Edgewise (7 page)

But it was Sammy who answered. “
I don't want to go on vacation. I want to go home.
”

“Jeff!” shouted Lily, taking hold of Shooks's upraised wrists, and shaking him. “Jeff! Where are you taking them, Jeff?”

There was a long pause. Somewhere up in the eaves of the barn an owl flapped, and gave a hollow moan that was unnervingly human. Shooks slowly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his black glittery pupils had reappeared. He looked at Lily's hands, gripping his wrists, and he gently but firmly pried himself free.

“You heard them, then?” he asked her.

“Of
course
I heard them. You spoke like Sammy and Tasha and you spoke like Jeff, too. How did you do that?”

“It's a well-known phenomenon, Mrs. Blake. Scientists call it ‘auditory persistence.' ”

“What?”

“It's very simple. After we say anything, our words continue to resonate for a very long time—days, or even weeks, depending on where they were spoken, and with how much vehemence.” He tapped his forehead with his fingertip. “Anybody who has the sensitivity can pick them up. It's a talent. I inherited it from my great-great-grandfather, on my mother's side, who was a Mdewakanton Sioux. The Sioux call it ‘ghost talking.' ”

“So that was actually
them
—their actual voices—Tasha and Sammy and Jeff?”

Shooks nodded. “Absolutely. You heard them for yourself. And so far as I'm concerned, those voices prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that your ex-husband kidnapped your children and tried to have you killed.”

“So where is he now?”

“It sounds like he was planning on going someplace warm. Who knows—Mexico maybe?”

“I thought you could find out.”

“Oh, yes. But not me personally. I don't have the man-trailing skills for that. But I have an acquaintance who does.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“You remember what I was saying at your sister's house—about the price that has to be paid?”

“Yes. So what? I'll pay anything.”

“I know. But I have to warn you that my acquaintance may not be tempted.”

“I don't understand.”

“I think you'd better meet him. Then we can see if he's willing to help.”

“All right, then. When?”

Lily went back home, feeling jumpy and impatient and unnerved. The house was chilly and silent. The long-case clock in the hallway had stopped, and the log fire in the living room had burned out. She went into the utility room and Sergeant was dozing in his basket. He looked up at her sadly. She could have believed that Sergeant was pining for Tasha and Sammy more than she was.

She hunkered down beside him and ruffled his ears. “Don't you worry, boy. Mommy's found a man who can bring them back to us. I hope so, anyhow.”

Sergeant made a whining noise in the back of his throat and licked her hand.

The phone rang. It was Special Agent Kellogg. “We had a sighting at Estherville, Mrs. Blake, a few miles over the border in Iowa. Two kids, very similar to Tasha and Sammy in appearance, but the Iowa State Police have just e-mailed us pictures and I'm afraid it isn't them. Sorry—I was hoping to give you a belated Christmas present.”

Lily was tempted to tell him what Shooks had managed to find out in Sibley's Barn—that Jeff had taken the children and had probably headed south. But she decided against it. She guessed that Special Agents Rylance and Kellogg would be pretty irked if they found out that an amateur was interfering in their investigation, especially a part–Native American amateur who could talk in other people's voices.

She took Sergeant for a walk. The streets were snowy and the world was utterly hushed. The oaks were bare of leaves, but they were clustered with hundreds of black crows, as if the souls of all the children who had ever died in Minneapolis had gathered together, to hold a vigil. She still believed that Tasha and Sammy were alive, but she wondered how mothers could bear it when their children were killed. The emptiness and the sense of loss must be almost maddening.

She was walking across the empty park when her cell phone rang. “Mrs. Blake? This is John Shooks. My acquaintance says that he can see us tomorrow, at noon.”

“Did you tell him that I can pay him anything he asks?”

“That didn't really arise.”

“What do you mean? I have to get my children back. Whatever he wants, he can have it.”

“I'll call for you tomorrow, Mrs. Blake.”

