She's Not There (14 page)

“Yes. On your own vomit.”

Joe jumped in. “One of my jobs is to stop drugs from entering this country. There are drugs that can do terrible things to you. Just what you're describing, as a matter of fact. So—”

“Which drug would that be?” Christen asked.

“A lot of them. I'm looking into it.”

Kate said to Joe, “Do you work for the President or something?”

“Sort of.”

She was holding on to Elijah Leonard a little more firmly. “I sure don't want to get tortured to death.”

Christen said to Samantha, “Give Elijah Leonard another one of those Turtles.”

I asked them if anyone knew specifically where Rachel might have gone.

“Wherever she could find any action. She looks for parties and crashes them.”

“But where in particular?”

“Tonight, obviously, to wherever she thought she could hook up with the guy who was having the picnic on the beach. Must have promised her more of the same. In exchange for sex, I think.” Christen looked at Joe and me. “Some men
like
fat women, believe it or not.”

Kate said, “But I
told
you. They didn't do anything when I saw them.”

“Stupid, maybe he didn't like doing it to her on the beach in broad daylight. Especially if he saw you watching them. He probably did. He took Rachel to his hotel, where else? He might be torturing her right now.”

Joe rolled his eyes. He said, “Kate, was there anything else you saw at the beach? Was a vehicle parked there?”

“Yeah. But I could only make out part of it.”

“What color?”

She was chewing on Elijah Leonard's Turtle. Took her a minute to get it down. “I don't remember. I didn't really look that good at it. The sun was shining so bright. I lost my sunglasses. My grandpa gave them to me. And they were the kind
ballplayers
wear. They flip up and down. Christen told me they were dorky.”

“I was trying to make you feel better when you couldn't find them.”

I said, “Kate. The man was definitely alone?”

“I bet I left them in the library.”

“
Kate.
Try to forget about the sunglasses for now. Think about what you saw when Rachel was with the man having a picnic.”

“Okay. I think maybe there could have been another guy in the truck.”

“Truck?”

“Yeah. Or an SUV. I thought I saw something inside it. Maybe it was a dog.”

I said, “And you're sure it was a truck or an SUV? Not a car?”

“I'm not
real
sure.”

Christen said, “And you aren't sure of the color?”

“The color of what?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

Kate said, “Well, I
am
sure of one thing. The picnic man had on a baseball cap. The thing is, I was mostly looking at Rachel.” She sucked the chocolate from her fingers. “Don't you guys wish we had a
television
?”

I said, “Listen, girls. The main thing here is this. You don't go wandering off alone. Whatever reason you might have for getting yourself into town without permission from Irwin, go in a group, okay?”

I knew I was in trouble the minute the words came out of my mouth. Christen looked at me with disdain. “I think we've figured that one out by now. It's what my mother's been telling me since I was twelve—always go out in a group. Like some cute guy's going to ask me to the movies, right? It's true that some men like fat girls. Older men, though, not high school guys. High school guys wouldn't admit it even if they did. We tend to go out in groups because we haven't got much choice. But now we have a clue about who the picnic man might be, don't we? The guy having a picnic was definitely not a high school junior.”

“Listen, I'm sorry,” I said, “but Rachel went out alone.”

“Rachel was starving.”

“And we're not.”

Then one of the girls said to me, “You're the one who found Dana's body, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it was you, because someone said the lady who found Dana was an FBI agent. You look like an FBI agent. You know how all firemen are hunks? Well, all women FBI agents are sassy. And skinny. I hate skinny girls. I mean, I really, really hate them.”

They all laughed.

Christen said, “You're an
FBI agent
?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, cool.” And then, “Awesome,” followed by, “Sweet,” followed by “Crazy!”

Kate said, “Omigod,” and then, all excited, “Do they take fat people? I mean, the FBI?”

I had to tell her no. “But they don't fire you if you gain weight.”

