He looked at Lettie playing jacks with her friend Susan. Lettie had told Andy that John Draper had talked with Lettie about Andy on three separate occasions. Larry and Ted had also been questioned. None of the questionings had been overt. They had appeared as idle conversations at birthday parties, holiday visits, church picnics, and such.
Andy assumed that Mr. Draper, because of his contacts, knew everything that the police knew. Also he had been dating Andy’s teacher, Miss Douglas. He had also gone hunting with Mr. Capp, the school counselor, and was on the same church committee as Mrs. Pryor, the school principal. Andy’s dentist was Dr. Rhomer, and Mr. Draper’s dentist was Dr. Rhomer. And what did John Draper learn from Ellen before she died? On top of everything else, there was John Draper’s constant association with psychic Molly Warton. What did that mean? What did she truly know? Did she have special gifts? Special routes of knowledge?
He had read his father’s gift copies of John Draper’s murder mysteries, Midnight Walk, Ghost Flower, Killer’s High, and his newly released detective novel, Cops and Killers. In Cops and Killers, there had been, as part of the background, references to serial killer Billy Stark. Among the murders described had been the death of kidnapper Marci Baines. The description of her death had been inaccurate. Still, he was close. Too close for mere guesswork. He certainly knew why Billy had killed the woman who had been slapping the child. That was more than even Billy Stark had known.
The photos, code book, and clippings had burned in the fire when Ellen’s car went up. But what if Ellen had made a copy of Billy Stark’s coded book before she died? A copy that had fallen into her husband’s hands? He knew all about the experiment. He had helped Gary and Marnie Rain adopt Andy. And what would John Draper do should he convince himself that Andy Rain was more than an innocent refugee from a failed experiment, that he really was Billy Stark and that Gary Rain’s son had murdered his lovely Ellen?
Bring charges?
No. He would only look foolish.
Would he, instead, take it upon himself to murder Andy Rain?
Andy slowly shook his head. He couldn’t see John Draper as a killer. Perhaps he was blind to it, perhaps Draper had fooled him, but John Draper appeared to be all cop. The detectives in his stories were blue clear through. The rules were their gods, even when the rules made no sense; even when they defeated their own purposes. There were cops and there were killers. In a John Draper story, no one could be both. There were cops who became killers, but as soon as they crossed that line, they were no longer cops.
From the first Draper story he had read, Andy had admired the police officers who were the heroes. They were men and women of direction, principle, and conviction. Even when they lost, they didn’t cross that line that made them different from the killers and crooks. And they lost a lot. There were the endless cases of domestic pain and destruction about which no one could do anything. Battered women afraid to bring charges, abused children with no voice, no standing, only tears. And the cops hurt for those they couldn’t help. If he could be like the characters in John Draper’s books, Andy thought that it would be a good thing to be: a police officer. If he could be like the heroes in John Draper’s books, he would be somebody, he would be doing good, helping people.
The whistle blew signaling the end of recess. Andy returned to class, and spent the rest of the day writing a story in a clean, even hand. It was a mystery story titled “The Red Dot.”
That night he told his father he wanted to be a police officer and maybe a writer. He showed his father his story and Gary Rain took it to the living room to read it. When he returned, he said, “Andy, I don’t know what to say. I’m stunned. This is terrific. The dialog, the description, this character, the killer, trying to help the police find another killer without giving himself away, terrific.”
“Do you think Mr. Draper would look at my story and tell me what he thinks?”
Gary Rain looked back at his son’s neatly written manuscript and raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure he would.” He looked at Andy. “What about how you used to feel about John?”
“How I used to feel?”
“After you and Ellen were in that accident? You know, John’s wife. She died.”
Andy pursed his lips and shrugged. “I don’t really remember much of that.”
That night, while Andy wrote another story, Gary took the manuscript for “The Red Dot” and drove over to John Draper’s house. An hour later, Mr. Draper faxed a copy of the story and a letter to the editor of New Detective.
It was the next Tuesday. Andy sat on the couch before the fireplace facing the chair in which Ellen Draper had once held him, stroked his hair, and told him that everything was going to be all right. That was also where she told him that everything said between them would be held in the strictest confidence. In that chair now was her husband, John. He was wearing jeans, deck shoes, and a faded red sweat shirt. He studied Andy through pale gray eyes. He looked very tired. “You wrote a very good story, Andy.”
“Thanks, Mr. Draper.”
“Please call me John. If we’re going to be colleagues, we can’t work and keep all of this formality going. You called my wife Ellen. You can call me John. Do you remember Ellen?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the day she died? The way she died?”
“Yes.”
John Draper leaned back in his chair and frowned. “I got the impression from your father that you didn’t remember much about it.”
“I didn’t want them nervous about me seeing you.”
The former detective was silent for a long time. He nodded and when he at last spoke, he said, “So you wanted to see me?”
Andy nodded. “Ever since you were at my birthday party, I’ve felt there were some things you wanted to ask me.”
“So why did you wait until now?”
“I knew the questions. I just didn’t know how to answer them. I figure whatever we need to get settled we can do now.” Andy placed his hand on a folded sheaf of papers next to him on the couch. “I have another story here about a troubled little boy who had a terrible secret he wanted to share.”
The man seemed to freeze. In a whisper he asked, “What secret?”
Andy leaned his elbows on his knees. “His head was inhabited by a powerful evil spirit, although by going into his head the spirit was no longer evil. It became a good spirit; a spirit that protected the boy.”
“Protected him from what?”
“People who would hurt him.”
John Draper moistened his lips and fixed his gaze on the boy’s eyes. “People like who?”
“People like some of them in your stories. The stories about children.” Andy looked toward the blackness of the fireplace so he wouldn’t have to look at John Draper’s eyes. “Like an uncle who beat him.”
“How would this spirit protect him? How would it do it?”
“Let me ask you something, John. A technical thing.”
“Okay.”
“If the uncle beats the boy and by some miracle doesn’t kill him, what can the boy do?”
“Report him.”
Andy faced John Draper. “His word against the uncle’s? He’s only five and a half.”
John raised his eyebrows and held out his hands. “There’d be physical evidence. Bruises, cuts … welts on a face.”
“And then what? The uncle says he just slapped the kid for mouthing off. Would the cops take the uncle down for that? Would anyone take the child seriously? I really need this information for my story.”