The Rag and Bone Shop Read online

  The day before the incident in the cafeteria Jason had seen Bobo Kelton, during the change of classes, walk right up to Rebecca Tolland, who had stopped by her locker. He pushed his body against hers. He whispered something in her ear and Rebecca shook her head in shock and anger. Bobo drew away, then reached out and actually pinched her chest. Tweaked one of her small breasts. It all happened in a few seconds as students rushed by, too intent on hurrying to the next class to notice what was going on. Jason watched as Bobo walked away, leaving Rebecca standing there, pale and trembling. Hearing the warning bell, Jason went off, heart pounding with fury, knowing that Bobo would probably get away with what he’d done. Jason doubted that Rebecca would report the incident and he was right.

  The next day, Bobo pushed Jason lightly from behind as they stood in line in the cafeteria. Whirling around, Jason pushed Bobo back, shoving both hands against his chest. Bobo stepped back, surprise on his face. Remembering what Bobo had done to Rebecca and all his other mean stuff, Jason hit Bobo with his clenched fist, astonishing himself as well as Bobo. Blood spurted from Bobo’s nostrils as he fell backward, landing on his butt with a howl of pain.

  Looking up at Jason as he wiped the blood from his face, he cried out: “What did you do that for?” Like a little boy, his own chin wobbling. Jason was swept with a thrilling sense of triumph and stood there grinning. Bobo was taken to the dispensary and Jason was ushered to the principal’s office and made to sit alone for the next two periods. Finally, Mr. Hobart, the principal, called him into his office and made a speech. About violence and how it did not solve problems. And how unprovoked violence was the worst kind of all. Unprovoked? Jason knew immediately what the word meant, although he had never heard it before. “A slight push which may have been accidental from a fellow classmate does not warrant that kind of retaliation,” Mr. Hobart said. Jason knew he could not tell him what he had seen Bobo do to Rebecca Tolland because that would only embarrass Rebecca. Jason listened to Mr. Hobart going on about violence and the uselessness of revenge and he nodded, but all the time, he was happy. He had done something. He had taken action. He had socked Bobo Kelton. Given him a bloody nose. He didn’t think he’d ever hit anybody again but he had proved himself capable of doing it. And at that same moment, in Mr. Hobart’s office, letting the principal’s words fill the air but not his ears, he vowed never to cry again. He wasn’t sure of the connection between hitting Bobo Kelton and not crying anymore but it was there, all right.

  The incident did not change his life. Rebecca Tolland did not rush into his arms like she’d have done if this had been a movie. In fact, she ignored him, as usual. He was still timid and hated to answer questions in class. His classmates looked at him curiously for a day or two but nobody passed any remarks, didn’t cheer for him but didn’t boo him, either. Bobo steered clear of him. Jason still ate alone, mostly, in the cafeteria or silently when at a table with other guys. Sometimes Danny Edison, another outsider, sat next to him but they didn’t say much of anything to each other.

  But Jason had not cried since that day. No tears on his cheeks or quivering chin. Until now, in his room, thinking of what happened to Alicia Bartlett and his chin wobbling all over the place.

  He turned away as Emma entered the room, not knocking as usual, which sometimes irritated him, but he was glad for her appearance now. He composed himself, got his chin under control as he heard her say: “Too bad about Alicia Bartlett.” Pause, then: “You okay, Jason?”

  He nodded, looking out the window.

  “You liked her a lot, didn’t you?”

  Jason nodded again, watching a police cruiser driving slowly along the street. He craned his neck, watching its progress.

  “Didn’t you always help her with her jigsaw puzzles?” Emma asked.

  Jason watched the cruiser make a U-turn three houses away.

  “I didn’t really help her. She was real good with the puzzles. But I got a kick out of her.”

  “I didn’t really like her,” Emma said.

  Jason turned to her in surprise because Alicia had always reminded him of Emma.

  “Oh, I know you’re supposed to say good things about someone who dies. But I thought she was a pain in the neck. Always acted like she was better than anyone else. Always wore those dresses. And she was only seven years old, for criminy’s sake.”