Christen said, “Forget about it, Stupid. They sure as hell aren't going to take that butt-ugly doll of yours.” Elijah Leonard slumped. Then Christen gave me a grin. “Wait till I tell everyone at home I had dinner with the feds.”

Kate gave us all a big yawn. I looked at my watch. Just after eleven. I told them they should get to bed. That the State Police officer would find Rachel. And Joe warned them to be sure to blow out all the candles. “This place'll go up in thirty seconds if one spark hits these walls.”

Christen said, “Hey, that's what we should do. Torch Camp Guinevere.”

As Joe stood, one of them whispered, “He is a
specimen
.” More whispering: “Looks like the guy who plays with that band. What's that band?”

“I think I know what band you mean. Wait … The Pac-Men! Guy with the Mohawk. Who plays bass. He looks
exactly
like that guy.”

Outside, I told Joe he should shave the sides of his head and reveal his true identity. We got in the jeep and took off. I looked back. The girls were at the windows, watching us.

*   *   *

On the way to Joe's, we passed someone walking in the deep shadows alongside the road. Joe said, “Jake.”

“What's he doing?”

“He's taking a walk. He likes to go out walking at night when no one will bother him, touch him. Or talk to him, expect an answer.”

“Maybe he's the one who watches the girls through the windows.”

“He's curious about circuit breakers, not people.”

Back at Joe's, both of us headed for the answering machine. We could only hope what I'd told the girls was true. That Fitzy had found Rachel Shaw. The red light was blinking; there was a message from him. But it was difficult to understand what he was saying. “Don't know what the hell time it is. My watch is blurred.” So was his speech. “No sign of the girl anywhere in town. I hit the clubs, knocked on a lot of doors—people having parties—a few knew who I meant, told me she was looking for someone. I gave up, came home, was about to call Irwin—call the two of you—see if she'd come back. If she hadn't, I was going to rouse my commish, tell him to muster the troops. Then I saw I had a message on my machine. It was your basic anonymous call. Believe it's the horse's ass who runs the liquor store. Fred something. Recognized his voice because I do a lot of business there. So can you people get over here? You'll want to hear this message, trust me. Right now, I can't think straight till I drink a few gallons of coffee. I'll wait for you. Give you half an hour.”

Joe said to me, “What would Fred have to do with anything?”

“One way to find out.”

We changed to jeans, got back in the ragtop for the third time that evening, and drove over to Fitzy's. He was one wired drunk, working on walking a straight line across the office floor. He offered us some of his coffee. It looked like mud. We declined. Then he said, “Okay, listen to this.”

It took him several tries to press the
PLAY
button on the answering machine. A near-hysterical high-pitched male voice came on: “There's one of those fat girls from the camp at the bottom of Rodman's Hollow. And she's dead.”

Whoever it was—Fred from the liquor store if Fitzy was correct—hung up the phone with a bang.

Fitzy asked Joe, “Sound like Fred to you?”

“Play it again.”

Fitzy did.

Joe said, “I'm not sure if it's him. Could be.”

“What the hell is Rodman's Hollow?” Fitzy said. “I go by the sign a hundred times a day.”

Joe told him. “A protected piece of land with nature trails. But you don't want to go traipsing around in there after dark. The trail off the road is half gravel, half slime from the dampness. Slippery. It's dark enough during the day, but it's pitch black at night. We'll have to wait until morning.”

I thought that was fairly wimpy. “Joe, we can go back for our boots. And there's a mighty big flashlight in the jeep.”

“It would be foolish to try to go down there at night, and we can't go pounding on Fred Prentiss's door at this hour.”

We can't? Normally, Joe is not a dismissive sort of guy. Maybe he was tired. There's a first for everything. I said, “So who can we get who knows the trail? Someone to lead us if it's all that dangerous.”

“Bird-watchers. But they only come during migration, in the fall.”

Fitzy said, “No local birdbrains around?”

Joe made a little sigh. “Esther knows the trails, all of them. We could try her. I hate to involve these people, though.”

