“Go ahead.”
“Do you think the sheriff is going to appreciate a couple of amateurs homing in on his investigation?”
“No.”
“And how far do you suppose you’ll get without his cooperation?”
“Farther than I am now, which is nowhere.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Chizzy said. “No sir, I don’t like it one bit. I want to know what’s going on.” She tugged at the sleeve of Ben’s coat like an anxious child. “You mustn’t let Mr. Howard do anything dangerous.”
“I have no control over him,” Ben said. “I’m his little boy… Right, Dad?”
He waited a moment for a reply. When none came he let himself out the back door, slamming it behind him.
Chizzy listened disapprovingly to the sound of his old Porsche roaring down the driveway. “I wish he’d buy a more respectable car. That thing makes enough noise to wake the— Oh dear. Oh dear.” She sagged against the wall as if her bones were dissolving. “I didn’t mean to say— Oh dear, I could bite my tongue out.”
“It’s all right, Chizzy. Forget it.”
“This is a terrible day, the worst day of my life. Worse even than when Chisholm walked out on me for that redhead with the cast in her eye. At least then I had someone to blame. But today, today I don’t even have anyone to blame.”
“I’ll find you someone,” Howard said. “I’ll find you someone to blame.”
Chapter Four
One of the members of Michael’s congregation was a woman who worked as a secretary for a deputy sheriff. Esther Garrison knew Annamay and her parents by sight and after the child’s disappearance she’d come to talk to Michael several times to put into words some of the doubts Michael himself was having.
Most of the cases that crossed Miss Garrison’s desk concerned people who were, in some way or another, involved with evil — the victims and the victimizers and all the human links between them, the vicious and greedy, the sick, weak, dim-witted, the alcoholics and drug addicts and their pitiful debris. No evil had ever touched Annamay, and yet here she was in Miss Garrison’s files, and it shook the secretary to the very foundations of her faith.
The immunity she had developed throughout the years deserted her, leaving her as vulnerable as some of the people in her own files.
Esther Garrison was a hardheaded, hardworking woman who commanded respect and wielded considerable power. No one called her by her first name, no one told her jokes or confided secrets, no one even asked her for donations. She wore all her clothes as though they were uniforms. Her sharp little eyes behind the steel-framed spectacles made people uncomfortable. They seemed to be tabulating faults and relaying them by blinking in Morse code to some mysterious consort. On those occasions when she was called to court as a witness she delivered her testimony in such a clear positive voice that no judge or jury member could doubt her.
None of the court people would have recognized the pale disheveled trembling woman who appeared in Michael’s office to ask for guidance.
During the past few weeks Michael had noticed changes in the stone-faced brunette who always sat in the aisle seat of the fourth pew. When the congregation was asked to pray she kept her head erect and her eyes open. During hymns she didn’t pretend to sing or even bother opening the hymn book. It wasn’t until her third visit to his office that Michael learned she worked in the Sheriff’s Department and had access to all the files. In return for his guidance she offered hers.
“Of course I couldn’t ask you to do anything illegal, Miss Garrison.”
“Nor would I comply if you did,” Miss Garrison said. “A little out of line perhaps but certainly within legal limits. You are the spiritual adviser to the child’s family and as such you’re entitled to know what has been done about the case so far. Doesn’t that sound logical?”
“To me, yes. What about your boss?”
“My boss is like most bosses in other businesses. He has to depend on other people to tell him things, mainly me. Now and then there’s something I neglect to tell him.”
“And this is a now?”
“This is a now.”
Miss Garrison provided a rough outline of what the files contained: the first report of the child’s disappearance, lists of areas searched and names of searchers, interviews with the family, the neighbors, domestics, servicemen who regularly visited the neighborhood, gardeners, door-to-door salesmen, transients seen in the creek area, Annamay’s teachers and friends at school, all the phone calls received, the hours spent, the miles covered, culminating in the discovery of the bones by an entomology student from the college on a beetle-collecting assignment, and finally in the pathologist’s report.
It was a long file but as far as results were concerned it could have been condensed into a single sentence: Annamay Rebecca Hyatt had died of unknown causes, possibly asphyxiation, internal bleeding, shock, ruptured spleen, nobody knew.
“A lot of it is unimportant,” Miss Garrison said. “Crank phone calls, letters offering theories and suggestions, searches that led nowhere, interviews with talkative people who had nothing to say, dumb questions and dumb answers. But I suppose you want it all.”
“Every word of it, right from the beginning. Can you manage it?”
“You wouldn’t have asked me if there’d been any doubt in your mind.”
“I’d hate to get you into any trouble.”
“I assure you,” Miss Garrison said, “that I’d hate it even more. When do you want delivery to start?”
“Right away.”
“It will have to be done in batches, of course. I can’t monopolize the copying machine for any length of time. Although my co-workers are not likely to think I’m doing anything wrong, or even interesting, it’s better not to invite questions.”
“How will you get the material to me?”
Miss Garrison took off her steel-rimmed spectacles, as though she could see better without them. “I attend church regularly on Sundays and am treasurer of the ladies’ auxiliary which meets every Wednesday night. I’m in the habit of carrying a large handbag, roomy enough to contain a couple of paperbacks and an extra sweater and rain gear, et cetera. In the past the size of my handbags has been the object of some speculation and humor around the office but now they are, like myself, taken for granted.
“Being taken for granted,” Miss Garrison added, replacing her spectacles, “has certain advantages. I am part of the woodwork. No one expects woodwork to start acting like a tree again.”
Howard’s move into the guest cottage was accomplished quickly and without fuss. The cottage was always kept ready for occupancy, its cupboards and refrigerator well-stocked, even its medicine chest equipped with toothbrushes and paste, aspirin and throwaway razors. The only real change was the telephone which was now a private line with an unlisted number. Besides Michael, only two people were given this number — Kay, and Howard’s confidential secretary.
During the move Howard’s father stood around watching dolefully. He made no attempt to help Howard carry his personal effects over from the main house, and when asked to do so he refused with a sad little shake of his head.
“No, son, I cannot be a party to an act which I consider morally wrong.”
“It surely isn’t morally wrong to move from one section of my house to another.”
“But what is the purpose of such an act?”
“I’ve already explained to you that I’m going to be very busy and I don’t want to disturb Kay… Here, hang this up for me, will you?”