“I don’t care. I don’t want to be suspected of being a narc anyway.”
“I do.”
“I don’t.”
“You,” Dru said flatly, “are going to remain a child the rest of your life.”
And she did. And the police came and went, and came again and left again throughout the summer, and toward the end of autumn the funeral was held. And Howard moved into the guest cottage, and Miss Esther Garrison made many trips between her files and the copying machine and went to church carrying her handbag. And the Reverend Michael Dunlop transferred its contents to his briefcase.
Chapter Five
The Reverend Michael Dunlop’s wife, Lorna, saw the briefcase on the hall rack beside the front door.
She said, “Surely you’re not going out again tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“One of my parishioners wants to see me.”
“What if your wife wants to see you too?”
“You’re seeing me right now,” Michael said, “and you’re obviously not enjoying it much.”
She had followed him out into the dimly lit hall of the house that went with the job in lieu of a decent salary. It was a mean little house with narrow windows that squeezed out the scenery. It had seemed cozy at first. The scenery didn’t matter and Lorna’s arms were loving. But the roof leaked in the winter rains and the place never had enough light even in summer and the upstairs room at the rear intended to be a nursery remained vacant.
“You don’t give me much of a chance,” Lorna said. “You’ve been acting so different lately, so secretive. We’re married, we’re supposed to share things, all kinds of things.”
“Not everything can be shared, Lorna.”
She pulled at a strand of her black curly hair as if she meant to straighten it out, straighten everything out. “Is this parishioner of yours a woman?”
“No.”
“I guess that ought to reassure me. But it doesn’t. You hear some awfully peculiar things these days about so-called respectable people.”
“I’m not a bisexual if that’s what you mean.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You meant,” Michael said. “Sorry I can’t tell you the name of the man I’m going to see because if I did you’d want to know why and if I told you that I would be betraying a confidence.”
She gave the strand of hair an extra-hard yank. “Oh, you’re always so high-minded, aren’t you? You can’t understand how a lowbrow like me feels staying home alone every night with nothing to do but watch television.”
“That’s what you do when I stay home with you.”
“No, it’s not. We talk.”
“Sure. We talk about what you’re watching on television.”
“If some of the married couples you counsel could see and hear us now they wouldn’t believe you’d have nerve enough to be giving them advice on how to make a marriage work. No doubt it’s more blessed to give than to receive when it’s a matter of advice. It’s certainly easier.”
He smiled as he leaned down to kiss her. “Why, that’s good, Lorna. Mind if I use it in one of my sermons?”
“Go ahead.” She didn’t return his smile or kiss but her face softened and he knew that the next day there would be a neatly typed note on his desk: File under advice: It is more blessed to give than to receive, certainly easier.
“I’ll make sure you get credit for it,” Michael said.
“Oh, it’s not that good.” She picked up the gray-striped cat that was rubbing its back on her legs and held it against her left shoulder as if she were burping a baby. “Shall I wait up for you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t, but you will anyway, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Is it me or is it Johnny Carson?”
“It will do you good to wonder,” she said. “At least you’re wearing your clerical collar. That gives you a protection of sorts.”
In some neighborhoods like the Latino barrio it did. In others like the black ghetto it was more of a provocation at times, a reminder that God was white and right and rich. Since he was never sure where he was going he kept a change of clothes in the trunk of his car, well-worn jeans, a nylon jacket, a turtleneck sweater, sneakers and a black watch cap.
Among the materials Miss Garrison had copied and put in Michael’s briefcase was a complete file of newspaper clippings covering a period of nearly four months.
Most of the clippings were from the local newspaper which ordinarily downplayed violent crimes but had assigned a full-time reporter to this one because of the prominence of the people involved and the overwhelming public interest in the little girl’s disappearance. Everyone who had a child, knew a child or indeed had ever been a child, everyone in the city, county, state followed each step of the investigation.
It was discussed in bars and classrooms, at private clubs and public meetings.
Money was contributed to the original reward of fifty thousand dollars offered by the Hyatts. When the fund reached one hundred thousand Howard requested that it remain at that figure. If there was no legitimate claimant to the hundred thousand dollars, more dollars wouldn’t make any difference and contributors’ money could be put to better use elsewhere.
The ad appeared in every edition of the local paper. At first it had read:
There was a large picture of Annamay, the time and place she was last seen and a complete description of her. Height, four feet four, weight sixty-one pounds. Blue eyes, blond straight shoulder-length hair, fair skin slightly sunburned, mole on right wrist. Wearing faded blue denim shorts, blue sandals, striped T-shirt stamped with her initials, ARH.
After the bones were found the entire wording of the ad was altered.
ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST AND ARRAIGNMENT OF THE PERSON OR PERSONS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATH OF ANNAMAY REBECCA HYATT.
The local television station also carried four sixty-second spots of the offer every twenty-four hours. These included a close-up of the child and a short segment of a movie Kay had taken of Annamay with the two dogs.
The ads failed to bring forward anyone with a reasonable claim or even a plausible story, but the police dutifully made a report of each one. Howard and Michael read them all through at their first meeting in the guest cottage.
Mrs. Edwina Pascal, thirty-two, of 2003 Estero Gordo Street, Santa Felicia, claimed that her husband, Geronimo’ had molested their daughter and his stepdaughter, had probably done the same thing to the Hyatt girl and should be put in the gas chamber.
Truman Wilson, forty-five, no fixed address, charged that his best friend had disappeared on the same day that Annamay did and he was positive there was a connection. The friend owed him ninety-three dollars and was no damn good. Wilson planned to use the reward money to buy a racehorse but he couldn’t remember his friend’s last name, and the money remained in the bank.
A female psychic offered to pay her own fare from Connecticut if she would be allowed to stay in the princess’s palace for a week to absorb the atmosphere and possibly establish contact with Annamay’s spirit. The reward money would be used not for her personal gain but to found a center for the study of parapsychology. Her letter included a phone number.