Taking out car keys is a nonverbal way that people say, “I’ve gotta get out of here.” I do it all the time; sometimes I’ll take them out even if I haven’t driven to the meeting. A friend of mine has a Mercedes that doesn’t use keys; it will start for him just because it is able to identify his fingerprint. I would never get a car like that. How would I get out of meetings? By giving people the finger?
So Laurie makes her postcoital getaway, much as Rita Gordon did. I’m starting to feel like a piece of meat. There are worse feelings.
I put those humiliating thoughts aside for the time being, and Tara and I once again settle down to watch some television.
I’ve been sleeping for almost two hours, based on the clock, when there is another knock on the door. In my groggy state I figure it could be either the bellman or Laurie, and I’m so tired I’m not sure which one I’m rooting for.
I force myself out of bed and go to the door. When I open it, Laurie is standing there. The look on her face is not one of passion.
“Andy, something’s happened that you should know about.”
Her tone makes me instantly clearheaded. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“The Davidson house was firebombed.”
“Oh, shit. Who did it?”
“We don’t know yet,” she says. “Come on, I’ll tell you on the way.”
“On the way where?”
“To what’s left of the house.”
• • • • •
WHAT DO PEOPLE around here think about Jeremy? Do they think he did it?” I ask this because it’s quite likely that someone was getting revenge against Jeremy for his alleged crime by trying to destroy his house.
Laurie thinks for a few moments before answering. “I haven’t talked to many people about it, but I think it’s probably split down the middle. The ones who know him best can’t imagine him murdering anyone, but others… well, you know how it is. I’ve heard from a lot of angry people these last few days; when someone is charged with a crime, a lot of people assume that person is guilty.”
“Yes, I certainly know how that is.”
“And they usually are guilty,” she says.
We’re talking about an issue on which Laurie and I have always taken opposite sides. She’s an officer of the law, and I’m a defense attorney, so we have a naturally different point of view as to the guilt or innocence of the average accused. She says toh-may-toh and I say toh-mah-toh.
“But in this case he’s not.”
“Probably not,” she grudgingly admits. The ironic thing is that Laurie’s more convinced of Jeremy’s innocence than I am. “Andy, this is not a town full of vigilantes. I just can’t see people firebombing a house out of anger or frustration. People here are inclined to let the justice system run its course.”
“Of course, it just takes one who isn’t so inclined,” I point out.
She nods. “That’s true.”
“What about the Centurions?” I ask. “Are they the vigilante types?”
She looks quickly at me, surprised by the question. “Well, haven’t you been the busy boy.” Then, “I don’t know… they certainly do not have a history of violence. At least not one that I’m aware of.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“Not too much… although there were some newspaper articles written about them maybe five years ago. You might want to read them. But I do know that their town couldn’t be any more closed off from the world if they put up barbed wire. But they don’t really have to, because nobody wants to get in, and it sure seems like nobody wants to get out.”
“But Elizabeth Barlow was out,” I say. “She was out and going to college.”
She nods. “That’s true; I should have mentioned that. Some of them, mostly Elizabeth’s age, leave the community for training that they can only get in the outside world. That’s how they get their doctors, lawyers… Elizabeth was going to be a lawyer.”
“But they always go back?” I ask.
“As far as I know. It’s the way the community remains totally self-sufficient.”
“I met one of the members of their police force.”
She seems surprised by this but doesn’t probe. “It’s not really a police force; they’re not accredited by the state. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t know of any crime ever being committed there. We technically have jurisdiction over them, and they have access to the state police, as we do. But to my knowledge they’ve never called them or us. Not once.”
We arrive at the Davidson house, and it is still a busy place. The fire seems to have been extinguished, but I count four fire trucks, two state police cars, one Findlay police car besides Laurie’s, and an ambulance.
We get out, and Laurie leads me toward the house. It’s a one-story, ranch-style farmhouse, with a small building attached to it that looks like a barn but is apparently a guesthouse. That is where the firebomb landed, destroying about thirty percent of the place. Firemen are still applying water to the damaged area, but they have already won the battle.
Laurie introduces me to Lieutenant Cliff Parsons, who responded to the first emergency call and has been supervising what is a crime scene. I recognize his name because Calvin’s case file shows that he was the officer who arrested Jeremy. It’s not exactly a massive coincidence; there aren’t that many ranking officers in the Findlay Police Department.
Parsons is about my age, tall, well built, and good-looking, exactly the kind of guy I don’t want Laurie working with. To make matters worse, Calvin mentioned that he was once an Army Airborne Ranger. The closest I can come to that is that I used to watch The Lone Ranger, and I was sitting in the third row behind the goal when the Rangers won the Stanley Cup. Actually, when it comes to raw, physical courage, I’d like to have seen him try to fight through the crowds on the way out of Madison Square Garden that night.
Laurie asks Parsons to bring her up-to-date, but he hesitates, glancing at me. “Don’t worry,” she says. “He’s not a problem.”
“Stop,” I say, trying to control my blushing. “I’m no better than any of you.”
Parsons describes what they know so far, which is not a hell of a lot. An unknown person drove up and threw what amounts to a sophisticated Molotov cocktail at the house. It went through a window of the attached guesthouse, and the attacker apparently drove off immediately afterward.
Richard was home alone in the main house at the time. He called 911, and firemen were on the scene in just a few minutes. The damage is not nearly as great as it could have been, in both physical and human terms.
Parsons, it turns out, is the person in the department assigned to any trouble that may happen concerning Center City. It’s not exactly time-consuming for him, since no trouble is ever reported in Center City. But Laurie asks him my question concerning whether it’s likely that the Centurions are behind this.
Parsons’s response is to shrug. “Somebody did it. No reason it couldn’t have been them. It was their girls that got killed, so they certainly have the most reason to be pissed off.”
I see Richard Davidson standing with a woman at the end of the driveway, and I walk over to them. He introduces me to his wife, Allie.
I express my regrets at what happened and ask if they have any idea who might have done it.
“It has to be someone from Center City,” Richard says. “They blame Jeremy for the murders.”
“Might there be people in Findlay who do so as well?” I ask.
“No, people here know better,” is his quick response.
Allie shakes her head. “We don’t know that, Richard. We only know what people tell us; we don’t know what they are thinking.”
Richard turns to me. “You’ve got to help our son, Mr. Carpenter. Please… I’d like to say we can handle this on our own, but there’s no way.”