He hung up. Lily checked her screen but he hadn't left a number. She stood in the middle of the park, surrounded by snow and silence, and for the first time in her life she felt as if she were the only person left alive on the entire planet.

The next morning, while she was sitting in the dining room drinking a cup of coffee and working on a brochure for the Shingle Creek development, the doorbell chimed. She opened the door and it was Bennie, with a boiled bell hat that was two sizes too small for his head.

“Bennie, come on in!”

“I was on my way to Tangletown—thought I'd call by.”

“Like some coffee?”

He stamped his snowy galoshes on the mat. “No, no. I can't stay long. I've got a viewing at the Starling property.”

“Well, if you can sell
that
old ruin for the asking price, you're a better realtor than I am.”

He took off his padded coat and his hat, and perched his hat on top of the banister post. “Did you meet John Shooks yesterday?” he asked her.

“Yes, I did. And I really think we're making some progress. He's coming around later this morning and bringing a friend of his.”

“That's good,” said Bennie. “That's good.” But then he said, “I
hope
it's good, anyhow.”

“You
hope
it's good? The way you talked about him before, he's the best detective since Sherlock Holmes.”

“I don't know, Lil. Maybe it's nothing. But I met my brother Myron yesterday and told him that Shooks was going to be working on your case. He said fine, good, he'll definitely get your kids back for you. But for some reason he didn't seem too easy about it. I asked him if there was anything wrong, and he said no. Then I asked him what Shooks had charged him, because I wanted you to have some idea of what you were letting yourself in for, costwise. And he said, it wasn't the money.”

“It wasn't the money?”

“That's what he said. I didn't know what he was talking about, either. So I asked him: if it wasn't the money, what was it? And he said, it was his conscience.”

Lily sat down at the dining-room table. “His
conscience?
He didn't explain himself any more than that?”

Bennie dragged out a large green handkerchief and blew his nose. “I told him that I still didn't understand what he meant. And I told him that if he knew of any risk in doing business with Shooks, he needed to warn me about it, because I certainly don't want
you
to come to any harm. But all he said was, when you do business with John Shooks, the price he asks you for is the price you're going to have to pay, come hell or high water, so think long and hard before you agree to it.”

Lily didn't know what to say. She couldn't imagine what Shooks could ask her for that she wouldn't be prepared to give him. She wanted Tasha and Sammy back, at any price, and even if Shooks asked her for a million dollars, she was sure that she could find some way of raising it.

Not only that, she was a seasoned negotiator and she knew exactly how to cut a deal and draw up a contract. Before she entered into any kind of arrangement with Shooks, she would make sure that all of the angles were covered, legal and financial, and that he wasn't able to spring any unpleasant surprises—like finding Tasha and Sammy but refusing to hand them over unless she trebled his fee. Not that she believed he would.

Bennie said, “Maybe I'm making something out of nothing at all. Myron can have his funny moods, you know—laughing his socks off one minute, all doom and gloom the next. I thought he was real happy with what Shooks did for him, which is why I introduced him to you. I just thought I'd better give you the heads-up, in case.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” said Lily. “But it sounds to me as if Myron could be feeling guilty about taking the children away from Velma and getting the court to cut down her alimony. I mean, once the dust has settled, some husbands and wives do regret how crappy they've been to each other, while they were going through their divorce. I know
I
did. Well—
now
I don't, after what Jeff's done. But I did before.”

“Maybe you're right. I hope so. And I hope you get those kids back, real quick.” Bennie peered at his wristwatch. “I'd better be heading off. I arranged to meet those people at eleven thirty.”

But he didn't immediately reach for his hat or his coat and Lily sensed that he had something more to say.

“What is it?” she asked him.

He pulled a tight, embarrassed smile. “I'll tell you something, Lil: you must be psychic. I don't really know how to tell you this, especially since I feel so fond of you. But I've been going through your sales figures for the past two months, and I guess you know that you're way,
way
below target. And not showing a whole lot of improvement.”

