Halloween and Other Seasons

9

“That’s right: Carlton. C-A-R-L-T-O-N,” Grant said. The voice on the other end of the line said some words, and then Grant answered: “No, the panel truck was empty, but I still think he’s the guy who took the kids. Call it a gut feeling.” More words from the other end, and then Grant once more: “That’s right, he was gone when I went back into the tent.”

The phone receiver pressed tight to his ear, Grant tried to shake another cigarette out of the pack but found it was empty. Grunting in displeasure, he crumpled the pack with his free hand and fumbled in his raincoat for another. He coughed. His hand found the pint bottle but moved impatiently past it. Amongst loose change he located the new pack, and grunted again, this time in pleasure, as he drew it out and expertly opened it, tapping a butt out and lighting it.

While he waited on the phone he turned to regard deputy sheriff Charley Fredricks, who he had grabbed from his post at the entrance to the music tent in Ranier Park and brought to the station with him. The kid was bright and willing, and hadn’t opened his mouth about this not being sheriff’s business. Charley was young, but he had seen his own share of weird shit in Orangefield.

Grant said to him, “Anything on who rented that panel truck?”

A second receiver pressed to his own ear, Charley made a face. “On hold.”

“Dammit. You tell them this is an emergency?”

Charley looked hurt, then gave a sour grin. “Guess that’s why they didn’t just hang up.”

Grant scowled, then pressed his receiver tighter to his ear. “Yes? You sure?” There was a pause. “Well, thanks, Warden.”

He hung up the phone and traded puzzled looks with Charley Fredericks, who was still on hold.

“Jerry Carlton is safe in his cell at Madison State Prison, reading an old copy of National Geographic as we speak,” Grant said.

“Maybe an accomplice?” Charley asked, trying to be helpful. “Someone he worked with who didn’t get caught?”

“Carlton killed five boys, all on his own. He was a loner.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve got to talk to Len Schneider, find out if there was someone else…”

Charley nodded absently, giving sudden interest to his own phone. Grant suspended his own punch-dialing expectantly.

Charley said, “Shit,” and looked at Grant. “They just changed the music, is all.”

Grant shook his head and jabbed in Schneider’s number.

It rang until the answering machine took it.

“Isn’t Schneider off tonight?” Grant said to no one in particular.

Charley Fredericks shrugged, then said, “Yes?” into his receiver and began to nod. His pencil went to work on his notepad.

Behind Bill Grant the voice of Chip Prohman, the night sergeant, fat and laconic and nearly useless, chimed in. “You looking for Schneider? He called in a little while ago. I just sent two black and whites out after him. He sounded out of his head—claimed those two kidnapped kids were out in the woods after all.”

Grant was about to answer when Charley Fredericks hung up and waved his notepad at him. Grant squinted forward to read what it said.

“Holy God.” Grant turned viciously on Prohman and spat: “Where the hell is Schneider?”

The sergeant answered, “Out in the woods—”

“Where?”

Prohman was almost yawning. “Same spot he dug all those holes. You ask me, he’s just plain out of his gourd—”

Grant was already half out the door, with Charley Fredericks, perplexed, studying the name on his notepad as if it was an ancient rune telling him nothing, behind him.