(26)

Daybreak brought us another sweet moment, then we showered together, laughed while soaping each other up. Ronnie had her hair under a shower cap. She shampooed my hair for me. Who would have thought a hair-washing could be so erotic? We made love again, the hot water from the shower beating down on us, and then we were out and dried and dressed and on the road.

We didn’t kiss when she dropped me off, but we wanted to. We thought it might not be smart to have me kiss a police officer at seven thirty in the morning in her cruiser. I didn’t think right in that moment that Ronnie might have other reasons connected to race, though I would realize it when I gave it time. Ronnie was always more alert than I was, and that alertness had made her a good boxer. It bothered me, though. It shouldn’t matter, but I knew for some in that little town of New Long Lincoln, it would. She had her job to think about. White and black were still colors a lot of people thought didn’t and shouldn’t mix.

We had skipped breakfast, so without going to my room, I got in my car and drove over to the café and ate. Then I went to the hardware store and bought myself two nice ax handles. I left one in the car, and when I got home, I put the other beside my bed. It wasn’t exactly high-tech, but after the encounter outside of the house the other night, I felt it might be necessary, if for no other reason than psychological assurance.

I started to work on my article. I looked through the library books and made notes. I folded out the map in the Natural Wilson book, studied it closely. I found the spot where the old town had been before there was a lake, and then I found the hill where the sawmill was, the junkyard, the cemetery, and on the other side of the hill was a notation for a building that looked like a castle. There was a name written above it: LONG LINCOLN COUNTRY CLUB. I, of course, had already seen all of this, the club from a distance, but it helped to see reference to it. To pause and put it all into perspective.

Using my notes, I began to write my article for the Sunday edition of the newspaper.

*  *  *

The editor, Christine Humbert, pointed me to a chair in her office, took my article, sat behind her desk, and read it while I twiddled my thumbs. I saw her face crease a few times, her mouth twist, and it made me wonder if I was hitting a chord or stepping on her editorial toes somehow. Finally, she finished. She placed the article on her desk as gently as if it were a Fabergé egg.

“It’s good, Danny, but anecdotal stories won’t cut it. You need some actual people saying these things are true, that they witnessed it. I’ve seen most of this before; it’s popped up over the years, but the way you’ve laid it out, it’s really good. Still, the stories about the dam and people murdered by flooding them out, people on the city council knowing this, condoning it, perhaps instigating it, needs justification.”

“It’s a general piece. As it continues, week to week, I’ll reveal what I find. I’m only reciting common stories to build the framework, the legends, not actually pointing the finger at anyone directly. By the second piece, I’ll be writing it more like a mystery, and the idea is to reach some conclusions when I get to the last piece. I think it will take six issues.”

“And the mystery will be, was the town flooded with the knowledge people were there, and were city bigwigs behind it? Or was it an accident?”

I had mentioned the bodies in the trunks of the cars, which by now was commonly known, but I hadn’t mentioned the murders Shirley told me about, her having found information about them inside the very building where we now sat. I wanted to be a bit more certain about that business before I started spinning that web.

“I think the city council knew people were in the old town when they had workers set the water loose,” Christine said. “Too many have told me over the years, old-timers, that you could see the lights in the town and some people moving around, and they let the water in anyway. I believe the council didn’t care if people died. That bunch are ruthless and without a conscience. They don’t even pretend to be democratic. They even have their meetings in private, out at that big social club or whatever they call it.”

“Long Lincoln Country Club,” I said.

“Article comes out, it could be a little too close, even if you say clearly that at this point these are legends, not proven fact. I asked you to write the articles, but seeing it in black and white, it hits harder than I thought. And this is only the first installment. I think, legends or not, it’s more than implying our town was founded by murderers. That’s not new information, Danny. But the way you’ve laid it out, the way you’re airing out their shitty drawers, it’s powerful stuff. That said, I’ll run it, but if we run more articles, we need more facts.”

“I’ll have them.”