  Jason looked at Emma as if he had never seen her before. But maybe she was right. Alicia got on his nerves sometimes. She could be moody, didn’t feel like talking on certain days, and sent him home once, saying she wasn’t in the mood for company. But most of the time he was amused by her little-old-lady ways and she listened to what he had to say, which was more than he could say for a lot of other people.

  “But I’m sorry she had to die. In that horrible way,” Emma said.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Jason said.

  “Do you think I’m horrible? For saying what I just said about her?”

  Emma looked as if her own chin was going to begin wobbling and her eyes suddenly glistened as if hidden tears were forming.

  “No,” Jason said, afraid that he, too, would start crying.

  That was when he heard the doorbell ring.

  A moment later, his mother came to the door and said a police detective wanted to talk to him about Alicia Bartlett’s murder.

  The last person to see Alicia Bartlett alive?

  Except for the murderer, of course, Detective Lieutenant Braxton quickly added.

  Jason felt himself recoil, as if someone had punched him in the stomach, like the time when he’d collided with Rod Pearson in a game of touch football and had the breath knocked out of him. He had gasped for air, just as he did now, relieved as air rushed into his lungs, not like that other time, lying on the ground, waiting to suffocate and die.

  The detective fastened his black eyes upon Jason. His face was thin, as if his flesh had been pulled taut from the back of his head. His eyes were bloodshot. He had refused the cup of tea Jason’s mother had offered with an abrupt “Sorry, Mrs. Dorrant. Time is really a factor and I have some important questions for Jason.” Turning to Jason, leaning forward, he had said: “I want you to be real careful, Jason, and tell me everything you remember about that last visit with Alicia.”

  Later, Jason realized that he hadn’t told the detective exactly what had happened the afternoon Alicia had died. Not that he had lied. He had told the truth. Under the detective’s double-barreled gaze and his rapid-fire questions, Jason had answered as best he could. But he had never been questioned by a detective before and had never had a friend murdered before. The detective also seemed so impatient as he asked his questions that Jason was relieved when he was able to give quick answers.

  For instance, when the detective had asked if everything had been normal at Alicia’s house that afternoon, Jason had answered unhesitatingly, “Yes.” Because everything had been normal. Alicia had been fussing and fuming about the jigsaw puzzle as usual, even though she was a whiz at placing the pieces in the right spot. Her brother, Brad, had been a pain in the butt, also as usual, jumping around the swimming pool, pushing and shoving his buddies Greg Chavin and Marv Galehouse, a lot of yelling and screaming. Once in a while, Brad leaped out of the pool, shaking water off his body like a big dog, almost dousing the puzzle, trying to get a rise out of Alicia. Nothing new about that. Brad tried to get a rise out of everybody, although he had spared Jason that particular afternoon. Frankly, Brad was obnoxious. Never sat still. He’d give little pushes to your chest with the flat of his hand as he talked to you, even when he was being friendly. And that was why Jason told the detective that everything was normal that afternoon.

  The detective then asked a follow-up question that sounded to Jason like the same question asked in a different way.

  “Did Alicia seem upset about anything?”

  Jason thought a moment. “Well, she was having trouble with the jigsaw puzzle. It was a hard one, with, like, a thousand pieces. A big red bird, a cardinal.”<
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  He told the detective that Alicia had set up a card table on the patio not far from the pool. That was why she had to keep yelling at Brad to stop splashing water all over the place. She’d already filled in the edges of the puzzle, which was the easy part. All the other pieces looked alike to Jason.

  The detective looked up from his notebook and shook his head, and Jason could tell he was getting impatient with these details.

  “She finally got mad at the puzzle and knocked the pieces off the table, sent them all over the patio,” Jason said.

  “Did she seem upset about anything other than the puzzle?”

  “Well, Brad kept teasing her but he was always teasing her. And everybody else, too.”

  The detective said nothing. Sat there looking at Jason until Jason began to squirm a bit. He wished he could come up with some big clue to satisfy the detective but there was no big clue that Jason knew of.

