to chase the wrong man. Surely, he won’t come. Tee thought, if he really has Dyce cornered in Waverly. Pray God he’ll know better than to leave the real one behind and come following me. What the hell do I know? I’m the chief of police in Clamden, for Christ’s sake.
The road continued straight as a plumb line and the Valiant drove steadily onward at thirty-five miles per hour with Tee four hundred yards behind.
“Unless I’m right, Tee thought. Then I’m a goddamned hero. Maybe Dyce had not recognized him as Tee originally thought and was just going on his merry way, oblivious to the car behind him.
The Valiant seemed to be slowing and Tee eased off the gas. He wished to hell that Becker was here. A mistake wouldn’t ruin his career since he didn’t have a career to ruin anymore. The difference, he knew, was that Becker wouldn’t make a mistake.
It’s about your self-esteem, big guy. Tee thought. You got to learn to think positively about yourself You saw the guy, you recognized him instantly. There wasn’t any doubt then; you didn’t say to yourself, gee, it looks like Dyce. You knew it was him. So stick with that, trust yourself. You’re not some local jerk, you’re the goddamned chief of police.
The Valiant turned to the right and vanished for a moment in the intervening swell of corn. Tee reached reactively for his car radio, then realized he didn’t have one. There was no way to let Hatcher know where he was or where he was going-in fact he didn’t know himself. He would just have to play it by ear, watch Dyce come to a stop, then find a telephone. If he had turned here, at least he couldn’t be going far. There was no major highway in this direction. Tee felt pretty sure, just corn and more corn and maybe a house or two.
Tee eased around the corner and saw the Valiant ahead of him, slowing still further, his blinker on. Awfully obliging. Tee thought. The man is such a law-abiding citizen he puts on his blinker on an empty road-except when he decides to boil a few bodies in the kitchen. He’s not quite so law-abiding then. Well, there are laws and there are laws, aren’t there, jug-head? It passed through his mind fleetingly that he himself was not the law here; he had no jurisdiction outside of Clamden, he doubted that he could make an arrest, and if he did, would it violate Dyce’s rights? But then, I’m not making an arrest. I’m just following the guy.
The second turn took Tee deep into the heart of a cornfield with stands of green corn reaching above the car and closing in on either side. It was like driving through a transparent tunnel under an emerald sea. The road was only packed dirt and rutted, a farmer’s access lane, narrow enough that a tractor hauling equipment would brush against the stalks.
With the corn this close. Tee could no longer see the large stone house and barn that he had noticed from the distance, but when the Valiant turned again, he realized that had to be where Dyce was heading. Tee stopped his car and thought. He couldn’t follow by car any longer. If Dyce hadn’t noticed him so far-and apparently he hadn’t-he could hardly miss him if he pulled up into the barnyard. He wasn’t sure, but the chances were good that the final turnoff led to the farmhouse or a cul-de-sac. It was too deep in the field to go much farther unless it went all the way across, and even then Dyce would hardly think it just coincidence that another car was tooling through the cornfield. If it was Dyce. Tee tried not to dwell on that possibility.
Or it could run all the way through the field; it could lead to some other access road. Hatcher would like that, too. Follow him to the middle of a cornfield, stop and wait while he drives out the other side and all the way to Canada. Tee felt a sudden intense dislike for Hatcher. The man was an absolute prick, Becker was right about that.
Wishing he could think of something better. Tee got out of the Toyota and walked into the cornfield, two rows deep. He followed the row that ran parallel to the lane and headed toward the path where the Valiant had made its last tum.
Listening first. Tee cautiously peered out from the corn to scan the lane. It ran for thirty yards, then turned left, vanishing once more into the corn. The Valiant was nowhere.
Tee crossed the lane and took to the corn once more, staying parallel to the lane, then turning with it. This is not my line of work. Tee thought. Already his heart was racing and his breath was short, although he’d done nothing but walk a few dozen yards. He felt an uncomfortable tingling on his skin as if he was about to sweat.