“That’s confidence for you,” she said. “You’re certain you can reach those conclusions beyond hearsay?”

“Reasonably. But now you’re making me nervous.”

“We have words, and they have money.”

“Words are powerful.”

“Powerful enough to get our asses in a crack. That Jack Jr., he’s a real estate man, helps run the only insurance company in town, and he’s a lawyer to boot, a crack one, like his father. He’s beat a lot of lawsuits over the years, many brought by relatives of flood victims claiming they were owed money from a settlement, but he made that settlement go away, or at least put it in limbo.”

“Your niece thinks there may be more nefarious connections.”

“She was born curious. Sometimes, I fear, too curious. Please keep her out of all this. Council reads this, Jack Jr. may make plans for us, free press or not. If the council did in fact drown people, they might even have more in mind for us than lawsuits. Those two that visited you wearing disguises—you don’t think that was a random mugging, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think about that,” I said. “But what I wrote about, it’s not a new idea. This guy called Natural Wilson mentioned this conspiracy in his book. I admit it’s hearsay, but sometimes hearsay can turn out to be truth.”

“Natural Wilson was a pen name for someone in this town that had an ax to grind over the whole lake business. Book was self-published. The printer is unknown. It was sold in grocery stores, feed stores, souvenir shops, and our one bookstore. There was a lawsuit, and though the council members didn’t have a way of finding out who to sue for writing it, they did sue the people who handled it. It worked. Stores quit carrying the book. But a few copies got out there. It made a stir in some places, but eventually the stir settled down.”

“How could the author hide? Natural had to get the books in those stores somehow.”

“The author hired people from out of town to distribute. People who the author worked with through third parties. No one knew anything other than they had been hired to deliver books, and if the stores wanted them, they could have them and didn’t owe Natural a red cent. Natural Wilson, whoever that is, just wanted to do that stirring I mentioned. Could have been a personal vendetta. Weren’t really that many of the books, and it’s believed the city council bought up most of them.”

“Sounds like you should have written this article yourself,” I said.

“I don’t have the skill. I can edit, but I can barely write a grocery list. No one else here was willing.”

“So you picked me as the goat?”

“You picked yourself,” she said.

“Do we print, then?”

“We do. For your next article, you might want to get closer to the council members. Research Jack Manley Sr. He’s still around.”

“I mentioned him in the piece,” I said.

“I said research him. He’s not only on the city council, he’s the mayor. Not an elected official. The council picked him. And then there’s Judea Parker. He’s no spring chicken either. And Kate Conroy. She’s the council’s mouthpiece. She gives meanness and spite a good name. Keep in mind, airing the council’s shitty drawers could get them rubbed in our faces.”

*  *  *

It was still daylight when I got back to the Chandler house, and though no one menacing was around, I decided I should be prepared in case the clown show turned up again. I pulled out the ax handle I had in the back seat, carried it upstairs with me, placed it next to the other one in my room.

I thought about calling Ronnie, but after what Christine had told me, I wasn’t going to be good company for anyone, and I didn’t want her to feel I just wanted to meet up so we could have sex, though I won’t lie, it crossed my mind.

Upstairs in my room I ate the candy and fruit I had left, and it was the worst thing you could eat for supper. I guess it was why I slept so miserably. I would feel as if I was easing off to sleep, and then all of a sudden, I was wide-eyed. I made several trips to the bathroom and back to bed, and that helped a little.

Eventually I did sleep, but I dreamed dark and heavy. In the dream, I saw a body lying on the floor. It was covered in shadow and it was in a room with a small open window. Starlight came through the window and fell across the body and gave it shape, but I couldn’t see the face. I had an uncomfortable feeling I might know who it was.

And then the shape on the floor rose up, and there was a buzzing so loud it was a roar—the roar of the flies that cop had told me about.

The shadow shape weaved and went straight for the open window, then out of it, and it was gone. I caught a glimpse of its face—my face. The light faded. The room fell solid dark and all my dreams fell dead on the floor.