He drove to the north side of town and found where Williams Street began off the county road. He pulled over, hesitated, then turned onto the suburban street.
Some of the stately old Victorians looked restored, some were rundown. As a child, he'd always marveled at this section of town, the big houses on small plots that he now realized were not small at all, the huge trees that formed a dark green tunnel in the summer, the fact that people could live so close together and see into one another's homes, and the luxury of two cars in every driveway. What had impressed, amused, and mystified him then was no longer impressive, amusing, or mystifying, of course. Childhood wonder and innocence were almost embarrassing in retrospect; but what kind of adult would you be without once having seen things through wide eyes?
The street was as quiet as he'd expected on a summer afternoon. A few kids rode by on bicycles, a woman pushed a baby carriage, a delivery van was stopped up the road and the driver was chatting with a woman at her door. It was a street of big front porches, a uniquely American phenomenon, as he'd discovered in his travels, though houses in America were not built that way any longer. Small children played on some of the porches, old people rocked. He was glad Annie lived on this street.
As he approached her house, something odd happened: His heart began thumping and his mouth went dry. The house was to his right, and before he realized it, he was passing it, and he pulled over. He noticed a beat-up station wagon parked in the driveway, and an older man was carrying a stepladder to the rear of the house. And there she was, just a glimpse of her as she turned away and disappeared around the back of the house with the old man. It was only a second or two, from fifty yards away, but he had no doubt it was her, and this instant recognition of her features, her stride, her bearing, astonished him.
He backed up and opened the car door, then stopped. How could he just show up at her door? But why not? What was wrong with the direct approach? Phoning her or dropping her a note was not what he'd pictured in his mind. He thought it was important that he should just ring her doorbell and say, "Hello, Annie," and let whatever happened happen, spontaneously and without rehearsal.
But what if she had company? What if her kids were home, or her husband? Why hadn't he thought of that likely possibility even once when he replayed this scene over and over again through the years? Obviously, the imagined moment had become so real that he'd excluded anything that would have ruined it.
He closed the door and drove off. He headed toward the farm, his mind racing faster than the car. What is wrong with you, Landry? Get a grip, pal.
He took a deep breath and slowed down to the speed limit. No use getting off on the wrong foot with the local gendarmes. Which reminded him of Annie's husband. Surely, he thought, if she weren't married he'd have had the nerve to stop and say hello. But you couldn't compromise a married woman that way. Not around here. And in Spencerville you didn't do lunch or have drinks after work.
So maybe he should drop a note to her sister. Maybe he'd phone her. Maybe a guy who'd handled combat and a shoot-out in East Berlin could handle a phone call to a woman he once loved. "Sure." In a few weeks, when I'm settled in. Make a note of that.
He went back to the farmhouse and spent the afternoon on the front porch with his two six-packs, watching each car that passed by.
Bob Aries filled the chief's car. Self-service didn't mean Cliff Baxter had to pump his own gas. They chatted. Aries said, "Hey, Chief, had a interesting guy in here this morning."
"You got any of them beef jerkies?"
"Sure do. Help yourself."
Cliff Baxter went into the convenience store and touched his hat to Mrs. Aries behind the counter. She watched him as he gathered up beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, salted nuts, and a few Hershey bars. About twelve dollars' worth all together, she figured.
He took an Orange Crush out of the refrigerator case, sauntered over to the register, and dumped it all on the counter. "What we got here, Mary?"
"I guess about two dollars should cover it," which was what she said every time.
He flipped a few singles on the counter as she bagged his items.
Bob Aries came in with a municipal charge form, and Cliff scribbled his name without looking at the gas total.
Aries said, "Appreciate the patronage, Chief."
Mary wasn't so sure of that. Men, she thought, had to make every business transaction into something like a bonding experience, with a little scamming thrown in. Bob overcharged the town for the gas, and Cliff Baxter fed his fat face for nearly free.
Cliff took his bag, and Bob Aries walked out with him. "Like I was saying, this guy comes in with this foreign car, Washington plates and all, and..."
"Look suspicious?"
"No, I'm sayin' he was from around here. Used to live here, now he's back looking for work, livin' out on his folks' farm. Don't get many who come back."
"Sure don't. Good riddance to 'em." Cliff got into his cruiser.
"Drivin' a Saab. What do they go for?"
"Well... let's see... maybe twenty, thirty, new."
"The guy did okay for himself."
"Nothin' okay about foreign cars, Bob." Cliff started to roll the window up, then stopped and asked, "You get his name?"
"Landry. Keith Landry."
Cliff Baxter looked at Aries. "What?"
Aries continued, "Folks had a farm down by Overton. You know them?"
Cliff sat silent a moment, then said, "Yeah... Keith Landry?"
"Yup."
"Moved back?"
"He said."
"Family?"
"Nope."
"What'd he look like?"
Bob shrugged. "I don't know. Regular guy."
"You'd make a hell of a cop. Fat? Thin? Bald? Dick growin' out of his head?"
"Thin. Tall guy, all his hair. Not bad-lookin', I guess. Why?"
"Oh, I thought maybe I'd keep an eye out for him. Welcome him home."
"Can't miss that car. He's out at his folks' place. Check him out if you want."
"I might do just that." Cliff pulled away and headed south toward Overton.
Chapter Six
Cliff Baxter brooded over the events of that morning. "Don't know what got into her." Of course he knew exactly what had gotten into her: She hated him. He sort of accepted that, but he was still convinced that she also loved him. He loved her, so she had to love him. What really bothered him was that she'd gotten feisty, went and actually took one of his guns. She'd always had a smart mouth, but she'd never so much as thrown a dish at him. Now she was pumping buckshot over his head. "Got to be that time of the month. That's it. PMS. Pigheaded Monthly Shit."
He was sure he'd gotten the better of the argument, but that was true only if he discounted his bladder letting loose. He hadn't really evened the score on that one, so he tried to forget it happened. But he couldn't forget it. "That bitch."
He would have dwelled on this more, but he had a whole new problem to think about — Mr. Keith Landry, ex-boyfriend of Miss Annie Oakley.
He drove past the Landry farm and noted the black Saab in the gravel driveway. He noted, too, that there was a man on the porch, and he was certain that the man noticed the police car driving by.
Cliff used his mobile phone and called his desk sergeant. "Blake, it's me. Call Washington, D.C., Motor Vehicles, and get me whatever you can on a Keith Landry." He spelled it out and added, "Drives a black Saab 900. Can't tell the year and can't see the plate number. Get back to me ASAP." Cliff then dialed information. "Yeah, need a number for Landry, Keith Landry, County Road 28, new listing."