19.

THE CLEANUP OF THE ACCIDENT, the removal of the body, and the notification of the family took almost until midnight. When Frank finally fell into bed, his body yearned for sleep, but his mind raced. The driver of the truck had been one Dean Jacobson, nineteen years old, who lived with his grandfather in Verona and worked sporadically as a gas station attendant, chairlift operator, and golf course maintenance man. What could have made him run like that when Frank tried to pull him over? He had no criminal record, but his grandfather, although distraught, had seemed oddly unsurprised by the news of his grandson's death.

"He's been acting funny lately-just hasn't been himself," the older man had said when Frank broke the news. But he couldn't or wouldn't speculate on what the problem might be. He just kept shaking his head and sighing.

Frank wouldn't know anything to relieve his guilt until the state police picked apart what was left of the truck, and the medical examiner delivered the autopsy report. Finally he sank into an uneasy sleep.

Soon after the sun awakened him, Frank headed out to the Sarens home in Peru. The woman who answered the door looked a lot like the house itself-a little rundown, but trying to keep up appearances.

"I'm Frank Bennett from the Trout Run Police Department. I'm looking for a young woman-maybe your daughter-who drives a brown pickup, license plate number 63-48A."

Her face lost its small glimmer of welcome. "Why? What's she done?"

"Not a thing," Frank rea.s.sured her. "I just need to talk to her. She might be able to help me with an investigation."

"It's that no-good boyfriend of hers, isn't it? I warned her he was nothing but trouble, but she wouldn't listen. Now look at her."

"Who's there, Sh.e.l.ly?" a deep voice bellowed from inside the house.

"Just someone who needs directions," she answered. "You can find Diane at the bait shop-she helps out over there," she whispered to Frank. "Her dad don't want her driving our truck except to work-tell her to be more careful."

Diane Sarens was easy enough to spot-a pregnant teenager in a room full of fishing rods, flies, and coolers full of live bait. She sat at a table in the back, tying flies, her fingers still nimble even if her body was too unwieldy to move. Frank dropped into a chair beside her.

She glanced up. "Hi. You need something special? A c.o.c.ky knight, a dry blobby?"

"No, I'm not much of a fly fisherman. I don't like getting wet."

She smiled slightly and returned to her work, looping her thin, pale hair behind her ear.

"When is your baby due?"

Instinctively her hand dropped down and cradled her belly. "Soon."

"I saw you over in Trout Run on Sat.u.r.day. At the Rock Slide."

She looked at Frank quizzically. It seemed to register now that he was a cop.

"Yeah, so? My friend works there."

"You weren't talking to a friend when I saw you. You were talking to Dr. Galloway, out on the porch. Is he treating you? Providing prenatal care?"

Her eyes darted around the room. "Why?"

"Diane, you may have heard that a girl in Trout Run died giving birth to her baby outside the hospital. No one knew she was pregnant."

"Well, everyone sure knows that I am."

"She made a plan to give her baby up for adoption, but it wasn't a legal adoption agency. I think someone at the Cascade Clinic might have helped her, and taken the baby. Has anyone approached you about giving your baby up for adoption?"

Diane's eyes widened. She pushed back from her worktable so abruptly that it tipped right into Frank's lap, sending nippers, forceps, feathers, and fur scattering into every nook and cranny of the shop.

"Hey!" someone shouted from the front of the store.

By the time Frank got himself free, Diane had run out the door and was peeling out of the parking lot.

20.

FRANK SAT AT HIS DESK on Monday morning, creating a whirlpool in his coffee with a swizzle stick. He'd screwed up the encounter with Diane Sarens-the girl would never talk to him now. Belatedly, he'd called Trudy Ma.s.sinay for help. He should have thought of that before he went blasting off to Peru to scare the poor kid out of her wits. Trudy had promised to try to approach her, but she'd warned Frank there was not much she could do if the girl turned down her help.

He was tempted to go see Galloway again, but what would he gain? There was no crime in talking to a pregnant girl, and Galloway would claim it was an innocent encounter. And what did this latest development do to his theory that Galloway's was the mystery signature on the card in Mary Pat's car? He couldn't be both the baby's father and the link to Sheltering Arms, could he? Frank sighed and gulped down his coffee. He'd better just wait and see what Trudy turned up.

"Up to all hours. .h.i.tting the books?" Frank asked as Earl slunk to his desk at nine-thirty. Here was a distraction to take his mind off his problems.

"Uh, yeah." Earl cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. "Sorry I'm late."

Frank waited until Earl started filing reports before launching his next salvo. "I guess I've been replaced."

"Huh?"

"I hear you have a new study coach."

Earl turned the color of the sugar maple blazing outside their window. This was too much fun to stop. "All you get from me is a beer when you answer all the questions right. What does Melanie give you?"

"I happened to run into her at the Trail's End, and she asked me some of my questions. What's the big deal?" Earl shut the file drawer hard enough to bring down a shower of leaves from the terminally ill philodendron on top of the cabinet.

