trunk

Ludzie pragną czasami się rozstawać, żeby móc tęsknić, czekać i cieszyć się z powrotem.

And something else, too, only I couldn’t see what it was except
it was small. And after he did that, he got a piece a chalk outta his glove
compartment and he came back and made like X marks on the side-
walk.”
“Did you talk to him?” Rebecca asks. “Did you ask him what he was
doing?”
“Miz Vilas, I don’t talk to cops unless it’s like you got no other
choice, know what I mean? Cheetah, he never even saw me. The guy
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wouldn’t of said nothing anyhow. He had this expression on his face—
it was like, Jeez, I hope I get to the crapper before I drop a load in my
pants, that kind of expression.”
“Then he just drove away?”
“Just like that. Twenty minutes later, two other cops showed up.”
Rebecca raises both hands, closes her eyes, and presses her fingertips
to her forehead, giving Pete Wexler an excellent opportunity, of which
he does not fail to take full advantage, to admire the shape of her breasts
underneath her blouse. It may not be as great as the view from the bot-
tom of the ladder, but it’ll do, all right, yes it will. As far as Ebbie’s dad
is concerned, a sight like Rebecca Vilas’s Hottentots pushing out against
her dress is like a good fire on a cold night. They are bigger than you’d
expect on a slender little thing like her, and you know what? When the
arms go up, the Hottentots go up, too! Hey, if he had known she was
going to put on a show like this, he would have told her about Cheetah
and the bicycle as soon as it happened.
“All right, okay,” she says, still flattening the tips of her fingers against
her head. She lifts her chin, raising her arms another few inches, and
frowns in concentration, for a moment looking like a figure on a plinth.
Hoo-ray and hallelujah, Pete thinks. There’s a bright side to everything. If
another little snotnose gets grabbed off the sidewalk tomorrow morning, it won’t
be soon enough for me.
Rebecca says, “Okay, okay, okay,” opens her eyes, and lowers her
arms. Pete Wexler is staring firmly at a point over her shoulder, his face
blank with a false innocence she immediately comprehends. Good God,
what a caveman. “It’s not as bad as I thought. In the first place, all you
saw was a policeman picking up a bike. Maybe it was stolen. Maybe
some other kid borrowed the bike, dumped it, and ran away. The cop
could have been looking for it. Or the kid who owned the bike could
have been hit by a car or something. And even if the worst did happen,
I don’t see any way that it could hurt us. Maxton’s isn’t responsible for
whatever goes on outside the grounds.”
She turns to Henry, who looks as though he wishes he were a hun-
dred miles away. “Sorry, I know that sounded awfully cold. I’m as dis-
tressed about this Fisherman business as everyone else, what with those
two poor kids and the missing girl. We’re all so upset we can hardly
think straight. But I’d hate to see us dragged into the mess, don’t you
see?”
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B L A C K H O U S E
“I see perfectly,” Henry says. “Being one of those blind men George
Rathbun is always yelling about.”
“Hah!” Pete Wexler barks.
“And you agree with me, don’t you?”
“I’m a gentleman, I agree with everybody,” Henry says. “I agree with
Pete that another child may well have been abducted by our local mon-
ster. Officer Cheetah, or whatever his name is, sounded too anxious to
be just picking up a lost bicycle. And I agree with you that Maxton’s
cannot be blamed for anything that happened.”
“Good,” Rebecca says.
“Unless, of course, someone here is involved in the murders of these
children.”
“But that’s impossible!” Rebecca says. “Most of our male clients can’t
even remember their own names.”
“A ten-year-old girl could take most of these feebs,” Pete says. “Even
the ones who don’t have old-timer’s disease walk around covered in
their own . . . yo u kno w.”
“You’re forgetting about the staff,” Henry says.
“Oh, now,” Rebecca says, momentarily rendered nearly wordless.
“Come on. That’s . . . that’s a totally irresponsible thing to say.”
“True. It is. But if this goes on, nobody will be above suspicion.
That’s my point.”
Pete Wexler feels a sudden chill—if the town clowns start grilling
Maxton’s residents, his private amusements might come to light, and
wouldn’t Wendell Green have a field day with that stuff ? A gleaming
new idea comes to him, and he brings it forth, hoping to impress Miz
Vilas. “You know what? The cops should talk to that California guy, the
big-time detective who nailed that Kinderling asshole two-three years
ago. He lives around here somewhere, don’t he? Someone like that, he’s
the guy we need on this. The cops here, they’re way outta their depth.
That guy, he’s like a whaddayacallit, a goddamn resource. ”
“Odd you should say that,” Henry says. “I couldn’t agree with you
more. It is about time Jack Sawyer did his thing. I’ll work on him
again.”
“You know him?” Rebecca asks.
“Oh, yes,” Henry says. “That I do. But isn’t it about time for me to
do my own thing?”
“Soon. They’re all still outside.”
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Rebecca leads him down the rest of the corridor and into the com-
mon room, where all three of them move across to the big platform.
Henry’s microphone stands beside a table mounted with his speakers and
turntable. With unnerving accuracy, Henry says, “Lot of space in here.”
“You can tell that?” she asks.
“Piece of cake,” Henry says. “We must be getting close now.”
“It’s right in front of you. Do you need any help?”
Henry extends one foot and taps the side of the flat. He glides a hand
down the edge of the table, locates the mike stand, says, “Not at the mo-