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Climpt pulled back his hand but Lucas blocked it. “Let it go,” he said.
Outside, as they were loading into the trucks, Lacey said, “Where’s Harper?”
“Probably fixin’ some di
Lacey shook his head doubtfully, then said, “Can I see that Polaroid again, just for a minute?”
Lucas handed it to him and Lacey turned on his truck’s dome light and peered at the photo.
“Check this, right here,” Lacey said. He touched the edge of the photograph with a fingernail. Lucas took it.
“It looks like a sleeve.”
“Sure does,” said Lacey, holding the photo four inches from his face. “Now, this here is a Spectra Polaroid. Spectras come with a remote control, a radio thing, so it might of been that there were only the two of them. But if that’s a sleeve, and if there’s somebody else behind the camera . . .”
“The camera angle’s downward,” Lucas said. “That’d be high for a tripod.”
“So there must be a bunch of them,” Lacey said.
“Yeah, probably,” Lucas said, nodding. “We already know he was with a heavy white guy and here’s a woman.”
“Damn—if it’s a bunch of people, it’s go
“I’d say the county’s already torn up,” Lucas said.
Climpt shook his head: “This’d be worse’n the murders, a bunch of people screwing children. Believe me, around here, this’d be worse.”
CHAPTER
9
They headed back to town, Climpt riding with Lucas.
“Kind of liked your style back there,” Climpt said.
“Thanks. I’ve worked on it,” Lucas said.
The radio burped: Carr. Need to see you guys at the courthouse.
“Did you find the kid?” Lucas asked.
Nothing yet, Carr said.
Off the air, Lucas told Climpt, “I fucked up. The school principal was worried about cops talking to kids without the parents’ permission. I took the kid out to his house so I could explain to his father. Goddammit.”
“You didn’t fuck up,” Climpt said. He fumbled a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lit it with a paper match. “That’s not the kind of thing you can know. You’re dealing with a crazy man. And you’ve got a reputation. People around here think you’re Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’m not. But I have dealt with psychos before. I should have known better than to show an interest in one witness,” Lucas said. “I . . . Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Do you know where the doctor’s house is? Weather Karki
“Sure. Down on Lincoln Lake.”
Weather lived in a rambling, white-clapboard house with a steep, snow-covered roof. A fieldstone chimney, webbed with naked vines, climbed one end, a double garage anchored the other. A stand of red pines protected it from the north wind. Two huge white pines, one with a rope dangling from a lower branch, stood in back, along the edge of the frozen lake. The neighboring homes were as large or larger than Weather’s, most of them with aging boathouses at the edge of the lake.
As Lucas and Climpt pulled into the driveway, a pod of snowmobiles whipped by on the lake, heading for a bar sign at the far end.
Weather’s house was dark.
“Just be a minute or two,” Lucas said, but a chilly anxiety plucked at his chest, growing heavier as he climbed out of the truck and hurried up to the house. He rang the doorbell, and when he didn’t get a response, pounded on the front door and rattled the knob. The door was locked. He stepped back off the porch and started down the sidewalk, intending to try the garage doors, when a light came on inside.
He felt like a boulder had been lifted off his back. He turned and hurried back to the door, rang the doorbell again. And suddenly he was nervous again, afraid that she might think he was here to hustle her.
A moment later Weather opened the i
Another boulder came off his back. She didn’t think . . .
“There’s a kid missing—after I talked to him at school today,” Lucas blurted. “He might have wandered away from his house, but nobody really thinks so. He may have been taken by whoever did the LaCourts. Since we’ve spent some time together, you and I . . . You see . . .”
“Who’s out in the truck?” Weather asked.
“Gene Climpt.”
She waved at the truck, then said to Lucas, “Come on in for a moment and tell me about it.”
Lucas kicked snow off his boots and stepped inside. The house smelled subtly of baking and herbs. A modern watercolor of a vase of flowers hung on an eggshell-white wall that faced the entry. Lucas knew almost nothing about modern art, but he liked it.
“Who’s the kid?” Weather asked.
“John Mueller,” Lucas said. “Do you know him?”
“Oh, God. His mom works at the bakery?”
“I guess . . .”
“Aw, jeez, I’ve seen him up there doing his homework. Aw, God . . .” She had her arms crossed over her chest, and was gripping the material on the sleeves of her robe, her knuckles white.
“If the killer took the kid, then he’s out of control. Nuts,” Lucas said. He felt large and awkward in the parka and boots and hat and gloves, looking down at her in her bathrobe. “It’d be best if you got out of here. At least until we can set up some security.”
Weather shook her head: “Not tonight. I’ve got surgery in”—she looked at her watch—“seven hours. I’ve got to be up in five.”
“Can you cancel?” Lucas asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “My patient’s already in the hospital, fasting and medicated. It wouldn’t be right.”
“I’ve got to go downtown,” Lucas said. “I could come back and bag out on your couch.”
“In other words, wake me up again,” she said, but she smiled.
“Look, this is getting nasty.” He was so serious that she tapped his chest, to hold him where he was standing, and said, “Wait a minute.” She walked into the dark part of the house and a light came on. There was a moment of rattling, then she came back with a garage-door opener.
“C’mere . . . don’t worry about the snow on your boots, it’s only water.” She led him through the living room to the hallway, opened the first door in the hall. “Guest room. The right bay in the garage is empty. You come through the garage door to the kitchen, then through here. I’ll leave a couple of lights on.”
Lucas took the garage-door opener, nodded, said, “I’ll walk around your house, look in back. Keep your doors locked and stay inside. You’ve got dead bolts?”
“Yes.”
“Then lock the doors,” he said. “You’ve got a lock on your bedroom door?”
“Yes, but just a knob lock. It’s not much.”
“It’d slow somebody down,” Lucas said. “Lock it. How about a gun. Do you have a gun?”
“A .22 rifle. My dad shot squirrels off the roof with it.”
“Know how to use it? Got any shells?”
“Yes, and there’s a box of shells with the gun.”
“Load it and put it under your bed,” Lucas said. “We’ll talk tomorrow morning. Wake me up when you get up.”
“Lucas, be careful.”
“You be careful. Lock the doors.”
He went to the entry, pulled open the i