Floating Staircase(50)

“I believe David Dentman did it,” I said, and it was almost like confessing my sins to a priest. “I believe the boy’s uncle killed him.”

Almost too casually, Earl said, “He got a motive?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what it might be, if that’s what you’re asking.” But of course I knew that in real life, motives were not as indispensable as they were in books and movies. In real life, sometimes people did horrible things for no discernible reason.

Jodie returned with coffee and ham and cheese sandwiches.

Earl’s face lit up as if his girlfriend had walked into the room. “Thank you kindly, dear. You’re too good to this old fool, and we’ve only just met.”

“I have a soft spot in my heart for fools,” she said, smiling. Then she twirled a finger in my hair. “Just ask my husband.”



After Earl snapped a couple of photos of me to go along with the article, he gave Jodie a one-armed fatherly hug, and I walked him to the front door.

“I’ll let you know when the article comes out,” Earl said, tugging on his sheriff’s jacket and stepping onto the porch. Beyond the tamaracks, the sky was a mottled cheesecloth color that made me feel instantly sad for no perceivable reason. “And again, I appreciate your time.”

“No sweat.”

“Here.” Earl thrust one of his hands into mine, his callous fingers like barbed fruit against my palm. When he withdrew his hand, there was a folded piece of notebook paper in mine. “If you don’t mind a messy bachelor pad and stale beer, you come on by, and I’ll show you some stuff you might be interested in.” He zipped his jacket and shoved his hands into the pockets. “I know what it’s like to sit awake at night thinking the thoughts of a haunted man.”

This struck me as oddly profound.

“You take care, Travis.”

I watched him leave and didn’t look at what he’d written on the slip of paper until after his pickup had pulled out of the driveway. In an old man’s spidery, hieroglyphic handwriting: his address.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Earl’s bachelor pad was a double-wide that looked suspiciously like an old boxcar, with multiple TV antennas and drooping Christmas lights (even though it was mid-January) on the roof and a few old junkers rusting away in random places on the lawn. It sat atop a wooded hill at the end of Old County Road, which wasn’t exactly part of Westlake, although the lights of Main Street were clearly visible from his front door. It was late afternoon, two days since the interview at my house, and the sky was bruising to a cool, steady purple along the horizon.

As I pulled in beside the trailer, a sharp-faced black dog barked at me from the far side of the yard. It was tied to the bumper of a vintage Chevrolet, though the bumper didn’t look secure enough to prevent the critter from breaking free and charging for my jugular. Up in the mountains, wind rolled like a thousand drums.

Earl walked out the front door just as I got out of the car. He wore faded jeans, an open-throated flannel shirt, and brown forester’s boots, all of which seemed two sizes too large for his frame. He raised one hand in welcome, then shouted something at the dog, which quieted the mongrel as effectively as if he’d whipped it with a birch branch.

I slammed the car door and crunched through the snow, a backpack over my shoulders. I held two of my writing notebooks under one arm, the third one having vanished, one might surmise, into thin air.

For the past two days I’d searched the entire house from top to bottom for the missing notebook but couldn’t find it. I’d pestered Jodie about possibly misplacing it, but she swore she hadn’t seen it. I dug through all the boxes in Elijah’s bedroom, which had become my writing office as well, on the off chance that I’d accidentally packed it away with some of the boy’s stuff. While bent over one particular box, I thought I heard footsteps . . . then someone breathing down my neck. I spun around, expecting to see Elijah, blue-skinned and bloated, muddy water pooling on the cement floor about his feet, standing an arm’s length from me in the half dark. But there was no one there; I was alone.

Earl nodded at me as I approached. “Snow’s thinned out some. How’s the driving?”

“They’ve got much of downtown cleared up, but it’s still a bit treacherous here in the hills.”

We shook hands. Across the yard, the large black dog started barking again.

“Come on inside,” Earl said, turning and pushing the door open. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here.”

Inside, I was treated to wood paneling and startling neon carpeting, a sofa that looked as if it had been salvaged from the set of Sanford and Son, and garish prints of hunting dogs, cattails, and bulging-eyed bass leaping out of rivers. Mounds of clothes seemed to rise from the floor and move when you weren’t looking directly at them, and empty beer bottles and pizza boxes were placed almost strategically throughout the cramped interior. Despite the amassment of television antennas on his roof, Earl’s tiny, prehistoric Zenith worked off a pair of rabbit ears capped in aluminum foil. It was the den of a career bachelor, that wily and elusive animal who has never been scolded to pick up his socks, iron a shirt, or wash the dishes.

“I warned you the place was a mess.”

I followed him onto an elevated section of the floor, where the shag carpeting gave way to crude linoleum, and stood shifting from one foot to the other while Earl cleared half-eaten Chinese food containers and stacks of newspaper off what I construed to be the kitchen table. With some humility, I noticed a stack of my paperback novels on one of the countertops, the top one splayed open and upside down to save his page.