I said, “Joe. What's the matter with you? Rachel Shaw never came back tonight. And some character called Fitzy to tell him he found a body. You wanted to involve them after I found Dana Ganzi's body. And it seems to me they wanted to be involved.”

“Then it was one victim of an overdose. Now—if it's Fred and if he found another girl from the camp, dead—Jesus, I can't believe this. This is Block Island, not Washington.”

I said, “Maybe the call was a hoax.”

“That's what I want to think. But why would someone like Fred Prentiss perpetrate a hoax?”

“I thought you said you couldn't tell it was him.”

“I couldn't.”

“Then I'll bet Esther could tell whose voice is on Fitzy's tape. She sits in the coffee shop all morning listening to everyone. What do you think?”

“I think she probably could.”

“Then let's go.”

Fitzy had one more thing to say. “Hold on a minute. Are we talking about the dyke who sells junk out of her house?”

I couldn't believe him. “Fitzy, how can you talk like that?”

“Because she told me that's what she was when I made a move on her last year.”

“She told you she was a lesbian?”

“No, she told me she was a dyke. I've been blown off with more colorful lines than that, though.”

“Let's take the tape to her, whatever she is.”

Then we waited while Fitzy tried unsuccessfully to open his answering machine.

He said, “How the fuck do you get the tape out of this contraption?”

Joe said, “Bring the whole machine, Fitzy. Esther won't have one of her own.” Then he said, “I don't know about this.”

“You don't know what about what?”

Fitzy stood up. “Nothing says you have to go with us, Joe. If it is Fred from the liquor store who called me, he isn't in your jurisdiction. Doesn't smuggle in his bottles of Absolut, far as I know.
And
as far as I know, he isn't smuggling tobacco or firearms either.”

Joe said, “I'll come.”

I'd have to get to the bottom of whatever his problem was.

Joe drove. Fitzy did not protest.

Esther lived on the eastern side of the island just up from town at the end of a long dirt driveway on Spring Street. She was sitting on her screened porch, drinking wine and chain-smoking. Her cloud of wiry gray-streaked hair reminded me of mattress stuffing. But her face was not unattractive. Her skin was dark, her eyes blue, and her lips full and chiseled. Exotic. Plus, she was tall and strong. Esther had a presence. She watched us pile out of the ragtop but didn't bother to move. Fitzy whispered, a little more loudly than his normal speaking range, “If she'd told me she was a witch instead of a dyke, it would have been a more believable excuse.”

At Esther's door, Joe apologized for disturbing her and explained that we needed her help. She said, “Then what are you doing outside?”

We went onto the porch. She didn't say anything else, still didn't get up, didn't offer to share her wine, just looked at us and waited. A little oil lamp sitting next to her bottle on the table in front of her glowed faintly. Abutting it was an overflowing ashtray.

Fitzy told her about getting a message and needing somebody to identify the caller. “If it won't kill you,” he said. He looked around the porch. “Hopefully, you've got electricity.”

She snorted and stood up, gesturing with her cigarette for us to follow. Ashes fell on the floor. We went inside, into her dark, musty living room and shop where the floor was slanted, the furniture looking as though it had been scavenged from a dump, her paintings leaning against the wall, all of it in deep shadow.

She turned on a lamp and pointed to an outlet behind it. Fitzy plugged in his machine, took awhile fiddling with it. I looked around. The lamp threw so little light, I couldn't make out the subject of her pictures. Fitzy said, “You got another lamp, Esther?”

“No. I'm never inside at night.”

Fitzy looked up at her.

“I'm either on the porch or in my bedroom.”

“Sounds real exciting. I don't know what's the matter with you. You could be spending your nights with me painting the town red. Seeing as how you're a painter.”

She said, “What will you use for a brush?”

Fitzy laughed. “You're a pisser, Esther. Why I like you.”

The tape played and we all listened to the overwrought message.

Esther said, “It's Fred Prentiss. Drunk, obviously.”

Fitzy rewound and played it again. “You sure?”

“Yes. I was sure the first time.”