The Confessors' Club

FIFTY-EIGHT

I went back to the Jeep. Across the street, past the bug bulbs and the greasy plastic of the order window, the young man stared deeply into the girl’s eyes as his hand rustled at the pulled-out hem of her DQ blouse. I envied him his youth and his certainty that miracles could be touched so simply.

I drove to the sheriff’s office. A different deputy was on duty.

‘I’m looking for this man, Wendell Phelps, drives a tan Buick.’ I handed him the Internet photo of Wendell.

‘Who might you be?’

‘His son-in-law. If you need to verify, you can call his daughter.’

He shook his head. ‘What was he doing up here?’

‘Looking for Arthur Lamm.’

‘Man, that Lamm must be in some big-time trouble. Federal guys called about him a couple of days ago. Likewise a Chicago cop, all of them wanting us to look around. I went to his place myself. Lamm wasn’t there.’

‘I heard his car is there,’ I said, like I didn’t know.

‘Damn shame, a fine Mercedes taking bird doo, tree sap and stuck bugs.’

I held up Wendell’s picture again. ‘Any chance you or the sheriff could run out to Lamm’s place with me tomorrow, take another look for this guy?’

‘Your father-in-law is law enforcement?’

‘He’s just a friend of Lamm’s.’

‘He got Alzheimer’s?’

‘No.’

‘Then no can do. There’s just me, another deputy, and the sheriff. We got plenty to keep us busy, busting up bar fights and scraping drunked-up teenagers off the roads, without looking for Chicago people who might be up here, visiting friends.’

At the door, I turned back to look at him. ‘I was hoping to stay in Bent Lake, but I heard the woman who runs the motel might have run off with Lamm’s caretaker, some guy named Herman.’ I tried to make it sound easy, like I was just making conversation.

The deputy grinned. ‘Don’t that beat all? They been rocking the cot back of Loons’ office for damn near ten years. Now, all of a sudden, they get the urge to see the world? Don’t know a thing about it, mister.’

‘You don’t suppose they’re in trouble?’

‘Am I missing something? I thought you were up here looking for your father-in-law.’

‘Where’s the nearest place to sleep up here?’

‘This is a dead time, too late for snowmobilers, too early for summer people. Lots of places closed.’

‘How about the ski lodge?’

‘Oh, they’re always closed up by this time of year. Best you call around, if you can get your phone to work.’ He was done providing information.

It was dark like it never got in Rivertown, except inside closets. I drove back to Bent Lake along deserted roads, unchallenged by anything except an occasional stop sign and hundreds of pairs of eyes, low to the ground, watching me from the edges of my headlight beams like I was dinner.

Bent Lake had become a veritable festival of beacons since I’d left for the sheriff’s office. White lights swarmed along the sidewalk like frenzied giant fireflies. The young broom beaters were out with flashlights, aiming up, then after a little jig, down at the soles of their boots, to admire what they’d turned to goo.

I nosed the Jeep back into the darkness alongside the gas station and found, by jockeying the Jeep around a little, that I could raise enough service bars to use my cell phone. I called Amanda.

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I haven’t found anyone who’s seen your father, which I’m hoping means he didn’t come up here. I’ll have a good look around tomorrow.’ I gave her the number of the pay phone. ‘In case my cell phone gives up from weak reception, I’ll hear the pay phone from the Jeep.’

‘That’s not the number at the motel?’ she asked.

‘I’m sleeping in the car, next to a pay phone. Wanda is not here.’

‘Dead?’

‘Not so anyone has noticed. She left a note taped to the window, implying she’s run off with Herman.’

‘Is that town safe?’

I glanced down the street, at the white lights of flashlights crisscrossing up into the canopies. ‘This place is so quiet, the teenagers bring out brooms at night, just for something to do.’

‘Just be careful,’ she said, too distracted by worry to tell me I must be exaggerating, and hung up.

Romeo and Juliet separated when I materialized into the DQ’s yellow light. Juliet came to the order window, hurriedly jamming her wrinkled blouse into her jeans.

I showed her the picture of Wendell Phelps, said he drove a tan Buick. She shook her head twice. Romeo came to the window and shook his head, too. They were earnest and nice and so focused on each other that they wouldn’t have noticed Attila the Hun thundering by with his herd of marauders.

I had two burgers, fries and a chocolate shake at the picnic table, and left weighted sufficiently to withstand even the fiercest of windstorms, should one arise. I climbed in the Jeep and fell asleep more easily than I would have thought, beside the aluminum case that, until recently, had shared its nights with a dead man.

Despite a thunderstorm that rolled in, I slept almost until six the next morning, when my cell phone beeped with a text message: Still got my picks?