‘No motorcycle this morning?’ I asked.
‘Took my own car,’ Fred said.
His own car was a Buick station wagon. We walked to it quickly. There was a big meadow behind the log cabin, and (he mist was rising from it. We got in, and Fred started the car and then backed out onto the highway. We drove silently. Around us, the morning was beginning to unfold, the sky in the east paling, the stars beginning to desert the vault of night.
‘Blood, huh?’ Fred said.
‘Yes.’
‘Well.’
‘Lots of it.’
‘Mmm.’
‘In a closet.’
‘No body?’
‘No.’
‘Mmmmm.’
‘There’s another thing,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I checked in with a girl. She’s gone.’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Yes. The girl I was with when you picked me up yesterday.’
Fred didn’t take his eyes from the road.
‘I don’t remember any girl,’ he said.
‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘Then why’d you mention it?’
‘I just wanted to make sure you got your instructions.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Nobody does.’
‘We’re just small town hicks,’ Fred said sarcastically. ‘We don’t understand city folk.’
‘We use big words.’
‘Yeah,’ Fred said.
‘I’ve got a small word for you,’ I said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Kidnap.’
‘That’s a good word. Even we hicks heard of it.’
‘I’ve got a slightly bigger one. Want to hear it?’
‘Not if it’s too big.’
‘You be the judge. Homicide.’
‘Homicide is pretty big.’ Fred paused. ‘Want some advice?’
‘Everybody else is giving it out.’
‘Those words. Tongue-twisters. I wouldn’t use them too often if I was you.’
‘Why not?’
‘We hicks might not understand them. We hicks might think you was trying to show off.’
‘Do you think I’m trying to show off, Fred?’
‘Me? Hell, I’m a cop, too. I have only respect for fellow cops. Especially big city detectives.’
‘You can still get out of this, you know.’
‘Get out of what?’
‘Whatever you’re in, Fred.’
‘I’m in a Buick station wagon,’ he answered. ‘That’s all I’m in.’
‘How about that blood?’
‘How about it? Assuming there is any, lots of things can make a puddle of blood.’ He paused. ‘Barter runs a clean place.’
‘Does he?’
‘Cleanest in the state.’
‘What’s the monthly rake-off there?’
‘The what? The what?’
‘The rake-off. For looking the other way in case Barter gets dirty.’
‘Barter don’t get dirty. He runs a family-type establishment. He’s a married man himself, don’t you know that? Nossir, he runs a clean place.’ Fred turned to me briefly. ‘Besides, the cops in this state don’t take graft.’
‘There isn’t a cop in the world who takes graft,’ I agreed. ‘Only you’re talking to a cop, remember?’
‘Okay, maybe a speeding ticket once in a while. Save the guy the trouble of appearing, take the fine right on the highway. That’s a different story. But nothing big. You can’t fix anything in this state. This state is as square as they come.’
‘Sure.’
‘That’s no bull. It ain’t like your city. Your city, you can fix anything. Assault, rape, even murder. Not here. We got a D.A. with a thousand eyes. Commissions all over the place. Him and the State’s Attorney. Ike and Mike. Big crime fighters.’
We were on the road to the Point now. The sun was intimidating the sky, and the sky blushed a pale orange. It was going to be another beautiful day.
‘So if there’s blood, maybe there’s blood,’ Fred said. ‘Hut maybe you saw wrong. Maybe the blood is your imagination, you know? Like the broad you claim was with you.’
‘Do you know a girl named Blanche?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Guy named Joe Carlisle?’
‘Nope.’
‘Girl named Stephanie?’
Fred paused a moment. ‘Stephanie what?’ he asked.
‘Stephanie Carlisle. Joe’s wife.’
‘Oh. No, I don’t. No.’
‘Who do you know named Stephanie?’
‘Oh. Kid I went to high school with. Haven’t seen her in years.’
‘What did Ann see?’ I asked suddenly.
‘Ann?’ Fred said, stepping around my very subtle trap. ‘Who’s Ann?’
‘Forget it,’ I said, and we drove the rest of the way to the Point in silence. The motel site was shrouded with mist when we arrived. Mist clung to the ground and to the tall pines. Mist hung over the lake and nestled in the canoes loaded upside down on the lakefront racks. Mist swirled up around the cabins, white cabins with shuttered windows, the shutters done in pastel blues and greens. The Cadillac was still parked in front of the office. The license plate read:
‘That’s Carlisle’s car,’ I said to Fred. ‘Recognize it?’
‘Nope,’ he answered.
‘Lots of Caddies in the area, I suppose.’
‘We got our share.’
‘And all with veep license tags, I guess.’
‘If you can afford a Caddy, you can afford the veep plate. You can get the state to print the word SHIT on it, if you like. It just costs you an extra ten bucks when you register the vehicle.’
‘Why do you suppose a man named Joseph Carlisle would put the initials SB on his license plate?’
‘That’s Joseph Carlisle’s business,’ Fred said. ‘I make it a practice of keeping my nose out of other people’s business.’
‘That’s a healthy attitude for a cop, all right,’ I said, and we got out of the car and walked to the office.
Fred pulled off his right glove and rapped on the door. From somewhere inside the cabin, I could hear music. The light was on, as if Barter were expecting company. Everyone was expecting company. This was the ideal time of day for guests dropping in, and so everyone in Sullivan’s Corners and at Sullivan’s Point was prepared for the eventuality.
The door opened.
Barter had shaving cream on his face, and a straight-edged razor in his right hand. I looked past him into the office. The inner door, the one hiding the apartment at the back, was closed.
‘Hello, Fred,’ Barter said.
‘Mr Barter,’ Fred acknowledged, using a formality which sounded completely false. I listened to the music. It was coming from behind the closed door. It whispered into the cabin on a sprinkle of piano notes, the theme from ‘Picnic’, coupled with ‘Moonglow’.
‘Tell you all about his missing girl?’ Barter asked.
‘Yep.’
‘All about the bloody mess in cabin eleven?’
‘Yep.’
‘Did you give him the drunk test?’ Barter asked.
Fred grinned. ‘Doesn’t seem to me he’s polluted, Mr Barter.’
‘Just temporarily insane, maybe,’ Barter said, and he returned Fred’s grin. ‘Happens sometimes. The country air. Infects a man.’
‘Could we look at the cabin, Mr Barter?’ Fred said.
‘Sure,’ Barter answered. ‘Just let me wash off this shaving cream.’ He smiled, and unnecessarily added, ‘I was just shaving when you came.’
He went to the apartment door and opened it. Part of the long couch was visible when the door opened. There was a woman on the couch, or rather a pair of woman’s legs because that was all of her that could be seen. Clean, tapering legs, one stretched against the couch, the other bent at the knee so that together they formed a triangle of flesh and bone. The door closed.