The Secret History - Donna Tartt [160]
“Let’s go,” said Francis, for the fourth or fifth time.
We were starting away at last when a strolling policeman stopped in front of our path. “Had enough?” he said, smiling, a big red-faced guy with a red moustache.
“I believe so,” said Henry.
“You kids know that boy?”
“As a matter of fact, we do.”
“No ideas where he might of went off to?”
If this was a movie, I thought, looking pleasantly into the pleasant beefy face of the policeman—if this was a movie, we’d all be fidgeting and acting really suspicious.
“How much does a television cost?” said Henry on the way home.
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to see the news tonight.”
“I think they’re kind of expensive,” said Francis.
“There’s a television in the attic of Monmouth,” I said.
“Does it belong to anyone?”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Well,” said Henry, “we’ll take it back when we’re finished with it.”
Francis kept watch while Henry and I went up to the attic and searched through broken lamps, cardboard boxes, ugly Art I oil paintings. Finally we found the television behind an old rabbit hutch and carried it down the stairs to Henry’s car. On the way over to Francis’s, we stopped by for the twins.
“The Corcorans have been trying to get in touch with you this afternoon,” said Camilla to Henry.
“Mr. Corcoran’s called half a dozen times.”
“Julian called, too. He’s very upset.”
“And Cloke,” said Charles.
Henry stopped. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to make sure that you and I hadn’t said anything about drugs when we talked to the police this morning.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I hadn’t, but I didn’t know about you.”
“Come on,” said Francis, glancing at his watch. “We’re going to miss it if you don’t hurry.”
We put the television on Francis’s dining room table and fooled around with it until we got a decent picture. The final credits of “Petticoat Junction” were rolling past, over shots of the Hooterville water tower, the Cannonball express.
The news was next. As the theme song died away, a small circle appeared in the left-hand corner of the newscaster’s desk; within it was a stylized picture of a policeman shining a flashlight and holding a straining dog back by a leash and, underneath, the word MANHUNT.
The newscaster looked at the camera. “Hundreds search and thousands pray,” she said, “as the hunt for Hampden College student Edmund Corcoran begins in the Hampden area.”
The picture shifted to a pan of a thickly wooded area; a line of searchers, filmed from behind, beat in the underbrush with sticks, while the German shepherd dog we had seen earlier laughed and barked at us from the screen.
“Where are you guys?” said Camilla. “Are you in there somewhere?”
“Look,” said Francis. “There’s that horrible man.”
“One hundred volunteers,” said the voice-over, “arrived this morning to help Hampden College students in the search for their classmate, who has been missing since Sunday afternoon. Until now there have been no leads in the search for the twenty-four-year-old Edmund Corcoran, of Shady Brook, Connecticut, but ActionNews Twelve has just received an important phone tip which authorities think may provide a new angle in the case.”
“What?” said Charles, to the television set.
“We go now to Rick Dobson, live on the scene.”
The picture switched to a man in a trench coat, holding a microphone and standing in front of what appeared to be a gas station.
“I know that place,” said Francis, leaning forward. “That’s Redeemed Repair on Highway 6.”
“Ssh,” somebody said.
The wind was blowing hard. The microphone shrieked, then died down with a sputtering noise. “This afternoon,” the reporter said, chin low, “at one-fifty-six p.m., ActionNews Twelve received an important piece of information which may provide a break for police in the recent Hampden missing-persons case.”
The camera pulled back to reveal an old man in coveralls, a woolen cap, and a greasy dark windbreaker. He was staring to the side in a fixed manner; his head was round and his face as bland and untroubled as a baby