Читать книгу Murder on the Road Less Traveled - Robert W. Gregg - Страница 12

It was while she was waiting for Officer Byrnes to provide her with the information necessary to get to the Slocomb residence that she realized why she didn’t already have it. The Kennedys had never been to where he lived. He had made the agreement to take Martin on at their home, not his, and had subsequently picked him up there and brought him back on each of the few days before he disappeared.

Why, she wondered, had it worked that way? Logically, Slocomb would have wanted the Kennedys to see his place, the place where their son would be spending his days over the summer. And the parents should also have been interested in seeing Martin’s work site, especially in view of his problems. Why hadn’t they? Or had they, but chosen not to insist on it if Slocomb, for whatever reason, wanted to do it his way. Suddenly, ten minutes after the squad meeting, Carol had another reason why it was important that she meet and talk with Adolph Slocomb. And see where Martin had worked before he disappeared.

Byrnes appeared at her office door with a rough map sketch. Apparently, Slocomb didn’t live on any of the main roads or even close to the towns at the end of Crooked Lake’s arms.

“Sorry, Carol, but this isn’t exactly a triple A map. I didn’t bother to give you instructions to get to Southport or onto the east lake road. But once you’re up the hill as if you’re going to Watkins, I think you’ll find the going a bit more of a problem. I had to check with Parsons. He knows the back roads better than I do. Anyway, take a look at my rendition, and then ask me - or one of the other hilltop guys. Maybe you know the area; you grew up here, unlike me. Why anyone would choose to have a place off in the boonies like that, I don’t know.”

“There are people who think this whole area is the boonies, Tommy. Anyway, thanks for your help. If I get lost, I’ll call.”

“Who’s this guy Slocomb?”

“No idea. Or not much of one. A local family had a son working for him as a handyman, and then the boy went missing. I promised the family I’d look into it, and it seems as if I start by meeting him and seeing what he has to say.”

“Probably ran away,” Tommy suggested. “Run aways are hard to find until they get homesick.”

“Could be, but I suspect it’s more complicated than that. If you’re interested, I’ll let you know what I learn from this man Slocomb, assuming I find him.”

“You’ll find him. Just follow my map.”

Carol chose not to call Slocomb first. She’d gamble that he was at home, and if not at least she’d have found where he lives and thereby simplified the next trip. Locating the man who had hired Martin Kennedy proved to be more difficult than she had expected.

She had driven area roads enough that she was fairly sure she’d be in the general vicinity of Slocomb’s home within an hour after leaving Southport. In spite of the map and her earlier ride with Joe Reiger, she soon realized that unmarked dirt tracks frequently led off the bumpy, poorly maintained county road. Joe had not changed direction until he reached the crest of the hill, and it was three miles beyond that point that Tommy’’s map called for a right turn when he came to a post marked A.S. 2 m.

She had already gone two miles beyond Tommy’s three when she became convinced that she had missed her turn. There was no other traffic, which made turning around and retracing her steps easy. Finding A.S. 2 m. was harder. She soon found herself back at the crest of the hill where Reiger had turned north, and there had been no post at any of the dirt tracks she had passed. Fifteen minutes later Carol knew that all but two of the dirt tracks led to dead ends or only to ruined houses that obviously had not been lived in for years. Which meant either that Slocomb lived on one of the remaining tracks or Officer Byrnes had relied on misinformation.

Carol was soon on a rough washboard of a road that wound its way for several hundred yards until it came to an old house that didn’t look much better than the abandoned shacks on the other dirt tracks. She still didn’t know that this was where Slocomb lived, but it was obvious that somebody did. A pick-up truck which was much newer than the house and a large shed in front of it told her that. She hoped it was Slocomb’s; otherwise it would have been a wasted morning and a frustrated Officer Byrnes.

