The Burning Soul

retired hookers who’d been used more gently than these books. Some of them were old enough to have Caxton’s thumbprints on them.

The front door opened, and Mrs. Shaye entered, her son Patrick ambling amiably behind her. They looked as if they’d dressed for church.

‘Danny, do you have that order of subs ready?’

‘Sure, Mrs. Shaye. I’ll just be a second.’

‘And we’ll need two iced coffees, and as many of those doughnuts as you can fit in a bag.’

Danny set the coffeepot to fill, and sprinted off to do Mrs. Shaye’s bidding.

‘I’m the spare pair of hands,’ Pat said. ‘She made me clean them too.’ He showed them to me as proof.

‘They’re spotless. In parts.’

‘Don’t talk to strange men, Pat,’ said Mrs. Shaye. ‘Mr. Parker, will you be joining us for lunch?’ But she said it with a wry smile.

‘I hope not, Mrs. Shaye. All out of cookies?’

‘I’m working such hours now that I don’t have time to bake them. It’s good news for Danny here. You know that this is his business? Before him, we had to make do with takeouts from the store.’

I raised an eyebrow at Danny, who had just reappeared with a tray of Saran-wrapped subs, and was looking for a bag for the doughnuts.

‘And there he was, telling me that the management didn’t like him to play depressing music.’

‘The management doesn’t,’ said Danny. ‘The fan does, but the manager wants to stay in business.’

Mrs. Shaye handed the tray of subs to Pat, added a half dozen bottles of iced tea to the pile, signed for everything, and took the bag of doughnuts herself. I held the door open for them.

‘Bye, now, Mr. Parker,’ she said. ‘Stay out of trouble.’

‘Good advice,’ said Pat.

I went to the window to watch the world, and I witnessed a peculiar moment. A group of young girls were hanging out near the grocery store. They were probably about fourteen or fifteen years old, and well on the way to becoming striking young women. Unfortunately, they hadn’t reached that stage yet, so I tried to find somewhere else to look.

Chief Allan didn’t seem to have such qualms. He was sitting in his truck on the other side of the street, sipping a soda and taking in the girls’ bodies. One of them had bought a magazine, and they were huddled around it, giggling and pointing. They didn’t notice Allan, but Mrs. Shaye did. I could see her clock him, and the direction of his gaze. As Mrs. Shaye and her son crossed the road, she rousted the girls.

‘Hey, you kids, be about your business. You’re like a brood of hens blocking the path.’

The girls headed east up Main Street. Allan started his truck and moved off. Mrs. Shaye held open the door of the municipal building for her son, her head flicking to follow Allan’s progress before she followed her son inside.

And I wondered how good Mrs. Shaye’s spelling was.

Walsh called me while I was finishing my coffee.

‘I’m your referee now?’ he said. ‘What are you doing, giving my name out to hick sheriffs as your go-to guy?’

‘I hope you said nice things about me.’

‘I just got the message. I haven’t called him back.’

‘I know there’s a “yet” missing from that sentence. You haven’t called him back yet.’

‘I may not call him back ever.’

‘And after all I’ve done for you. How’s your head?’

‘Surprisingly clear and obligation-free. I don’t recall everything about last night, but I do remember telling you that I wasn’t going to let you see those sealed records, and now you go trying your luck with North Dakota. You just don’t know when to quit.’

‘I’m interested in Lonny Midas’s brother. I didn’t think the sealed records were relevant in his case.’

‘You’re looking for the brother because you believe that he might know where Lonny is. Lonny Midas is the subject of those sealed records.’

‘Come on, Walsh, I just want to talk to the brother. If he blows me off, then we’ll have whatever is in the records to go on.’

‘I will have whatever is in the records. You will have nothing.’

I ignored him. ‘And if his brother does know something I’ll share it with you and you’ll be ahead. So either you win or you stay as you were, but you’re not going to lose on the deal. Come on, make the call.’

There was silence on the other end of the line.

‘Did a waitress threaten me last night?’ he asked.

‘She promised to feed your nuts to a squirrel if you continued to annoy her,’ I said.

‘I thought that was what she said.’

‘She also told us to find Anna Kore.’

‘I seem to remember that too,’ said Walsh. ‘Shit.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Engel says you got one favor coming to you for the Randall Haight thing, but this can’t be it. It’s too close. We have feelers out for Jerry Midas too, and I don’t want you getting in the way. You let this one drop. Understood?’

‘Yeah, I understand.’ And I did: There would be no call back from Sheriff Peck.

‘Okay,’ said Walsh. ‘Thanks again for the ride last night.’

‘De nada.’

‘Right. Mas tarde.’

He hung up. There was free wireless access in the coffee shop, so I opened up my laptop and went through my copies of the newspaper reports of the Selina Day killing. The Beacon & Explainer was still going strong. I found its number and got through to the editor, a man named Everett Danning IV. Like law enforcement, the Beacon-Advertiser turned out to be a family business as well, but Danning was a little more co-operative than the sheriff. He wasn’t able to tell me a great deal, but he confirmed that Lonny Midas did indeed have an older brother named Jerry, except that wasn’t quite his given name.

‘He was baptized Nahum Jeremiah Midas, after the prophets,’ said Danning. ‘That’s what you get for having a Bible-thumper for a father. His younger brother got off easier, mainly because even old Eric Midas wasn’t blind to the fights his firstborn got into over his name. He gave Lonny his own father’s name, Leonard, and saved the Biblical stuff for the kid’s middle name, Amos. Don’t ask me how “Leonard” became “Lonny” instead of “Lenny,” although I think it was because there were two other Leonards in his school, and they all had to be differentiated somehow. Jerry Midas ditched “Nahum” pretty early on, or tried to. He was a couple of years ahead of me in school, but that name stuck for a long time.’

‘Does Jerry Midas still live in Drake Creek?’

‘No, there are no Midases left here now.’

‘Any idea where he might have gone?’

‘None.’

I thanked him. In return, I gave him a little of the background to what was happening, but I tried to keep it as vague as possible, telling him only that the former William Lagenheimer now lived in Maine. I did promise him that, if it became possible to reveal more at some point in the future, I would.

Five minutes later, thanks to the wonders of Google, I had found Jerry Midas.

31

It turned out that Jerry Midas had always had an artistic bent. He had been sketching since he was a boy and had adapted his talents to book illustration, graphic design, and, for the past two decades, computer games, providing initial portraits and backdrops for companies that prided themselves on the depth and beauty of their virtual worlds. He was known to those who called upon his skills simply as N. J. M., for that was how he signed his work, or otherwise as ‘Nate.’ All this he told me when I finally tracked him down in San Mateo, California, having