“Would anyone else be welcome?”
“No, they would not. Mr. Carpenter, are you writing a dissertation on my religion, or are you here to promote the interests of your client?”
“Sorry, I’m just a curious guy. Did you know the victims?”
He smiles. “Certainly. I know everyone in this town. This is a very friendly community.”
“With no crime,” I point out.
“Virtually none.”
“How would you suggest I get all these friendly people in this friendly community to talk to me?”
“I would doubt that they would want to,” he says. “Everyone loved Elizabeth and Sheryl very much.”
“Many of them talked to the police,” I point out.
He nods. “I’m sure it was with some reluctance. We like to keep to ourselves, but we recognize our obligations to follow the laws of the imperfect nation that contains us.”
“But if you suggested that they talk to me… in the pursuit of justice for the victims…”
“I’ll inform the families of your interest. That’s all.”
This guy is bugging me, and not because he is evasive and uncooperative. It’s because he seems to consider me of no consequence. This is particularly annoying, since when I die, I want my headstone to read, “Here lies Andy Carpenter. He was of considerable consequence.”
“Look, I have no interest in causing problems for you or your community,” I say, “but as I’m sure they mentioned at Harvard, I must vigorously defend my client by all legal means available to me.”
He barely deigns to shrug, so I continue. “And within this town there is information about the victims that is relevant, one way or the other, to this case. I can’t just say, ‘Well, these are religious people, so I’ll leave them alone.’ ”
“You are getting to a point?” he asks.
“Yes. There is substantial national interest in this case. The media will descend on Findlay for this trial. If I tell them that the real truth is buried here, in Center City, your parishioners will spend all their time dodging TV cameras. There will be so many people here you’ll have casinos springing up.”
“Mr. Carpenter, our people have been here for one hundred seventy-one years. Our society has remained pure and untouched, despite the efforts of many outsiders to pollute it. We are capable of handling threats far greater than yours, I assure you.”
“Your streets are public streets,” I say.
“Inhabited by private people,” he counters. “And my job is to protect that privacy, by every legal means available to me. And I will do so aggressively, every chance I get.” He stands up, almost as sure a sign as taking out car keys that a meeting is over. “As I said, I will inform the families of your desire to talk to them. If they should choose to do so, they or I will contact you.”
I leave, and as I exit the building, two servants of the Keeper are standing there, watching my every move. I’ve seen one of them before, but not the other, bringing the total to four who have monitored my movements in my two brief visits here. The new servant is the largest one yet.
I’m pissed off by my meeting, so to annoy them, and perhaps to learn something, I stop before I get to my car and look around at the street, which is mostly deserted. “Can we help you, sir?” the larger one asks.
“I’m just trying to get my bearings,” I say. “I know Space Mountain is over there, so where would Pirates of the Caribbean be?”
“Sir?”
I shrug. “Never mind… it’s probably a really long line anyway. I’ll check out the Haunted House.” I start to walk down the street, looking around as if I’m taking in the sights of the town.
I glance over a couple of times at the servants, who seem unsure what to do. Soon two others approach me from the other direction. I wave toward them, continuing my walk, which has reached the outskirts of the town center, which is the beginning of the residential homes. Not surprisingly, they don’t wave back.
I’m getting a little nervous, but I’m comforted a little by the fact that it’s broad daylight out. I see a street sign marking the street that I know to be the one on which Elizabeth Barlow lived. There are a few residents around, and I call out to one of the women. “Excuse me, can you tell me which is the Barlow home?”
The woman doesn’t answer me, instead looking away, though she doesn’t seem to be particularly fearful or nervous. I see a little boy, no more than seven years old, driving a toy fire truck.
“Are you going to be a fireman when you grow up?” I ask, with one eye on the approaching servants.
The boy shakes his head. “Nope, I’m going to work in the bank.”
It seems a strange response, so I ask, “You’re going to be a banker?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
I wonder if the wheel dictated the boy’s career choice, but I keep walking, turning a corner and seeing that two more servants are waiting for me up ahead. Turning the corner was not the smartest idea, since I now find myself in front of a vacant lot with no residents around and servants closing in from the front and back. I feel a flash of panic; my annoyance at Drummond has caused me to push this too far.
Suddenly, a car pulls up and comes to a quick stop before me. It is driven by still another servant, who gets out of the car and walks slowly over to me. I recognize him instantly from the picture as Drummond’s son; he has Drummond’s height but is in better physical shape.
I turn and see that another man has gotten out of the passenger seat and is walking over to me. Actually, he strides over, exuding a sense of superiority that is immediately apparent. He wears a robe, almost looking like a judge, except that the robe is blue, perhaps a shade lighter than navy. He is considerably smaller than all of his servants, yet he is clearly in command.
“Mr. Carpenter,” he says. It’s a statement, perhaps a greeting.
“Keeper Wallace,” I say.
“Yes. What exactly are you doing here?”
I smile through my nervousness. “Just checking out the town. It’s quite lovely.”
“I’m afraid you must leave now.”
“Why is that?”
“We are a peaceful community, and your intentions seem to be disruptive. We have little tolerance for that.” There is an extraordinary air about this man, which I think is a reflection of total security and confidence. He believes that nothing can hurt him, and he projects a serenity, even as he threatens me.
“My intention is to find out who killed two of your citizens.”
“Do not provoke more violence in the process.”
This certainly sounds like a threat, and I certainly don’t want to test whether or not it is an empty one. I also don’t want to appear to be a coward, even though that’s pretty much what I am. All I can think to do is turn and walk the two blocks back to my car and drive off, so that’s what I do, watched by my security detail every step of the way.
I head back to Findlay, which compared to Center City feels like Midtown Manhattan. The experience of being in Center City this time has left me shaken and concerned; there are things to be discovered there, but I’m at a loss how to do so.
When I get back to the house, Calvin is standing out front, petting Tara. I get out of the car and walk over to them; something about this scene worries me. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Tara’s all right,” Calvin says. “I wanted you to know that right away.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Go inside and get a look at small-town assholedom at work,” he says.
I move quickly to the front door and into the house. As soon as I enter I see it: A dummy is hanging from the ceiling fan in the living room, secured by a noose around his neck. The fan is operating slowly, and the dummy is eerily being dragged in a circular motion around the center of the room.