Sadie Fagan lived in an older subdivision with rolling hills, heavily wooded lots and a large lake, around which Walter had to drive to find her street. She and her husband bought the house in 1967. The house was just up the block, within walking distance of the pool and tennis complex. Back then, living here was thought of as way out of town. Not so far now. In those days, people in Atlanta looked at Roswell as almost being in Tennessee or North Carolina. It wasn’t, of course. The Tennessee state line was more than a hundred miles from Roswell and North Carolina a good two-hour drive. Roswell was barely fifteen miles from downtown Atlanta. But back then, there were no major highways or interstates connecting Atlanta and Roswell. Larry Fagan’s original commute, about half on tree-lined, two lanes and half on Atlanta’s city streets, took about forty-five minutes each way. Even without traffic the trip could take nearly that long. For him, that was nothing compared to what he was used to-getting into Manhattan every morning from Brooklyn. More than a few of his co-workers in the Atlanta office thought he was nuts to live so far away. There were plenty of nice neighborhoods in Atlanta, they said. None of them, of course, came from New Jersey or Connecticut. The Fagans liked their house and never saw a need to buy another one. Elana lived and died there. Harry grew up there. Now, it was just Sadie and Larry. It was a big house for the two of them, but it was their home.
On its headlong rush to Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s northern sprawl reached Roswell not too long after Sadie did. By the time Harry was grown up, the once small town with its own cobblestone Historic District and antebellum mansions, had become a bedroom community. Some of the old mansions were turned into trendy restaurants. Others were available for weddings and other special occasions.
The instructions she gave him were simple. Walter found Sadie’s house with no trouble. He parked in the driveway and rang the front doorbell. An older woman, about his age he realized with a little shock, short, squat and heavy set, with a smile that strangely reminded him of Ike, greeted him warmly.
“Mr. Sherman. Come in. Please come in,” she said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fagan.”
“Come in. Come in.” Sadie led Walter through a narrow foyer into a living room or den. In a new house such a room is referred to as a great room. It was a room that showed every sign it was comfortably lived in. Walter noticed the cushions on the large, tan, fabric-covered couch were spread about randomly, not perfectly in place. Someone had been lying there, maybe napping, recently. Two paperback books were on the coffee table that separated the couch and a large recliner from the TV. He couldn’t make out the titles, but he did see that the spine on each was broken in a manner to show they’d been opened and read. The copy of TIME he recognized to be the current one. The floor was carpeted, and had two small throw rugs on either side of the coffee table. Family photos hung on the wall. Walter took note of the one showing Conchita, Harry and Sadie. It had been taken outside, in the front yard of the Fagan house, with all three standing next to the big pine tree that dominated the lawn.
They went into the kitchen to sit and talk. Sadie motioned for Walter to have a seat at the small, wooden block table. Her half-filled coffee cup and today’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution lay facing him. A copper bowl loaded with fruit-apples, oranges, plums and bananas-rested in the middle of the table. The faint scent of cooking oil hung in the air.
“Can I get you something?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
“A cold drink perhaps?”
“Sure, any diet soda, please. That would be nice.”
Sadie Fagan put a cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper in front of Walter. He thanked her as she said, “You said Conchita hired you to find Harry? I didn’t know he was missing.” The tone of her voice told Walter she was not especially concerned. He gave two possibilities for that: first, she knew where Harry was; second, she’d heard from him, maybe today. One or both might be true, he thought. It was too early to know. Of course, she might not know anything at all about this.
“Conchita hasn’t spoken to you about this?” he asked.
“No, she hasn’t. We don’t talk all that frequently, you know.”
“You’re not close?”
“Oh, we’re very close. No, no, I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that we don’t talk all that frequently.” Walter stared at her, waiting for more, and she added, “We’re both very busy.”
Walter began where Conchita brought him in. He made it plain to Sadie that what he told her was what had been told to him. He had no firsthand knowledge of events. He told Sadie everything Conchita had told him about Harry, the document he came into possession of and his flight from London, to parts unknown. He said only that certain people’s deaths contributed to the confusion that might have precipitated Harry’s disappearance. He offered no details or names. He didn’t say why any of this had happened. He never mentioned the Kennedys. He watched her eyes and the corners of her mouth as he told her about people having already died in connection with Harry’s disappearance, looking for signs of some existing understanding on Sadie’s part. How much did she know? He saw nothing remarkable. She talked with Harry weekly, at least once a week, she said. But it was not unusual to go days without a call. She really didn’t know he was in any trouble.
He asked Sadie about the early years with the four of them living in her house. “Tell me about Elana,” he said. Sadie told him the whole story of David being drafted, Elana being pregnant, David getting killed-that’s how she put it-Harry being born and the two of them moving to Atlanta. Elana Levine had been dead eight years, but it was easy to see how much Sadie missed her. Then she changed the subject.
“Why did Conchita hire you? I mean, why you?” She tried not to sound judgmental.
“I help people in this way,” Walter said. “It’s the work I do.”
“What way?”
“I find people, missing people, people who may be lost.”
“How long?” Sadie asked. Walter understood her perfectly, knew exactly what she was getting at. He was inclined to like this little old lady with a slight hint of a moustache.
“Thirty years,” he answered, with a warm grin Sadie returned. It was a look only two older people could share. “Forty, if you count the Army.”
“Vietnam?” she asked, nodding her head to indicate her sympathy.
“Yes.”
“Too bad you couldn’t find David.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “It is. Tell me about him.”
Sadie drank tea and talked about her brother while Walter listened for clues about his son, Harry. David Levine died more than thirty-five years ago. He lived in New York City. Sadie Fagan moved to Atlanta when David was only seventeen. In truth, Walter knew, there wasn’t much she could accurately remember about him. Although she spoke about David Levine, Walter heard more about Harry. She revealed more about herself and her nephew than about her brother. Her memory of David was colored by time and distance. What she had to say about Harry, on the other hand, was current. Perhaps, he thought, she spoke with him earlier today, or yesterday, or maybe the day before.