“Correct,” he agreed. “But before you decide what to do next, wouldn't you like to know why I'm here?”
“I would.”
“Incidentally,” he said, clearing his throat. “What the hell was going on between you and Eppie Waldrup? It would seem to me that it takes a lot to make a man that size get up off his ass and pay anybody a visit.”
I folded my arms and leaned on the counter.
“Eppie is involved in something illegal,” I said coldly, “and he was hoping I would convince Skidmore to turn a blind eye.”
“Illegal?” Orvid said, strangely arch.
“That's my surmise. He says it has to do with permits and licenses, but I'm assuming it has to do with stolen cars. Wouldn't you think that was a good bet at an auto junkyard?”
“Could be.” Orvid nodded slowly.
“At any rate, that's why he menaced me with your friend Bruno just before I came to visit you at Judy's, and why he came here tonight. He'd already been informed by someone that I'd spoken to Skidmore and I hadn't mentioned Eppie.”
“Who?” Orvid sat up a little. “Do you know who Eppie's contact might be?”
“Not the slightest idea,” I admitted, “but I don't want to be distracted by him at the moment. Partly because I think it clouds my ability to concentrate on pursuing Hiram Frazier and bringing him to Skidmore, and partly because I'm embarrassed that I lost my temper when Eppie attacked me. In fact I threatened him.”
“You threatened Eppie Waldrup?” Orvid didn't bother to hide his glee. “How?”
“Well,” I stammered, “I may have suggested that I'd run over his head with my truck.”
“What?” Orvid said, laughing out loud.
“Until it popped like a tomato.”
Orvid couldn't contain himself. He almost fell off the chair.
“That's fantastic,” he finally managed.
“I don't see why,” I said, chagrin growing.
“Okay,” Orvid said, composing himself. “I'll tell you why. Because I love to see a bully put in his place. I've been the butt of that kind of behavior most of my life. I like to see the tables turned.”
From the sound of his voice I could tell Orvid wasn't being completely honest. Clearly, he
lived
to see the tables turned.
“Ignoring that for the moment as well,” I breezed on, “you now have to tell me why you're here.”
“Yes.” Orvid's demeanor changed almost instantly. He looked
down. “I could tell, when you left Judy's house, that you were upset. I thought at first it was just your concern about your friend Skidmore, and the possibility that he might have been responsible for the girls' death.”
“It was nothing more than sensing foil, by the way,” I interrupted, “that sent information to a laptop computer. That's all Skid and Melissa were doing to the tracks. A glorified speed trap. It couldn't have had anything to do with the car stopping. I know what made the car stop.”
“This Hiram Frazier.” Orvid's voice betrayed a skepticism that his face told me he wanted to keep hidden.
“But we're talking at cross-purposes,” I said, unaccountably tensing. “I wanted to tell you my story and you have to tell me yours. I suggest we stop for a second and gather our thoughts.”
“I see.” He nodded ruefully. “You still have to decide how much to tell me.”
“Yes, but that's not what I'm saying. I hate a conversation where both people are so intent on saying what they want to say that neither listens, especially in an attempt to share information.”
“Most people aren't ever listening anyway,” he said, eyes bright. “They're just waiting quietly until the other person stops talking so they can say what they want to say.”
“Exactly.” I leaned back on the counter. “I want to give my full attention to listening to you for a moment.”
“This is part of your field research technique, I'd imagine. Collecting your folk stories and that sort of thing, you
listen.
With everything you've got.”
“And it's not always an easy thing to do.”
“For most people, I'd agree.” He sat back. “So, I'll proceed. Sitting in Judy's living room, I thought that you were mostly upset about Skidmore's hand in the girls' accident. But I got to thinking about the other things you said and I wanted to reiterate my suggestion that we join forces in finding the truth about this matter.”
“To what
other things
do you refer?” I asked drily.
“You feel you have to help your friend Lucinda but you can't. You
think Skidmore Needle doesn't care for you anymore, and worst of all, you're having an attack of good old-fashioned existential fear and loathing because you've found out some things about your little mountain home that you don't particularly care to know.”
