West Wheeling’s a pretty civilized place. All the major thru-fares bypass downtown, so you can cross a street without fear for your life. We don’t have a park district, but we got a nice little village green with shade trees an’ park benches an’ a Civil War statue for the pigeons. Facin’ the park is the post office, where I prefer to hang out. Across the street is the town hall, which houses the mayor’s office an’ my office, an’ the local branch office of the County Aid. The public library is in the town hall basement. We got nearly a thousand books. The Congregational Church uses the council room for Sunday service, an’ the grammar school uses it for school plays.
I mostly don’t pry into folks’ business ’less they make trouble, or they ax me to, or unless they do somethin’ odd enough to rouse my curiosity. The missionaries never made trouble or axed me for nothin’, an’ nothin’ in the religion business in Boone County was out-of-the-ordinary enough to be called odd. But a missin’ person is somethin’ we don’t get every day. Just the allegation was enough excuse for me to go out an’ ax questions at the mission.
The town ain’t real big, but we got a Saveway an’ a Shell station. Also a generic drug store/dry goods, a bank, a feed store, a restaurant, a doctor, a dentist, two lawyers, a undertaker, a grammar school, three churches, an’ four bars. Three of West Wheeling’s bars got satellite TV, so you can place a friendly bet on any sports team on the planet. We’re not big enough to have a high school, so the kids get bussed to County High. Halfway to Okra, the next closest town, we got a Wal-Mart an’ a Best Buy. The nearest hospital is only twenty minutes away. In order to conduct a proper missin’ person investigation, I’d have to canvass every one of them places, but first I thought I’d better head out to the Pine Ridge Mission an’ talk to the missionaries, maybe get a photo so I knew what the fella I was lookin’ for looked like. It’d be the first time I’d been there in the two years since they opened.
Lotta times, you can learn most about somebody from his competition, which is why I decided to drop in on Father Ernie ’fore I headed out. Ernie’s the pastor of our local Catholic church, but he’s a Vietnam veteran an’ he was married for a time so he ain’t a ordinary priest. He’s probably got more horse sense than book learnin’, which is sayin’ a lot because he’s got a Ph.D. in somethin’ or other. Ernie won’t tell people’s secrets—somethin’ to do with “the sanctity of the confessional”—but he’s more’n willin’ to share his observations about ’em with his friends. His take on Roger Devon was “a little green. Young and probably overoptimistic, but profoundly decent.” Devon could’a took that reference to the bank.
Father Ernie never talks about his former life—it almost seems like the bishop cut him full-growed off a priest bush. No one’d ever accuse him of bein’ naive. He’s near as cynical as most cops, but my ma calls him a closet romantic. Rumor has it he joined the Church on the rebound—after a romantic disaster.
“Anythin’ else?” I axed him.
“For instance?”
“Like any signs of insanity or unstability?”
“Not that I’ve seen or heard.”
“When was the last time you seen him?”
“Over a month ago, maybe six weeks. It was my understanding that he resigned and went home.”
“His family’s filed a missin’ person.”
“I see.”
“What can you tell me about the mission an’ their reverend head honcho?”
“You know what they do out there?”
“Yeah, but gimme your version.”
“You planning to sign up?” I give him a look, an’ he shrugged. “They run a boarding school for disadvantaged boys and day classes for girls, ditto. The best thing they do is give kids with no hope for a future enough education to get a toe-hold in the modern world. At worst, their brand of fundamentalist Christianity is out of touch with the present century.”
I nodded. “What about the reverend?” I meant the Reverend Alfred Moody, the mission CEO.
“He’s good-hearted and sincere, and I’m sure he believes every word he utters. I’m just not sure he ever thinks about what he’s saying.”