She parked near the shed and set off for the porch of the house, which looked as if it could collapse if buffeted by a strong wind. As she circled the shed, it became apparent that it was in fact a part of a sprawling pig pen, or, more accurately, a hog pen, because the six animals lying in its muddy interior between the shed itself and a large trough were much too large to be what she though of as pigs. The truth of the matter was that Carol didn’t know a pig from a hog, or whether there was a difference between them. But she assumed that Mr. Slocomb, or whoever lived here, was in the business of raising these dirty animals for slaughter and the market.

Her interest in the inhabitants of the pen was quickly replaced by the appearance on the porch of a bearded man wearing a dark rubber apron. He wasn’t fat, but he was definitely over weight. Porcine, not surprisingly, was the word that came to her mind.

“What is it that you want, Miss?” he asked. His voice was raspy, as if he were nursing a cold. His face was hard to read. Carol had the feeling, however, that he was not used to company and was probably not happy to see an officer of the law at his doorstep.

“I’m Carol Kelleher, the sheriff of this county, and I’m not sure exactly where I am. I’m looking for Adolph Slocomb. Is that you?”

The man on the porch coughed up some phlegm and spit it out.

“Sorry about that. Nasty sore throat. Yes, I’m Slocomb. Don’t have many visitors. What’s on your mind?”

“I was hoping to find you, have a talk. This place is hard to find, no mail box, no sign telling me whether there’s a house up this track or not. You must not have many neighbors.”

“That’s for sure,” he replied. “What is it you want to talk about?”

“It’s complicated. How about we go inside?”

Slocomb coughed again, thought about the sheriff’s question.

“As you wish. The house hasn’t been picked up in a few days. Why don’t you sit on the swing over there, give me ten minutes to put things in order.”

“That’s not necessary. All I need to do is ask a few questions.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want people to think I keep a rat’s nest.”

Carol wondered if Slocomb ever had company, and whether he made it a habit to pick up for such company as he did have.

“Well, of course. I’m the visitor. Do what you need to do, just don’t feel I need to be impressed.”

So this is Adolph Slocomb, she thought as he retreated into the house to make it presentable. Funny looking man, and a funny place for Martin Kennedy to have been working. She found herself wondering what he could have been doing to earn whatever Slocomb paid him. Based on what the Kennedys had told her, it seemed unlikely that he could have been much help with the hogs. What is it anyway that people have to do to raise hogs? In any event, she saw nothing else that justified a handyman. Maybe the inside of the house would provide the answer.

The straightening up of the interior took less than ten minutes.

“Okay,” Slocomb said. “It’s still no palace, but it will have to do.”

Carol followed him into a dark room that had a few places to sit plus a dining room table that still had some dishes on it. At least they were stacked neatly near what was apparently the door to the kitchen. There was no bookcase, much less any books, and the walls were bare. A thoroughly depressing place.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a chair which had seen better days but at least looked moderately comfortable. Once she was seated, he moved a dining room chair away from the table and straddled it. She had always hated it when men sat like this, but she hadn’t come to Slocomb’s home to find fault with his habits.

“Inasmuch as I’m the sheriff, I imagine that you know why I’m here,” she said, taking the conversational initiative. “A family named Kennedy has a son who has been working for you. The boy - his name is Martin - recently disappeared. I gather that you called them and reported him missing. His parents are understandably worried about him, and thought that perhaps I could help locate him. What can you tell me about Martin and his disappearance?”

Slocomb leaned forward as if he were having trouble hearing the sheriff.

“Not much,” he said. “The boy was with me for less than two weeks and then one day he suddenly wasn’t here. I’d picked him up at his parents’ place that morning - Monday, I think it was, and he went to work like he usually does. I had to go into town, and when I got back I called out his name and he didn’t answer. That didn’t surprise me much. He never talked a lot. So I went around the yard, the pen out there, places where he might be. No sign of him. It made no sense, so I drove around a bit, over toward the ravine and back to where Lew Guernsey’s road marks the end of my property. Never did find him. I called the Kennedy house, but they must have been at work. So I didn’t reach them until evening. I figured he’d just wandered off, gone home. But if he had, he wasn’t there.”

