nondescript, forest-green, Ford four-door sedan. Illinois plates. White button-down shirt. Dark glasses. Motor running. He was intently writing something in a small black notebook. Then he abruptly pulled away. The bands in the automatic transmission sounded a little loose for such a new car. Down to the end of the block. Turned right. Gone.
I was just walking back to my own car when a girl pulled up on her racing bicycle. She wore black leather riding gloves, black latex racing shorts, and a white T-shirt inside of which bobbed merry little braless breasts. She was somewhere around eighteen, pretty in a freckled, prairie way. "You Mr. Woodson?"
"Afraid not."
"Oh. You work with Iris?"
"No. But I was looking for her."
"Me, too." She frowned. She had nice, long legs planted on either side of the bike on the cracked sidewalk. "I finally work myself up to telling her the truth and then she isn't even here when I stop by." She held out a gloved hand. We shook. "I'm Emily Cunningham, Sandy's cousin."
"Robert Payne. I am in town trying to find the truth about your cousin's death, though."
"Really?"
"Yes. I'm a psychological profiler ."
"Oh. Silence of the Lambs ."
"Something like that."
"'I had an old friend for dinner.' I love that line."
"That's a good one, all right." I wasn't sure if it was exactly verbatim but it didn't matter.
There was a breeze, carrying on it the heady smell of burning leaves. I thought of high school and football games and sitting in the stands with the girl who'd become my wife. All that sweet frantic necking in the backseat of the car later on, and a wolfed-down midnight pizza at Pizza Hut. Then more necking before she finally went in for the night. It was painful to confront my loss this way; and yet it was pain lined with pleasure.
"Are there really cannibals?"
"I'm afraid there are."
"You ever meet one?"
"Once. When I was with the FBI."
"Wow. You were with the FBI?"
I nodded.
"So how many people did he eat, the cannibal, I mean?"
I smiled. "Well, I don't think he ate whole people. Just little bits and pieces of them."
"You ever meet anybody who ate an entire person?"
"Not that I can think of."
She was a great kid. Cute and smart and curious, even if her curiosity did take a macabre turn here and there.
I said, "You think he did it?"
"Who?"
"Rick."
"Killed Sandy, you mean?"
"Uh-huh."
She looked at me. "Maybe."
I guess I was surprised she hadn't simply said yes. His history with Sandy. The blood on his hands.
"You think of anybody else who might've done it?"
"That's what Iris wants me to talk about."
"Somebody else you suspect, you mean?"
I could see her tense up. "You were really with the FBI?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Eleven years."
She watched me some more. "I still probably ought not to tell you anything."
"'Why not?"
"'Cause Iris'd get mad. She's got a terrible temper."
"She does, huh?"
"She got kicked out of court one day because she told the judge he was stupid." She checked her watch. "Well, I guess I'll ride over to Wal-Mart. I need to get some stuff. Then I'll stop back here."
"She left a note. She's supposed to be back in half an hour."
"Well, if you see her first, just tell her Emily Cunningham stopped by."
"Any other message?"
She smiled. "You just want to know what I want to tell her, don't you?"
"I sure do."
"We'll have to talk some more about cannibals sometime."
"I can't wait."
She looked at me and said, "Tell her I want to talk to her about Sandy's dad. And that baby picture. She'll know what I mean." Then she was gone.
I spent two hours in the library reading about Paul Renard and the asylum fire. The librarian, a sweet-faced woman with a slow, sad smile, said that this was the most exciting story in all of Brenner's history. She said she could remember seeing Paul Renard when she was a young girl and that he'd been quite handsome. She then gave me what she referred to as the " Renard File."
Renard had been a local boy of great means.
I was just walking back to my own car when a girl pulled up on her racing bicycle. She wore black leather riding gloves, black latex racing shorts, and a white T-shirt inside of which bobbed merry little braless breasts. She was somewhere around eighteen, pretty in a freckled, prairie way. "You Mr. Woodson?"
"Afraid not."
"Oh. You work with Iris?"
"No. But I was looking for her."
"Me, too." She frowned. She had nice, long legs planted on either side of the bike on the cracked sidewalk. "I finally work myself up to telling her the truth and then she isn't even here when I stop by." She held out a gloved hand. We shook. "I'm Emily Cunningham, Sandy's cousin."
"Robert Payne. I am in town trying to find the truth about your cousin's death, though."
"Really?"
"Yes. I'm a psychological profiler ."
"Oh. Silence of the Lambs ."
"Something like that."
"'I had an old friend for dinner.' I love that line."
"That's a good one, all right." I wasn't sure if it was exactly verbatim but it didn't matter.
There was a breeze, carrying on it the heady smell of burning leaves. I thought of high school and football games and sitting in the stands with the girl who'd become my wife. All that sweet frantic necking in the backseat of the car later on, and a wolfed-down midnight pizza at Pizza Hut. Then more necking before she finally went in for the night. It was painful to confront my loss this way; and yet it was pain lined with pleasure.
"Are there really cannibals?"
"I'm afraid there are."
"You ever meet one?"
"Once. When I was with the FBI."
"Wow. You were with the FBI?"
I nodded.
"So how many people did he eat, the cannibal, I mean?"
I smiled. "Well, I don't think he ate whole people. Just little bits and pieces of them."
"You ever meet anybody who ate an entire person?"
"Not that I can think of."
She was a great kid. Cute and smart and curious, even if her curiosity did take a macabre turn here and there.
I said, "You think he did it?"
"Who?"
"Rick."
"Killed Sandy, you mean?"
"Uh-huh."
She looked at me. "Maybe."
I guess I was surprised she hadn't simply said yes. His history with Sandy. The blood on his hands.
"You think of anybody else who might've done it?"
"That's what Iris wants me to talk about."
"Somebody else you suspect, you mean?"
I could see her tense up. "You were really with the FBI?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Eleven years."
She watched me some more. "I still probably ought not to tell you anything."
"'Why not?"
"'Cause Iris'd get mad. She's got a terrible temper."
"She does, huh?"
"She got kicked out of court one day because she told the judge he was stupid." She checked her watch. "Well, I guess I'll ride over to Wal-Mart. I need to get some stuff. Then I'll stop back here."
"She left a note. She's supposed to be back in half an hour."
"Well, if you see her first, just tell her Emily Cunningham stopped by."
"Any other message?"
She smiled. "You just want to know what I want to tell her, don't you?"
"I sure do."
"We'll have to talk some more about cannibals sometime."
"I can't wait."
She looked at me and said, "Tell her I want to talk to her about Sandy's dad. And that baby picture. She'll know what I mean." Then she was gone.
I spent two hours in the library reading about Paul Renard and the asylum fire. The librarian, a sweet-faced woman with a slow, sad smile, said that this was the most exciting story in all of Brenner's history. She said she could remember seeing Paul Renard when she was a young girl and that he'd been quite handsome. She then gave me what she referred to as the " Renard File."
Renard had been a local boy of great means.
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