"Happened to run into her?" Frank grinned. "I thought you hated the food there."

"I thought you hated it, too. But I hear they practically had to sweep you out the door on Sat.u.r.day when you had lunch with Beth Abercrombie."

Frank's grin faded. He should have remembered that information flowed through Nick Reilly, the bartender, in both directions.

"That was business," he snapped.

A little smile played on Earl's lips as he booted up his computer. "I think Beth's kind of pretty...for an older person."

Frank knew when he'd been bested. "I have someone to see. I'll be back in an hour."

An older person! What the h.e.l.l was that supposed to mean? Frank gunned the patrol car and rolled out of the parking lot toward Harkness Road. He'd been meaning to talk to Doug Penniman again anyway.

No doubt everyone in town was getting a kick out of the show-almost as funny as watching Grandpa put the moves on a blue-haired lady at the nursing home. If he couldn't have one lunch with Beth without setting tongues wagging, how come no one noticed who was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with Mary Pat?

Obviously, because she never went out anywhere with him. That made Anita's theory that Mary Pat's lover was married look more likely. And Doug Penniman's schedule meshed perfectly with Mary Pat's-they both had some afternoons free, while Judy and Billy were reliably out of the way.

As he approached the Pennimans' house, he could see Doug's truck parked out front. Frank rang the bell, but no one answered. Probably Doug was asleep. Too bad-he leaned on the bell again.

A bleary-eyed Doug answered the door and stood staring at Frank as if he couldn't quite place him.

"Sorry to bother you." Frank made little effort at sincerity and stepped into the house before Doug had time to react. "There's something more I have to ask you about."

"Okay." Doug rubbed his eyes. "Want some coffee?"

"I never say no to that." Frank followed Doug back to the cheerless kitchen, where the breakfast dishes still sat on the table. The red light glowed on the half-full coffeepot. Pushing aside a bowl with a few soggy flakes in a puddle of milk, Doug presented Frank with a cup of stale coffee.

"Excuse me for mentioning this, but things between you and Judy seem a little"-Frank cleared his throat-"strained."

Doug shrugged. "All married couples have their ups and downs."

Frank stirred steadily, trying to break up the clots of sour milk that had risen to the surface of his coffee. "When things are down, it helps to have someone who's a good listener."

Doug rose and began pushing dishes into the sink with a clatter. "I keep my business to myself."

"I know you're under a lot of strain, having a handicapped son, and all," Frank said, still trying to convey that he wouldn't blame Doug for taking comfort with another woman.

Doug whirled around, his dark brows knotted together. "Don't you mention my family. Just ask me what you have to ask me and leave."

Frank felt as if he had cornered a wild animal that he didn't want to shoot. "Look, Doug, I'm not one to judge. But you are free during the day at times, and if you and Mary Pat..."

Doug looked baffled. "That's what this is about? You think I knocked Mary Pat up? Jesus, even I'm not that stupid." He began to laugh, an unpleasant sound that expressed something-bitterness? relief? At any rate, not humor.

By six forty-five the parish hall already buzzed with activity. The monthly meeting of the town council, normally attended by no more than five or six people, had attained rock-concert popularity. Scheduled for discussion: the rights and responsibilities surrounding public demonstrations in Trout Run.

Frank stepped through the door and paused. Early arrivals had reserved their places by draping their jackets over folding metal chairs, the setup of which Augie Enright had probably stretched into an all-afternoon job. Some of the older folks were sitting down, but most people stood around chatting in groups of three or four, waiting for the meeting to be called to order.

Standing off by themselves were Sean Vinson and a tall, tanned man with slicked-back hair. Must be Extrom himself. Was he taking an interest in local politics now that he was a property owner? Or did he consider Trout Run town council meetings part of the quaint local atmosphere he was paying so dearly for?

Frank took a deep breath and plunged into the crowd. He hadn't taken more than three steps before the a.s.sault began.

"Frank, could you please send Earl over to run the speed trap on Beaver Dam Road? The way cars go flying down there, that'll be the next place somebody nearly gets run down."

"Frank, any news on what happened to Mary Pat Sheehan's baby?"

"What a shock for poor Joe and Ann. I tell you, I took a ca.s.serole over there yesterday, and Ann and I just sat down and had a good cry together."

"Hey, Frank, got your gun loaded? You may need it tonight!"

"Only if these nuts are planning a protest over there, right, Frank?"

Frank answered every comment and request patiently, stretching his walk from the back of the room to the front into a ten-minute excursion. He finally arrived at the stage to find Reid Burlingame fiddling with the sound system, periodically sending earsplitting blasts of feedback through the room. As many times as the council chairman had addressed a crowd in this hall, he remained utterly baffled by the church microphone.

"Let me help you with that, Reid." With a few deft adjustments Frank saved half the population from permanent hearing loss as Trout Run's leader gratefully watched. Although electronically inept, Reid was quite sharp in every other way. Approaching seventy, he still practiced law from an office in his rambling old house. He took these meetings very seriously and had donned a natty, if venerable, suit for the occasion.