I exhaled laboriously.
“Well,” I agreed, “that about sums it up.”
“Alas,” he continued, “I know the feeling.”
“You do?” I instantly wished my voice hadn't sounded like a child's.
“Well, for one thing, Judy says she wants me to find out what happened to the girls, but what she's really hoping I can do, in the back of her mind, is bring them back to life. I have a plethora of talents, but I'm afraid Lazarus-raising isn't among them.”
I couldn't help smiling, even in the presence of such a macabre suggestion.
“For another thing, Sheriff Needle never liked me,” Orvid went on, “and finally, I discover that a kind of sickness unto death is present in my spirit most of the time.”
“You insist on emphasizing our similarities. But what is it that gives you existential nausea?”
“It's probably associated with my work.”
“About which you'll still tell me nothing,” I assumed.
He took a moment, tapping his finger idly on the tabletop.
“I will say,” he answered, “that I was waiting in the abandoned train station that night for a delivery of sorts. The train that passes through Pine City shortly before midnight slows down considerably because of the big turns, the blind crossing, and the trestle. It's an ideal place for someone to throw a package off the train.”
“A package which you retrieve.” I nodded. “I already know something about that.”
I stopped short of telling Orvid that Skidmore had been at the railroad tracks that night to keep an eye on Orvid. Or that I knew the packages he waited for contained drugs.
“You don't really know anything about it,” Orvid said matter-of-factly. “The point is, I actually do kind of understand your current
dark mood. I think that you and I should team up, attack some very small portion of the darkness, and make things a little better. That's why I'm here.”
“Laudable. Why didn't you just call me?”
“I'm more persuasive in person,” he said, smiling. “And I don't trust telephones.”
Because they might be tapped or bugged or whatever word is the current police jargon
, I thought.
“Now you,” Orvid prompted. “I'm done with the speaking portion of my program. Ready to listen.”
“Really,” I said, sounding a little snide, I thought. “What would you like to hear?”
“How you know about this man, Hiram Frazier,” Orvid said immediately.
“As I was saying,” I sighed, reaching for the tea bags, “I met him. Picked him up in my truck and gave him a ride. He asked me for money, which I did not give to him, and he was angry about that. He later broke into this house and left me a foreboding Bible message.
“Explain,” Orvid said slowly.
“I believe he broke into my house to scare me and left his Bible open to a certain passage in Revelation concerning revenge. Presumably because I didn't give him money.”
“So he really is out of his mind,” Orvid concluded.
“Yes.”
“But what makes you think,” Orvid asked evenly, “that he took the keys out of the Volkswagen at the train crossing?”
His face was a mask of patience, one I might wear if I were collecting stories from a mental patient.
I put tea bags into the cups I'd laid out, poured water, slid Orvid's cup toward him.
“If the electricity were on,” I told him, “I'd play you a tape I have, something I collected a year ago or more that seems fairly conclusive. It's a good description of the person I know as Hiram Frazier and the unique manner in which he sometimes acquires money.”
“You have this on tape?” Orvid's entire mien had shifted.
“I came directly from Skidmore's office in order to find the tape. I knew there was something in my mind, I just couldn't make it surface. When Skidmore told me about the train hoppers at the trestle that night, something ignited.”
“You're a very strange man,” Orvid said, picking up his teacup.
“I believe âLook who's talking' is the correct response,” I told him.
“Tell me exactly what's on the tape.”
“I wish you could hear it for yourself. The informant's voice, when he's talking about Frazier, is very revealing.”
“But until your power is restored ⦔ he prompted.
“He kept referring to a wandering preacher that caused trouble among the other train hoppers. The description fit Frazier, though that name was never mentioned. Then the informant told me about Frazier's trick, even said he'd tried it himself once, but couldn't make it work.”
“And you're convinced Frazier did this.” Orvid's gaze was suddenly overwhelming.
“I'm not sure what you mean,” I said, unsteadied by his intensity.
“I trust my instincts,” he said precisely. “It's my impression that you're the same.”
