Chapter 35

The Port Authority police are baffled. Farrell says she was kidnapped; Elizabeth says Farrell tried to mug her. It’s true that Farrell has no money, but it’s glaringly apparent that she really did not ask to be brought to the airport. She has no desire to go abroad, she didn’t drive here on her own, and she’s deathly afraid to fly.

The officers’ gut feeling that Farrell is telling the truth deepens when they can’t reach Bruton to confirm her story. The answering service doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t answer his beeper, and Elizabeth refuses to cooperate, saying her rights have been violated.

The police are reluctant to let their warring women go until they find Brut. Farrell asks to make a phone call. Her friend, and closest person she has to family, doesn’t know where she is. They let her use the pay phone near the dispatcher. A patrolman escorts her to the phone and waits by her side, lest she run off.

Effen doesn’t answer.

Odd. When Francis doesn’t answer, the calls go to Matt. If not Matt, then Ben. If not Ben, then the answering service. This evening there is … no one.

She calls the Fair Mantle Police. Since she doesn’t call 911, the dispatcher assumes it’s not an emergency and puts her on hold. The time runs out. So does her change.
The patrolman has a bored look. “No luck, huh. Try again later.”

She’d rather not believe later won’t be too late.

She follows the officer back inside, picks up a major daily left on a plastic chair. There’s a story about Fair Mantle on page three. It’s obviously a recap of what’s been going on. The funeral for Gustie and her daughters is previewed in the story. So are the names of the victims.

She shows the officers the story. Are they aware of what’s been going on in Fair Mantle? They say they are. She points out the paragraphs about the deaths, explaining in detail her connection to the victims and their father, and how Effen was prevented from going to the funeral. Now the phone is neglected. Wouldn’t they worry if somebody they knew and loved went through what Effen’s been going through, and then suddenly disappeared?

Her hosts don’t believe he’s “disappeared.” People have to be unreachable and in unknown circumstances for twenty-four hours before they’re considered “missing.” Since twenty-four hours haven’t passed, the police offer reasonable explanations: Effen forgot to forward the calls. He’s with Gustie’s family. He’s with a friend.
Elizabeth suggests he’s out drinking with her husband.

The officers express interest. Mrs. Bruton remembered where they can find her husband?

She concedes she was being flippant.

Close to tears, Farrell begs the police to let her call the Fair Mantle police and ask somebody to stop at The House to make sure everything is all right. The Fair Mantle police could even verify everything she’s told them about Effen and his family.

The lieutenant reaches for the phone, He’s just as anxious as anybody to find out what’s going on.

If he’s lucky, the whole mess will fall under Fair Mantle’s jurisdiction.



Tom hears a car in the drive.

Brut?

Impossible to see from so high up.

He creeps down to the second floor landing, sees something he never expected: The Law.

He shivers. Now what? Hide? Lie low? No. If nobody answers, the cop will think something’s wrong and find a way in.

He holds his breath. The officer shines his flashlight in the garage window.
The Cabriolet. Shit.

Tom drags Effen off the table, shakes him till his eyes open. “All right, you little weasel, fuck up and I’ll break your neck, understand?”



The officer looks in the ground-floor windows. No use. All is dark inside. He rings the front bell; waits. Rings the bell again; waits. Tries the door. It’s locked. Looks in the windows again. Goes around to the back door; rings the bell. No answer.
But the back door is open. In steps the officer.

“Anybody home?”

No answer.

“Mr. Hume?”

The officer shivers. Ooh-hoo, only one thing worse than a funeral parlor with a full house: an empty funeral parlor.

He turns on the kitchen light, than makes his way through the hallway, past the office and into the parlors, switching on lights wherever he goes.

Nobody. Or no body. Heh heh.

Better try the second floor.

At that moment the chandelier in the main stairway comes alive bright as the noonday sun.

Effen is on the landing in front of the flat. His manner is courteous but restrained. “Something wrong, officer?”

Grinning broadly, the patrolman continues his ascent. “Not now! A lady’s been trying to call you. She asked us to see if you were okay.”

“Sorry. I was taking a nap.”

The officer, a tall, fit young man, is short of breath by the time he reaches Effen on the landing. “Wow. Quite a climb. Reminds me of Big Round Top.”

“What?”

“Big Round Top. At Gettysburg. You know, the Battle of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, during the Civil war? Ever been to Gettysburg, Mr. Hume?”

“No.”

“Well, if you ever get there and go up Big Round Top, you’ll think of these stairs. Guaranteed.”

“I’ll remember that.”

The officer looks at Effen. “Everything okay?”

“As you see.”

“Right. Well, sorry to disturb you. Hope you understand.”

“Of course.”

The officer returns to whence he came. But he’s not gone yet. “You really should keep that back door locked,” he calls from down in the foyer. “We’ve got our eyes peeled, but we can’t be everywhere, ya know?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The officer radios that Mr. Hume is where he belongs and all appears to be well.

Next stop: Bertie’s restaurant.

Bertie didn’t close shop when half the town vacated after the last tremor. She stayed open. People still had to eat somewhere if they didn’t feel like cooking for themselves.

Tonight the patrons are mostly state troopers and National Guardsmen and local police.

Effen’s visitor crashes into a booth. Agnes gives him a menu, fills the cup with regular coffee. “How’s it going, Todd?”

“Boring.”

The waitress winks. “Don’t worry. The volcano will fix that.”

Agnes has been serving Todd late lunch since he joined the force ten months ago. He can’t get over how much she reminds him of a cartoon piglet. She’s got two pink balls for cheeks, a broad, turned-up nose, and two little piggy eyes that have black pinpoints for pupils.

How awful for her. She’s such a nice lady.

He idly stirs the coffee, gazes past his reflection in the window into the night.
Suddenly he’s running out the door, hat in hand, yelling for Agnes to hold the omelet.

He lands on the driver’s seat and picks up his car’s radio at the same time.

“Hey, Sarge, I think I need a warrant.”