“HACK-A-BEE.” He spelled it for the man.
“No. Nope, I don't know that name at all. There was a Hackaberry here in Topeka some years ago, but no. I don't recall a family by that name in Branson.'
“The records show they died many years ago but they were apparently the adoptive parents of these twins. We can't find anyone who remembers the twins, which seems unusual. But the records being no longer available and you are the only living survivor of the agency—'
“No! You mean something happened—a fire or something?'
“Not that I know of, sir. I see in the records here'—Eichord turned a page of notes—'that all of the other people who might have worked for the agency back in that time period seem to have pre'—he caught himself before he said predeceased—'passed away or cannot be located.'
“Well, my stars. I can't hardly understand that. Some of those people like Marty Burrows and the little Morton girl, what was her name, Ruella Morton—you mean they're all dead now?'
“According to these records, yes, sir, they are.'
“See, I moved away, moved out of state in the, oh, guess when I hit sixty-seven, sixty-eight. Opal and I went to Alaska. It was wonderful up there. I had always wanted to go up there. We had a son working up there and so we moved up there. Beautiful country. Anyway, she took sick a few years after that and when she passed away, oh, let's see, I guess after I lost her it was two years before I moved back to the Midwest. We had a little piece of ground we'd bought in Kansas years ago—'
“Mr. Lloyman, the individuals we're investigating. One of them, the twins, is a suspect being held in connection with multiple homicides so it's very important we are able to trace their background. They claim the orphanage there in Branson burned down and the state does not have records on them and the Hackabee family didn't have surviving relatives. Wouldn't it seem odd to you that you don't remember twins with a name like Hackabee?'
“It certainly would. I placed a few twins over the years. But I could swear up and down there wasn't any foster family named Hackabee. I just never recall hearing that name before.'
“Did you place any twins in foster homes—identical male twins—during that time period—any instances occur to you that you might think back on as unusual—anything out of the ordinary?” He waited while the man thought.
“Ummm ... No. Can't say as I can think of anything out of the ordinary. Identical male twins ... Didn't place too many. I remember one set we placed with a couple—the Houtchesons was the name of the family they just loved getting those kids so much. I often wondered what happened to them—the boys I mean. They were so cute and smart. Poor little devils. We'd got ‘em from a lady rescued them from an awful situation back in the woods. Rumors of them being tormented and such. Some no-good hillbillies back in a hollow there had ‘em. Poor little tykes. This schoolteacher gal got ‘em somehow and she came to us with the thing. I believe they were there in the hospital for medical attention for a time so you should be able to get their medical records if that would help?'
“Oh.” Eichord was excitedly making notes. “I'll say it would. Do you recall any more details? About the hillbillies that had them or who the schoolteacher was—her name? Anything?'
“No. Nope. Surely don't. So many years ago. ‘Course now you should go to Helen Houtcheson. Or the husband. Let's see what was his name ... I just don't. Richard. Robert. I—uh, it just doesn't come to me. I'll think of it though. ROY! Roy Houtcheson—that was their name.'
“Great. This is really a big help.” He thanked the man, extracting a promise he'd allow Eichord to phone back for a follow-up if necessary and giving him the Dallas number and extension in case he'd think of any more details. He was still dialing Branson families with the last name Houtcheson when one of the other phones rang for him.
“Jack,” the voice said, “Doug Geary.'
“Hey, Doc. D'jou get the tapes yet?'
“Yes. That was fast. I don't have anything on them myself, but a guy was watching them with me, that is in the lab where the machine is, and he made a comment, I have no idea whether this is worth even passing along. He's a sharp fellow. Was in commercial broadcasting for a number of years and he knows all about voices and accents and such. He made the suggestion to me that y'r buddy Ukie is not speaking in his real voice. I asked him what the hell he was talking about and it turns out that he gets the impression that Ukie is pitching his voice up higher than he normally would. It was such a crazy thing—I mean, what would be the point?—but something you said lit up TILT inside my noggin when he told me that.
“You remember you said something about how they looked just alike but one dresses sloppy and doesn't have as deep or mellow a voice? Wouldn't those be characteristics you could easily change? Get me? If you were a twin and wanted to try and put as much distance between your own appearance and your same image, you could dress differently, walk funny, talk in a different pitch of voice—things like that.'
“Interesting.” Eichord couldn't think of anything else to say. “I appreciate anything like this that might come to you. Please.'
“No problem. I realize it wasn't earthshaking but I thought you'd want me to call you on it. I'll let you know if I find anything after I've had time to really give them some thought. So far it just looks like I'm watching a man who is scared half out of his gourd.'
“Well, I do appreciate the other information. Please lemme know soon as possible—whatever you think might help.” He told him how grateful he was and they hung up. A couple of calls had grown into an hour and. a half and nothing much. He put the Houtcheson thing in the hands of MCTF and walked away from it for the rest of the day— or so he hoped. He had a lot of soul-searching to do. He needed to get his head screwed on right, first of all. And the second he had the thought he burst out laughing at his choice of phrase but it was nonetheless true. He wasn't a tap dancer, he said to himself, he was a cop. Start behaving like one.
He wondered about Joseph Hackabee. Oh, yes. Nothing was right about any of it but his vibes counted and at this particular moment his vibes were shouting to him. He wanted to unfog so he could hear what they were saying. He let himself momentarily visualize them together, Joe and Noel. He had a phrase from one of the task-force background checks that bounced back via Houston PD, “surfer, ultra-light-aircraft pilot, hang-glider, subject is athletic and extremely competitive...” In shape. He and Noel would be a handsome couple. He envisioned her posing in the string bikini. Letting Joseph Hackabee see the little spur of bone at the base of her spine, letting him have a little vestigial tail. A little piece of tail. And that was the last time he would ever think of Noel in a sexual context. He shut her out with the booze.
Right now he was grateful more than anything else. Gratitude was his single overriding emotion. He was grateful to God for letting him come through this somehow. And he thought as he drove, God, just let me nail this one, and Lord, I'll never touch another drop of that stuff. Never. Strike me dead if I'm lyin'. And then he caught himself immediately as he framed the thought and apologized to the Lord. God. Forgive me, Heavenly Father, Blessed Heavenly Father. Forgive me for trying to make a deal with you. Thank you, Lord. Just thanks, is all.
He was grateful, too, that he had Donna to look forward to. He wanted to be with her and it amused him that he could think of her now so ... How did he think of her? As such a warm, attractive person, just because she took pity on him? No. She was a good woman. She was decent. He liked her a lot. And they'd both been through similar if totally different ordeals. It seemed to Eichord as if they both had a lot of memories they'd just as soon forget.
This was the same Donna he'd sized up as a hardboiled, invulnerable toughie that it was hard to feel any sympathy for. This was the same Donna whose book he'd judged by its cover, so to speak, without the slightest regard for the content. And this is the Donna who has enough compassion to forgive a copper in whom she couldn't have less interest or for whom she couldn't feel less attracted.
But that I can work on, he thought. And he wondered how some pretty flowers would do for openers. Would she be a flower lady, with a home full of plants and ferny things and a garden and stuff growing everywhere? Would Donna be a flower child?
The tar-paper shanty stands on an unfarmable piece of ground called Deadman's Cut. Inside two little boys, eyes tearing, noses running, filthy, hear Mah-maw scream again and one reaches out to take the other's hand and they wait behind the feed sacks. They know he will come soon. It is only a matter of time.
The woman, their biological mother, is at the end of her third trimester. It is bad this time.