No, Carol thought, he almost certainly hadn’t gone home - too far, the route too difficult for someone with the problems the Kennedys had described.

“Did you leave Martin alone very often?”

“No. He was a strange boy. I didn’t worry much about what he’d do or where he’d go if I wasn’t around, but my business was here, not in Yates Center or Southport, or along the lake. I didn’t have many reasons for going into town, but that day was an exception.”

“What was it that Martin Kennedy did for you?”

Slocomb blew his nose into a large blue handkerchief which looked as if it badly needed a washing.

“Not much, really. He’d bring me coffee, clean up like I just did, once in a awhile help me lug things from the back room down to the pen. Oh, and pump water for the trough, sometimes the kitchen. He didn’t have the wits to do much, as the Kennedys probably told you.”

Carol didn’t wish to tell Slocomb what the Kennedys had told her about their son’s problems. But she was puzzled that he had taken this young man on and used him to do what he himself could almost certainly have done easily without help.

“If young Martin wasn’t able to be of much help, why did you hire him?”

“In the first place, I didn’t get many replies to my call for help. But frankly I felt sorry for him. And for his parents. I guess I thought maybe I could introduce him to the real world. And believe me, my hilltop is the real world, more so than any city, even a small city like Southport. I don’t suppose you see it that way, but I do. Always have. Any way, the boy seemed to like what he was doing. He did what he was asked, never complained. I can’t imagine what happened to him. Or why.”

“You say he was a good worker. Yet you said he was strange. Can you tell me more about that? What do you mean by strange?”

“I’m sure his parents told you he was retarded. Slow to understand what I was telling him, or asking him to do. Probably inherited. You know what I mean. And he had those funny features. Mongoloid, that’s the word.”

The more Slocomb talked about Martin Kennedy, the more Carol found it hard to picture the arrangement he had worked out with the boy and to understand how it had lasted for as long as it had. Unfortunately, she had never met Martin. Had she done so, his relationship with Slocomb might be easier to understand.

“Did Martin ever say anything that hinted that he might be contemplating running away?”

“Never. He always seemed happy, and I never pushed him to work harder, to do anything which might get him to think about quitting. Why, did his parents tell you something different?”

“No, they didn’t. They seem to be as puzzled as I am.” It was time to change the subject. “By the way, what is your job?”

“I thought that was obvious. I raise hogs, slaughter them, sell different cuts to stores in the area. It’s not a great living, but it lets me live up here where nobody can bother me.”

Carol assumed that, without saying so, Slocomb was hinting that her visit was beginning to bother him.

“So, Martin didn’t do much, but what he did he did well, or at least he followed instructions and didn’t cause you any trouble.”

“That’s what I said.” The hog raiser again sounded as if he were tiring of the sheriff’s questions.

“You seem to like it up here, nobody living close by. Although you did mention somebody named Guernsey. Do you ever see him or others who might be called neighbors? It’s occurred to me that somebody might have seen Martin. Have you asked around?”

“No, and why should I? Lew’s a quarter of a mile away, and there’s nobody on the other side, just a wide ravine that the boy wouldn’t dare try to cross. He tends to stick to the house and the shed unless I’m with him.”

Yes, of course, except that you weren’t with him the day he disappeared. Carol decided that she had had enough of Slocomb, a loner whose manner was becoming increasingly unpleasant.

“I think I should be heading for my next appointment.” Carol had no other appointment calling her away, but saying she did gave her an excuse to leave. Adolph Slocomb would be happy to have his privacy back. “I hope that young Mr. Kennedy reappears soon, for everybody’s sake. Here’s my card. Please give me a call if you find him or learn something which might explain what happened to him. In the meanwhile, thanks for your time. If I were you, I’d put up a sign telling visitors that this is the road to your house. As it is, you’re really hard to find.”

“I’ll be doing that, sheriff. Nice talking to you. But sorry I haven’t been more help.”

Carol considered suggesting that he may have been more help than he realized, but thought better of it. In the first place, it wasn’t true. In the second, it might unnecessarily put him on alert.