"Are the Fenstocks here, Frank? I like to begin promptly, but we can hardly get started without them."

Frank scanned the hall and noticed the sea of bodies parting to allow someone to pa.s.s up to the front. In a moment he recognized the short, portly form of Abe Fenstock muscling through the crowd. His two sons, Roy and Stan, trailed close behind.

"Go ahead, Reid, make the opening announcements," Frank said.

Seeing Reid approach the podium, people began to scurry to their seats, and soon everyone's eyes were fixed on the stage. To the left of Reid sat the Green Tomorrow contingent: Katie Petrucci, Meredith Golding, and the bearded Barry Sutter. Beth Abercrombie stood in the middle of the room behind a slide projector. To the right sat the three Fenstocks, each nervously shuffling his feet in antic.i.p.ation of the public speaking ordeal to come.

Reid was not one for long-winded introductions. "We're here tonight because of an incident that happened out at Raging Rapids five days ago. Some protesters-"

Immediately a buzz of conversation erupted in the hall. Reid rapped his gavel three times.

"Some protesters, who were exercising their const.i.tutional right to free speech, got a little carried away and blocked the driveway to Abe's business. Then a truck, which still hasn't been found, nearly ran down some of the protesters. This whole thing has clearly gotten out of hand. Reasonable people can disagree on an issue, and we ought to be able to discuss it without resorting to violence or breaking the law. So I've agreed to give both parties some time at the podium tonight to present their cases.

"Green Tomorrow has a little slide show for us. After that, we'll hear from Abe Fenstock. There will be plenty of time for questions at the end, so please don't interrupt our speakers. Go ahead, Mrs. Golding."

Reid sat down and Meredith Golding took his place behind the podium. She looked straight out into the crowd and spoke without any prepared notes in a clear, steady voice. But Frank noticed her long, slender hands, resting on the side of the podium, trembled slightly. "I think most of you are aware of our organization and its mission," she said. "Some people obviously thought that Green Tomorrow would die, along with its founder. But I want to say that my husband's death has made me more committed than ever to continue our work to preserve our natural resources for coming generations."

Beth, Katie, and a few other people, including Lucy Bates, applauded. Frank noticed Edwin reach out and take his wife's hand. He marveled that Meredith could talk about her husband's murder with such composure. He'd felt like crawling into a hole and shutting out the whole world after Estelle's death. But everyone dealt with grief differently. It wasn't fair to hold it against her that she wasn't a basket case.

"I know a lot of rumors have been circulating about why we want to close Raging Rapids," Meredith continued. "We're here tonight to clarify our position, and to answer any questions you may have."

Frank settled back in his hard, metal folding chair. This he wanted to hear.

"In a nutsh.e.l.l, we believe the Raging Rapids tourist attraction is destroying the fragile ecosystem of the rapids section of Stony Brook," Meredith began, "which is a habitat for several varieties of trout, many wildflowers, and blue heron and other rarer birds. We propose to dismantle the current system of catwalks and observation decks, and replace it with a carefully constructed hiking trail which would, of course, be open to the public free of charge." This was a jab at the $7.00 fee the Fenstocks charged for admission to Raging Rapids.

A murmur ran through the crowd-nothing so blatant as a boo, but distinctly unsympathetic.

"To pay for this, and to compensate Mr. Fenstock for his business, we have written a grant proposal seeking two million dollars from the State of New York."

Now the room burst into excited chatter. "Who says the state would give them the money?" "That's a fortune! I'd take it." "Not really, he'd have to pay taxes, and then how are Abe and the boys going to earn a living?"

Meredith raised her voice over the clamor. "I'd like to show you these slides, which I think clearly ill.u.s.trate why Raging Rapids should be closed." She nodded and Augie dimmed the lights, while Beth started up the projector.

"First, the concession stand at Raging Rapids promotes litter," Meredith said as a picture appeared of a solitary blue heron standing regally still while an M&M's wrapper swirled up against his spindly legs. Next, a slide of a dark-haired teenager throwing a soda can from one of the catwalks into the brook below flashed on the screen.

"That's probably your brother," someone called out, prompting laughter and scattered clapping in the darkened room. The slide proved nothing; it would be easy to set up the shot, Frank thought.

"More important," Meredith resumed, "the constant noise and traffic created by Raging Rapids is disrupting the habitat of the Bicknell's Thrush, a rare native bird whose numbers are declining at an alarming rate."

"Thrushes? There's plenty of thrushes around-I got some in my backyard!" someone shouted out.

"This is the Bicknell's Thrush," Meredith explained. "If its habitat continues to be destroyed, it will soon disappear altogether from the Adirondacks."

"So, we still got a ton a birds," a man next to Frank muttered. But he noticed that Ardyth Munger and Celia Lambert, both great bird-watchers, were sitting forward in their seats paying close attention. He looked back at Meredith Golding. He still hadn't heard her say anything that explained how Green Tomorrow got interested in Raging Rapids in the first place. He might just partic.i.p.ate in the question-and-answer period himself.