“Uh-huh, okay, understood. So let me ask all three of you gentlemen something. Isn’t it possible that a man who had been badly burned—hands as well as face—could leave prints like that? Ones blurred to unrecognizability?”
“Yes.” Yune and Alec said it in unison, their voices only overlapping because of the computer’s brief transmission lag.
“The problem with that,” Ralph said, “is the burned man at the courthouse had tattoos on his hands. If his fingertips burned off, wouldn’t the tats have burned off, too?”
Howie shook his head. “Not necessarily. If I’m on fire, maybe I use my hands to try and put myself out, but I don’t do it with the backs, do I?” He began slapping at his considerable chest to demonstrate. “I do it with my palms.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, in a low, almost inaudible voice, Alec Pelley said, “That burned guy was there. I’d swear to it on a stack of Bibles.”
Ralph said, “Presumably the State Police Forensics Unit will analyze the stuff from the barn that turned the hay black, but is there anything we can do in the meantime? I’m open to suggestions.”
“Backtrack to Dayton,” Alec said. “We know Maitland was there, and we know the van was there, too. At least some of the answers may also be there. I can’t fly up myself, too many irons currently in the fire, but I know somebody good. Let me make a call and see if he’s available.”
That was where they left it.
6
Ten-year-old Grace Maitland had slept poorly ever since her father’s murder, and what sleep she had managed was haunted by nightmares. That Sunday afternoon all her weariness came down on her like a soft weight. While her mother and sister were making a cake in the kitchen, Grace crept upstairs and lay on her bed. Although the day was rainy, there was plenty of light, which was good. The dark scared her now. Downstairs she could hear Mom and Sarah talking. That was also good. Grace closed her eyes, and although it only felt like a moment or two before she opened them again, it must have been hours, because the rain was coming down harder now and the light had gone gray. Her room was full of shadows.
A man was sitting on her bed and looking at her. He was wearing jeans and a green tee-shirt. There were tattoos on his hands and crawling up his arms. There were snakes, and a cross, and a dagger, and a skull. His face no longer looked like it had been made out of Play-Doh by an untalented child, but she recognized him, just the same. It was the man who had been outside Sarah’s window. At least now he didn’t have straws for eyes. Now he had her father’s eyes. Grace would have known those eyes anywhere. She wondered if this was happening, or if it was a dream. If so, it was better than the nightmares. A little, anyway.
“Daddy?”
“Sure,” said the man. His green tee-shirt changed to her father’s Golden Dragons game shirt, and so she knew it was a dream, after all. Next, that shirt turned into a white smocky thing, then back into the green tee-shirt. “I love you, Gracie.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” Grace said. “You’re making him up.”
The man leaned close to her. Grace shrank back, eyes fixed on her father’s eyes. They were better than the I-love-you voice, but this was still not him.
“I want you to go,” she said.
“I’m sure you do, and people in hell want icewater. Are you sad, Grace? Do you miss your daddy?”
“Yes!” Grace began to cry. “I want you to go! Those aren’t my daddy’s real eyes, you’re just pretending!”
“Don’t expect any sympathy from me,” the man said. “I think it’s good that you’re sad. I hope you’ll be sad for a long time, and cry. Wah-wah-wah, just like a baby.”
“Please go!”
“Baby want her bottle? Baby pee in her didies, get all wet? Baby go wah-wah-wah?”
“Stop it!”
He sat back. “I will if you do one thing for me. Will you do something for me, Grace?”
“What is it?”
He told her, and then Sarah was shaking her and telling her to come down and have some cake, so it had just been a dream after all, a bad dream, and she didn’t have to do anything, but if she did, that dream might never come back.
She made herself eat some cake, although she really didn’t want any, and when Mom and Sarah were sitting on the couch and watching some dippy movie, Grace said she didn’t like love-movies and was going upstairs to play Angry Birds. Only she didn’t. She went into her parents’ bedroom (just her mom’s now, and how sad that was) and took her mother’s cell phone off the dresser. The policeman wasn’t in the cell’s contact list, but Mr. Gold was. She called him, holding the phone in both hands so it wouldn’t shake. She prayed he would answer, and he did.
“Marcy? What’s up?”
“No, it’s Grace. I’m using my mom’s phone.”
“Why, hello, Grace. It’s nice to hear from you. Why are you calling?”
“Because I didn’t know how to call the detective. The one who arrested my father.”
“Why do you—”
“I have a message for him. A man gave it to me. I know it was probably just a dream, but I’m playing it safe. I’ll tell you and you can tell the detective.”
“What man, Grace? Who gave you the message?”
“The first time I saw him, he had straws for eyes. He says he won’t come back anymore if I give Detective Anderson the message. He tried to make me believe he had my daddy’s eyes, but he didn’t, not really. His face is better now, but he’s still scary. I don’t want him to come back, even if it’s only a dream, so will you tell Detective Anderson?”
Mom was in the doorway now, silently watching, and Grace thought she would probably get in trouble, but she didn’t care.
“What should I tell him, Grace?”
“To stop. If he doesn’t want something bad to happen, tell him he has to stop.”
7
Grace and Sarah sat in the living room, on the couch. Marcy was between them, with an arm around each. Howie Gold sat in the easy chair that had been Terry’s until the world turned upside down. A hassock went with it. Ralph Anderson drew it in front of the couch and sat on it, his legs so long that his knees almost framed his face. He supposed he looked comical, and if that set Grace Maitland a bit at ease, that was all to the good.
“That must have been a scary dream, Grace. Are you sure it was a dream?”
“Of course it was,” Marcy said. Her face was tight and pale. “There was no man in this house. There was no way he could have gotten upstairs without us seeing him.”
“Or heard him, at least,” Sarah put in, but she sounded timid. Afraid. “Our stairs creak like mad.”
“You’re here for one reason, to ease my daughter’s mind,” Marcy said. “Would you please do that?”
Ralph said, “Whatever it was, you know there’s no man here now, don’t you, Grace?”
“Yes.” She seemed sure of this. “He’s gone. He said he would go if I gave you the message. I don’t think he will come back anymore, whether he was a dream or not.”
Sarah sighed dramatically and said, “Isn’t that a relief.”
“Hush, munchkin,” Marcy said.
Ralph pulled out his notebook. “Tell me what he looked like. This man in your dream. Because I’m a detective, and now I’m sure that’s what it was.”
Although Marcy Maitland didn’t like him and probably never would, her eyes thanked him for this much, at least.