The Night Swim(30)

“Does Rick still work here?” she asked the cashier.

“Don’t know any Rick,” the attendant said, without looking up from his phone. He shoved across a credit card machine so that she could pay for the gas.

“He owned this gas station, or worked here a few years ago,” Rachel said as she swiped her credit card. More like a few decades, she thought.

“Never heard of him,” said the attendant, still looking at his phone.

“Would someone else here know him?”

The attendant looked up. “Know who?”

“Rick. The man who used to work here,” said Rachel, swallowing her irritation.

The attendant rolled his eyes. “Try Sally Crawford. Her house is about a mile that way.” He jabbed his finger in the direction of town. “First house after the empty block. She’s been around for—ev—er,” he said, stretching out the syllables as if it was a curse word. “If Rick worked here, she’d know.”



* * *



Sally Crawford’s house was a single-story home with a ramshackle appearance from several additions built over the years. The lawn was overgrown with long grass and weeds, which also poked out through the packed dirt of the driveway. On the front lawn was a rusty old camper van and a boat hidden under a mildewed canvas cover. Rachel heard dogs barking in the back garden as she walked down the driveway toward the front door.

Rachel pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. She could see light through the frosted hall window and hear enough noise to tell her that people were home. She pressed the bell again, holding her thumb against it for a couple of seconds longer than necessary.

The door swung open to reveal a man in his early twenties, holding an open beer bottle. He wore shorts. No shirt. He had long hair and a scraggly beard.

“You’re not here to sell face cream or some other shit, are you?” he asked Rachel.

“I’m not selling anything. I’m here for a quick word with Sally. It’s kind of private,” said Rachel, trying to give the impression that she knew Sally so that he would let her inside.

He grunted and turned around, walking back up the hall, leaving Rachel to make her own way inside. When Rachel reached the kitchen, she saw a woman she assumed was Sally. She was a large woman with bright red hair and she was standing behind the kitchen counter cutting watermelon with a stainless-steel butcher’s knife. Her son was using his elbow to open the sliding doors to the back garden, where a group of people were standing around by a barbecue.

“Luke said you want to discuss something,” said Sally, without looking up as she cut the melon.

“I was told you might be able to help me with information on the town’s history,” said Rachel.

Sally looked up at Rachel, taking in Rachel’s wild hair and windblown appearance. “You look like you’ve been out sailing in gale-force winds,” she said.

“I was at Morrison’s Point before I came here.”

“It’s not smart to go there at night. The town’s garbage hangs out there when it’s dark. Vagrants. Addicts. I see syringes there all the time when I take the dogs for a run on the beach on Sunday mornings,” said Sally. She cut the watermelon into slices as she spoke, using her whole ample body weight to get the blade through the thick dark green rind of the melon.

“There was a man on the jetty with scars on his face. He scared the heck out of me. Do you know who he is?” Rachel asked.

“Sounds like it’s that homeless man I’ve told the cops about,” muttered Sally. “Heard he drops his crab pots off the jetty at night. He’s not supposed to,” she said, glancing at Rachel. “He’s dangerous. Unstable. Cops should have gotten rid of him the second he moved here a couple of years back. They’ve gone soft,” she said to herself as she tossed cut watermelon slices on an oversized plate. She added abruptly: “You said you wanted information on the town’s history What exactly did you want to ask? I don’t have much time. We’re going to eat soon.”

“I’m looking for the guy who used to run the gas station at the Old Mill Road,” said Rachel. “His name is Rick. I don’t know his family name.”

“I know who you mean,” said Sally. “He sold to one of those franchise chains a good few years ago. Heard he lives in an old people’s homes now. What do you want with him?”

“His name came up in a letter about a girl who grew up here. I was told that Rick might have known her.”

“I worked at the elementary school for over twenty years. I bet I know better than Rick. What’s her name?”

“Hannah Stills,” said Rachel.

“Sure, I remember her.” Sally put down the knife on the cutting board. “She was a quiet little thing with long brown hair and sad eyes. Lost all her family within a month. Wouldn’t talk afterward. They brought in a psychologist, but she refused to say a word. Not a sound. After that she left town,” she said. “Foster care,” she added ominously.

“Where did you hear that?” Rachel asked.

“Rumors,” Sally said cagily “There was no family to take care of her once her sister Jenny drowned and the cancer took her mother.”

“I heard the mother believed that Jenny was murdered. That it wasn’t a drowning.”