“Just sit here and relax,” he said, moving into the kitchen and putting water into the coffee pot, “you'll be okay."
“What was all that about back there?” Sharon asked.
“Huh?"
“Nazi flag ‘n’ stuff?"
“Skinheads. They got a permit to demonstrate. I don't follow politics much."
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asked in a small voice.
“Sure. Right through there and the first door to the left."
She struggled up out of the quilt and found her way into the bathroom, which was surprisingly clean and homey, with cattails-and-ducks wallpaper.
She came out in the kitchen without the quilt, a bit warmer, but still shaking inside. “I appreciate you helping me like that. It was kind of you."
“Sure,” he said. The swirling hair and lovely face had him speechless, as if his ideal woman had materialized out of nowhere.
“As long as I've forced myself on you this way,” she said, “I'd be grateful if you'd let me pick your brain a little more, Mr. Meara."
“Please, it's Ray."
“Thanks. I'm Sharon,” she said, smiling in a matter-of-fact way. “Ray, I'm at loose ends with Dad being missing. The police don't seem to know anything.” She gestured with only her fingers, the pressures evident in every aspect of her demeanor.
He nodded. “I already told the cops what little I know. I had a call yesterday from our police chief. He said Mr. Kamen had been tracking a guy who was a wanted war criminal from the Nazi era. He asked me a bunch of questions and that was about it. Sure a lot of Nazis all of a sudden. Nazi demonstrators, a Nazi flag, a Nazi war criminal."
“Do you think the one my dad's looking for could be involved with the ones in town?"
“I don't know.” He shrugged. “Possible, I guess. Kinda’ doubt it. They don't trust anybody over twenty-five. Nah, I don't think so.” He couldn't think much of anything with her up close. The epitome of a woman: velvety-looking skin that would feel like the finest silk or the most expensive cashmere. He imagined what it would be like to kiss her, to run his hand up those long legs.
“Please tell me exactly what he asked you,” she said, conscious of his eyes burning her and fighting to ignore it. She was used to the hot stares of men, but not under these conditions. She tried to ignore his frank gaze, and fought the impulse to stereotype him.
“He thought he'd located this dude who was some kind of a doctor during World War II, that he was around here somewhere. He thought the man was around seventy years old but could look a good deal younger."
As Meara talked, Sharon noticed how he positioned himself at an angle, sitting so that the deep scars across the side of his face and head would be hidden. He was one of those men she'd never want to meet on a darkened street. He gave off something, an aura of potential violence or crudeness. Whatever it was, she found it distasteful.
“He wanted to know about Mrs. Purdy,” Meara said, “the old gal who'd written him or called him about spotting the German. I told him what I'd heard around town and so on. Nobody knew where she was.” His large shoulders went up. “Everybody figured she'd gone off to visit relatives or something. She didn't come into contact with other people that much."
“But didn't she have anybody here, neighbors or someone, who would worry about her sudden absence?” Sharon asked.
“Not that I know of. Like I told your father, she kept to herself."
“I mean, it seems like the sort of thing that would have made the papers. Maybe the police wouldn't say anything, but I'd think the gossip, the local grapevine, whatever you call it, would be buzzing about missing persons, you know?"
“I'm sure there was some concern, Sharon, but I don't think people really knew, outside the cops and one or two others. I doubt if anybody outside local law enforcement, me, and the folks at the motel where he was staying even knew your father. Only those he had contacted. Jimmie Randall, he knows to keep his mouth shut about stuff, and I ‘magine anybody wants to hold a job with him does likewise.” Ray Meara was in his forties, deeply tanned, and might have been a decent-looking man except for a day's growth of wiry beard and the thick ropy scar that disfigured the side of his head and disappeared down the neck of his T-shirt. Perhaps he only looked mean. She knew not to judge a person by his physical appearance.
“What type of questions did Dad ask you about Mrs. Purdy, Ray?” She kept her eyes on his stare, working not to be defensive. She needed this man's input and his help, but she could already feel herself starting to dislike him.
“He didn't ask that much. Just what contacts did she have around town ... I told him it would be like delivery guys, some box-boy at the grocer's.” He stopped a yawn in time. “Milkman. The mail carrier. Guy at the post office. The bare minimum. Mostly what he wanted was for me to make a list of names."
“Do what, now?” she asked.
“Names of guys who'd be old enough to fit who he was tracking. He wanted a list of who worked in hospitals in Cape, Sikeston, uh, the nursing homes like Bayou City, East Prairie, Charleston, Bertrand, or New Madrid. Physicians. I remember he said that word, you know, not doctors but physicians, who were over fifty and working either as vets, dentists, chiropractors, eye doctors, anything that had a medical tie-in. He wanted to know who all the coroners or medical examiners were, who worked in the funeral homes, and he asked weird stuff, too.” He smiled a dangerous smile.
“What do you mean?"
“Oh, off-the-wall things. Like he asked if I knew anybody bought cats and dogs."
Sharon just stared at him. The statement was totally out of left field. “Bought cats and dogs?"
“Yeah. To experiment on,” he explained patiently, in the tone one might use with a slow child. “I told him there are some old boys round up van loads for the labs in St. Louis. There was this guy at the pound used to sell ‘em, too. He was interested in all those names, and wanted me to make up a list for him."
“You made the list?"
“Yep. Gave it a shot."
“Could I ask you to make me that same list? I know it's a lot of trouble—"
“It's no big deal. Sure."
“I'd really be grateful,” she said with a smile that showed just the tip of her tongue. He thought it was so sexy he nearly came unglued. The mental governor in his head spotted a fantasy starting and nipped it hard in the bud. He swallowed and told her he'd think on it.
“Could you give it to me now? I don't mind waiting a while."
“I can't. I was supposed to go over to the set-back pasture and help this guy with some cattle,” he looked up at the kitchen clock, “and I'm already way behind."
“Oh, I'm awfully sorry.” She felt like an oaf. “Let me call a taxi. Can I get a cab to come out here?"
“No, don't worry about that. The pasture is only a mile or two away from the highway,” he lied smoothly. “I can take you back to your car or wherever you say. Are you at the motel out on the highway?"
“Yeah, but I can't impose—"
“If you feel fit enough to ride, we'll go on in.” He got up awkwardly, hoping he didn't sound as if he we kicking her out.
“I am so sorry for inconveniencing you."
“Hey, you aren't a bit,” he said, a little too emphatically, as they went outside. “It's no bother. Tomorrow I gotta come back by the motel there, and I'll leave the list off, okay?"
“Are you sure?"
“No bother,” he told her, holding the door open.
But she bothered him plenty, this mysterious lady with her exquisite femininity and little tongue trick, her big-city manners, blondish hair, and dynamite, pale green eyes. He knew, of course, that Sharon was Jewish. Aaron Kamen had mentioned it enough. Meara suspected she was a beautifully natural blonde, which, so far as his experience went, was pretty rare for a Jewish woman. It was one of many unusual things about Sharon.