Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

But Shana’s bike wasn’t in the garage, or anywhere else they looked; it was gone.

Selby called Sergeant Ritter at the sheriff’s station, but Ritter was no help; he told Selby that neither Milt Karec nor Ed Jimson would have had any reason to bring the bike in, and if they had they would surely have told him about it.

“But maybe the county detectives got it,” Ritter said. “It’s their case now, Mr. Selby.”

Selby thanked him and called the detective division in East Chester. After being switched to Captain Slocum’s office, he was put on hold briefly, and then transferred to a Lieutenant Gus Eberle.

The lieutenant said yes, he had picked up the bicycle earlier that morning, and that the police lab had already run a series of checks on it.

“It was our first lead, Mr. Selby, and we put a top priority on it.” Eberle’s voice was low and rasping, a heavy smoker or drinker, Selby thought, but his tone was amiable. “A sample of paint from the perpetrator’s car would have given us solid ID for an all-points. But the bike didn’t help us. It checked out negative.”

“What does that mean?”

“What I said, Selby, negative, which means nothing. Your daughter’s bike is white with green trim. That’s all we found in the way of paint. Some mud and tar, bits of stone and asphalt on the mudguards, but no foreign paint.”

“That’s very strange.” Selby saw that Davey was watching him. “There was red paint on her bike yesterday.”

“Who told you that?”

“My son did, Lieutenant. There was red paint on the frame and sprocket after the accident.” -

“Did you see any red paint, Selby?”

“No, I didn’t. But it’s not likely my son’s mistaken about it.”

“What you got to take into account,” Eberle said, “is that it was about dark when it happened. Your boy might’ve seen a streak of tar or mud and figured it for paint.”

“I doubt it, Lieutenant.”

“Well, maybe he just saw what he wanted to see, Selby.” Eberle’s voice dropped to an exasperated growl. “Now listen, Selby. I’m just a goddamn cop, but give me credit for knowing how to read a damn lab report. I’m looking at it right now. There’s scratches on your daughter’s bike, the spokes are broken and the frame is twisted. There’s mud and tar on it, and pieces of stone stuck in the metal. But there’s no goddamn paint on it except the original white paint and green striping that was sprayed on at the factory, which, by the way, was a Schwinn outlet in Buffalo, New York, in case you want to know.”

“What time did you come by to pick it up, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know why the hell that matters. Around four or five o’clock this morning. Doc Kerr’s car was in your drive. I didn’t want to disturb anybody so I collected the bike and took it to the lab. It was ticketed like any other piece of physical evidence, a weapon, stolen goods, whatever. The thing was not to waste time. Get the bastard before he gets clean out of the country. There’s something screwy, by the way Selby, about where your daughter was that night. About the time, I mean. But we’re checking that out. You’ll get a receipt for her bike, don’t worry, and we’ll ship it back to you when the lab’s through with it. Or you can come by and pick it up. Suit yourself. I been on the case all night, Selby. You got any other questions, talk to Burt Wilger, Sergeant Wilger, he’ll be the case officer from here on in. We’ll be in touch if there’s a break.”

When Selby put the phone down, Davey said, “Why is he lying about it, dad? I know there was red paint on Shana’s bike.”

Selby squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Let’s keep this talk with the lieutenant between you and me for a while, Davey. Don’t say anything about it to Mrs. Cranston or to anyone at school. And not a word to Shana.”

“Okay, dad. But he was lying, wasn’t he?”

“It sure looks like it.”

Later Selby listened to the tapes that Davey had made. He ran them back several times, trying to make a copy of what his daughter had said under sedation. It wasn’t easy because at times her voice rose hysterically, and at others sank into whispers that were barely audible. It was terrifying to listen to her. Blazer lumbered into the room and whined when he heard Shana’s voice rising from the spinning reels.

“Take it easy,” Selby said, and pulled the big dog close to him, smoothing his ruff.

Finally Selby had a list of what his daughter had said under sedation. With his comments, it read:

1. Hornet — or hornets.

(Repeated this word several times — frightened.)

2. Waves — waves.

(Said this frequently, but why? We’re a hundred miles from the seashore.)

3. Tunnel — or tunnels.

4. Birds — birds crying.

(Said this several times, and she was crying .)

5. Time to serve and sin.

(Sounds like the Bible. This is an angry voice.)

6. Mommy — I’ll kill it.

(The voice was blurred and thick.)

7. Waves and birds.

(All run together here again.)

8. Mommy, my hand hurts — I hate it.

(Said this twice.)

9. I think she said, “Tishie.”

(Why mention her grandmother?)

10. Hell is alone — always.

(Have no idea what this means.)

Shana had apparently retreated into metaphor, drugged and hysterical in her dreams. He had to find out where she’d been taken that night, what she was hiding from them.

Selby spread out a map of East Chester County on the coffee table and drew a penciled circle around Muhlenburg and Fairlee Road, an area including woods, open country and many small farms and residential neighborhoods. He knew these woods and meadows. He and Casper had hunted there many times.

Davey came in and looked at the map, tracing the network of roads running out of Muhlenburg. “I could go with you, dad,” he said. “I could help, couldn’t I?”

Selby put an arm around his son’s shoulder. “We’ll start tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll find where he took her, Davey, then we’ll find him. That’s a promise.”

The Dupree Engineering Company (a division of Harlequin Chemicals) held its October sales convention at a country club in Osmond, New Jersey, forty miles from the Walt Whitman Bridge and Philadelphia. On Friday afternoon, George Thomson, president of Harlequin, had played with a foursome of local executives, shooting an eighty-two; he might have done better if it hadn’t been for the call from Clem Stoltzer in Summitt City.

He was also troubled and disappointed because his son had changed his plans suddenly and decided not to join him for the tournament. Thomson enjoyed being seen with him; there was a sense of accomplishment and pride in introducing Earl to people and savoring their reactions to his dark good looks and casually superior manners.

Thomson had flown to New York that morning on a Correll Group jet from Brussels. His chauffeur had met him at Osmond, but Richard had no message from Earl or any explanation of his absence.

Clem Stoltzer’s news, however, had been both good and bad; Harry Selby had returned suddenly to his home in Muhlenburg, but Jarrell’s attitude and behavior had become a concern. Plus the fact that he’d had another guest in addition to his brother, a girl who had spent the night with him and left that morning.

Thomson had tried to reach Simon Correll. From his offices in New York and Philadelphia he had tracked him to Mount Olivet but Correll wasn’t taking any calls; even Thomson’s priority produced only regrets. That was obliquely reassuring because only the most serious emergencies could penetrate the refuge on the Hudson.

Thomson went into the locker room for a sauna and massage and tried to dismiss his anxieties, but they continued to nag at him.