Conway went on as if Hallock hadn't spoken. "See, that was the only thing out of the ordinary me and Mildred could think of. It's not like a person's in a fire every other day, if you see what I mean, Chief."
"I do, and I agree with you. You've been real helpful," he said again. "I have to go now, Mister Conway."
"Should we keep on thinking, Chief?"
Hallock recognized the man's reluctance to let him go, as though keeping the connection open somehow negated his daughter's death. "Yes, sure, Mister Conway. And you call me in Seaville if anything occurs to you. That's the second number I gave you."
"Yessir. I called that one but the lady said you wasn't back yet. So then I called this-here number."
"Well, I'm leaving today. Good-bye, Mister Conway, and thank you." Hallock hung up before Conway could say anything else. Then he punched out Maguire's number. Still busy. He thought a moment, then called the Gazette. It rang three times before a man answered. The voice sounded familiar, but Hallock couldn't place it. He asked for Maguire.
"He's not in today," the man said. "Who's calling?"
"Who's this?" Hallock asked.
"Special Agent Schufeldt," he said. "Who's this?"
Hallock withdrew his ear from the phone as if it had been burned, then slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle. He sat on the edge of the bed wondering why Schufeldt was at the paper, answering the phone. Had something happened to Maguire? Had there been another murder? And what about Griffing? Was Schufeldt at the paper to arrest him? Had someone there remembered that fire twenty-five years ago? By some miracle had Schufeldt put it all together? He had to get back.
Quickly he stuffed his feet into his shoes and made for the door. If he missed the next plane out, he'd catch the one after that, and if he couldn't get on that one, the one after that would have to do. Because police chief or not, nothing was going to stop him from being there at the end of this one. Nothing.
LOOKING BACK-50 YEARS AGO
On Sunday of this week Professor Albert Einstein, who received worldwide notoriety a few years ago for his Theory of Relativity, visited Seaville. According to a well-founded rumor, Professor Einstein may become a summer resident of Seaville. While in town he made several inquiries regarding the hiring of a cottage on the waterfront during the summer.
THIRTY-TWO
Annie sat in the first pew of her church. The late morning light set off the large mural above the altar as if it were specially lit. She liked coming in to the church at this time of day. It was quiet and she was able to meditate. But today she couldn't concentrate. Every time she tried to focus, expand, zero in on her higher power, she thought of Colin, their night together. And it made her uncomfortable, sitting here in church, thinking of him, of their lovemaking. Not that she believed God would mind. Her God was a loving God who wanted her to be happy again. But replaying scenes of the night before made her feel embarrassed here in church. It was an old idea, an old prudishness. Still, she couldn't shake it, couldn't go beyond the ideas her mother had imparted to her: Church and sex don't mix.
Her thoughts shifted to Steve Cornwell. Did he know that Colin had spent the night? If not, it wouldn't be long before he did. But Colin might leave Seaville. He hadn't said so directly, but the possibility was clear. And if he did? Was she supposed to follow him as if she had no life of her own? She smiled to herself thinking, Who asked?
It was crazy sitting here wondering about a life that included Colin. They'd spent one night together, something thousands, maybe millions of people did all the time, never to see one another again. But she wasn't any of those people. Making love with Colin was special, important. For her there was nothing transient about it. And that was dangerous.
She couldn't expect him to feel the same way. Most men didn't. But Colin didn't seem like most men. She felt as if she'd known him for years, perhaps always, then reminded herself that that was only a feeling, not a fact. Still, what she'd experienced the night before had been incredible, the depth of feeling overpowering.
That was what frightened her. She cared. She trusted him. And she was totally vulnerable. Enough, she told herself. Standing, she stretched, trying to remember when last she'd felt so tired. But what a good tired. She left the church and walked toward her office.
Peg was just coming out. "Oh, there you are. I came as soon as I heard," she said.
"Heard what?"
Peg looked stricken. "You mean you don't know?"
"Is this a game?"
"Annie," she said seriously, "it's Colin."
She felt her knees give way and grabbed hold of Peg's arm. There was no way she could go through another death; it would finish her.
"Are you okay?"
She went into her office, unable to ask Peg to tell her what she meant.
"Annie," Peg called after her, "did you hear me?"
She didn't answer, just sat on the couch, waiting.
Peg said, "What is it? You look terrible. Oh, God, I'm sorry. He's not dead, if that's what you're thinking."
Annie closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the couch. "What then?" she was able to ask.
"He's disappeared. You do know about Babe Parkinson, don't you?"
"No."
Peg sat down next to her, gently put her hand on Annie's arm. "She's been murdered-one of those swastikas was carved in her chest. And Colin's run away. I can't believe no one's called you."
"I had a meeting about the summer carnival at nine which lasted two hours. I didn't take any calls, then I went over to the church. "What do you mean, Colin's run away?"
"I don't know all the details and I got what I have third hand, but it seems Mark Griffing tried to get Colin to turn himself in and Colin attacked him, locked him in the basement of the Gazette building. Then he just disappeared. He didn't have his car so he couldn't have gotten very far. You don't know where he is, do you, Annie?"
"No. When was Babe Parkinson murdered?"
"Some time late last night, from what I've gathered."
Annie said, "Colin didn't kill her."
Peg shook her head. "You don't know that, Annie. You just don't know."
"I do. she said obstinately.
"Look, I know how you feel. If somebody accused Tim of killing some-"
"Peg, listen to me," she snapped.
"Okay, okay."
"Colin couldn't have killed Babe. He was with me."
"All night?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Who should I call?"
"What do you mean?"
"Peg, I have to help Colin. If the police think he killed Babe, they have to be told he couldn't have."
"You can't, Annie."
"Oh, yes I can." She picked up the phone.
Peg depressed the button cutting off the open line. "You just can't. Think." She took the receiver from Annie and replaced it.
"I am thinking."
"Look, just because you spent one night with the man doesn't mean you throw your whole career down the drain. Don't you know what's going to happen when this gets out?"
"I have a pretty fair idea. But it doesn't matter. Colin's life might be at stake."
"And so might yours," Peg pointed out.
"That's absurd."
"Is it?"
"You don't know him!" Annie exclaimed.
"And you do?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. He's gentle and sensitive and-he couldn't kill anyone."
"Don't you think it's a bit of a coincidence that this gentle, sensitive man has been involved in murder before coming to Seaville?" Peg asked.
"Exactly. That's exactly what it is, a coincidence." She made a move toward the phone.
Peg blocked her. "Annie, please. This is just the kind of thing Steve Cornwell is waiting for."
"I can't help that, Peg. Colin's life is more important than my career in Seaville."
"It won't just be Seaville," Peg assured her.
"I'll have to take that chance."
"Can't you at least wait, see what happens?"