not?”
He pulled over, parked in front of a convenience store. “What’s with you?” he said.
“With me? Nothing’s with me. Nothing’s ever with a third wheel.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then figure it out,” she said. “I’m thirsty.” She flung the door open, got out, and entered the convenience store.
He sat there, tried to absorb everything that had come at him, not really succeeding. Maybe pen and paper would help, to get the facts listed in bullet points-and if he got the facts and lined them up right, he’d know whether Sonny Racine was innocent, at least in the sense of not being the shooter. Wyatt was reaching toward the glove box when Greer’s phone went off, that ringing Dobro sound. He spotted the phone, wedged between her seat and the console.
Wyatt dug out the phone, checked the screen. HONG KONG, it read, followed by a long number. He remembered Greer saying, Curiosity killed the cat, remembered as well what they’d been discussing at the time, namely the arson and her part in it, or not, and all that somehow added up to him clicking the talk button.
He didn’t say anything, just listened.
A man spoke. “Hey, baby,” he said. “How’re you doing?”
Wyatt said nothing.
“Greer?” said the man. “Can you hear me? It’s Van. Greer? Greer?”
Wyatt clicked off. The Dobro ringtone sounded again, almost immediately. Wyatt didn’t answer. After a minute or so the new-message icon popped up on the screen. Not long after that, Greer came out of the convenience store with an energy drink in her hand, and got in the car.
Wyatt handed her the phone. “I think there’s a message waiting.”
“You could have checked it. No secrets from you-the voice mail code’s seven four times.” Greer took the phone, glanced at the screen. “Nothing important,” she said, flipping the phone shut. “Where are we headed?”
“Not sure,” said Wyatt.
“No?” Greer sipped the energy drink. “I thought you were in command.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The masterly way you took over the Q and A of our pretty little friend back there,” Greer said. “That’s what I mean. Ever going to share your discoveries, or is it just between the two of you?”
All of a sudden, Wyatt was angry. It didn’t happen often. “All right, let’s share,” he said. “Who’s Van?”
Greer shrugged. “No clue.” She took another sip, slightly off-target, so that a few red drops of energy drink trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes shifted toward him. “What’s that look for?” she said.
“I’ll try again,” Wyatt said. “Who’s Van?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That won’t work.”
“Huh?”
“Because you’re caught in a lie, Greer. Van just called you from Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong? I don’t know anybody in Hong Kong. Must have been a wrong number.”
Wyatt’s voice rose. He was shouting now. “I answered your goddamn phone. Don’t you get it? He called you baby.”
She wiped the red trickle off her chin. “My mother’s husband’s a yeller, too,” she said, not raising her voice at all.
“What the fuck?”
“And nothing you do is going to make me change my story. I don’t know anyone in Hong Kong, don’t know anyone named Van. It was a wrong number, end of story.”
Wyatt got a grip on himself, forced his voice lower. But inside he was just as angry, or even more, now that it was bottled up. “You’re lying to my face,” he said. “He called you by name. What kind of wrong number is that?”
Greer’s eyes narrowed, almost closing completely. She came close to looking ugly. “Maybe that’ll teach you not to spy on me.”
“I wasn’t spying on you.”
“You answered my phone. That’s spying.”
“You just said you had no secrets. Who’s Van?”
She didn’t answer.
“If you’re not hiding anything,” Wyatt said, “why don’t we call that Hong Kong number right now?”
“Know what?” Greer said. “You’re just like all the rest. You do sincerity better-that’s the only difference. Especially in bed. Lucky you.”
“You’re making no sense.”
“Don’t worry your little head about it,” Greer said, opening the door. “You’re free as a bird.” She got out, closed the door-not with a slam, more like the opposite, slow and careful, and walked off down the street. After two blocks she turned a corner and vanished from sight. She’d left nothing behind but the can of energy drink, balanced on the dash.
Wyatt just sat there. Time passed. He cooled down. After a while, he considered driving around, trying to find her, but what was the point? She’d come back when she was ready. And then? Wyatt had no idea.
He finished the energy drink, cooled down a bit more. He began to notice things going on around him, like a thin old man in a tweed jacket and bowtie, coming out of the convenience store. He wasn’t one of those bent-over old men; he held himself erect, and moved briskly. The old man walked a few doors down and entered a brick building with a picture window in front. In gold paint on the window:
THE MILLERVILLE BEACON
Established 1849
Your Town, Your News
Wyatt got out of the car.
22
Wyatt entered the office of the Millerville Beacon. He’d never been in a newspaper office before, didn’t know what to expect. The Millerville Beacon had a counter in front, bearing a stack of fresh-looking newspapers, and four or five workstations in back, only one of which was occupied. The old man in the bowtie sat there, eating a sandwich, eyes on his computer screen.
“Looking for today’s paper, young man?” he said, somehow catching sight of Wyatt peripherally. He turned, pointed with his chin at the stack. “Just drop fifty cents in the dish,” he said.
Wyatt took the top paper off the stack, put two quarters in a dish that now held four.
“Don’t see many of your generation as customers these days,” the old man said, giving him a second look. “I’d be interested in any insights you might have about that.”
“Well, uh…”
“Simply put-why the hell don’t you read the goddamn paper?”
“There’s, um, online,” Wyatt said.
“Online.” The old man practically spat out the word. “You mean free.”
“What about advertising? Pop-ups and stuff.”
“One, it doesn’t pay diddly-shit. Two, no one even glances at the ads, and as soon as the accounts realize that, they’re over the blue horizon. So answer me this, young man-what’s your name, by the way?”
“Wyatt Lathem.”
“Nice name,” said the old man. “Mine’s Lou Rentner. Interested in palindromes?”
