they said good-bye. Hite went back to work, and Royce started driving back to town. He was surprised the big boy wasn't one of the new construction guys.
As soon as Royce was out of sight, Bucky Hite crumpled up the phone number and threw it into the dirt.
Fuck it.
Waterworks Road was a short piece of well-traveled blacktop that ran from Cotton Avenue, at the base of Waterworks Hill, to the boonies beyond Waterton's remote water treatment plant and reservoir.
The low-rent housing started about fifty yards off the road on some corner pastureland where an old single- wide was visible behind a thicket of weeds. Royce thought about knocking. Asking his questions real friendly.
Next to the broken mailbox a piece of rubber tire lay coiled like a dead blacksnake. He'd seen Kelly McCauley before. A slightly heavy young woman with a child's hands, big, bouncy breasts, and a provocative if rather porcine look around the eyes and nose. She lived there—in the trailer—and the look of the place stopped him.
Maybe he thought her old man would hassle him, coming up to the crib to rap with little Mama. Everybody was always sniffing around Kelly. Checking out those big, soft handfuls of love. Hanging around the city administration building, where the jail was, trying to get a look down those low-cut things she wore to work sometimes. Maybe Kelly had a little problem, too.
Or maybe he could imagine her slamming that door in his face when he started asking questions about what she overheard her boss, Chief Kerns, say about this and that. That's striking pretty close to the lunch bucket. If Kelly had half a brain, she'd clam up. Next thing—Marty Kerns would be bringing him down to the jail for a little talk and a late night swim in the fish tank.
Whatever brought him to his senses in time stopped him dead and turned him around, sent him back to his ride, and headed him on down Waterworks past Diane's Hairquarters and around the corner.
One of his fave pay phones was located in front of a ma-'n'-pa grocery. He stopped. Got out. Dropped change and dialed the McCauley residence. Three rings.
“Hello.'
“Is this Mrs. Kelly McCauley?” he asked, putting as much hard twang in it as he could muster.
“Yes.'
“Mrs. McCauley, this is Sheriff Guthrie. Are you the lady works for Marty Kerns over in Waterton?” Tough and coarse, with most of the resonance coming right out of the nasal passages. A rumble he could almost feel in his face.
“Yes, sir.” A little question mark in her tone now. The voice she used when Marty got pissed at her. Her deferential kissy-ass voice.
“Ma'am, I understand that you have been overheard making some statements that several persons are being sought in missing-persons cases in Waterton. Do you know you could get in serious trouble repeating what you heard there on the job? That's privileged law enforcement information.'
“I don't know what you're talking about.'
“Don't bother denying it, ma'am. Marty Kerns has already heard the tape, and so have I. You were recorded in a surveillance of another investigation, and you were taped at a place of business called Judy's Cafe, Mrs. McCauley. Your voice has been ID'd as being the one who divulged information about an ongoing case. Don't you know that's punishable under three different Missouri statutes?” He was really getting into it. In the pause for air he could almost hear her brain going a mile a minute. Trying to remember what she might have said. He pushed it. “Now, why did you tell Mr. McCauley that all these other persons were missing?'
“I didn't say that,” she blurted. “I just was telling him about the one Perkins case. And, you know, I might have said that Rusty Ellis and them Poindexters was missing, too. That's all I told him, honest. It was just them three cases, and they wasn't related at all. And what I say to my husband don't go any further.” She was starting to get hot about it.
“Chief Kerns is not pleased about you talking like that in public where anybody can hear you. You know better than to be discussing cases like that.'
“I'm sorry.” She put a little whine back in her tone.
“What else did you hear about the Poindexters or Rusty Ellis or Sam Perkins? Did you overhear other things about the case?” He knew the second he said it, he'd lost her, but he was patting his pockets looking for notes, a pen, something to write on, trying to keep his voice in character, and he knew as he uttered it that it didn't sound official enough.
“Who the hell is this, anyway?” She was smarter than she appeared. He mumbled something about being in touch with her later and hung up. Back in the car and hooking back to Cotton and down King's Road in the direction of the Perkins house. More cocaine paranoia with claws perched on his shoulder, ready to go for the throat.
“Hi.” She was surprised to see him at her door.
“I—” He choked up and coughed, so full of information, he couldn't pull it all together. She knew it was something bad.
“Come in and sit down, Royce. You're so pale you look like you're about to pass out.'
“Something's wrong, babe. I don't know what the hell's happening here, but...” He shook his head, not believing the thoughts bouncing around inside it. “Sam isn't the only person missing.” He took a deep breath.
“I've been asking everybody who was part of the land deal, that I could find. Some don't want to talk. Some don't know anything, or they're damn good actors. Others—they've vanished or they've gone into hiding or been abducted or ... whatever. I know this guy, I see him around the bars and stuff. He's got a job out there at the big construction site. He let it slip that he'd overheard Kelly McCauley, Marty Kerns's secretary, talking about others being missing. Mr. and Mrs. Poindexter. Rusty Ellis. Sam. All parties to the big land deal. And Sinclair or somebody else Sam had been dealing with has been in touch with the cops or they've found him.” For the first time he was consciously aware he'd neglected to ask the McCauley girl about who that was.
“I acted like I was a sheriff and called her. Confirmed the business about Gill and Betty Poindexter and Ellis being missing. But I forgot to ask about the cops having had contact with the firm Sam was representing. She probably wouldn't have known much. Marty Kerns knows a lot of information that he's been keeping from you.'
“Son of a—” She was beet red with anger. Getting up to get her purse and car keys. “I'll get an answer from him, and it had better be a good one or—'
“Keep your cool if you can, Mary. You might need him before this is over.'
“I'll keep my cool, all right.” She was raging. This was no surprise. She'd known that Kerns had information he wasn't giving her. “Come on, if you want to go with me.'
“I probably would just make it worse. He'll be more likely to talk if I'm not there. We don't get along.'
“Stay here, Royce. I'll come back as soon as I talk to him.'
“Okay.'
“Thanks.” She looked at him with deep feelings, wanting to say more, but too full of this news to articulate it. He nodded and smiled, and she was gone.
At first Marty Kerns was cool, and tried to play it close to his vest, but when she started screaming she was going to the paper, calling her state senators, and suing the town—among other things—he opened up and told her about the case for the first time.
“It's something that looks a lot worse than it really is, Mary; that's part of the reason you weren't brought up to speed about the others that are missing. We're pretty certain it is just coincidence, and the last thing you want to do is start rumors in a little town like Waterton. That's the other aspect of it. If some of these folks got the idea people were vanishing or somethin', you'd have a panic on your hands in no time. People would be spotting UFOs, and serial killers, and God knows what! The truth is that people turn up missing all the time, even in small towns. The police get routine calls every day from somebody whose wife or husband has been missing for a couple days. Ninety-five percent of the time it's a ... uh ... domestic problem or something. Not like your situation with Mr. Sam. You get older folks vanish all the time, Mary. They wonder off and get lost or lose track of what time it is—things like that. Usually it's no big deal. It isn't this time either. It just could be blown up outta proportion because a couple of the people happened to have been doing some business in a real estate deal. That's the only reason you weren't told. It wasn't necessarily that relevant.'
“Relevant? It seems very relevant to me. And why did you purposely withhold the information that you'd been in touch with somebody who had business dealings on the land sale and had been in contact with Sam? Wasn't that relevant either?'
“I don't know what you mean. We never had contact with any ... Oh, you mean the guy with CCC? That didn't
