Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

Shana said, “Daddy, here’s Mrs. Cranston.”

Mrs. Cranston’s voice was stern. “Could’ve been some of them drunks from Little Tenn, Mr. Selby. But they’re gone now. They never drink where God and decent folk can watch ’em, not that piney trash. They like sucking on their bottles in the dark. But don’t you worry none now.”

She had called the sheriff’s substation on Route One near Muhlenburg; Sergeant Ritter had sent a car out. Ed Jimson and Milt Karec had checked up and down Mill Lane and had found the break where someone had driven through the honeysuckle hedge onto the logging road. She’d have Casper Gideen fix it in the morning.

“We’re all snug now,” she told him. “The dog’s in and Ed and Milt’ll be checkin’ around again later tonight. Now Shana wants to talk to you, Mr. Selby.”

“Daddy, I forgot to ask you! How’s Uncle Jarrell? What’s he like? Is he coming for a visit or anything?”

“We didn’t touch all those bases yet, honey. It’s late now, you and Davey had better get to bed.”

“Okay, daddy. But don’t hang up, please. I forgot. I told Normie Bride I’d call him after I talked to you. Is that all right?”

“Well, keep it short, doll. You’ll see him at school in the morning.”

“Thanks, daddy. Good night — I love you. And Uncle Jarrell too.”

Selby called his brother in Summitt, but Jennifer answered, sounding sleepy and surprised to hear from him.

“I’ll try to rouse him, Harry. Hang on.”

After a moment she came back saying, “I’d need help from Gabriel, or a bass drum anyway. We had a nightcap after everyone left—” A smile lit her voice. “Then we went off to see the wizard. I told him you wanted to talk to him but he only mumbled something about seeing you tomorrow.”

“Did he say when?”

“No, but he and Mr. Stoltzer are driving to Lindville in the morning. I don’t think they’ll be back until sometime in the afternoon.”

“Would you please ask him to call me before he leaves? I may have to change my plans.”

“I sure will, Harry. It was a nice party, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Have a good sleep, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope.”

But Jarrell didn’t call the next morning. At ten Selby rang his apartment but got no answer. He had obviously gone off to Lindville with Stoltzer without bothering to return his call, or Jennifer had forgotten to give him the message.

Selby lunched at the counter of a crowded restaurant where the snatches of talk were of weather and football games. A radio report mentioned that certain local highways and interstates would be closed that weekend. There was a mention of Camp Saliaris, and he remembered that was close to Summitt City. A man beside him was saying that the Vols needed a running game, while the radio announcer was explaining that traffic would be diverted onto secondary roads. Airborne and field maneuvers from the installation would begin at — Selby didn’t catch the time because the football fan chose that moment to outline to his companion — moving catsup bottles and mustard jars into positions — the obvious disadvantage of the Veer information against stunting linebackers.

At the Delta Arms, Selby tried his brother’s number again. After a dozen rings he broke the connection and put a call through to Clem Stoltzer’s office. A secretary told him that Mr. Stoltzer was in a meeting but had left a message for him. He was to call Sergeant Hank Ledge at Security. If Mr. Selby would hold, she would put him through.

He thanked her and waited. In a moment Sergeant Ledge came on.

“Afternoon, Mr. Selby. Tried you a while back but the clerk said you stepped out. Reason I called, your brother called me a while ago from Lindville. Mr. Stoltzer had something come up and couldn’t go with him. Jarrell drove over alone this morning. He’d like to have dinner with you tonight in Memphis. He’ll come by the motel about seven. Asked me to tell you that, Mr. Selby.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll be waiting for him. By the way, do you know where Jennifer is? There’s no one at Jarrell’s.”

“I think she left, Mr. Selby. Earlier today. But I’ll check. Hold on a second.” The connection was broken. After a humming interval, the sergeant said, “That’s right, Mr. Selby. I talked to the guard at the north gate. She picked up her car around eight o’clock. She was on her way to the airport.”

Harry Selby watched the fading sunlight darken and soften the pyracantha and squat firs surrounding the motel’s swimming pool. Their evasions had nothing to do with him, he was thinking. He was the outsider here, a role he was accustomed to. But he felt oddly dispirited. A bit of doggerel from his father’s diaries came into his mind for no reason. “A cannonball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.” That was followed by lists of trains and a poem about the Bonnie Earl of Murray. He would have liked to ask Jarrell about that. But he wouldn’t now. The past was a hostile place, Sarah had told him. The addiction of nostalgia was always terminal. “The past is the only place they allow hearsay evidence,” she’d insisted.

If his brother wanted to avoid him, he could simply have said so. No need to bring Jennifer and the granite-faced sergeant into it. No reason for all these clumsy lies and charades. Maybe Jarrell had wanted to be honest last night. For a moment or so it had seemed that way. But it didn’t matter.

He knew now why the waitress in the diner had caught his attention last night. She’d known where the coffee pot was, had reached for it without looking, it was as simple as that. But Jennifer hadn’t known where the coffee was. That’s what had been puzzling him all along.

She’d pulled out drawers and opened cupboards until Jarrell went in to help her. A young woman who slept over regularly would certainly know where the coffee things were kept. Which meant she hadn’t known Jarrell either very long or very well.

The office door of the motel opened and the clerk called, “Phone, Mr. Selby. It’s long distance for you. You can take it in here if you want.”

The connection was bad, streaked with what he thought at first was static. He recognized Mrs. Cranston’s voice, but it was so oddly cracked and muffled that he didn’t understand her. Then he realized she was crying.

“I hate to — because you’re so far off, but somebody took her, Mr. Selby. The police are looking...”

“I can’t hear you. What—?”

“Somebody in a car took her, took Shana. Davey’s not back yet. Trooper Karec—”

The motel office was warm, an electric heater glowing in a corner, but Selby’s stomach had become so cold and cramped that the sudden pain flattened his lips. Trooper Milt Karec was speaking to him then in a quiet and careful voice.

“— five-fifteen, five-thirty, it happened about then. She was riding her bike on Fairlee Road...”

It didn’t get through to Selby. The words were unrelated to reality; they were only noises. He knew Trooper Karec, a stocky young man with glasses and a pleasant smile, black hair already graying. He was the solid officer you talked to about fishing permits, dog licenses, when the roads would be clear after snowstorms.

“—a car hit her.”

“Goddammit, is Shana hurt?”

“No reason to think that, Mr. Selby. That is, we don’t know yet.”

Fairlee Road was a stretch of blacktop that ran along the eastern line of Selby’s place. From there it curved past a trailer camp known as Little Tennessee (Little Tenn) to the main highway linking Philadelphia and Baltimore. Karec told him that Shana had been riding her bicycle on Fairlee, her smashed bike had been found there. Skid marks indicated that a car had swerved and sideswiped her.