head. "You're Gary's uncle. You find him first, I'll never get my hands on him."
"You don't know that that's true."
He gave me a sideways look, didn't answer that. "You're looking for a runaway. I'm looking for a killer. Whether they're the same or not, my investigation takes precedence."
"I'm only interested in Gary."
"I'm sorry," he said, and it sounded like it might be true. "But you're in a bad position."
"Gary's in a worse one."
"I'll find him."
The wind gusted, stronger now. Leaves and shadows skidded around the unmoving trunks of trees. Sullivan slipped a cigarette out of his pocket. I offered him mine, for the light, but he took out a lighter, used that.
"I could refuse," I said. "To leave. As long as I'm not breaking the law—"
"I'll arrest you," Sullivan said calmly, breathing out smoke. "You'd beat it, but I could keep you out of circulation a couple of days. That might be all I'll need."
Or, I thought, I could drive to the next town, take out my cell phone, and call every kid in Warrenstown. Out of Sullivan's jurisdiction he'd have trouble making his threat stick. But there was no point in saying that. I'd do what I wanted and he'd do what he had to. I took a last drag on my cigarette, threw it onto the gravel. There was nothing left there. "Two things," I said to Sullivan. "If you find him, will you tell me?"
He nodded. "Once I have him."
"And I want to talk to my sister."
"I told you: No."
"Not with you. After you're done. She's my sister, Sullivan, her kid is missing and you're about to tell her he's a suspect in a homicide. I want to stay in town, see her after you're gone."
It sounded good. I didn't add that, before this morning, I hadn't seen her in years.
He fixed his eyes on me. "Then you'll leave?"
"I think you're wrong about this. But I'll leave."
"All right. I'll call you when I'm done with her. Where will you be?"
"I don't know," I said. "But I'll keep out of your way."
It took some work to get my Acura unpacked, to maneuver past the vans and cars, around the RAV4 that, according to a neighbor, had been Tory Wesley's sixteenth-birthday present from her folks. The crowd at the end of the drive parted, stared into my windows when I went past. I drove a little; where the streets were sunny and quiet, peaceful as though no one's child had died a few blocks away, I stopped, called my sister.
"Have you heard anything?" I asked. She'd picked up the phone on the first ring, the same as before. "From Scott, or anyone?"
"No. Have—?"
"Listen," I said. "Something bad's happened. Not to Gary. But the police are coming to talk to you."
"What do you mean?"
"That girl you told me about," I said. "Tory Wesley. She's dead."
Silence. Then, "Dead? I don't—"
"They think that's why Gary ran away, Helen."
"They think— what, that he knows something about it? But that's crazy. What do you mean, she's dead? What happened?"
"Detective Sullivan's on his way. He'll tell you the whole thing."
"Where are you?"
"He won't let me come. He thinks if Gary's involved I may be too."
"You— involved in what?"
In what. Jesus Christ. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, lit it. "Answer Sullivan's questions when he gets there, that's all."
A small voice: "I don't understand any of this."
"I called because I didn't want you blindsided," I said. "I'm still in town. I'll call again."
I hung up, smoked, watched a gardener wrap burlap around some shrubs not hardy enough to withstand winter on their own. A car rolled by me, turned the corner. Eventually I took out the phone again and called Lydia.
"Hi," she said. "What's up? You don't sound good." Behind her words, a horn honked, a siren shrilled. She was on the street.
"I'm not." I told her what had happened, what we'd found.
"My God," Lydia said. "How did she die?"
"That'll take an autopsy. She was on the bed, naked," I added.
"Oh, Bill." Then the obvious, though I hadn't said it: "And they think it was Gary?"
"As Sullivan says, he's the one who ran
"You don't know that that's true."
He gave me a sideways look, didn't answer that. "You're looking for a runaway. I'm looking for a killer. Whether they're the same or not, my investigation takes precedence."
"I'm only interested in Gary."
"I'm sorry," he said, and it sounded like it might be true. "But you're in a bad position."
"Gary's in a worse one."
"I'll find him."
The wind gusted, stronger now. Leaves and shadows skidded around the unmoving trunks of trees. Sullivan slipped a cigarette out of his pocket. I offered him mine, for the light, but he took out a lighter, used that.
"I could refuse," I said. "To leave. As long as I'm not breaking the law—"
"I'll arrest you," Sullivan said calmly, breathing out smoke. "You'd beat it, but I could keep you out of circulation a couple of days. That might be all I'll need."
Or, I thought, I could drive to the next town, take out my cell phone, and call every kid in Warrenstown. Out of Sullivan's jurisdiction he'd have trouble making his threat stick. But there was no point in saying that. I'd do what I wanted and he'd do what he had to. I took a last drag on my cigarette, threw it onto the gravel. There was nothing left there. "Two things," I said to Sullivan. "If you find him, will you tell me?"
He nodded. "Once I have him."
"And I want to talk to my sister."
"I told you: No."
"Not with you. After you're done. She's my sister, Sullivan, her kid is missing and you're about to tell her he's a suspect in a homicide. I want to stay in town, see her after you're gone."
It sounded good. I didn't add that, before this morning, I hadn't seen her in years.
He fixed his eyes on me. "Then you'll leave?"
"I think you're wrong about this. But I'll leave."
"All right. I'll call you when I'm done with her. Where will you be?"
"I don't know," I said. "But I'll keep out of your way."
It took some work to get my Acura unpacked, to maneuver past the vans and cars, around the RAV4 that, according to a neighbor, had been Tory Wesley's sixteenth-birthday present from her folks. The crowd at the end of the drive parted, stared into my windows when I went past. I drove a little; where the streets were sunny and quiet, peaceful as though no one's child had died a few blocks away, I stopped, called my sister.
"Have you heard anything?" I asked. She'd picked up the phone on the first ring, the same as before. "From Scott, or anyone?"
"No. Have—?"
"Listen," I said. "Something bad's happened. Not to Gary. But the police are coming to talk to you."
"What do you mean?"
"That girl you told me about," I said. "Tory Wesley. She's dead."
Silence. Then, "Dead? I don't—"
"They think that's why Gary ran away, Helen."
"They think— what, that he knows something about it? But that's crazy. What do you mean, she's dead? What happened?"
"Detective Sullivan's on his way. He'll tell you the whole thing."
"Where are you?"
"He won't let me come. He thinks if Gary's involved I may be too."
"You— involved in what?"
In what. Jesus Christ. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, lit it. "Answer Sullivan's questions when he gets there, that's all."
A small voice: "I don't understand any of this."
"I called because I didn't want you blindsided," I said. "I'm still in town. I'll call again."
I hung up, smoked, watched a gardener wrap burlap around some shrubs not hardy enough to withstand winter on their own. A car rolled by me, turned the corner. Eventually I took out the phone again and called Lydia.
"Hi," she said. "What's up? You don't sound good." Behind her words, a horn honked, a siren shrilled. She was on the street.
"I'm not." I told her what had happened, what we'd found.
"My God," Lydia said. "How did she die?"
"That'll take an autopsy. She was on the bed, naked," I added.
"Oh, Bill." Then the obvious, though I hadn't said it: "And they think it was Gary?"
"As Sullivan says, he's the one who ran
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