"Some people might trace the rightward shift and the start of a lot of these troubles to the arrival of Elysius Culhane," I said carefully, watching his face.
Mosely made a derisive gesture with his right hand. "That's Mary Tree talking again. You think Culhane's a fool, Frederick-son? You think he'd risk his reputation, career, and maybe a fine or jail sentence by getting involved in a nasty letter-writing campaign?"
"The man's mind and real motivations are a mystery to me," I said even more carefully, "so I don't have the slightest idea what he would or wouldn't do. Some people think you might; some people think Elysius Culhane is the reason you're chief of police in Cairn."
He didn't like that at all. His jaw muscles clenched, and the acne scars ringing his neck stood out as blood rushed to his face. His head snapped around, and his gray eyes glinted with anger. He started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He took a deep breath, turned away again. "Did that woman tell you I was in Culhane's pocket?" he asked in an even tone.
"No. But it was suggested that you might be a bit more sensitive to his views of law and order than to other points of view because you owe your job to him."
"I was appointed by the mayor after a vote of the town board and trustees."
"Sure," I said easily. "That's how democracy works."
He sighed again, studied the backs of his sinewy hands. "Look, Frederickson, I'm not going to try to bullshit you. You're goddamn right I pay attention to Culhane's opinions, the same as I pay attention to the opinions and views of the mayor, the trustees, the board, and the owners of all those mansions on the north side of town. They're the power structure in this town, and if I don't perform this job to their satisfaction, they'll get somebody else in here who will. I have to consider politics, yes, but that doesn't mean I don't enforce the laws in an evenhanded manner. There are politics involved in any job like this. In that sense Cairn is no different from New York City or East Podunk. It doesn't make me a crooked cop."
"A good, honest answer, Chief," I said, then paused to clear my throat. "But then, the question would remain as to why Elysius Culhane chose to sponsor you, and not someone else who was also honest and equally sensitive to the political dynamics of law enforcement."
"Now you're pushing it, Frederickson."
"You opened the subject when you insisted on hearing my version of the town gossip. Did you and Elysius Culhane know each other before you came here?"
Again, the man's jaw muscles clenched, but his tone remained even. "I'd never met the man before, Frederickson. I have to assume I was hired because I was the best candidate. Now, do you have anything else to tell me?"
"Nope."
"You have any more stops in Cairn?"
"No, Chief, I don't have any more stops in Cairn."
"Then, may I assume you'll be leaving town?" He paused, looked at me. His smile was thin, but not without warmth. "Before Gregory Trex gets out of the hospital, and before a '60 Minutes' crew shows up on the steps of Town Hall?"
"I'll be leaving town forthwith."
"I will be in touch, Frederickson."
"So you told me."
He nodded curtly, slid off the table onto the ground. "If you don't mind, there's somebody else who'd like to talk to you."
"Who?"
"Trex."
"Gregory Trex wants to talk to me, and you want me to talk to him?"
"Not the son, the father. Jack Trex."
Mosely drove me back through the center of town, and then south into an area of Cairn where the old, clapboard houses were undoubtedly worth much less than the land they sat on. He stopped the car at the side of the road, pointed to a dirt driveway that led in the direction of the river. I got out, and he drove away without a word. I limped down the tree-lined driveway, went around a corner, and found myself on a lawn beside a ramshackle, weather-beaten house sitting high on a stone foundation only two or three yards from the high-tide mark of the river. Two goats inside a large wire enclosure munched contentedly on the grass-cheap, perpetual lawn mowers. It seemed Jack Trex was a working fisherman; there was a battered dinghy and a Boston Whaler tied up at a floating dock that was missing half its planks. Nets for catching shad hung on drying racks, and there were a half dozen crab pots.
The goats brayed at me. I brayed back, went up to the front door, and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by Jack Trex, who was leaning on crutches. The veteran was wearing baggy brown corduroy trousers and a faded green T-shirt that almost matched the color of his eyes, and which emphasized the bulge of muscle in his chest, arms, and shoulders. He was not wearing his artificial limb, and the pants cuff where his left leg should have been was hanging loose and empty. His thinning black hair was unkempt, but he was clean-shaven, except for his gray mustache, and his pale green eyes were clear, reflecting no trace of hostility.
"Thank you for coming, Dr. Frederickson," Trex said warmly. He shifted his weight on his crutches in order to free his right arm, then extended a large, thickly callused hand, which I shook. "I appreciate it very much. How about some coffee?"
"Sure," I said in a somewhat tentative tone. I hadn't known quite what to expect from the father of the disturbed young man I'd twice beaten on and humiliated, and the genuine warmth and sincerity of his greeting took me by surprise.
Trex stood to one side and held the door open for me. I stepped into an enormous kitchen; judging from what I'd seen of the exterior, it had to be the largest room in the house. Trex stroked his gray mustache, studied me. There seemed to be a hint of amusement in his limpid, expressive eyes, and perhaps other things that I couldn't read.
"I don't wear the prosthesis around the house," he said in his deep, raspy voice. "It chafes. Does the sight of an amputee bother you?"
"No."
"It does some people."
"Well, Mr. Trex, there's no doubt in my mind that it bothers the amputee a lot more."
Jack Trex chuckled. "You've got that right." He pointed to a round wooden table ringed with wooden chairs in the center of the room. "Have yourself a seat. The coffee will be ready in a minute."
I sat down while Trex propelled himself across the kitchen to a counter where a coffee grinder was situated. He poured beans into the canister of the machine, turned it on, then busied himself preparing the pot and filter. Still not knowing what to expect, I contented myself with looking around the kitchen while the other man prepared the coffee.
To my left were two gas ranges and ceiling racks with an assortment of pots and pans hanging from them. There was an overriding odor of fried fish; since shad, the only Hudson catch that could be commercially sold, only ran in the spring, I suspected that Jack Trex ate a good deal of what he caught during the rest of the year.
There was an easel in one corner, but there was nothing on it. Behind me, a scarred rolltop desk was set against the wall next to an open door that looked as if it led into a gloomy, poorly lit living room. The desk and the rickety card table set up next to it were overflowing with magazines, newspapers, clippings, books, jars of pens and pencils, and notepads. Hanging on the wall over the desk were two framed quotes. One was from George Orwell, referring to his definition of political language as the use of words to defend the indefensible. The second quote was from Lenin: "The fastest way to destroy a society is to corrupt language."