Which consisted of taking Garreth to the small Board of Education building and down a steep set of stairs to a dim space less basement than cellar. Smelling and feeling wonderfully of the earth. While Dreher apologized for the conditions, Garreth sucked in a long, contented breath and wanted to stay forever. It took a hard mental shake to refocus.
They hunted through file envelopes stacked together on metal shelves and through ancient metal and wooden file cabinets. A secretary joined them eventually. “Graduation pictures? I know I’ve seen a whole pile of them somewhere.”
Which turned out to be on a top shelf, still framed, the glass so dusty it rendered the sepia-toned photographs all but invisible. Dreher returned to the high school, leaving Garreth and the secretary to bring the pictures up into the light and clean the glass. But when all that had been done, and Garreth compared the picture of the girls in the 1930 to 1940 classes with his mental image of Lane Barber, while pretending to compare them to his photo, he found no match.
The secretary wiped at a smudge on her nose. “Who is it you’re looking for?” When he gave her his story she said, “You know, a postmark here doesn’t mean the family lived here. Rural mail gets our postmark, so they could have had a farm, or lived somewhere like Dixon, that’s too small for its own post office and also gets our postmark. Then she’d probably have gone to a one-room school. Those are pretty much all gone now, though, and I don’t know where you’d find their records. Why don’t you sit down with a phone book and call Pfeifers in the area?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to go busting in on people’s lives until I know we’re related. Besides, being pregnant out of wedlock, Mary Pfeifer might not have been her real name.”
The secretary considered that and nodded.
She had a valid point about Lane going to school elsewhere. The postmark meant only that the correspondent lived here now, not necessarily then. Which meant he needed to check other high schools in the area…assuming if the correspondent moved, it had not been far, staying in the comfort zone of the ethnic area.
Now he needed to sneak in Lane’s name. “My grandmother’s diary mentioned something she didn’t tell us — maybe forgot — that another girl came to visit one time, a Maggie Bieber, or maybe Maddie — the ink smudged — and Mary hid in her room, asking my grandmother to say she wasn’t there. I’m wondering if it was the person who wrote her. It sounds like a name from here.”
“Maybe your grandmother wrote down the name wrong,” the secretary said. “We have Biekers, but I don’t know any Biebers.”
Checking her phone book confirmed Bachman had listings for only Biekers. Garreth felt a lurch of dismay. Had the reference librarian in San Francisco telling him Bachman had telephone listings for Biebers heard him wrong? Yet Lane called herself Bieber and he clearly remember the letter being addressed to Madelaine Bieber.
Back in his car, Garreth pushed dismay aside. Maybe Pfiefer had Biebers.
He headed east on a county road. A few miles out of town it took him through the Dixon the secretary mentioned. Not just a small town, he found. Dead…two houses, with overgrown foundations all that remained of several others, a gas station-come-general store, and a grain elevator — a fascinating row of huge, melded columns…a giant tombstone marking the town’s passing.
In Pfeifer, he stopped at a gas station and checked the phone book before going on to the high school. It listed Biekers, no Biebers. Still, he pushed on to the high school and was handed over to their school librarian, who showed him to the shelves holding almost a century’s worth of yearbooks. He went through those from 1930 to 1940…where he found Biekers and some Pfeifers, but no Biebers. And none of the faces were Lane’s.
Gloomily, he wondered what his chances were of finding Lane this way and whether he was totally off base about where to search. On which depressing note, he headed back to Hays.
11
At least Harry was doing well. His voice sounded strong on the phone that evening, telling Garreth they were probably releasing him from ICU in another day or two. How were Garreth’s folks, and Brian, he wanted to know. Lien must not have told him yet about his partner’s true activities.
Lien came on. “How are you doing?”
He sighed. “Not making much progress.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “You know I worry about you.”
Canny Lien. For a moment he imagined himself in Harry’s place, hearing an innocent conversation different from the actual one. “I’m not forgetting I Ching. Do you have any new hexagrams for me?” Something encouraging, something lucky.
“Standstill again, without change lines this time.”
After hanging up he sat sipping blood from one of the motel glasses. The hexagram fit. All things certainly were stagnant and benumbed. If he believed in I Ching, it seemed to indicate futility in searching around Bachman. So should he switch focus to Baumen…or was that a dead end, too?
One way to find out…if the city library here were still open.
A phone call established it was, and provided him with directions there. Once there, he hunted up the phone book collection at the reference desk, then stood eyeing the row of thin directories on the “Local” shelf. Might as well go for broke, he decided…and pulled the one for Baumen.
Opening it, he held his breath…paged to the B’s…sighed in relief. Houston, we have Biebers. Twenty-five of them, ten with rural addresses, and two in a town called Lebeau.
“You’re looking for Biebers?”
He looked up to find the reference librarian quirking a brow at him, and realized he must have spoken aloud. “Sort of. I wasn’t sure I’d find any. Around Bachman there were only Biekers.”
The librarian nodded. “The Biebers are all in northern Ellis County and Bellamy County.”
Garreth wrote the Bieber addresses in his notebook, then looked up the address of the high school. “I take it the Biebers were in another of those Volga German groups settling here?”
Her brows went up again. “You know the history. No, the Biebers used to be Biekers living around Schoenchen. Then about 1900, Anton Bieker had some bitter disagreement with his father and took his wife and children, all thirteen of them, and moved north and changed his name. If it isn’t prying, why are you looking for Biebers?”
He gave her his story.
She listened with interest. “So you think this Maggie Bieber can help you find your grandmother?”
“Or at least tell me if Mary Pfeifer is really her name.”
“There are Pfeifers in Bellamy, too…the county seat. You ought to check there as well.”
To maintain his cover story, he went through the Bellamy directory and took down Pfeifer addresses. Not entirely an empty exercise. Bellamy had eight Biebers, as well.
Would he get lucky in Bellamy County, he wondered as he left the library. Tomorrow would see.
Meanwhile, what could he do the rest of the night besides pace and speculate about tomorrow. Go to a movie? Return of the Jedi was playing at the local theater, he noticed. While he had seen it earlier in the year, filling another empty evening without Marti, it was escapist watching — except for the bullshit with Darth Vader at the end where they got sentimental over him being Luke’s father and seemed to forget about all the mayhem and deaths he was responsible for — so he might as well watch it again.
The movie had not even started, however, when he discovered a problem with theaters and vampires. If this were a weekend crowd, blood smell would have swamped him. Sitting in the empty rear row with a box of extra-butter popcorn under his nose helped mask the scents from tonight’s handful of patrons. Except for one scent with an acidity that reminded him of the hospital and kept distracting him. A part of Garreth wanted to find the source…ask if he/she were ill…urge the individual to see a doctor. Instead he left, reflecting that if a disease altered blood scent a particular way, a vampire doctor would make one hell of a diagnostician