  “What time did you leave Alicia?” the detective asked.

  Jason hesitated. He hadn’t been wearing his watch. He never wore a watch during summer vacation because time didn’t seem important. “I’m not sure. A few minutes after Brad and his buddies left. I helped Alicia pick up the pieces of the puzzle and we took them and the card table into the house. She offered me a glass of lemonade but I could see she was still not in a very good mood and I came home.”

  “Did you check the time when you arrived home?”

  “Yes,” Jason said, pleased to be able to come up with a piece of definite information. “I remember the clock in the front hall striking four as I came in.”

  “How long did it take you to arrive home from Alicia’s house?”

  Jason shrugged. “Four or five minutes. She lives right down the street.”

  Lived, not lives, Jason corrected himself. And the fact of Alicia’s death struck him again, but he was determined to hold himself in check, made himself sit stiffly erect.

  “See anything suspicious on the street as you walked home?”

  “Actually, I didn’t walk on the street. I went through the backyards.” Proud of himself for being in control. “And I didn’t see anybody.”

  “Alicia was alone in the house when you left?”

  “Right. She was headed for the kitchen for lemonade when I said ’See you later.’ And came home.”

  “You said you arrived home at four o’clock. Was anybody else home?”

  “No. My mother and sister came home about . . .” He turned to his mother for help.

  “Emma and I arrived almost at the same time,” his mother said. “Oh, maybe about five or so . . .” She hesitated, frowning. “Why are all these questions so important, Detective?”

  “Everything’s important, Mrs. Dorrant. And especially Jason’s information. We haven’t found anyone else who saw her after Jason left her at her house. By tracking Jason’s movements and making some kind of timetable, we can trace Alicia’s movements. For instance, now we know that Alicia was alone in her house at about four o’clock, when Jason left.”

  They all sat in silence for a while. Jason glanced at Emma, saw her eyes bright with interest. She had started writing a detective story awhile back and this would provide her with firsthand material.

  “Anything else you can tell us, Jason?” the detective asked.

  Jason shook his head.

  The detective closed his notebook with a snap. All his movements were quick, without wasted effort. “If you think of anything, let us know,” he said, rising to his feet.

  After he’d left, Jason’s mother told him he had done just fine answering the detective’s questions. “I know what a strain this must be,” she said, touching his cheek.

  Heading for his room, Jason wondered whether he had really done just fine, like his mother had said. He flung himself on the bed, trying to sort out his thoughts, trying to recapture exactly what had happened that afternoon. What hadn’t he told the detective, and was any of it important, after all?

  What he hadn’t told: that he wondered whether Alicia was upset about more than the puzzle that afternoon and whether Brad was involved somehow.

  He remembered how Alicia kept looking at the pool and yelling at Brad to quiet down. “How the hell can I concentrate with all that noise?” she had yelled.

  Hell sounded foreign on her lips. Hell wasn’t exactly a swearword but it was kind of a shock coming from Alicia, who was a proper, dainty little girl.

  “What’s the matter, Alicia?” Jason had asked. “Are you mad about something?”

  “No more than usual,” she’d said, pointing with her chin at Brad and his friends. “He gets my dander up.”

  Jason shook his head in admiration and affection. Dander. A grandmother kind of word. That was why he got such a kick out of Alicia. She acted like a little old lady sometimes, as if she’d been born in an earlier time. When most kids spent hours on the Internet, she did jigsaw puzzles. She wore dresses most of the time and was seldom seen in pants or shorts even on hot days. She scolded Brad as if she were his big sister, not his kid sister.

  Jason closed his eyes now, remembering how he and Alicia had worked on the puzzle together while trying to ignore the antics going on at the pool. Alicia finally hit her stride and began to place a series of pieces in their proper slots, although she continued to frown and scold.

  Brad and his buddies finally abandoned the pool and toweled themselves off in the sun. Brad wandered over to the patio and stood silhouetted against the sun.

  “What would happen, Alicia, if I accidentally tripped and knocked that card table over?” Deliberately stressing the word accidentally.

