The Hunt

He shook his head and looked down at his veined hands.

“Mr. Scoby, can I trust your discretion? What I mean is, if I confided something to you, could you keep it quiet?”

“Suppose so, Mr. Keegan. Never have been much for gossipin’.”

“This is just speculation, of course. Supposing I told you that there’s a chance that . . . maybe . . . Fred Dempsey wasn’t killed in that accident. That perhaps he got out of that car and managed to get out of the river . . . or maybe never went in the river in the first

“That’s a lie!” a voice cried from the doorway. They looked up at a skinny kid in scuffed-up corduroy pants and an open shirt, glaring defiantly from the doorway.

“Fred didn’t do that,” the boy insisted angrily. “Fred would’ve tried to save Weezie and that’s why the river took him under. That’s what Mr. Taggert said and that’s what happened.”

“Roger, you’re not supposed to be eavesdroppin’ on your elders,” Scoby scolded. “This is my son, Roger Scoby. Roger, this gentleman is from the White House in Washington, D.C.”

“I don’t care where he’s from, he’s a liar!” the boy said, pointing at Keegan.

“Roger!”

“I said supposing,” Keegan said. “I was just speculating … playing a little game .

“It’s a rotten game. Fred was my friend and you shouldn’t play games like that about dead people. You lie and you get out of our house!”

“Roger!” the boy’s father snapped.

“It’s all right,” Keegan said. “Loyalty is a rare enough thing, Mr. Scoby. I admire his spunk.”

“Go upstairs and do your homework, son,” Scoby ordered.

“Finished it already.”

“Then just plain go upstairs,” Scoby snapped.

“Yes sir.” Roger started to leave, then turned back to Keegan. “Isn’t right to talk about dead people like that,” he admonished Keegan again before leaving.

“Never has gotten over the accident,” Scoby said, closing the parlor door. “They were real, real close. You were saying . .

“Who’s Taggert?” Keegan asked.

“County coroner over at Lafayette. Why would Fred do something like that anyway? I mean, if he got out, why didn’t he tell us? Why would he’ve left without saying anything? Don’t make a lot of sense, Mr. . . . uh

“Keegan. And I agree, it really doesn’t make a lot of sense but you know how these bureaucrats are. They can’t stand loose ends.”

“Why would Fred do that?”

A Nazi spy, hiding in Drew City, Indiana, working in his bank, making love to his daughter? The man would think I’m totally nuts, thought Keegan.

“That’s why it’s far-fetched, Mr. Scoby. You’re right, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s just that never finding the body and all, we’re trying to cover all the bases. Want to close the case up once and for all. Sorry I upset the boy.”

“Like I said, he’ll never get over it,” Scoby said sadly. “But then, neither will I. I’ll say one thing for Fred, he made the last few months of my daughter’s life very happy ones. She didn’t have a very pleasant life before he came along. Lost her mother when Roger was born, had to tend to him and me and the house. Fred put some sparkle back in her eyes. I’ll always be indebted to him for that.”

“Yes sir. Can you remember anything else about him specifically. You wouldn’t have a photograph, would you?”

“No sir. Fred wasn’t one for snapshots. Was a private man, Fred was, stuck close to his friends, didn’t go in much for show.”

“Did he have any quirks? Any funny habits?”

Scoby pursed his lips and scratched his temple with a forefinger.

“I just, uh. . . been a long time, Mr. Keegan. Five years this past May. M’mind strays a bit these days.”

“Sure.”

“Actually Fred was just an average man who treated me and my children with a lot of love and thoughtfulness. Liked the movies. Liked a glass of beer with his dinner but he wasn’t a big drinker. He rolled his own cigarettes. Didn’t like the storebought kind. Prince Albert pipe tobacco, as I recall. Had this gold cigarette lighter he was real proud of. Family heirloom, so he said.”

“What kind of lighter?”

“It was rectangular, ‘bout three inches long.” He measured a distance between his thumb and forefinger. “‘Bout like that. Had smooth sides and a wolf’s head carved on the top of it. It was solid gold, not plate. Very handsome thing. Looked expensive. He was right proud of that lighter.”

“Could you draw a picture of it for me?”

Keegan handed him a notebook and a pencil and Scoby drew a fair likeness of the lighter with a hand that had begun to shake with time.

“Mother lived in Chicago,” Scoby went on as he drew. “She was ailing. He used to go up there occasionally to