“I’m not here for service, son, but thank you. I’m looking for David Ketchem. Might he be around?”
The kid tucked his chin in an attempt to keep his Adam’s apple in place. “My dad’s in the office,” he said, pointing to a red door sandwiched between the service bays and a gleaming expanse of plate-glass window.
The door didn’t tinkle when Harry opened it. Instead, it set off a musical bing! that sounded like an hour tone on the radio. He began to suspect that, had life turned out a little differently, Jonathon Ketchem’s brother would have gone into show business instead of being a pump jockey.
“Can I help you?” The man behind the counter was about Harry’s age, mid-thirties, with thinning blond hair and a face that fell easily into smiling. Harry didn’t need the DAVE badge sewn over his right breast pocket to identify him as the skinny kid’s father.
“David Ketchem?” Harry smiled himself, a salve against the sting of his next words. “I’m Chief Harry McNeil, Millers Kill police.”
Ketchem’s smile faltered, and he darted a glance toward the door separating the office from the service bays. Then he reached his hand over the counter. “How d’ye do. I hope there isn’t any trouble.” His voice, which had been as smooth and accentless as a soap salesman’s before, took on a strong up-country Cossayuharie accent, so that “isn’t” came out “in’t.”
“I’m here because of your brother, Mr. Ketchem. Seems Jonathon Ketchem had a fight with his wife this past Saturday night. He stormed off in his car and hasn’t been home since. Mrs. Ketchem is mighty upset about it, and I told her I’d make some inquiries. I’m hoping you can help me locate him.”
“Yeah. Janie called me yesterday. Said he’d taken himself away and she didn’t know where he was.” Ketchem’s body relaxed, and the storm cloud that had been brewing in his eyes dissipated into amused surprise. “I can see why Janie’d go on about it to you. He’s never done that before, that I know of.”
“He hasn’t come here? To cool off or to keep his head down for a few days? Give her a scare?”
“Nope. He’s welcome to stay anytime, but I haven’t seen him for a couple, three weeks at least.”
“You sure? Maybe he drove through here on his way up north, and your boy saw him?” Harry figured if this guy was protecting his brother, it would be a good idea to give him a graceful way out. He leaned forward on the counter, confidential, man-to-man. “Obviously, we don’t get involved in a quarrel between a man and his wife, but now that we’re out looking for him”-skipping over the fact that Harry wasn’t wasting any of his men’s time on this-“I’d hate to keep on spending the department’s money looking for him if someone knows where he’s gone.”
David Ketchem shook his head. “Honest, I don’t know. And Lewis, my boy, he’d ’a told me. Janie’s a good girl, and she’s been a good wife to him. I wouldn’t help to scare her.”
“You ever know your brother to drink?”
“We used to sneak a bottle here and there when we were younger, but no, not for some while. Our dad is an elder of the Presbyterian church in Cossayuharie, so you can imagine how our folks feel about liquor. I just figured Jon followed their example.”
“What about women? Any chance he might have a girlfriend on the sly who’d take him in?”
Ketchem laughed. “Jon? Not a chance. Farm and family, that’s all that interests him.”
Harry polished an imaginary spot on the gleaming white counter. “That’s not the impression I’ve gotten from speaking to a few people. His wife says he’s been moody and out of sorts since they lost their farm to the Conklingville Dam project. Hasn’t figured out what to do with himself. A friend of his agrees.” He glanced up at Ketchem. “What’s your take?”
David Ketchem rested his forearms on the counter, bringing himself down to Harry’s eye level. He frowned, and gazed out the plate-glass window at the stubby pasturage across Tenant Mountain Road. “I guess that’s true. Having to sell the farm, that was hard on Jon. Only thing he ever wanted to do, really. Be a farmer, just like Dad.” He looked at Harry. “I told him he ought to get into a business. Farming.” He shook his head. “You bust your hump three hundred sixty-five days a year doing the same work your great-great-grandfather did. And never get any further along in life than he did.” He glanced around his movie-star-bungalow garage. “You have to look to the future, that’s what I told him. He got a bundle from selling his land to those development folks. It’s worth more underwater than it was growing corn and feeding cows. That’s a sign, don’t you think? The mountains are changing, and a smart man changes along with them.” The satisfaction in his eyes as he surveyed his red-and-white kingdom left no doubt as to which path David Ketchem had chosen.
“Mrs. Ketchem said your brother invested in your business here.”
“He did, and it was a smart thing, too. I’m going to get him a good return on his money. It’s quiet now, ’cause it’s spring, but you should see this place during the summer. From June through September, the pumps never stop ringing and we have cars parked around the building waiting for garage service.” He came around the counter and opened the red door. “You see that lot across the way?” He stepped out onto the macadam and Harry followed. The sun was sliding fast toward the mountains, and a cold breeze had sprung up, reminding Harry that they were still just a few weeks past the rawest nights of the year. He hunched his shoulders inside his wool jacket as Ketchem pointed across the road, where a tired-looking farm stand leaned in on itself, empty except for a few bunches of rhubarb propped in buckets and a tin can for customers to put their money into. “You know what oughtta be there?” Ketchem said. “A restaurant. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just someplace clean and fast where folks driving to the lake or up into the mountains can pull over and eat. I got my eye on the property. I tried to get Jon to think about it, buying the land and building a place.” He shook his head again, this time with the frustration of a man navigating by a map that everyone else ignores. “I told him, you’ll get more for cooking and selling food to tourists than by growing it. He’s not interested.”
“What is he interested in?”
David Ketchem frowned at Harry, as if he had lost track of the purpose of their talk. “Huh?”
“Your brother doesn’t seem to drink. No one can place him with a girlfriend. And he’s never gone off and left his wife and kid with no word. But he’s been missing two days now. Where do you think he is?”
Harry could see the exact moment when Ketchem realized he had no answer for the question that his brother might really, truly be gone, in one of the ways that have no relieved reunion, no happy ending. A thought had been swimming around in Harry’s mind, hard to catch, like a fish in a shady brook. Just glimpses, as it darted into the sun-clear water. It was one of those silly things, you know, first you say something, and then he says something, and next thing you’re going at it hammer and tongs.
After the children passed, he just sort of spun free.
Having to sell the farm, that was hard on Jon.
He leaned in closer to Ketchem, dropped his voice. “How blue do you think your brother really was?”
David Ketchem’s mouth sagged open. Then he snapped it shut. “No.”
“Dad?”
Both men turned to see the boy, framed in the archway of the first service bay.
“Is Uncle Jon missing?”
Ketchem looked at Harry, an edge of panic sharpening his features, his question as clear as if he’d spoken it. What do I say?
“Your dad says your name is Lewis,” Harry said.
“Yessir.”