Thinner - Stephen King [41]
A thoughtful silence at Kirk Penschley's end as he digested this. Then: 'Well if there's anything I can do '
'There is something,' Billy said. 'Although it sounds a little Loony Tunes.'
'What's that?' His voice was cautious now.
'You remember my trouble this early spring? The accident?'
'Ye-es.'
'The woman I struck was a Gypsy. Did you know that?'
'It was in the paper,' Penschley said reluctantly.
'She was part of a a What? A band, I guess you'd say. A band of Gypsies. They were camping out here in Fairview. They made a deal with a local farmer who needed cash -'
'Hang on, hang on a second,' Kirk Penschley said, his voice a trifle waspy, totally unlike his former paid mourner's tone. Billy grinned a little. He knew this second tone, and liked it infinitely better. He could visualize Penschley, who was forty-five, bald, and barely five feet tall, grabbing a yellow pad and one of his beloved Flair Fineliners. When he was in high gear, Kirk was one of the brightest, most tenacious men Halleck knew. 'Okay, go on. Who was this local farmer?'
'Arncaster. Lars Arncaster. After I hit the woman
'Her name?'
Halleck closed his eyes and dragged for it. It was funny all of this, and he hadn't even thought of her name since the hearing.
'Lemke,' he said finally. 'Her name was Susanna Lemke.'
'L-e-m-p-k-e?'
'No P.'
'Okay.'
'After the accident, the Gypsies found that they'd worn out their welcome in Fairview. I've got reason to believe they went on to Raintree. I want to know if you can trace them from there. I want to know where they are now. I'll pay the investigative fees out of my own pocket.'
'Damned right you will,' Penschley said jovially. 'Well, if they went north into New England, we can probably track them down. But if they headed south into the city or over into Jersey, I dunno. Billy, are you worried about a civil suit?'
. 'No,' he said. 'But I have to talk to that woman's husband. If that's what he was.'
'Oh,' Penschley said, and once again Halleck could read the man's thoughts as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud: Billy Halleck is neatening up his affairs, balancing the books. Maybe he wants to give the old Gyp a check, maybe he only wants to face him and apologize and give the man a chance to pop him one in the eye.
'Thank you, Kirk,' Halleck said.
'Don't mention it,' Penschley said. 'You just work on getting better.'
'Okay,' Billy said, and hung up. His coffee had gotten cold.
He was really not very surprised to find that Rand Foxworth, the assistant chief, was running things down at the Fairview police station. He greeted Halleck cordially enough, but he had a harried look, and to Halleck's practiced eye there seemed to be far too many papers in the In basket on Foxworth's desk and nowhere near enough in the Out basket. Foxworth's uniform was impeccable but his eyes were bloodshot.
'Dunc's had a touch of the flu,' he said in answer to Billy's question - the response had the canned feel of one that has been given many times. 'He hasn't been in for the last couple of days.'
'Oh,' Billy said. 'The flu.'
'That's right,' Foxworth said, and his eyes dared Billy to make something of it.
The receptionist told Billy that Dr Houston was with a patient.
'It's urgent. Please tell him I only need a word or two with him.'
It would have been easier in person, but Halleck hadn't wanted to drive all the way across town. As a result, he was sitting in a telephone booth (an act he wouldn't have been able to manage not long ago) across the street from the police station. At last Houston came on the line.
His voice was cool, distant, more than a bit irritated. Halleck, who was either getting very good at reading subtexts or becoming very paranoid indeed, heard a clear message in that cool tone: You're not my patient anymore, Billy. I smell some irreversible degeneration in you that makes me very, very nervous. Give me something I can diagnose and prescribe for, that's all I ask. If you can't give me that, there's really no basis for commerce between us. We played some pretty good golf together, but I don't