Andreeson seemed to feel he had offered adequate detail. “Yes. Almost certainly.” He leaned over, dropped his cigarette into the fire, then peered down after it. “What we’d like, Mr. Land, is for you to come with us, just for a day or two. Drive around a little.”
“Drive around?” Dad said.
“We’d appreciate it.”
Through all this Roxanna had held silent. Of course I didn’t know how much Dad had told her regarding Davy—nothing in our hearing. Clearly he hadn’t breathed a word about old Putrid here, yet watching Roxanna you’d have guessed she not only knew my brother but had raised him herself and tutored him in evading the law. Her face was shut and latched against Andreeson, which I suppose isn’t surprising, given how her great-uncle felt about Pinkertons.
“Drive around,” Dad mused. “Mr. Andreeson, do you still believe I can somehow lead you to my son?”
“Not by natural means,” answered Andreeson.
“Do you suspect the other kind are at my disposal?”
Andreeson said, “The work I am in sometimes overlaps into other domains. You may be able to help us—I would say, calibrate our search.”
Dad stiffened. “I’m no diviner. Don’t talk to me about it.”
“No offense intended,” Andreeson said, “but hear me out. Will you hear me out?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Two years ago there was a kidnapping, a little girl in Michigan. The kidnapper put her in a rented cabin and drove away to find a phone booth, only he went off an icy curve and smacked a barn and that was it for him. Want to guess how we found the little girl?”
“Just finish, Mr. Andreeson.”
“I don’t blame you. Actually, I thought my supervisor was off his nut. He’d been talking to the family and their friends. There was a sister about eleven. He came to me—this is Ray Levy, my supervisor. He thought the sister could locate the little girl.”
“You don’t know what you’re associating with,” Dad said.
“Well, that’s the truth, and I don’t pretend to. But the sister went out with us. We drove in rough circles starting from their home. Listen—it’s not exactly procedure, and it doesn’t make any popular sort of sense.” To his credit, Andreeson appeared less than cozy with this story he was telling. He lit another cigarette and looked at it while he talked. “At some point she began telling us where to turn. It upset her, she cried and so forth. And we made some wrong turns, I’ll not lie to you.”
We all knew the ending, though—same as you do.
“We found her just before dark,” he said. “The cabin was freezing. She wouldn’t have made it till morning.”
The whole thing made my insides sick. Don’t get me wrong, I was glad the little girl was all right. Yet it gave me a seasick clutch behind the ribs, as if my heart were bobbing loose. I wanted to bolt from there! For I found I didn’t hate Andreeson anymore; I feared him, not knowing why, and can testify to you that this was worse.
“I can’t do what you’re asking, Mr. Andreeson,” Dad said.
“You’re a man of faith; everyone says it.”
“It isn’t faith you’re speaking of. It’s something else, foolishness or spookism.”
“There’s a man back in Roofing who believes you have access to—something large,” Andreeson said. “Some unusual authority,” he clarified.
“For goodness’ sake, be quiet,” said Dad.
“Your boss, Mr. Holgren—the fellow who fired you.”
Dad stood up. “I thank you,” he said, “for keeping us informed. Should anything develop, we’ve taken rooms with Mrs. Cawley. You may reach us there.”
At which Andreeson stood up also, handing Dad a card with a phone number, stressing his sincerity and hoping Dad would reconsider. We watched him walk back down the valley, vanishing amid firelit boulders.
Now, no doubt you’re asking some of the same questions I asked Swede later, back at Roxanna’s. Such as, Why hadn’t Andreeson arrested us on the spot, complicit fugitives that he figured us to be?
“I don’t know,” she answered. We were getting our pajamas on, the various thrills of the evening still working through our veins.
And why, if he was so confident about closing the net on Davy, was our Putrid willing to subscribe even to spookism to nail him down?
“Don’t know,” Swede said.
“What is spookism, anyhow?” I complained. The word conjured a scary version of faith in which a person believed mostly in malicious unseen fellows who might creep up behind you and breathe on your neck hairs.
But Swede paid no mind. She was wholly taken with the ambrosial thought of staying on at Roxanna’s and the turns of the past few hours. From no hint of Davy to an eyewitness sighting! From another frozen road trip to a warm reprieve—in a home that felt more like the term than Roofing ever had. I had to agree with her. It went to show that anyone could deliver good news, including a person like Martin Andreeson, even if he wasn’t doing so purposefully, and even if he was the king of pukes in most respects.