“Yes, I see what you're saying. And the conclusion of my intuition as well as these facts is that Hiram Frazier did this terrible thing. I have to find him, now, and make him realize what he's done. I feel an almost overwhelming need to see that he knows what he took away from us. Lucinda doted on the girls, and as I believe I said earlier, I trust Lucinda. Her assessment is that we've lost a significant light in the passing of those two, and I think she's correct. I can barely tolerate seeing the pain in her eyes.”
“Exactly the same with Judy,” Orvid said quietly.
In that moment, with those words, a barrier broke between us, at least in my mind. I saw that, in fact, Orvid Newcomb and I were not a great deal different. I could see from his expression that he was making new assessments of his own, coming to new conclusions.
“We have to work together,” he said, his intensity growing, “to find this man.”
“I obviously agree that he needs to be found,” I hedged, “and held accountable for his deed. But I'm more inclined to let Skidmore take the lead in pursuing him, and leaving his chastisement to the law.”
“The law.” Orvid's voice was colored more with ridicule than contempt. “You have to believe me when I say that I'm all too familiar with how often the law goes awry; how little justice actually comes out of our judicial system.”
“I certainly believe that is your perception. But I don't share your views.”
“Spoken like a man who's never had a true experience of American jurisprudence.”
“Be that as it may,” I responded, “I'd have to say that the urge to help Skidmore in his investigation is, apparently, irresistible to me. So I'm at something of a loss as to how to proceed.”
“Tell your sheriff friend what you've discovered,” Orvid argued reasonably, “see what information he has, then help me catch the man responsible for the deaths of Tess and Rory Dyson.”
Any decision in life is situational. On another day, in spring, say, when the garden was budding and Skidmore and I were on better terms, I might not have made a bargain with Orvid Newcomb.
But somewhere close to us, out in the dark, there was a hulk of a human being, a husk, a madman prowling where stalks of corn turned brown. It was November, the house was dark and cold, and too many things were dead.
“All right.” I reached for one of the oil lamps. “How should we proceed?”
Orvid downed his tea and managed his way off the chair.
“If you wouldn't mind,” he said, “I'd like to have a look around your house and the yard, see if I can scare up anything of this Hiram Frazier. It seems the appropriate place to start. How long ago do you think he was in your house?”
“Within the last several hours.”
“So I might see something you overlooked.” Orvid squinted. “You found no evidence of his break-in?”
“Except for the Bible,” I told him. “I'll show you.”
Orvid followed me into the living room. I held the oil lamp low, pointing to the closed Revised Standard Version by the phone.
“And it was open to Revelation?” he asked.
I turned to the passage. It wasn't hard to find, the spine of the book had deliberately been bent back at the exact page, and the intimidating passage was underlined.
Orvid leaned close and read.
“âBehold I am coming soon,'” Orvid quoted, “âbringing my recompense, to repay every one for what he has done.' Very impressive.”
“It would be more so if you'd met the man,” I assured him.
“Why don't you head on into town,” he suggested. “Talk to Sheriff
Needle about your ideas, and meet me at the railroad crossing in, say, an hour? Will that be enough time?”
“Depending on what Skid's found, and how much he wants to know.”
“I know you've realized that I'm a silent partner,” Orvid said, smiling, “in our pursuit.”
“If he brings your name up,” I warned, “I won't lie. But I see no reason to reveal anything that's not immediately salient.”
“I'll trust your judgment,” Orvid said easily.
I looked down at his face, so intent on the Bible verse. He didn't seem to care what I told Skidmore.
I realized in that moment, in the liquid light from the lamp, that here was a man completely devoid of fear. Either he had made great efforts to rid himself of his demons, or they had been burned out of him by experience, but the result was clear: nothing on this earth could frighten Orvid Newcomb.
I also realized that I envied that phenomenonânearly as much as I found it unattainable.
“I don't need the flashlight to get to my truck,” I said, setting the oil lamp beside the Bible on the table. “Or you can use this lamp.”
“Fine,” Orvid murmured absently.
His face was transfixed, staring at the Bible, as if to absorb something of the man who'd left it in my house.