“It's been a tough couple of months, Bennie—you know that. The market's been really sluggish.”

“Well, yes, sure, but I've had some negative feedback about you from some of our clients. Most of the local people we deal with—they're aware of what happened to you—the kidnap, the way you were nearly burned alive. Quite understandably they're not one hundred percent comfortable buying and selling their homes with you.”

“What?”

“They're not unfeeling people, Lil. Far from it. But they know how traumatized you must be feeling. All they want to discuss with their realtor is customized kitchens and walk-in dressing rooms and escrow. They don't want to be treading on eggshells in case they accidentally mention fire hazards or child security.”

“I see.”

“There's one thing more . . . your hair. The way you keep your head shaved, with that scarf and all. Quite a few clients have gotten the impression that you're undergoing chemotherapy, and to be honest with you, Lil, it doesn't put them in a very upbeat state of mind.”

“Oh. They think I have cancer? How depressing for them.”

“I know. I know it doesn't sound very caring. But if people think that their realtor has cancer, it doesn't put them in a very buy-receptive state of mind.”

“Bennie, shaving my head is a symbol. It's a female-warrior thing. It's a witch thing. It means that I'm determined to get my children back.”

“I know that, Lil, and so does everybody else at Concord Realty. But we can't afford to make our clients feel uneasy.”

“So what are you suggesting? You want me to grow my hair back?”

“It's not just that, Lil. I think you need to take some time off. If you want to carry on with the Mystery Lake promotion, that'd be fine. But I think you need to stay home—concentrate on finding your kids and sorting your life out. Then we can talk about the way ahead.”

“The way ahead,” Lily repeated, nodding her head. “Okay, Bennie, if that's how you see it.”

“Lily—you know how I feel about you, don't you? I mean me personally—
me
—regardless of all of this trauma.”

She didn't answer, but lifted his hat from the banister post and handed it to him. “I'll see you, Bennie. Thanks for dropping by. Good luck with the Starling property, huh?”

John Shooks arrived at her door on the last reverberating stroke of eleven. Outside, a big black 1987 Buick Electra with green-tinted windows was parked at an angle in her driveway. Its engine was running and its exhaust was smoking in the cold.

“Are you ready?” asked Shooks. “It's only about an hour away—not even that.”

“Where are we going?” asked Lily, closing the front door behind her and double-locking it.

“Black Crow Valley, about six miles south of the Minnesota River. We're going to be meeting my acquaintance George Iron Walker.”

“And he's the one who can find Tasha and Sammy for me?”

“He's the one who knows how to do it, yes.”

Shooks opened the car door for her. It creaked on its hinges. Inside, the seats were covered in worn black leather and there was a strange pungent smell like Russian cigarettes. As they drew away from the curb, it started to snow, only lightly at first, but by the time they reached Bloomington it was coming down thick and fast.

“So your friend's agreed to help me?” asked Lily.

“Let's just say that he's agreed to discuss what you want.”

“I never visited a reservation before.”

Shooks wiped the windshield in front of him with the sleeve of his coat. “You're not going to visit one now. George Iron Walker—he's not a hermit or anything like that, but he prefers to live way out on his own. He says that he needs the silence, so that he can hear the spirits all around him.”

“Oh.”

They drove for a while without talking. The highway ahead of them was so blinding white that Lily imagined she could see shapes dancing across it, like ghosts.

After a while, she said, “How did you get to be a private detective, Mr. Shooks?”

He sniffed. “By default, I guess. I used to be a newspaper reporter, for the
Minneapolis Star Tribune,
but I always relished the investigation part of it more than the writing part of it.”

He was silent for a while, smiling to himself. Then he said, “The trouble was, I relished it a little too much. I dug up a couple of juicy scandals involving city dignitaries and underage girls and I was politely but firmly told that my services to the media were no longer required. You have to play the game if you live in a city like Minneapolis, Mrs. Blake. All your readers want to know is how lucky they are to live in such a prosperous, happy, morally uplifting place.”