstairs loft, and several areas of floor that were cobbled. I’d often thought that with enough land around it, I’d consider buying the barn and converting it to a house. Fanny and I could do the job, I thought, and I still had it in mind — buying the property, selling off the house, keeping the rest of the land and the barn. I didn’t know if we could move back into a town, though. Small towns sap your strength because you lose your privacy. We needed ours. We hadn’t strength to spare.

I drove a few houses over to the Tanners’. She answered the door, saying that her husband was at his church, having a painting bee with a few retired people who had volunteered to do the walls of the Sunday school.

“The paint in churches, we’ve found, gets worn away quicker than in other buildings. I think it’s the friction of the souls. They grind themselves against the ceiling and walls. Come in here, if you would, Jack, so I can lie down.”

We went into their small living room with its bold Victorian wallpaper of blowsy, fat flowers in vertical stripes. Water simmered in a speckled blue basin set on top of an airtight stove, and music was playing from a radio on the windowsill. Mrs. Tanner lay on a long blue sofa, her head on a boldly patterned pillow of yellow, maroon, and blue. “I was listening to Ralph Vaughan Williams. I was trying to find out why the English say Ralph as Rafe.”

“I didn’t know they did,” I said.

“They do seem to.”

“Well,” I said.

“What, dear?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“You look so uneasy. Do you”—she sat up and put her palms on the sofa—“do you know something?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “No.”

She lay back down very quickly, as if she didn’t have the strength to sit up.

“I met today with one of the state investigators. He’s very determined. He wants to find your daughter.”

“Janice,” she said.

Janice.

“Someone said there was another missing child. I had the most dreadfully selfish thought.”

“You were afraid it would—”

“Dilute the search for Janice. Yes. I’m ashamed. How did you know?”

“I just thought like a parent, I suppose.”

“Yet you’re not one, you said.”

“I am not a parent,” I said.

“That’s too bad. You ought to be.”

“I guess I wasn’t meant to be one, Mrs. Tanner.”

“You see? You knew perfectly well all along what I meant about patterns and plans.”

“How do you feel, Mrs. Tanner? How’s your health?”

“You mean the cancer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did your wife tell you we met last night? I felt poorly — it was the treatment, not the disease — and poor Mr. Tanner decided he had to rush me through the night and snow and ice into the emergency room. And there was your wife. She is the loveliest, kindest, most competent woman. Some people are simply born to give care, aren’t they? Oh, she should be a mother!”

“Yes,” I said.

“But I’m all right. I’m not bedridden yet. It hasn’t blown me up or torn me down yet. I’ve decided that Janice will be returned to us between now and her birthday. It’s in March, the twenty-second. I’ll be alive.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Of course. And Janice will be home.”

I didn’t know what to do. I sat on the ottoman with my legs out in front of me and I squeezed my palms into my kneecaps and agreed.

She said, “Really, Jack. I assure you.”

“I thought I was supposed to be assuring you.”