Swahn pushed his teacup away. "I can only repeat what my cleaning lady said. Most of her gossip is very reliable."
Smiling sweetly, so motherly, the agent held up a color portrait of young Joshua Hobbs. The boy was posed against the ersatz blue-sky backdrop used by school photographers. "He was a fine-looking boy, wasn't he? Maybe a bit on the delicate side. No interest in sports, I hear-not quite like the other boys."
"The real boys? Your bias is showing, Agent Polk."
"Call me Sally, just plain old gay-basher Sally."
He almost smiled. He almost liked her. "For a year after Josh Hobbs went missing, there were three teenage girls haunting the sheriff's office like widows. You still need a criminologist's point of view? Fine. The boy was rampantly heterosexual."
"But you're not. You can't claim to be straight at this late date. If you did, you might have to give back all that lovely settlement money. The police down in Los Angeles might say it was paid out under false pretenses. As an agent of the Justice Department, I might have to look into that."
"Apparently, the LAPD is holding to the terms of our nondisclosure agreement. Clearly, you've never been privy to any details. So you're blowing smoke. Is this your interrogation style? You just throw out a few lines of garbage and see what sticks?"
"I wonder which client Addison worries about the most-you or Oren Hobbs. I know the sheriff took a real hard look at you when Josh disappeared. Now why is that? You'd have to run naked in the streets to get Cable Babitt's attention. And then there's Ad Winston. If he's your attorney, I know you did something wrong."
William leaned on his cane, preparing to rise. There was no acrimony in his voice when he said, "You'll have to excuse me now."
"So you don't want this case solved, either. That doesn't speak well for innocence."
"I don't care."
"You will." This was no threat. She was worried.
He followed the track of her eyes to the window on the parking lot, where people were gathering with cameras and microphones. "I see you called out the media."
She shook her head. "That's your lawyer's style, not mine." She left her desk and walked to the window. More vans and cars pulled into the parking lot to disgorge reporters and film crews. "God, how Addison loves the cameras. That's why I had the troopers pick you up-so he wouldn't find out you were here. Believe it or not, I did that as a favor to you, Mr. Swahn."
William limped to the window to stand beside her. "Well, you know I didn't call my lawyer. This isn't his doing."
"Maybe not," she said. "Sometimes-when there's blood in the water- they just show up."
21
Twenty years ago, Ferris Monty had begun his book on a typewriter, and now he was nearly done copying the old manuscript onto a computer. The screen glowed, and so did he.
Fat fingers typed out Joshua's dark brown hair and high cheekbones. Line by line, he animated the dead boy and made him walk the streets of Coventry with a camera strap slung around his long white neck. And sometimes, on one page or another, the boy was followed by a loopy Irish setter that seemed vaguely retarded. What was the stupid beast's name?
He paused to page through an old notebook. Ah, right. The boy had called his dog Horatio, as in, "Get off me, Horatio!"
Ferris was revisiting a long-ago day when he had blended in with the tourists at a street fair. For an hour or more, he had kept watch on the boy and the dog, and then he had lost sight of them in the crowd, but found them again when a woman yelled, "Josh, you get this mutt off me! Now!" Once more, in keeping with the theme of ducks in a row, Ferris had followed behind the dog that followed the boy.
A woman had appeared to be the unwitting leader of this parade for a time-or perhaps not. According to his notes for that day, he had never been entirely certain, for the dog had suddenly jumped another victim in the street and slathered her with kisses until she also screamed. An old line in Ferris's notebook lamented: How could the boy hope to shadow anyone with a dog like that in tow?
On other pages, other days when the dog was not around, the objects of Joshua's curiosity had been clear. The boy had a gift for capturing the telling moments, snapping rants or confusion, a binge eater at the point of throwing up in a local diner, and-
And now Ferris recalled his own portraits-hung on public display for decades.
He had ordered prints from Josh after the originals had appeared in the lobby of the local bank. Ferris's private collection hung on the wall above the computer monitor, placed there so that he could daily see himself in a kinder light than his mirror could afford. He had so loved these portraits of younger days when he had black eyebrows to match his toupee. And Joshua's work was superior to every other artist's previous attempt at capturing Ferris's true essence.
Understatement.
Today these three photographs stunned him anew.
He saw his younger self standing in line at the bank all those years ago. In the first frame, he had noticed the boy taking his picture. Ferris's face was turned to the camera's lens with a look of happy surprise-and more. As the line moved forward in the second shot, he looked back over his shoulder in sweet flirtation. But his expression was most vivid in the final shot. He had been caught in the act of falling in love with the young photographer.
However, the boy had been repulsed by him. Ferris had discovered this on the day when Joshua had come by the house to drop off these prints and collect his money. Why, then, had the boy not turned away after snapping the first shot? Why stay to take two more? And why hang this trio of pictures out in public?
Slowly Ferris came to an understanding that increased his respect for the young artist.
It was all about the telling moments. Joshua had captured a rare thing.
the instant of love at first sight. The boy may have been repelled by his subject, but he had surely taken great pride in this amazing thing he had done.
Over the years, thousands of customers had passed through the bank lobby and stared at these pictures while standing in line. Had any of them truly understood what they were seeing? His smile of superiority faded off.
Horror set in.
And it would keep Ferris company all through the day.
The only cab company in Saulburg had no cars to spare; most had been commandeered by television networks and newspapers. Against Agent Polk's advice, William Swahn had declined to allow the state troopers to drive him home. No thank you. He had also waived the offer of uniformed escorts to guide him through the crowd of reporters in the parking lot.
The media rabble had swelled in size, more rowdies with cameras and microphones.
William waited alone behind the glass doors, and he glanced at his watch. Enough time had elapsed for his ride to show up. She had promised to come with all possible speed. To the residents of Coventry, that might mean fifteen miles per hour instead of ten.
He could see nothing of the parking lot. Reporters and photographers blocked his view. After a few more minutes, he stepped out into the light of day, the hollered questions and the press of flesh all around him. He made his way through the lot, limping ungainly past the patrol cars and passing civilian sedans he did not recognize. All the yelling blended into a single roar, and the sound surrounded him. Here and there, a phrase was clear as one reporter called out, "Wait a minute!" and another one said, Hey, man, slow down!"
A foot flashed out in front of him, and he was indeed slowing down. He was falling. Where was his cane? One of the bastards had taken his cane! He landed on his bad leg, and the pain made him scream. They stood over him, grinning, some filming the motion of his writhing and others snapping still shots of agony that was slow to subside. For one lost minute, William gave up, and one of them yelled, "Is he dead?"