“Meanwhile, Creed Lindsey’s got an old white pickup, a Ford. He’s known to drive the same road where the accident occurred, and he’s known to hit the package store on payday, which coincidentally was exactly when the kid got hit.” Marino’s eyes never stopped moving as he talked on and on. Wesley and I were getting increasingly restless.
“So when the cops want to question him, boom, he’s gone,” Marino continued.
“Don’t come back to the area for five damn weeks–says he was visiting a sick relative or some bullshit like that. By then, the friggin’ truck’s as blue as a robin’s egg. Everybody knows the son of a bitch did it, but they got no proof.”
“Okay.” Wesley’s voice commanded that Marino stop.
“That’s very interesting, and maybe this janitor was involved in the hit-and-run. But where are you going with this? ”
“Seems like that ought to be pretty obvious.”
“Well, it’s not, Pete. Help me out here.”
“Lindsey likes kids, plain and simple. He takes jobs that put him in contact with kids.”
“It sounds to me like he takes the jobs he has because he’s unskilled at anything but sweeping floors.”
“Shit. He could do that at the grocery store, the old folks’ home, or something. Every place he’s worked is full of kids.”
“Okay. Let’s just go with that. So he sweeps floors in places where children are. Then what?” Wesley studied Marino, who clearly had a theory he was not to be dissuaded from.
“Then he kills his first kid four years ago, and I’m sure as hell not saying he meant to do it. But he does, and he lies, and he’s guilty as hell and gets totally screwed up because of this terrible secret he carries. That’s how other things get started in people.”
“Other things?” Wesley asked very smoothly.
“What other things, Pete?”
“He’s feeling guilty about kids. He’s looking at’em every goddam day and wanting to reach out, be forgiven, get close, undo it, shit. I don’t know.
“But next thing his emotions get carried away and now he’s watching this little girl. He gets sweet on her, wants to reach out. Maybe he spots her the night she’s walking home from the church. Maybe he even talks to her. But hell, ain’t no problem to figure out where she lives. It’s a friggin’ small town. He’s into it now.” He took a swallow of tea and lit another cigarette as he talked on.
“He snatches her because if he can keep her with him for a while, he can make her understand that he never meant to hurt no one, that he’s good. He wants her to be his friend. He wants to be loved because if she’ll love him, she’ll undo the terrible thing he did back then. But it don’t go down like that. See, she’s not cooperating. She’s terrified. And bottom line is when what goes down don’t fit the fantasy, he freaks and kills her. And now, goddam it, he’s done it again. Two kids killed.” Wesley started to speak, but our food was arriving on a big brown tray. The waitress, an older woman with thick, tired legs, was slow serving us. She wanted everything to please the important man from out of town who was wearing a new navy blue suit.
The waitress said many yes sirs and seemed very pleased when I thanked her for my salad, which I did not plan to eat. I had lost any appetite I might have had before we arrived at the Coach House, which was famous for something, I felt quite sure. But I could not look at julienne strips of ham, turkey, and cheddar cheese, and especially not sliced boiled eggs. In fact, I felt sick.
“Would there be anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“This looks real good. Dot. You mind bringing a little more butter?”
“Yes, sir, it will be coming right up. And what about you, ma’am? Can I get you some more dressing maybe?”
“Oh, no, thank you. This is perfect the way it is.”
“Why, thank you. You folks are mighty nice, and we sure appreciate your visiting. You know, we have a buffet every Sunday after church.”