you hear the local news this evening?"
"No. "
"There was a baby drowned in the park lake. She feels she . . . Look, Norman, it's too long a story for the telephone. Can you come over?"
"I want to. It's what I was going to call you for, to ask if I might."
"Good, good."
"Be there in ten minutes," Doc said, and hung up.
He could have walked—it was perhaps a quarter mile from his place near the library to the Ellstrom home on Carissa Road. There had been an urgency in his friend's voice that dissuaded him, though, and he took his car. It was a Cadillac purchased only a month ago at the agency of Nebulon's Mayor Hostetter. When he got out of it at his destination, six-foot-five Willard Ellstrom was on the veranda waiting for him like a basketball player at the foul line drawing deep breaths to steady himself for a shot.
They did not shake hands. They were old friends and felt no need to. "What's wrong?" Doc asked as they went inside.
"I'm afraid Lois may be going to have a breakdown."
"Nonsense. Why?"
"She blames herself for what happened."
They entered the living room and Lois Ellstrom struggled up from her chair as Doc walked toward her. He took her hands and peered at her face. "Oh-oh," he said. "What in God's name have you been up to? You trying to put yourself in the hospital?"
Normally she would have answered with a gentle repartee. Now she remained silent, her mouth quivering.
"Easy now," Doc said. "Sit down, Lois."
As she lowered herself back into the chair, he watched her. She seemed to have trouble controlling her movements, those of her legs especially.
He motioned Willard to sit too, and found a chair for himself. "All right. What's been going on?"
Lois told him about the marble game in the school yard and Raymond Hostetter's behavior in her office. About the boy's flight from school and his subsequent disappearance. Willard took over and told of their visit to the Hostetter residence. "Then we turned on the local news at six and heard about the baby," he said. "And Lois insists it wouldn't have happened if—"
"I haven't heard about the baby," Doc reminded him. "What happened?"
"A two-month-old infant was taken from its carriage and thrown into the park lake. The mother says she went to get a drink of water and came back to find the carriage empty. Raymond Hostetter was there and accused her of throwing the child in herself."
"Good Lord! Did she?"
"She denies it, of course. But Raymond says he saw her."
Doc looked at Lois Ellstrom. "And you think what? That Raymond may have done it himself?"
She nodded. "Of course he did. No mother would drown her own baby—certainly not in a public place like that. And it's my fault for letting him run away from school. He's sick, Norman. Sick. And if I'd held him there in my office until his parents could have come for him, that baby wouldn't be dead!"
Doc made a pretense of giving the matter grave thought, and then shook his head. "You don't know. There's no way to be sure."
"I'm sure, Norman! If you'd heard him talking to me . . . If you'd seen his eyes when he defied me . . ."
Again Doc shook his head. "If the Hostetters thought anything was wrong with him, they'd call me. I'm their doctor."
"Perhaps they don't realize," Willard said.
Doc could see no point in prolonging the discussion. "Anyway," he said, "even if the boy is behaving strangely and did drown the baby—a premise I just don't buy, believe me—it can't in any way be your fault, Lois. Stop blaming yourself. I'm going to give you some medication and pack you off to bed." He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, brought it back, and gave her a tranquilizer. Then while her husband took her upstairs to bed, he sat and thought about what he had just been told.
Something strange was going on in Nebulon, it seemed. First that puzzling business of Jerri Jansen's turning on Vin Otto like a little tigress at the Sunday night band concert. Then the nasty affair of the sharpened nail and the
"No. "
"There was a baby drowned in the park lake. She feels she . . . Look, Norman, it's too long a story for the telephone. Can you come over?"
"I want to. It's what I was going to call you for, to ask if I might."
"Good, good."
"Be there in ten minutes," Doc said, and hung up.
He could have walked—it was perhaps a quarter mile from his place near the library to the Ellstrom home on Carissa Road. There had been an urgency in his friend's voice that dissuaded him, though, and he took his car. It was a Cadillac purchased only a month ago at the agency of Nebulon's Mayor Hostetter. When he got out of it at his destination, six-foot-five Willard Ellstrom was on the veranda waiting for him like a basketball player at the foul line drawing deep breaths to steady himself for a shot.
They did not shake hands. They were old friends and felt no need to. "What's wrong?" Doc asked as they went inside.
"I'm afraid Lois may be going to have a breakdown."
"Nonsense. Why?"
"She blames herself for what happened."
They entered the living room and Lois Ellstrom struggled up from her chair as Doc walked toward her. He took her hands and peered at her face. "Oh-oh," he said. "What in God's name have you been up to? You trying to put yourself in the hospital?"
Normally she would have answered with a gentle repartee. Now she remained silent, her mouth quivering.
"Easy now," Doc said. "Sit down, Lois."
As she lowered herself back into the chair, he watched her. She seemed to have trouble controlling her movements, those of her legs especially.
He motioned Willard to sit too, and found a chair for himself. "All right. What's been going on?"
Lois told him about the marble game in the school yard and Raymond Hostetter's behavior in her office. About the boy's flight from school and his subsequent disappearance. Willard took over and told of their visit to the Hostetter residence. "Then we turned on the local news at six and heard about the baby," he said. "And Lois insists it wouldn't have happened if—"
"I haven't heard about the baby," Doc reminded him. "What happened?"
"A two-month-old infant was taken from its carriage and thrown into the park lake. The mother says she went to get a drink of water and came back to find the carriage empty. Raymond Hostetter was there and accused her of throwing the child in herself."
"Good Lord! Did she?"
"She denies it, of course. But Raymond says he saw her."
Doc looked at Lois Ellstrom. "And you think what? That Raymond may have done it himself?"
She nodded. "Of course he did. No mother would drown her own baby—certainly not in a public place like that. And it's my fault for letting him run away from school. He's sick, Norman. Sick. And if I'd held him there in my office until his parents could have come for him, that baby wouldn't be dead!"
Doc made a pretense of giving the matter grave thought, and then shook his head. "You don't know. There's no way to be sure."
"I'm sure, Norman! If you'd heard him talking to me . . . If you'd seen his eyes when he defied me . . ."
Again Doc shook his head. "If the Hostetters thought anything was wrong with him, they'd call me. I'm their doctor."
"Perhaps they don't realize," Willard said.
Doc could see no point in prolonging the discussion. "Anyway," he said, "even if the boy is behaving strangely and did drown the baby—a premise I just don't buy, believe me—it can't in any way be your fault, Lois. Stop blaming yourself. I'm going to give you some medication and pack you off to bed." He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, brought it back, and gave her a tranquilizer. Then while her husband took her upstairs to bed, he sat and thought about what he had just been told.
Something strange was going on in Nebulon, it seemed. First that puzzling business of Jerri Jansen's turning on Vin Otto like a little tigress at the Sunday night band concert. Then the nasty affair of the sharpened nail and the
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