Part 46 (1/2)
Both of the detectives went mentally slack.
One of the detectives, speaking very slowly, said, ”Yeah, that's all the questions I have. We'll call you when we find something.”
”Thanks,” Paul said, and stood up and left the room.
”Take me to my truck,” Paul said.
He and Mike were in the car now. Mike was driving, pulling out of one of the spots in the back lot of Headquarters reserved for patrol cars.
He said, ”Paul, the lieutenant wanted me to take you home. Tomorrow morning, Collins and I can get your truck back to your house for you.”
”Take me to my truck,” Paul said.
”Okay,” Mike said. ”Okay, sure, Paul. Whatever you want.”
They drove in silence back to the Eastside Substation, and Mike stopped the car next to Paul's truck. Paul got his gear out of the trunk and dropped it into the toolbox in the bed of his truck and waved once at Mike and climbed behind the wheel. He drove away and never looked back.
He never saw Mike again.
When the phone rang, the first thought that went through Keith Anderson's mind was that he had overslept. It would be Levy on the end of the line, calling to b.i.t.c.h him out for being late. Anderson was so miserably tired, and it was all he could do to focus on the glowing green display of his digital clock.
”Four o'clock,” he grumbled. ”d.a.m.n it.”
Next to him, Margie said, ”What? What is it?” She sounded like she wasn't really awake.
”I got it,” he said, and swung his legs out from under the covers and ran a hand over his face as he tried to focus on the caller ID.
He didn't recognize the number.
”h.e.l.lo?” he said.
Margie sat up next to him and said, ”Who is it?”
He gave her a hold on a second wave of his hand and listened, and right away he was wide awake. ”Paul,” he said, ”Paul, slow down. You're going too fast for me. Where are you?”
”I'm in a Stop-n-Go parking lot at the corner of Rosa Parks and Utley. You know the one?”
”I can find it,” Anderson said. ”Paul, what's going on?”
”When you get here,” Paul said.
”No, Paul. Tell me. What the h.e.l.l's going on?”
”I'll tell you everything when you get here. I'll tell you everything you want to know.” There was a pause on Paul's end, then he said, ”It's about Rachel, my wife. She's gone. He's got her.”
That last part made no sense to Anderson. The air raid siren in his head that ordinarily would have been sounding the alarm was silent, and it never even occurred to him to wonder why. He looked down at his milky white old-man legs and sighed thoughtfully. Margie was sitting up beside him now, one hand on his shoulder.
”Who was that?”
”Officer Paul Henninger,” he said.
”You mean, the one who-”
”Yeah.”
”What did he want?”
”He wants me to meet him as soon as possible.” Anderson turned so that he was facing her. ”Margie, I think all this is almost over. For better or for worse, it's almost over.”
He put one hand over hers and gave her a rea.s.suring pat.
”There's so much I want to say, Margie. So many things I'm sorry for. It's like the world has been pulled out from under me and I'm standing here trying to figure out where it all went. I don't even know where to begin.”
She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.
He squeezed back.
”Did I tell you I've been seeing Bobby's face in every crowd I see? It's like...when John died. All over again.”
If that worried her, she gave no sign of it. She knew him better than anybody else. Maybe she knew he had been seeing ghosts.
”We're both hurting. I'm sorry, too.”
He nodded, and it amazed him how much they could say to one another without using any words. They were a team, the two of them. Two people, one love. He was, he realized, a very lucky man.
”I'll make you some coffee,” she said.
He gave her a smile. ”Thanks, Margie.”
Paul watched Anderson's car pull into the parking lot. He crossed over to it and opened the pa.s.senger side door and climbed in. Anderson didn't speak. He sat there, waiting for Paul to make the first move.
Paul stared out the window for a moment. Then he looked at Anderson. He saw the picture of Anderson's dead son over the speedometer, and it made him think of the last time he and Anderson were together in the car.
”Turn off your voice recorder,” Paul said.
Without saying a word, Anderson reached beneath his Mr. Rogers sweater and took a small, digital voice recorder from his s.h.i.+rt pocket. He showed it to Paul and pushed STOP. Then he put it on the dashboard.
”You're not gonna want a record of this anyway,” Paul said.
”No,” Anderson said, ”you're probably right.”
Paul told him everything. He started with his father, with the death of his father, and he told him about Mexico and Magdalena Chavarria and the murders at the Morgan Rollins Iron Works and the boy from the train yard and how the bodies disappeared from the morgue.
”But you know about that already,” Paul said. ”You saw your friend that night we went into the superstructure at Morgan Rollins.”
”Yes,” Anderson agreed. He appeared to think about that for a moment. ”Is that what your father is? Is he some kind of ghost?”