“I'll see you in an hour or so at the railroad crossing,” I said, heading for the door. “If the power happens to come back on while you're still here, leave the kitchen light on, would you?”
“Yes.” He still didn't move.
“All right, then.”
I was off, closing the front door quietly behind me.
The rain had nearly stopped, the cloud carrying it almost blown from the mountaintop. Here and there, through the net of night, I could see pinpoints of white, stars straining to offer a remote hope of illumination.
I barreled into my truck, gunned the engine, and spun the tires in mud before I backed up onto the road.
Fifteen minutes later I was down the mountain and onto our main street. All the lights in town were out. Everything was closed anyway. The only light came from emergency lamps around the police station.
I pulled up in front. I could see Skid's face in the window.
He opened the door for me, cup of coffee in his hand.
“I expected you'd be down here when our power went out in the middle of your call.”
“Mine went out too,” I told him. “A little unusual that you'd lose power at the same time I would. How often does that happen?”
“Big storm, I guess,” Skid said, heading for his office. “I found out a few things about your boy.”
The station was lit by big battery torches, no candles or oil lamps for official police business.
I was surprised to see Skid's computer still on. The light from its monitor was eerie, like a window to another world.
“How is your computer still on?” I asked, following him.
“Backup battery surge protector. Absolutely invaluable. I'm about to turn it off, though. Got what I need.”
“What did you get?” I took a seat in front of his desk.
“Hiram Frazier,” he began with no preliminaries, “has three outstanding warrants. One from Atlanta, one from Clarksville. Also a very old one from Tennessee, which is the worst one.”
“What are they for?” I leaned forward onto the desk.
Skid sat, sighing. His face, painted with gray light from the monitor, looked easily ten years older than his age.
“Atlanta's for a strange incident involving a car stopped at lights near midtown at the downtown connector,” he told me, staring at the screen.
“I know what he did. Save that. What about the other two?”
“Clarksville wants him for breaking and entering.” Skid shrugged. “Busted the back door of a church and slept on top of the altar. Nothing. But the Tennessee warrant, the old one, is for murder.”
“What?” I sat up.
“It's down as an unsolved murder in Pistol Creek.”
“His wife.”
Skid looked up slowly, eyes on mine.
“How the hell did you know
that
?”
“I guessed,” I admitted, “but he did tell me that the reason for his wandering was the death of his wife. He said he woke up one morning and she was dead in the bed beside him.”
“There aren't many details,” Skid said, reading the screen, “but his wife was discovered dead in their bed. Heart attack.”
“Then why was he suspected of murder?”
“Her entire body was covered with bruises. And Frazier did not report the death; the body was found by a church member several days after the death.”
“He was arrested?”
“No, he'd taken off. Never found. Nothing was ever proved. Fugitive ever since.”
“How long ago?”
“Seventeen years,” Skid said softly. “They stopped looking over ten years ago. Listed the event as an unsolved, possible homicide.”
“My God.” I slumped down in the chair.
“Now tell me what you think he did in Atlanta,” Skid said, shutting down his computer.
“I know what he did.” I bit my upper lip a moment. “He stood at a traffic light; when it turned red, he came up to the driver's side of a car with its windows down, reached into the car, turned off the engine, took the keys, and refused to give them back until the driver gave him money.”
I grinned just as the light from the monitor blinked off and Skid's expression was obscured by darkness.
“Okay.” The sound of his voice told me I was right. “You
have
to tell me how you found that one out.”
“The reason I called you from home,” I said, my eyes adjusting to the low light of his office, “when we were cut off, is that I found the tapes I was looking for. Several of the train hoppers described a wild preacher whose trick was to perform just such a feat. He seemed to have perfected it.”
“He was standing at that exit off the southbound downtown connector that goes to Fourteenth Street.” Skid was stalling, for some reason. There was no value in telling me where the man had been standing.
“You understand what I'm telling you,” I said, a little edgy.
“Say it out loud.”
“Hiram Frazier took the keys out of Tess and Rory's Volkswagen,” I shot back, “and that's why they got hit by the train.”
