Butcher

51

Bayou City

Two hours later Scott was having his nose taped, the men had changed clothes, and Sharon Kamen was in the back seat of one of Jimmie Randall's cop cars, on the way to the station.

“Has Chief Randall learned something, do you know—about my father?"

“They just told me to bring you to the office,” the uniformed driver, a female cop, said in a flat, noncommittal tone.

The building was a bustling beehive of activity, and she was immediately taken into the chief of police's presence. “Good morning, Sharon,” he said. “Let's go in here.” He escorted her to a room she hadn't been in before, a bare conference or interview-type room with a heavy steel table and chairs. He asked her to have a seat, and she could hear a conversation on the other side of the open doorway. It was a noisy office, with constantly ringing telephones and a steady murmur of voices and assorted sounds adding to the hubbub.

In a few seconds Randall reentered the room, followed by five other men and the woman officer who'd brought her to the administration building.

“Sharon, this is Special Agent Petergill."

“We've met, Jimmie,” the FBI man said.

“Hi."

“How you doin'?” Petergill said, his smile cordial but official looking. Sharon had an awful wave of premonition.

“Fine,” she said.

“We've found your father's car,” Petergill said. She listened to the explanation of how the vehicle was found. What the circumstances were. Where. Why she couldn't go out there.

“There's not much to see now, anyway, Sharon. Water's almost completely over the car. We put a man in to get the plates and double-check the VIN, but it got too rough to do much more.” He left some of the obvious unsaid. “We can't take chances with men diving now in that water. It's coming in too fast. But I doubt if much—uh—evidence could be found.” She nodded. “This is not going to be easy, Sharon, but we need to talk seriously about the possibilities. I'm sorry to put you through it, but—"

“I understand. I appreciate everything you're doing to find Dad,” she said quietly. There was an awful feeling of pressure in her upper chest, and it seemed suffocatingly warm in the room.

“It doesn't look real good for finding Mr. Kamen. I don't say we can put a lot of stock in the fact we found the car where it was. But the thing is, you see, it is unlikely your father would have been in that area driving before the water pushed in. I think it's possible that somebody wanted to create the impression your father drove into the backwater. Aside from the various ways we know that didn't happen, that road was still being traveled by vehicles three days ago. Obviously, if Mr. Kamen had been around here on an investigation that recently, there would have been some contact."

“But what if Dad had an accident or hit his head or something and got amnesia and he's out there wandering around?"

“Sharon,” the FBI man said, speaking so softly she had to strain to hear each word, “true amnesia's so rare it's hardly worth considering. I think because of the nature of what your father was trying to do, we have to at least face the possibility that something has happened. I know it's tough, but I'm afraid that's what it's beginning to look like. I would have been more optimistic not finding his car. But,” he shook his head again, “it doesn't look good."

“No, I understand. I can see that."

“Now I think it's incumbent on you to start taking precautions accordingly. I know you've worked very hard to find some trace of your father, and you've handled this in a professional—” Somebody had come in and whispered to the woman officer and she in turn said something to the FBI man.

Sharon caught “—Raymond Meara."

“We'll be a few minutes,” he said, and the uniformed men left. He turned back to Sharon. “Your friend Mr. Meara's out there. As I was saying, you both have been trying to help, but at this point the best thing is to let us handle it. We don't want to—” he chose his phrase, “create unnecessary problems."

“Are you in charge of the investigation?” she asked.

“Ah!” His face took on a pained expression. “In communities like this we don't generally get into jurisdictional hairsplitting. It's better to work together until we see what shakes loose. There's actually been no crime here, so the investigation is a missing-persons case officially, until such a time as it becomes a federal matter for the Bureau. But we naturally will give any help to Chief Randall, or the state and county people, that we can.” He smiled at her. She had the impression he was a decent, just man. All these guys were decent men. So was her dad—he was decent. “Don't give up on your father yet, though. This doesn't have to mean anything. But you need to understand the potential seriousness and, obviously, from here on you need to let us handle the question-asking. Okay?"

“Sure.” She thought about what she'd done so far. Her futile interviews and fruitless travels down the muddy side roads and flooding arterial highways of rural Clearwater, Mississippi, Scott, and New Madrid counties. Even if the police said they weren't pursuing an investigation, what more could she do? Follow the old New Madrid physician's advice and start making a list of the ministers over fifty? Is that what her dad had done?

The airless, stifling conference room was sapping her spirit. She started to leave, and as she stood, her father's memory was like a needle driven into her soul, painful and debilitating and as paralyzing as a small stroke. The tears came out once again, an involuntary spillage from her inner wellspring, overflowing, in imitation of the rivers. Tears streamed down her face and she blew her nose with a fury. Somehow she found her way out to where Raymond Meara waited.

“I—” She started to make a joke, to tell him she should have known he'd be around someplace, but she couldn't get it out, and instead went up to him, letting herself crumple against his strong body.

“Come on,” he said, taking her out to the truck. She got in and saw the interior of the pickup was spotlessly clean and she blew her nose again.

“Oh, boy,” she said. Meara started up and they drove back to the motel.

“I heard about it on the scanner. My phone is completely out.” Out in the field. “The back way's closed. I took the truck out last night and slept in the cab for maybe an hour or so. There's still not enough water to put a boat in, but maybe by this afternoon there will be."

“Where's your boat?"

“It's over at a guy's house on this side of the water. He'll take it down to the water's edge for me and pull the trailer on back so nobody steals it."

“Oh,” she said. They pulled up in front of her motel room. “Come on in,” she invited, wiping her eyes. But when they went in she left him sitting in a chair by the window and went into the bathroom, weeping uncontrollably. God, she hated this weakness in herself. Sharon felt shame and disgust as much as pain.

She freshened up and came back in the room to find Ray sound asleep in the chair. She pulled the spread off the bed and covered him with it, kicked her shoes off and got into bed clothed, pulling the woolen blanket around her and hoping that sleep would come and hold her.