The Hand on the Wall(51)

“This is it?” George said.

“This is it. This is the house. These are the people. Nice people.”

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” George said. “I untie you. You walk up to the door in front of me, in case these are the kind of people who say hello with a shotgun. I’m behind you with my gun. Remember, I want to shoot you. You do anything funny, I give in to my impulse.”

“Nothing funny, nothing funny.”

George tugged the ropes loose so that Jerry could get out. The cuffs he left on, covered once again with George’s coat. Jerry stumbled ahead as the front door of the house opened and a man walked out. He may have been George’s age, or even younger, but time ravaged here. His hair was thinning and greasily patched to his head. He had a gray complexion, the look of someone who hadn’t seen the sun or a decent meal in some time. He wore loose overalls and a flannel shirt, but no coat. He did not seem happy to have visitors.

“Morning!” Jerry said with a queasy fake cheerfulness. His New York accent sounded like snapping twigs in the cold morning. “You remember me? With the kid?”

The man regarded them both for a long moment, and George rested his hand on the butt of his handgun tucked into the back of his trousers, just in case. This man had keen eyes and seemed to read the situation well—he took in Jerry, supplicant and bundled, and George, who always looked like a cop, no matter what he did.

“Took you long enough to come back for her,” the man said, sounding annoyed. “You said a week. Lot more than a week.”

“I know,” Jerry said. “I’m sorry. But we’re here now.”

“Only paid us for the week.”

“You’ll be paid,” George cut in before Jerry could say anything else. “Take this for a starter.”

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a handful of bills. He had no idea how many. Could have been two hundred bucks or two thousand. He held them out, and the man stepped down from the porch and took them. His hands were rough and worn from work, but clean. This lightened George’s heart somehow. This was a poor house in a rough terrain, but there was nothing wrong with being poor, and people knew how to live here, how to keep warm and fed, even during the depths of an endless winter.

“Thought so,” the man said, looking at the fistful of cash. “It’s that kid from the papers, isn’t it? Has to be. The Ellingham girl.”

George tilted his head noncommittally.

“Bet there’s more where this came from,” the man said, holding up the crumpled notes.

“You’ll be paid well.”

The man grunted. “You should have come sooner. Been a long time. You said a week or two.”

“We’re here now,” George said.

“She’s in the back.”

George went to walk up the stone steps, but the man shook his head.

“No, not in the house. She’s outside, out back. Come on.”

George looked out at the snowy field that stretched behind the house. A good place for a kid. A kid could build a good snowman out there. He could almost see her already, thumping through the snow, laughing. Maybe this had all been for the best. Maybe Alice had had a normal life here, a simple life. Maybe she had swum in a lake in the summer, picked apples in the fall.

“Bess liked having a kid around,” the man said, trapping through a half foot of snow.

George looked around at the smooth, pure snow. There were, he noted, no footprints.

“Where?” he said, scanning the area.

“Over there,” the man said somewhat impatiently. “By them trees.”

George began to walk faster, forgetting Jerry, who stumbled along with his hands bound behind his back, the coat slipping from his shoulders. Alice. Alive. Alice. Alive. Those words were so alike. She was here, playing. She was here, in the snow. She was . . .

There was no one by the tree.

George felt the rise of the panic and his reflexes kicked in. He pulled the gun from his waistband and spun in one move, hampered a bit by the snow packed around his ankles. How had he been so stupid? He had walked into a trap. This was a conspiracy, and George was about to be taken down.

And yet, when he faced the stranger and Jerry, there was no gun pointed at him.

“What’s going on?” he yelled. “Where is she?”

“I just told you,” the man said. “She’s here.”

“There is no one here.”

“Look down,” the man said.

George looked down at snow.

“It happened not two weeks ago,” the man said. “She got the measles. Marked her there, where the stone is.”

George saw it now—a stone. Not a headstone. Not even a marked stone. Just a rock, covered in snow.

“I told you, you shoulda come sooner,” he said. “Can’t do nothing with the measles. Kept her in the back. She was never gonna make it, kid like that. Kid was weak.”

George stared at the rock that marked his daughter’s grave.

“Did you get her a doctor?” he rasped.

“Couldn’t get a doctor out for that kid,” the man said dismissively. “Once we knew who she was.”

Once we knew who she was. George breathed in the freezing air evenly. He felt no cold.

“Get a shovel,” he said.