Chapter 15
Becker found Nate Cohen’s grave and stood before it like a mendicant before a shrine, his hands folded at his waist. Agent Reynolds, watching Becker through binoculars, wondered if he was praying. His head was bowed and he had the look of a man who had come to stay for a while.
Hatcher had told Reynolds that Becker would be there, if not today then the next, and the Duck had been right. “Donald” was usually right, Reynolds had to admit that. It was not a job in which a man could make decisions and hope to do better than be right most of the time. The problem with Hatcher was that when he was wrong he could never admit it; there was always someone else to blame. That someone else was invariably one of the agents under his command. What Hatcher didn’t seem to grasp was that his men would hold his mistakes against him far less if he didn’t shirk the responsibility for them. Apparently, Hatcher’s superiors viewed things differently because the man held on to his job while the agents under him got transferred or held back from promotion. Hatcher was not a hard leader to follow; he made no extraordinary demands-but he was impossible to forgive. That was one of the things Reynolds most admired about Becker. He had never forgiven the Duck and was as vocal about it as Pavarotti with a paying audience. The man told Hatcher to his face what he thought of him while the other agents could only choke back their laughter and sit on their hands to keep from applauding.
Which made Reynolds feel a bit dishonest about what he had to do next, but then Becker wasn’t really even a member of the Bureau now. just some sort of quasi for-the-case temporary agent, and Hatcher was still the man who made out the performance evaluations. Reynolds glanced at his watch and started walking briskly down the hill toward Becker’s car. It had taken Becker three minutes to walk from his car to Nate Cohen’s grave, which meant that Reynolds had at least that much time and probably considerably more, judging by Becker’s leisurely demeanor.
The beeper attached itself by magnet so all Reynolds had to do was make sure the device was turned on, then kneel beside Becker’s car as if he were tying his shoelace in case any of the locals were watching, slap the device under the inside of the frame of the wheel housing, straighten up, and walk back to his own car atop the hill. The entire procedure took one minute and forty-five seconds.
Becker was still at the grave, praying or meditating or thinking, whatever. He was a strange man, Reynolds thought. Good enough company, a regular guy most of the time, but moody. And his thought processes never seemed to be the same as everyone else’s. Not weird, exactly, but as if he jumped steps in logic. Maybe his mind was just faster, Reynolds thought. Or it was always working on things from an angle instead of straight on. Whatever it was, if even half the stories they told about him were true, Becker would be the last man on earth Reynolds would want to have chasing him.
Reynolds radioed to the communications van and confirmed that the beeper’s signal was being received loud and clear, then settled back to work on the day’s crossword puzzle. He wished he had the Sunday Times puzzle; local papers published things for beginners. Reynolds did them in minutes, contemptuously using a pen and never once having to resort to the crossword dictionary in the glove compartment.
When he checked again, Becker was still there. What the hell was he doing, grieving or something? Nate Cohen wasn’t his grandfather, was he?
Becker lifted the piece of gravel from atop Cohen’s headstone and tossed it in his palm. Dyce had been to visit, he was certain of that. There was no way to know just when, but Becker didn’t need evidence. It was recently, since he’d been in Waverly, sometime within the last two weeks.
A spider lowered itself from the plastic flowers in the funerary urn, laying down the second strand of a brand new web. Becker lifted the flowers and saw the empty space in the bottom of the urn where something had once sat amid a circle of moss and dirt.
Raised letters on the bottom of the receptacle had left slight impressions in the dust. Glass bottles were stamped on the base with the manufacturer’s name; the size of the circle would yield the volume of the container. Becker would leave the details for the technicians; they were no longer vital to him. He replaced the flowers and looked up for the first time since finding the grave. The sky was dark and lowering and ever more massive banks of gray clouds were piling up and roiling overhead. It was thunderstorm weather; the electricity in the air could almost be smelled. Whether the storm broke or not, it would be very dark tonight.
Becker glanced up the hill toward the car parked at the top, facing the graveyard. It had been there when Becker arrived and sat there still. He could make out a figure sitting behind the window Hatcher’s idea of inconspicuous, he thought. Not that it mattered now; they had already missed their shot at Dyce in the cemetery.
He had started to leave the cemetery before he realized he still carried Dyce’s marker in his hand. He returned to the grave and replaced the gravel gently atop Nate Cohen’s grave, then picked up another stone from the walk and placed it next to the first. One for himself.
Reynolds saw Becker’s car make a U-tum and head up the hill. For a second he thought of ducking below the seat, but realized it was already too late. Becker pulled up alongside Reynolds and the agent leaned across the seat and rolled down the passenger window.
“How’s it going?” asked Reynolds. “You get some communing done down there?”
“You might want to get some of the snails to look inside the urn at Cohen’s grave,” Becker said.
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Where do I find Hatcher?”
“Does he know you’re in town?”
“Only if your radio works,” said Becker. “Tell him I’m on my way.”
Hatcher preferred to brief Becker while sitting in his car so that the other agents would not overhear the insubordination in Becker’s tone-or the promises Hatcher would have to make. At times like this he wished he smoked so he would have something to cover the nervousness of his hands.
“We searched the house and barn thoroughly,” said Hatcher. “We went into the root cellar, we checked the well house. I’m not saying he’s not lying in the cornfield somewhere, but he’s nowhere in the house or the outbuildings, unless he’s a spider hanging in a corner. There’s enough cobwebs around to…”
“Did you look everywhere?” Becker asked. His tone was flat, almost bored.
“I just said…”
“Did you look in the chimney?”
“The chimney? Did we look in the chimney?… I’d have to ask. Someone probably… The chimney, Becker? Come on.”
“You told me it was a stone house over a hundred years old. It must have a big chimney. Where else didn’t you look?”
“We looked everywhere… except maybe the chimney.”
“In the basement? You checked the foundation there; there aren’t any hidden rooms?”
“We checked. I know you don’t mean to sound insulting, but…”
“The attic?”
“There isn’t an attic, just a few rafters with some boards that didn’t burn completely-you don’t understand, the place looks like it was bombed.”
“So you checked the attic or you didn’t?”
“It’s thirty feet in the air, there is no second floor at all, there is no stairway leading up. There is no attic. What makes you so sure he’s at the farm?”
“I’m not sure, I’m just making sure you checked. He’s still around here, I feel certain of that. The farm is the logical place for him to go. He knows it, he knows where to hide.”
“We saw no sign of him. None. He’s not there.”
“Unless he’s in the chimney.”
“Or maybe he buried himself underground and is breathing through a straw.”
Becker shrugged. “You’re probably right.”
“We’ve already started the house to house; it should take two more days…” Becker was no longer listening. He thinks he knows better than I do, Hatcher thought angrily. He’s convinced I’ve made some mistake but he’s not
