ironic?'
'No,' Crease said. 'I find it tragic.'
'You only say that because it is,' Burke said. 'I'm vanishing, you know. Inch by inch, I'll soon be gone.'
Crease could see it happening. He thought, this guy, he doesn't have much longer to go. Maybe if Crease could get some answers, Burke would start seeing himself in the mirror again.
Burke's clipped, darting style of speech went on and on. 'There isn't much to tell, really. It was the fifth of June, a warm day, a sunny day, but not especially hot. Mary didn't want to wear long sleeves, she hated long sleeves, and she and Vera-my wife, Vera-fought about that, but not much, really, and Mary usually won such battles anyway. She was just going to play in the back yard, alone, with some dolls and their accessories. Everything has accessories, the cars and the pools and the wardrobe for the dolls, an entire city set up in the yard. She was very popular, Mary was, she had many friends in the neighborhood, but that day she was alone.'
'You were home?'
'Until noon or so. I went in to work late, being the owner does have some advantages. I spent the morning watching a film I wished to watch. A documentary on VHS, rented right next door to my hardware store, Bob's Video. It's not there anymore. Don't ask me which documentary it was, I don't recall. I remember a great deal about that day, but not the film I wanted to watch so badly that I spent the morning at home. Afterwards, Mary, Vera, and I had lunch together-chicken salad. I didn't say goodbye to her. She ran out the back door to play and I left through the front. Vera followed me down the driveway to get the mail from the box, and I drove off. An hour later, she phoned me at the store. Mary was gone.'
Crease stubbed out his cigarette. 'Had they made contact yet?'
'No. I rushed home and we searched the house… we thought perhaps she was playing hide-and-seek again, although Mary never did this when we spoke firmly with her and demanded she show herself. She would always come out then, smiling, happy to have fooled us for so long, and that was all right. It was always all right so long as she showed herself when we finally asked, you see? But she didn't come out that day. We searched the yard, we visited our neighbors, we called the police. I-'
Here it comes, Crease thought.
“-spoke with your father.' Burke wasn't able to keep the hostility out of his voice, and the fever started up in Crease's chest, began to burn. 'He told me he'd be right over. It took less than ten minutes. He was very powerfully built, your father, with an air of authority. He seemed very assertive, effective, despite the recent death of his wife. I'd always found him trustworthy, even though at that moment I smelled the alcohol on his breath. But I was a near-sniveling mess. Vera was already in shambles. We held onto each other and dragged ourselves around together like cripples. The phone rang again. It was a man. A voice I'd never heard before. He said he had Mary. He would return her for the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. He was specific in his instructions. No police.'
'But my father was already there.'
'Yes, you see, your father was already there. I couldn't even follow his demands because the sheriff was already there.'
'What did the man on the phone say exactly?'
'He was brief. He wanted fifteen thousand dollars. He wanted me to bring it to the abandoned mill and leave it. No police involvement. Mary would be returned to us within twenty-four hours without harm.'
'How easy was it for you to get your hands on that kind of money?'
'Very easy,' Burke said. 'We weren't especially well-to-do, but fifteen thousand dollars isn't an outrageous sum of money. We had sixty thousand in our savings. It seemed like such a ridiculous amount to ask for in exchange for the life of our daughter.'
'Yes, it does.'
Burke made as if to change position, maybe move over on the couch an inch, but then he resettled himself to the same position.'The details, do they still need to be so broad, or are you familiar with what happened afterwards?'
'The dolls,' Crease said. 'Were any missing? Broken?'
'Only her teddy bear. It was her favorite, her sidekick as it were. Her best friend. The other dolls were toys that she and Teddy both played with, you see?'
'Snatched out of the yard. That points to someone she knew. You didn't recognize the man's voice, so it was probably a two-person team. Children are more likely to be lured away by women. They feel safer.'
'I don't recall anyone telling me that before. In any case, everyone knew her. She was friendly like that. We all were. My wife and I, back when we were together. This was a nice town, or so we all thought. Sarah didn't agree, but she was growing more fond of Hangtree as time went on.'
'Sarah?' Crease asked.
Burke's head cocked, like it was a name he hadn't heard in so long that he didn't recognize it despite just having said it. 'Yes, Sarah, my older sister. Older by nearly four years. Mary's aunt. She was living with us at the time. Recuperating. She'd suffered through a broken relationship.'
'Was she home that day?'
'No. No, she wasn't. She'd gone to spend the day in the park. To read and relax.' Burke was clearly speaking by rote, repeating what his sister had told him, word for word.
'Can I speak with her?'
'No, I'm afraid not. It wouldn't be worth your time, you see. She's… unresponsive.'
Crease waited for Burke to tell him more, but the man didn't continue. His energetic burst of speech had come to a standstill. The man's eyes were now glazed. He was going even deeper. Crease said, 'I don't understand.'
'My sister has had a great deal of upset in her life. She loved Mary so much, almost like she was her own daughter, really. When we lost her, she… well, she collapsed. She's never recovered, I'm told.'
'Where can I find her?'
Burke's face tightened, his features folding in on themselves. 'I don't want you visiting and bothering her.'
'Who was the man from the broken relationship? What other upset did she have?'
'I don't want you to see her and I don't wish to discuss this any longer. I think it's time for you to leave.'
Crease waited. He watched Burke wrestling with himself, thinking of his dead daughter, his absent wife, all of the pain throbbing under his face, pulsing, like it would shatter his flesh and come flying through the shards at any second. 'What other upset?' Crease asked.
'As I said, a broken love affair. We've all had them. Are you going to tell me you haven't?'
'No.'
'Then, it's settled,' Burke said.
'What's settled?'
'This discussion. It's over. I hope you understand, surely you do, but quite simply I don't wish to speak with you any longer. There's nothing you can do for me. Nothing that can be done for Mary. Or your father. He's dead and good riddance to him. To think I stood in awe of him once, in my own home. How pitiful, how foolish.' He reached over and drew the now dirty ashtray closer to him, pulled it into his lap like it was a child. 'You've accomplished absolutely nothing. Now, leave. Please leave.'
Crease stood and walked out the door.
He thought, Okay, that was easy.
Chapter Ten
He was in a downtown bar parking lot, at a payphone trying to call Joan, when he heard them walk up around him. They coughed and kinda muttered, sniffing loudly, scuffling their feet. A sure sign of hesitation.
Crease sighed and put the phone back in its cradle and turned to meet them.
There was Jimmy Devlin and three other guys who might as well have been Jimmy. All of them cut from the same colorless cloth, ex-jocks who'd gone to flab but still had a lot of brawn. Mooks who'd discovered too late that