“Yes.” The word was made entirely out of lead. “That was my conclusion. Damn. I just had to hear someone else say it. Somehow I knew that's why you called.”
I had thought myself the only one capable of coming to such a far-fetched conclusion. Had that been my opinion because the idea was so outrageous, or was it because I considered myself the only person strange enough to arrive at such an insight? Either way, it was oddly comforting to have the deduction affirmed.
“So you agree the girls' death was not exactly accidental,” I said, “and, as it turns out, had nothing to do with drugs.”
“I do.”
“You're still going to arrest Andy Newlander.”
“If I possibly can,” he assured me. “And I just might kick Nickel Mathews's ass. But I reckon that'll have to wait a while.”
“Because you'd like to get Hiram Frazier first.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“What do I
want
you to do?” he sighed. “Go home, write an article, get drunk, call Lucinda, and shut up.”
“In that order.”
“Exactly.”
“But what I'm
going
to do,” I went on, “is find Hiram Frazier. And I'll tell you why. Your way of working is a good way, the police way. My way gets results too, and you know it, though it's a completely different approach. If we apply both methods at the same time, it tremendously increases the odds of our actually finding the man. You have to agree.”
“I don't have to,” he sighed. “But I'm afraid I do. And I want to get him. Real bad.”
“So do I,” I said quietly.
“Our first step may be the same one,” he warned. “I'm going to come up to your house and see what kind of evidence he may have left there. If we're lucky, we might have a trail.”
“It rained really hard on the mountain. I can't imagine you'd find anything outside.”
“We'll dust the Bible for prints,” Skid went on, “check the rest of the place. You can be there if you want.”
“I actually have another idea,” I hedged. “I think I'll go over to Pine City, check the crossing one more time, have a look at the trestle, that sort of thing.”
“We've gone over and over all that,” Skid said, eyebrows raised. “But if that's your choice, go on.”
“Neither seems to yield much hope of accomplishing our task at the moment, I agree, but twenty-four hours ago, we wouldn't have ever come up with the bizarre notion of what Hiram Frazier did.”
“I guess that's true.”
His voice betrayed a fear that I found in my mind as well: the police had been looking for the man for seventeen years. We barely had a prayer of catching Hiram Frazier.
Â
I had a moment of worry about Orvid as I left the police station, wondering if I ought to fly up to my house and warn him that the police were on their way. But I quickly realized that Orvid was the sort of person who could take care of himself; might even be offended if I thought otherwise. So I aimed my truck for Pine City, hoping Orvid might be there, instead, when I arrived.
The night was clearing slightly. A blackberry sky, rough and rounded, seemed to spin above the mountains. Moonlight, soft and clear, edged the horizon and would be high within the hour, ladling silver light into the valley, leading night onward toward morning.
The road was a mirror of that sky, black painted here and there
with alabaster, a dark river that drew me onward toward an absolutely unknown destination.
But the first stop on that journey was the railroad crossing at Pine City. I was surprised how quickly it appeared before me, preoccupied with my thoughts as I was.
Orvid was nowhere to be seen. I parked my truck where I had before, reached for the flashlight I kept in the glove compartment.
I stepped out onto a mat of tall, wet grass. The rhododendrons were heavy with rain. As I rounded my truck and clicked on the flashlight, I tried to remember why the road was called Bee's Crossing. I'd been told when I was young, I just couldn't remember. Maybe I'd even collected the story and had it on tape, a thought that sent me into my usual reflection on the value of my tapes. Hidden in the magnetic arrangement of molecules along a thin strip of acetate, I had in my possession the final words of the last real ladder-back chairmaker in Georgia. I had a horde of words and music from long-dead storytellers, fiddlers who could no longer play, grandmothers who remembered the day their grandfathers came home from the Civil War. And on several, possible evidence of a man responsible for the deaths of two young girls.
Every shred of doubt I may have had in my mind about Hiram Frazier had been removed when Skid had confirmed my guess about his roadside activity in Atlanta. There was no doubt that he was the strange man with the key trick.