They headed for the off-ramp to some little town on the outskirts of Portland called Corbett. “So what are we doing here?” Coldmoon asked.
“The postmaster who serviced Berry Patch in the early seventies has been dead for twenty years. His wife helped him until he retired. She then remarried, was widowed a second time, and now lives at the Riverview Retirement Home here.” He paused. “I’m confident that Berry Patch — like other secluded hamlets, Spoon River included — thrives, or at least thrived, on local gossip.”
The Riverview Retirement Home was set high on a ridge, just off a switchback of Corbett Hill Road. From the outside, the place resembled an elementary school — Coldmoon had an extremely low opinion of “rest homes” — but it had a good view of the Columbia River, and inside it was neat and bright. Each resident, it seemed, had a private room. Faith Matheny, the twice-widowed assistant postmistress, was ninety years old and suffered from DLB — dementia with Lewy bodies — which usually presented (so Pendergast informed him) with slower memory loss than Alzheimer’s. The old woman claimed to remember nothing of interest after the day of her second marriage. But Pendergast was so charming, and so persuasive, that soon he had her telling so many tales of life in Berry Patch that Coldmoon had trouble keeping track of it all.
The woman did recall Quincy with fondness. He was a fine, handsome young doctor, had a practice in Tacoma but returned most weekends to the farm. He was especially liked because every year, Quincy and his father, who raised turkeys on their farm, would donate birds for and preside over a grand Thanksgiving dinner for all eighty-five residents of Berry Patch, held in the Presbyterian church activities room. Then she frowned. Except that one year, when he didn’t show up. Very odd. People said it was because his father was sick in the hospital.
And what year was that? Pendergast asked.
Nineteen seventy-one, she remembered. She was sure, because that was the same year a storm pushed a tree down on the schoolhouse and the Dotsons’ mare drowned in Walupt Creek.
Pendergast was as good as his word: within another hour they were taking their first-class seats in a flight that would get them back to Atlanta by seven PM. Pendergast had been quiet during the drive from Corbett to Portland International, which was fine with Coldmoon, who was in no mood for conversation. As the flight attendants closed the doors and went through their preflight routine, Coldmoon felt Pendergast lay a hand lightly on his arm.
“Armstrong,” he said, “I plan to spend the flight in meditation. I’d appreciate it if you would make sure I’m not disturbed.”
“Sure. I hope to catch forty winks myself.” Coldmoon could guess the odd mental exercise Pendergast meant by “meditation” — he’d seen him at it once before, in a snowbound hotel in Maine. He turned away, then sensed Pendergast was still looking at him.
“There’s something I would like to share with you,” Pendergast said. “It might help shed additional light on this excursion if you search the internet for a certain D. B. Cooper. I think you’ll find his story makes interesting reading.”
“D. B. Cooper?” The name was familiar to Coldmoon, but he wasn’t sure why.
“Yes. The name he actually went by was Dan Cooper, but in their reporting the press mistakenly called him D. B. Cooper. That’s the moniker that has persisted over time.”
“How much time?”
“Since the day before Thanksgiving of 1971, as a matter of fact.” Pendergast leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest like an Egyptian mummy, and closed his eyes.
46
The campaign bus eased through the police barricades blocking Drayton Street. Seeing this, Senator Buford Drayton felt a rush of pride in his historic family. The Draytons went all the way back to the Founding Fathers, and a Drayton had signed the Articles of Confederation. The Draytons had played an important role in the War of Northern Aggression as well. No wonder Savannah had named a street after them. That was one reason he’d chosen Forsyth Park for the kick-off rally of his re-election campaign: to remind voters of his family’s patriotic service to the country, and those among its ranks who had fought for the cause — to which there was a splendid monument in Forsyth Park.
The bus came to a halt with a hiss of brakes. Senator Drayton exited his private wood-paneled sitting room in the rear of the bus. He found his chief of staff, communications chief, and campaign chief seated around a table in the main section of the bus, talking strategy. They all rose when he came out.
“I want to personally review the setup,” he said.
“Yes, Senator,” replied the campaign chief.
An advance man helped the senator down the steps. He stood at the edge of the park and looked around. People were already gathering along East Park Avenue: big crowds of followers, many wearing the signature blue-and-red cap of his campaign with its STAY WITH DRAYTON slogan, many carrying placards with the same message, dressed in red, white, and blue. He heard their distant roar, and it gladdened his heart.
He looked at his watch. Five thirty PM. The rally was scheduled to begin at eight, but as usual he’d actually start at nine: he’d learned that, for political rallies at least, the anticipation of the wait — with supporters chattering excitedly among themselves — brought their energy to a fever pitch. The weather report said scattered thunderstorms, but only a 20 percent chance. The sky was mostly clear; things were looking good.
Across the great lawn, at the foot of the Civil War monument to the Confederate dead, a stage had been set up and draped in bunting. On the vast expanse in front, thousands of chairs were being placed, with plenty of open lawn behind and on either side for the overflow crowd. Drayton began strolling toward the stage.
As he walked, he noticed the chairs were not being arranged as he would have liked.
“Hey, you!” He veered from his route toward a heavyset man who appeared to be a supervisor.
The man turned toward him with an annoyed expression, saw who it was, and changed his look right fast.
“Look here,” said Drayton, “are you the one in charge of this?”
“Of setting up the chairs, yes, Senator.”
“Then what do you mean by arranging ragged lines such as all these?”
“I’m sorry, Senator.”
“Straighten them up. I want them to look crisp and even — not wandering all over like a line of recruits on the first day of boot camp.”
He laughed and looked around at his staff, and they all laughed, too.
“Get them nice and straight.”
“Yes, Senator, right away.”
The supervisor nodded and went off, yelling and gesturing at the workers who were unfolding and setting up the chairs. Drayton watched as they started adjusting them. Hell, if they’d set them up right the first time they wouldn’t have to do it again.
He continued to the stage and mounted the steps. A podium, draped in more bunting, stood in the middle, with a row of twenty-one flags forming a backdrop. Above were two giant screens that would project Drayton’s tanned and smiling face to the distant parts of the crowd. Now they displayed a still picture of Drayton, gesticulating from the Senate floor, with the tag line Georgia, Stay with Drayton.
The engineers were still setting up the last touches of the sound system — two towers of Voice of the Theatre speakers, powerful enough for a rock concert — taping down cables snaking every which way. On the far side, a police sergeant was talking to a group of about thirty cops, apparently issuing assignments.
Drayton turned to his chief of staff. “Where’s the commander?”
“You mean Delaplane?” the chief said. “I haven’t seen her.”