Every Dead Thing

“None taken. I think I’ll wait around for the sheriff anyway.” I was also going to have to find out more about the Modine killings, whether Martin liked it or not. If Catherine Demeter had reached into her past, then I was going to have to reach into that past too, or I would understand nothing about the woman for whom I was searching.

“I’ll also need to talk to someone about the killings. I need to know more.”

Martin closed his eyes and ran his hand over them in weariness. “You’re not listening to me…,” he began.

“No, you’re not listening. I’m looking for a woman who may be in trouble and who may have turned to someone here for help. Before I leave town I’m going to find out whether or not she’s here, even if it means rattling every cage in this godforsaken dump and scaring your Japanese saviors back to Tokyo. But if you help me, then this can all be done quietly and I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of days.”

We were both tensed now, leaning toward each other across the table. Some of the other diners were staring at us, their food ignored. Martin looked around at them, then turned back to me again. “Okay,” he said. “Most of the people who were around then and might know something useful have either left, or died, or won’t talk about it for love or money. There are two who might, though. One is the son of the doc who was around at that time. His name’s Co

“The other is Walt Tyler. His daughter was the first to die and he lives outside town. I’ll talk to him first and maybe he’ll see you.” He stood up to leave. “When you’ve got your business done you’d better leave, and I never want to see your face again, understand?”

I said nothing and followed him toward the door. He stopped and turned toward me, placing his hat on his head as he did so. “One more thing,” he said. “I’ve had a word with those boys from the bar, but remember, they ain’t got no reason to like you. Frankly, I can see a lot of people thinking the same way once they know why you’re here. And they’re going to find out. So, you’d best step lightly while you’re in town.”

“I noticed one of them, I think his name was Gabe, had a Klan shirt on,” I said. “You got much of that around here?”

Martin blew breath heavily from puffed cheeks. “There’s no klavern, but in a poor town, the dumb ones always look for someone to blame for being poor.”

“There was one guy-your deputy called him Clete-who didn’t look so dumb.”

Martin eyed me from under his hat brim. “No, Clete’s not dumb. He sits on the council, says the only way anyone’s go

“But as for the Klan, this ain’t Georgia or North Carolina, or even Delaware. Don’t go reading too much into this. You can pay for the coffee.”

I left a couple of bucks at the till and walked out toward the car, but Martin was already pulling away. I noticed that he’d taken his hat off again inside the car. The man just didn’t seem comfortable with that damn hat. I went back into the diner, called Haven’s only cab operator, and ordered another coffee.

21

IT WAS AFTER SIX when I got back to the motel. Co

I drove cautiously along the winding roads, looking for the concealed entrance Fry had mentioned and still glancing occasionally in my mirror for any sign of the red jeep. There was none. I passed the entrance to Bale’s Farm Road once without seeing it and had to go back over my tracks again. The sign was semiobscured by undergrowth and pointed toward a winding, rutted track heavy with evergreens, which eventually opened out on a small but well-kept row of houses with long yards and what looked like plenty of space out back. Hyams’s home was near the end, a large, two-story white wooden house. A lamp blazed by a screen door, which shielded a solid oak front door with a fan of frosted glass near the top. There was a light on in the hallway.

A gray-haired man, wearing a red wool cardigan over gray slacks and a striped, open-necked shirt, opened the i

“Mr. Hyams?” I said as I approached the door.

“Yes?”

“I’m an investigator. My name’s Parker. I wanted to talk to you about Catherine Demeter.”

He paused for a long time in silence with the screen door between us.

“Catherine, or her sister?” he inquired eventually.

“Both, I guess.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’m trying to find Catherine. I think she may have come back here.”

Hyams opened the screen door and stood aside to let me enter. Inside, the house was furnished in dark wood, with large, expensive-looking mats on the floors. He led me into an office at the back of the house, where papers were strewn over a desk on which a computer screen glowed.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked.

“No. Thank you.”

He took a brandy glass from his desk and gestured me toward a chair at the other side before seating himself. I could see him more clearly now. He was grave and patrician in appearance, his hands long and slim, the nails finely manicured. The room was warm and I could smell his cologne. It smelled expensive.

“That all took place a long time ago,” he began. “Most people would rather not talk about it.”

“Are you ‘most people’?”

He shrugged and smiled. “I have a place in this community and a role to play. I’ve lived here almost all my life, apart from the time I spent in college and in practice in Richmond. My father spent fifty years practicing here and kept working until the day he died.”

“He was the doctor, I understand.”

“Doctor, counselor, legal adviser, even dentist when the resident dentist wasn’t around. He did everything. The killings hit him particularly hard. He helped perform the autopsies on the bodies. I don’t think he ever forgot it, not even in his sleep.”

“And you? Were you around when they took place?”

“I was working in Richmond at the time, so I was back and forth between Haven and Richmond. I knew of what took place here, yes, but I’d really rather not talk about it. Four children died and they were terrible deaths. Best to let them rest now.”

“Do you remember Catherine Demeter?”

“I knew the family, yes, but Catherine would have been much younger than I. She left after graduating from high school, as I recall, and I don’t think she ever came back, except to attend the funerals of her parents. The last time she returned was probably ten years ago at the very least and her family home has been sold since then. I supervised the sale. Why do you believe she might have come back now? There’s nothing here for her, nothing good at any rate.”

“I’m not sure. She made some calls to here recently and hasn’t been seen since.”

“It’s not much to go on.”

“No,” I admitted, “it’s not.”

He twisted the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid swirl. His lips were pursed in appraisal but his gaze went through the glass and rested on me.

“What can you tell me about Adelaide Modine and her brother?”

“I can tell you that, from my point of view, there was nothing about them that might have led one to suspect that they were child killers. Their father was a strange man, a philanthropist of sorts, I suppose. He left most of his money tied up in a trust when he died.”

“He died before the killings?”

“Five or six years before, yes. He left instructions that the interest on the trust fund should be divided among certain charities in perpetuity. Since then, the number of charities receiving donations has increased considerably. I should know, since it is my duty to administer the trust, with the assistance of a small committee.”