I’m scared, he thought. What the hell am I scared of? Being boiled in a pot, that’s what the hell I’m scared of. Isn’t that good enough? He felt for the revolver riding on his hip and pushed off the leather thong that held it in place. He considered drawing the revolver and carrying it at the ready, but then thought, for what? To arrest the wrong man? Ridiculous what embarrassment can do, he thought. So what if you make a mistake and look like an asshole. Don’t you look stupid enough already, creeping through a cornfield? If you want to pull the gun, pull the damn thing. He left it in his holster and bent to peer cautiously once more into the lane.
Seeing just a glimpse of the dull green of the Valiant, he jerked his head back behind the sheltering corn. What now, chief? There was the car, parked at the end of the lane, a few yards away. He could hear noises from the farmhouse, music playing, the noise of a black rapper sounding ludicrously incongruous in a field of corn. Tee tried to calm himself; he could hear little besides the rapper’s voice and the insistent electronic drum above his own breathing. Was the Valiant’s engine still running? Was Dyce parked, or not?
Tee knelt on the soft earth, his backside brushing against the corn as he went down. Be quiet, for Christ’s sake! God, he really wasn’t meant for this kind of thing. Where the hell was Becker with his icewater nerves? Just establish that the car is parked, then get the hell out of here and find a phone. If the engine is still running, he’s not going to stick around and you’ll look like an idiot. Christ, you are an idiot. His sweat glands were working overtime now; he could feel the dampness in his armpits. This is stupid, this is so stupid. Just turn around and run if you feel so scared. No one’s watching. Just hightail it out of here and worry about your dignity later. Staying as low as he could, though not certain why except for some childhood memory of doing what they did in the movies, he eased his eyes toward the edge of the curtain of corn.
I investigate burglaries and refer them to the state police, he thought. I stop suspicious-looking characters who are cruising Clamden neighborhoods. On the holidays I direct traffic so we can hold parades. I don’t even do most of that anymore. I’m the chief now. I have the officers do it. Ten years ago Ralph Smolness swung a chair at me when I answered his wife’s call about domestic violence. That’s it. That’s what I do. I don’t play Indian in the cornfield with a maniac who’s going to make soup out of me if I don’t quit bumping into stalks.
The engine of the Valiant was running, the car was vibrating slightly. Dyce was not in the car, at least not in sight. Tee wiped away a drop of sweat that was threatening his eye. The rapper was saying something that sounded like “fug it, fug it.” Probably not. Tee thought. There were still laws, at least in Connecticut, and why in hell was he thinking about that? The music sounded over and over in his head; he couldn’t get the noise out of his mind even when the record ended.
He lifted himself to his knees and heard the corn behind him rustle again. Be quiet, he warned himself then realized he hadn’t made the sound just as something hit him hard in the right buttock. Oh, fuck it, he thought. He tried to reach for his gun, but a foot in his back pushed his face in the dirt and another foot stood on his right arm. The lyrics “fug it, fug it” were still reverberating in his mind and the beating of his pulse in his ear matched the beat of the drums.
Someone was in grandfather’s house. He couldn’t believe it. Someone was living there. He heard the jungle music, the unrelenting drums, the raucous squeal of guitars, the lyrics that went beyond suggestive to demanding, all of it profaning grandfather’s values and his memory. No, not his memory. Nothing could touch his memory, for that lived within Dyce’s soul. There was a tractor parked by the front porch, someone in overalls sitting on the stone steps, eating, leaning his back against the stone pillar that had once held the porch roof. Behind the man was the porch itself, or what remained, charred by fire. No one was living there. It had been repaired-could not have been without Dyce’s knowledge and permission-so the man blasting the music into the rural air was only there temporarily. Dyce could deal with him, if he had to, when he replenished his supply of PMBL. The last of it had just gone into the cop in the cornfield.
Dyce dragged Tee’s body two rows farther into the corn so that it could not be seen by anyone passing on the road. He walked to Tee’s car and drove it deeply into the field, curving his route so that no one glancing down the entrance furrow could see anything at the end but more corn.
Dyce prepared grandfather’s body as he remembered grandfather having done for his father ten years earlier. The coffin, however, was beyond his talents. Unskilled with saw or hammer, he simply laid the old man’s body on a plank set up on the sawhorses covered by the black tarpaulin. For three days Dyce sat vigil in grandfather’s chair in the darkened living room, and with every hour his faith in grandfather’s religion drained a fraction more until finally, the vigil over, there was none left. His faith in the resurrection was nothing more than a