  Alicia gave him a withering look. “Haven’t you done enough damage today already?” she said in a voice as cold as an icicle, not a kid sister’s voice at all.

  Brad just stood there, the sun at his back, his face in shadow so that it was impossible to read his expression.

  Alicia continued to stare at him as if waiting for a response. “Right?” she said, spitting the word out.

  Brad turned away abruptly and joined his friends. The next time Jason looked up they were gone, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

  Alicia muttered something under her breath.

  “What did you say?” Jason asked.

  “You wouldn’t want to know,” she said. And that was when she swept her hand across the table and sent the pieces of the puzzle flying in all directions.

  She sat there a minute looking at the scattered pieces. Jason thought she was going to cry. Instead, she said: “I’m tired of doing puzzles. Let’s get a cold drink. Mom made some lemonade.”

  Her lips were trembling and her hands shaking.

  Jason’s own lips were trembling now as he opened his eyes and stared at the smoke alarm on the ceiling. Should he have gone into all those details with the detective? Or were Alicia and Brad just having another one of their squabbles? Brother-and-sister stuff. Would he have looked stupid if he had told the detective about it and it had turned out to be nothing at all? He had looked stupid too many times in his life. Anyway, did it all really matter? With Alicia dead, that overwhelming knowledge giving him shivers, what did an argument amount to, anyway? Brad was probably sadder than anybody on earth right now, thinking of the lousy way he had treated his sister the day she died. The day she was murdered. Poor Brad, Jason thought. But most of all, poor Alicia.

  He didn’t try to stop the tears this time. But no tears came. His eyes were dry. And that seemed even worse than crying.

  Alvin Dark asked: “What do you have?”

  “A suspect,” Braxton said.

  “What else?”

  “A senator who’s driving me up a wall. Press and television asking questions I can’t answer. A section of town up in arms, that’s going to be mad as hell if I . . . we . . . don’t come up with something.”

  The district attorney didn’t appear sympathetic as he sipped his coffee. But he did appear relaxed and at ease. Why not? He had managed to abandon headquarters for a fe
w hours of sleep.

  “But you have a suspect,” Dark said. Sarcastic? Taunting?

  “And a gut feeling.” Braxton realized the statement probably sounded pathetic but his gut feelings had paid off in the past. And Alvin Dark knew it.

  But Dark wasn’t giving an inch. “Gut feelings don’t hold up before grand juries,” he said. “Or in courtrooms. You know what we need.”

  “Right,” Braxton said, feeling like a schoolboy and resenting the hell out of the fact that Dark, two years younger, made him feel like a schoolboy. “Physical evidence.”

  “Don’t you have anything to link the suspect to the crime?” Dark asked. Then, wryly: “Besides that gut feeling.”

  “Gut feelings have worked in the past. The evidence came later.”

  “But can you afford to wait till later?”

  “What we really need is a confession,” Braxton said tentatively.

  “From your suspect.” Again that touch of sarcasm?

  Time for the big move, Braxton thought. And here goes.

  “There’s an interrogator by the name of Trent. Operates out of a small department up in Vermont. Has quite a reputation. They say he can get blood out of a stone.”

  “His name sounds vaguely familiar,” Dark said. “Tell me more.”

  “He conducts seminars all over the place. Answers calls throughout the Northeast. He likes interesting cases. Challenges.”

  “What makes you think he’ll come here?”

  “Gibbons,” Braxton said. “Gibbons is a law-and-order man. Influential. Chairman of important Senate committees. Someone to hitch your star to. I understand Trent is an ambitious man. I think we can use the senator as bait.”

  Alvin Dark sipped his coffee. Slowly, deliberately. “I don’t like outsiders coming in,” he said at last.

  “This man’s uncanny,” Braxton said, doing a sales job. “Part of a new breed of interrogators, trained to extract confessions. He never fails.”

  Dark was silent, made a great show of finishing his coffee, dabbing his lips with the napkin. He swiveled his chair toward the window. “He’s out there. The perp. Killer of a child. Whether he’s your suspect or not. That’s what bothers me, having a killer out there.”