The Price Of Silence. Kate Wilhelm

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СКАЧАТЬ maybe a glass of wine, to wait for Seth. He’s still at the station. When he comes we’re off to Bend, have a bite to eat, and see a movie. Our big night on the town.”

      Perfect, Todd thought in satisfaction. She couldn’t have arranged things better. They walked to the motel café with Jan chatting about her friends from Portland. They were both sipping chardonnay when Seth joined them.

      The waitress was at his heels. He ordered a draft beer and sat next to Jan in the booth. “How are things?” he asked Todd.

      “Pretty quiet,” she said. “Any news about Jodie Schuster?”

      He shook his head. “The chief said I’m not to talk to you about that.”

      “I know. He gave me the bum’s rush when I asked him about her. What do teenagers do around here for fun? You guys can take off to see a movie, but what about kids too young to drive? What do they do?”

      “They drive,” Seth said. “Pile in one of their dad’s trucks, take shotguns out on the desert and shoot jack rabbits or coyotes. Sheriff business,” he added. He sounded bitter and defensive.

      The waitress brought his beer and after she left, Jan said, “I’ve heard that years ago, when Lisa was home on a visit, she was full of ideas about building a theater here, to show first-run movies and have a film festival every summer. Like Sundance. I wish she’d done it. Going up to Bend to see a show is a drag, and like you said, the young kids can’t do it alone.”

      Todd told them about her plan to try to raise interest in a youth center. “I’d need local stuff. You know, the kids who have taken off from here, their families. Like that,” she said. “Ollie won’t give me the time of day, but, Seth, you could help.”

      His big open face took on a blank expression.

      “What I want,” Todd said, “is a list of the runaway kids over the past ten to fifteen years. Names, how old they were, how the cases were resolved. I won’t use names, but I’d try to interview some of them who have come back, get their side of the story. Why they took off, things of that sort. It isn’t just about Jodie. It’s runaways in general.”

      He shook his head. “No can do. Not without authority, which I have as much chance of getting as a snowball in you know where.”

      “Yes, you can,” Jan said, leaning forward. “You’re alone in the station half the time. There’s a copy machine. Take out a file, make a copy, put it back. You don’t even have to hand anything over to Todd. I’d do that.”

      “I can’t be forced to reveal any source of information,” Todd said. “Unwritten law of journalism. Confidentiality of sources. Holy writ or something.”

      Even as Seth began to shake his head again, Jan said fiercely, “God, it’s a chance to shake up these zombies. It’s like being in a town of Stepford people, men and women, all Stepford zombies.”

      “We could make a difference, Seth. Think about it.” As she spoke, Todd realized their waitress was hovering nearby. Todd finished her wine and pushed back her glass. Raising her voice slightly, she said, “Well, I’m off, shopping to do.”

      The waitress began to move away as Todd pulled a five-dollar bill from her purse and stood up, saying, “Have fun at the movies.” She put the money on the table, nodded at the waitress and left.

      Had the waitress been listening in? How much had she heard? Todd doubted that her own voice had carried, but Jan’s might have. And did it matter?

      

      Ruth Ann’s eyes were tired that night. It was nearly eleven when she finished the last diary and put it back in its box. She had put several items aside for possible inclusion in her history, and now had only two packets of letters left to look through, and she would be finished with Louise’s box. Most of the material she had collected so far had been for human interest, nothing really newsworthy, except for some of the early photographs. She regarded the packets of letters with mounting impatience. Skip them and go on to bed, she told herself, but she wanted to be done with all this material. With a sigh she picked up the first of the letters.

      More violet ink on stationery that had become brittle and an ugly tan. It was dated July 7, 1888, and signed “your loving daughter Mary.” Skimming it, Ruth Ann realized with a start that Mary had been on her honeymoon with Raymond McCormack in Portland, and the letter was all about the magnificent fireworks display they had watched. She smiled faintly at the thought of writing to her mother while on her own honeymoon in San Francisco. She had written a postcard, and had handed it to her mother on her return.

      She skimmed the second letter, this one about a paddle-wheel boat ride. The third one stopped her when she saw the name Hilliard. She backed up to read it more closely.

      …Two nights before my wedding, unable to sleep, and unwilling to disturb my dear sister, I put on my cloak and walked out to clear my mind of my anxiety. As I walked near the corral I saw flames in the windows of that House. I ran, thinking to ring the fire bell, to raise the alarm. I saw the Warden child coming from that House, staggering and running like a blind person. He fell down, lifted himself to run and fell again. Then I saw Mr. Hilliard step out of a shadow and hasten to the child. He lifted him and started to carry him back toward that House. Others began to call out and Mr. Hilliard stopped and turned and it appeared that he was carrying the child away from the inferno. I was very afraid and I hurried home. I was so greatly afraid that I said nothing. I am sorely troubled, Mama. Raymond said I must put it out of mind, it is not fitting to dwell on such matters. However, I find that I am unable to do so. When I return you must advise me, dearest Mama.

      Her fatigue forgotten, Ruth Ann returned to the letters, but there was no other mention of the fire or Hilliard.

      “They told her to keep her mouth shut,” she muttered when she finished them all. And she had done so. Hilliard had been acclaimed a hero, risking his life to save Joe Warden’s son.

      Mary had been Louise Coombs’ grandmother. From mother to daughter, she thought, or daughter to mother, the rumors lived on in whispers, in hushed conversations, in letters bound with ribbons for more than a hundred years.

      Ten

      Late Sunday afternoon Ruth Ann was smiling over her father’s journal account of his courtship of her mother when Maria entered the sitting room to say that Sam had dropped in.

      “You want me to bring him on back here?” she asked, eyeing the disorder with disapproval.

      Ruth Ann glanced around, then stood up. “No. I’ll come out.” Normally she would have visited with him in the sitting room, but Todd and Barney would also drop in, and four people would be a crowd. The room was more cluttered than usual with open journals and her notebooks on two tables, a half-empty cardboard carton on a chair, another box of pictures on a different chair….

      She met Sam in the foyer, held out her hands to him, and turned her cheek for his kiss.

      “You’re looking chipper,” he said. “Am I interrupting something?”

      “No, of course not. I’ve been reading my father’s journal. Courtship back in 1920 was not lightly undertaken or carried out.” She motioned toward the living room. “Sit down. Scotch, bourbon? You look like a man in search of a drink.”

      He laughed. “Scotch.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