“I don’t know. Linny, I wonder if you could look something up for me. I tried on my phone and couldn’t get anywhere. I guess prison personnel’s pretty cagey about their personal info.”
Linny was walking faster now, still staring at her laptop, which she held out in front of her like a chalice. She stumbled over a chair, almost fell, righted herself, and forged onward. “The Shias are fighting the Sunnis, and ISIL is fighting them both. Al Jazeera had a panel of commentators on, and they seem to think it’s because the women are gone. They say that without females to protect, though their idea of protection sure isn’t mine, some central psychological underpinning of Judaism and Islam is gone. Like both of those things are the same. Basically still blaming the women, even after they’ve gone to sleep. Bonkers, huh? In England—”
Enough news of the world, Frank thought. He clapped his hands repeatedly in front of Linny’s face. “I need you to do your job for a minute, hon. Could you do that for me?”
She snapped to attention. “Absolutely! What do you need, Pete?”
“Terry asked me to get an address for Lawrence Hicks. He’s the assistant warden up at Correctional. Can you find that for me?”
“Walk in the park, piece of cake, can of corn. Got all their phone numbers and addresses. In case there’s trouble up there, you know.”
But it didn’t turn out to be a walk in the park, after all. Not in Linny’s current state. Frank waited patiently as she sat at her desk, first trying one file and backing out, then another, then a third, shaking her head and cursing the computer as people did even when it was their own fault. Once she started to nod off and he saw a fine white thread spinning out of her ear. He clapped his hands again in front of her nose. “Concentrate, Linny, okay? This could be important.”
Her head jerked up. The thread snapped off, floated, disappeared. She gave him a loopy smile. “Roger that. Hey, remember that night we went line-dancing at Halls of Ivy over in Coughlin, and they kept playing that ‘Boot-Scootin’ Boogie?’ ”
Frank had no idea what she was talking about. “I sure do. Lawrence Hicks. Address.”
She finally got it. Sixty-four Clarence Court, on the south side of town. Just about as far from the prison as you could get, and still be a Dooling resident.
“Thanks, Linny. Better get some coffee.”
“I think I’ll settle for Colombian marching powder instead of Colombian roast. Works better. God bless the Griner brothers.”
The phone rang. Linny grabbed the receiver. “Police!” For about three seconds she listened, then hung up.
“They keep calling to ask. ‘Is it true that there’s a woman up at the prison—’ Blah, blah, blah. Do I look like the newspaper?” She gave him a desperately unhappy smile. “I don’t know why I bother staying awake. I’m just postponing the inevitable.”
He bent down and rubbed her shoulder with his fingertips, didn’t know he was going to do it until it was done. “Hang in. There might be a miracle waiting around the next bend in the road. You won’t know until you get there.”
Linny started to cry. “Thanks, Dave. That’s a nice thing to say.”
“I’m a nice man,” Frank said, who did try to be nice, but found that it wasn’t always possible. In the long run, he suspected niceness didn’t pull the plow. Frank didn’t like that. It didn’t give him any pleasure. He wasn’t sure Elaine had ever grasped that he didn’t actually enjoy losing his temper. But he saw how it was. Someone had to pull the plow, and in Dooling, that was him.
He left, feeling sure that the next time he saw Linny Mars, she would be in a cocoon. What some of the deputies had started calling bitch-bags. He didn’t approve of the term, but he didn’t stop them. That was Terry’s job.
He was the sheriff, after all.
Behind the wheel of Unit Four once more, Frank got on the horn to Reed Barrows and Vern Rangle in Unit Three. When Vern answered, Frank asked if they were still in the Tremaine Street area.
“Yup,” said Vern, “and making fast work of it. Not many sleepers in this neighborhood once you get past the sheriff’s place. You should see all the For Sale signs. Guess the so-called economic recovery never made it this far.”
“Uh-huh. Listen, you two, Terry says he wants to locate Sheriff Norcross and her son.”
“Their house is empty,” Vern said. “We already checked it. I told Terry that. I think maybe he’s been…” Vern must have suddenly realized that what he was saying was going out over the air. “He’s been, you know, a little overworked.”
“No, he knows that,” Frank said. “He wants you to start checking the empty houses, too. I seem to remember there’s a whole cul-de-sac that’s unfinished a little further up. If you find them, just say howdy and move on. But then get in touch with me right away, all right?”
Reed took the mic. “I think if Lila’s not awake, Frank, then she must have wandered off into the woods or something. Otherwise she’d be in a cocoon at home or at the sheriff’s station.”
“Look, I’m just passing on what Terry told me.” Frank certainly wasn’t going to tell those two what seemed obvious to him: Norcross was a step ahead. If his wife was still awake, she’d still be in charge. Therefore, the doc had phoned his son and told the kid to move Lila to a safer place. It was another indication that the man was up to mischief. Frank was sure they wouldn’t be far from home.
“Where is Terry, anyway?” Reed asked.
“I dropped him off at his house,” Frank said.
“Jesus.” Reed sounded disgusted. “I hope he’s up to this job, Frank. I really do.”
“Can that talk,” Frank said. “Remember you’re on the air.”
“Roger that,” Reed said. “We’ll start checking the empty houses further up Tremaine. That section’s on our list, anyway.”
“Great. Unit Four is clear.”
Frank racked the mic and headed for Clarence Court. He badly wanted to know where Lila Norcross and her son were—they could be the levers he needed to end the situation bloodlessly—but that was second on his list. It was time to get some answers about Ms. Eve Black.
Jared answered on the second ring. “This is the CDC, Dooling branch, epidemiologist Jared Norcross speaking.”
“No need for that, Jere,” Clint said. “I’m alone in my office. Is Mary okay?”
“Yeah, for now. She’s walking around in the backyard. She says the sun perks her up.”
Clint felt vague alarm, and told himself not to be such an old biddy. Privacy fences, lots of trees; she’d be okay back there. It wasn’t as if Terry and his new second-in-command could send out a drone or a helicopter.
“I don’t think she can stay awake much longer, Dad. I don’t know how she’s managed it this long.”
“Me, either.”
“And I’m not sure why Mom wanted us up here, anyway. There’s some furniture, but the bed is hard.” He paused. “Guess that sounds pretty whiny, huh? With all that’s going on?”
“People tend to focus on the small things to keep the big ones from overwhelming them,” Clint said. “And your mom was right, Jere.”
“You don’t really think a Blowtorch Brigade is going to start up in Dooling, do you?”
Clint thought of the title of an old novel—It Can’t Happen Here. The point being that anything could happen anywhere. But no, it wasn’t a Dooling Blowtorch Brigade he was currently worried about.
“There are things you don’t know,” Clint said, “but since other people do—or suspect, at least—I’ll bring you up to speed tonight.” After that I might not get many more chances, he thought. “I’ll bring you and Mary dinner. Double hamburg, double mush from Pizza Wagon sound okay? Assuming they’re still open for business?”