24

God, it was hot. How did people live here? The heat must fry their brains. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, Mitch pulled the handkerchief from his rear pocket and swiped at his forehead, then stuffed the handkerchief back. He’d checked the phone book before leaving the motel. No listing for Kelby Oliver. Information told him the number was unlisted. What the hell kind of name was Kelby anyway? He drove around getting a feel for the place. This was some nowhere town. Main Street with a business section three blocks long, two blocks wide. The PD was one block over. He considered dropping in and telling them he was on their turf looking for this Oliver jerk-off in connection with a homicide back home. Might get him an unlisted number and an address. Naw. Too complicated. They’d want to accompany him, and that wouldn’t fly. They might even check with Manny in Berkeley, or some shit like that.

He drove past a big-ass church made from some kind of sandstone. Churches could be good sources to look for a missing person. Depending. Not Cary, though. Her religion was worshipped in libraries. Books books books. All the time reading books. He should have dumped the piles at home before he left. Bring her back to the house with all her books gone. He grinned at the thought.

The library turned out to be new-looking, red brick and glass. He angled into a parking slot and went inside. Tables with old farts reading newspapers, kids—probably students—studying. At the checkout counter, he smiled at the frumpy broad who asked if she could help him. He went into a song and dance about looking for Kelby Oliver, old friend, lost the address, just passing through, wanted to say hello. The bitch gave him the fish eye and told him they weren’t allowed to give out addresses or phone numbers.

This would be a lot easier if he could slap his ID in her face and demand answers, but he just nodded and got out of there. Even so, she’d remember him. That was the trouble with small towns, strangers stuck out. After the air-conditioning, the heat slapped him like a blast from hell. He rolled through town, up one block and down another, consulted the map, and took a drive down to the river, where he got out and stood on the sandy bank under some tall trees. Water moved along to wherever the hell water went. He didn’t get this nature shit. Seen one river, you’ve seen them all. He got back in his car and meandered through the campus. Spotting a BBQ place, he stopped for lunch.

A waitress slipped him a menu and he asked for coffee. She brought a mug and a coffeepot, plunked down the mug, and filled it from the pot, then set down a saucer with little containers of cream. He pushed that aside and took a sip from the mug.

“Haven’t seen you before. Here on business?”

“You could say that. What’s good to eat?” With a badge he could just ask questions. Without it, the only way to go was play games and ease out answers.

“Can’t go wrong with a burger.”

He nodded and told her to put cheese and bacon on it and add a side of fries.

She wrote on her pad. “You staying long?”

“Just going from here to there.” He put his arm along the back of the booth. “Being so close, I thought I’d stop and see a friend. Name’s Kelby Oliver.”

She thought a moment. “Don’t know anybody by that name. Don’t you have an address?”

“Sure do.” He smiled with the old Black charm. “At home in my address book.”

She smiled back. “Don’t you hate it when that happens?”

“The only thing I remember is it’s right by a big old cornfield.”

“I can help you there. East End. Just take Ninth Street. The one out front? Turn right and all the way to the end. Cornfield’s right there. You can’t miss it.”

He eyeballed the other diners while he waited for his lunch. Mostly blue-collar working stiffs, just like he was. For all he knew, the waitress could be lying and one of them could be this Kelby guy. When his burger and fries came, he ate, and left a generous tip, figuring he might want to come back with more questions. He headed to the east side of town, food heavy on his stomach, and the heat making him slightly sick.

And then he saw it. By God! The cornfield! Jesus, it was a big sucker. He smacked the steering wheel. Was he smart, or what? A road bordered the field and he followed it until he came to a dirt road that right-angled into the cornfield. He turned. Car wheels kicked up a cloud of dust. Miles of corn stalks higher than the car started to creep him out. No way to turn around. Two choices, keep going, or back all the way out.

Christ, was there no end to this corn shit? He’d never suffered from claustrophobia, but he sure felt weird when he couldn’t see anything but corn stalks. Eventually he came to an intersecting road and he gave that a try. After following it for miles, he started to think he’d been kidnapped by aliens and dropped in a maze for use as a lab rat. Finally he came once again to the real world. Not sure where he was, he had to drive around some to orient himself. He had the guy now, the bastard who was sleeping with his wife. It was only a matter of narrowing in, knocking on a few doors.

*   *   *

It was taking longer than he thought. All afternoon he asked questions, going house to house, getting damn sick of it.

The next house on his route was in need of a good coat of paint. A dog, tongue lolling, came loping up, barking enough to raise the dead. Which was what this Kelby guy would be as soon as Mitch found the bastard. A rangy woman in jeans and man’s white shirt, tails flapping in the wind, came out to the porch and stared at him. He started to get out of the car and the dog snarled. He wanted to get out of this damn heat and he wanted a beer. Maybe he’d just kick the damn dog’s head in.

“Help you?” she asked.

He rolled down the window. “I’m looking for a friend who lives around here.”

“What address?”

“That’s my problem. I left the address and phone number at home.”

“Friend got a name?”

“Kelby Oliver.” What happened to all that Midwestern hospitality people talked about? Weren’t these people supposed to be friendly? This was the most unfriendly bitch he’d run into yet.

“Never heard the name. Sorry, can’t help you.” She snapped her fingers at the dog and he went running. The two of them stood on the porch and waited until he left.

Long way between houses out here. God, you couldn’t even hear your neighbors if they shouted for help. The next house was in better shape, fresh paint, flowers and shit in the front. No dog either. He went up on the porch and rang the bell.

“Good afternoon.” A woman opened the door and smiled at him. Her teeth were too big, but at least she didn’t look at him like he was a murdering rapist.

He smiled back, the smile that got them every time, and went into the song and dance about forgetting the address.

“Kelby? Sure I know that name. Moved into the old Applegate place.” She gave him an address and directions to get there. He repeated them to make sure he got it right, then thanked her.

He started up his car and drove back the way he’d come. After one wrong turn he found the place. A long gravel driveway led to an old farmhouse, looked a million years old. Two-story wood frame, big old porch on two sides. Stone barn and other outbuildings behind. Nobody came out on the porch. No dog sounded the alert. As soon as he got out of the car he knew why those fucking birds were circling. Something was very dead out there somewhere, and the smell came riding in on the wind. He went up the porch steps and pounded on the door. No response.

A scrap of paper was caught between the door and the jamb. He yanked on it and tore off a corner. Piece of newsprint. He pounded again. Nothing. He hesitated, wanting to kick in the door. Or break a window. Maybe just wait right here. He looked up at the birds, big suckers flying around the barn. What was in there? He clattered down the porch steps, followed the stone path, and rolled the door open.

The stone barn would probably last forever. The house was going to crumble into dust one day. Showed what kind of priorities whoever built them had. The best for the cows, the rest for the people. Probably had a wife who was unfaithful. He stepped into the dim interior. Dust floated in the sunlight that slanted in. A car sat inside, California license plate. He pounded a fist on the hood. Kelby’s! The son of a bitch who talked his wife into going away with him. Just the thought of what he’d do to the fucker made his heart pick up a beat. Car door unlocked. Maps in the glove box.

He clambered up the ladder to the loft, stared at a bunch of hay bales stacked in the corner, then climbed down and went back out in the sunshine. Behind the barn, a flagstone path took him toward a tall octagonal building. Jesus, must be forty feet high. He craned his neck looking up. Made of wood, crumbling with wear and neglect. He was headed down a slope toward trickling water when the heat got to him. Dragging in air that felt too wet to breathe, he went back to his car before he died of a goddamn heart attack. What he needed was to get out of this fucking heat and around a cold beer.

Now that he knew where she was, there was no hurry.