Early Warning

Maybe he was indeed the child of Lydia, kind, generous, who had accepted him, asked nothing from him, might indeed have been “Joan Fontaine,” a whore who had not stolen his money, had not had him shot, had not even kicked him out of her room when he fell asleep on the job. His mother had always professed to know where someone “had got that from”—every animal and human was a walking exhibition of traits inherited from Opa or Grandma Mary or, for goodness’ sake, Cousin Berta, who ended up in the asylum in Independence, less said about that the better. Frank thanked the kid; got up and walked away from him, not even turning around, over to the cash register, where his boot box was tied with a string. Bob couldn’t have been more friendly — was he new to the area, wonderful country, Bob himself came from Georgia, could you imagine that? Frank said, “Your salesman was very helpful.”

“Oh, Charlie? He’s turned into a good boy. You should see him on a rock face. Yakking the whole time. Scary sight.”

“Risk taker,” said Frank.

“Good thing his parents live in the Midwest.”

“Oh, where?” said Frank.

“Kansas City, I believe. Well, wear ’em in good health. Thank you for your patronage.”

It was seven minutes past twelve. Frank stationed himself across the street, in the shadow of an awning, where he could watch both the front door and the side door. Sure enough, at twelve after, Charlie let himself out the side door and walked across the street to the nearby parking lot. When the car drove past Frank, he noted the Colorado license-plate number — FIL 645. Toyota wagon, light green, filled with equipment.

—

ARTHUR WOKE UP, as he always did, just before dawn, though dawn at the beginning of December in upstate New York was at seven-thirty in the morning. Carlie and Kevvie would be eating their breakfast — no Frosted Flakes for them, not even Cheerios. Then they would be bundled in wool mittens, scarves, and hats, hand-knit by Hugh’s mother (and beautifully done, Arthur had to admit). Debbie would walk them to the school-bus stop and wait with them there. Carlie was eleven and in sixth grade, and Kevvie was almost nine and in third grade.

The report was locked in Arthur’s desk, even though he knew that the last place you should put something secret was in a locked drawer in your desk. But he wasn’t keeping it secret from Debbie and Hugh, who would never investigate his apartment. Nor was he keeping it secret from Frank — he’d told Frank the bare-bones fact that this young man, Charles Morgan Wickett, age twenty-one (birthday June 4, 1965), adopted (through the Our Lady of Mercy Home, St. Charles, Missouri, on June 23 of that year), son of Morgan Feller Wickett and Nina Wickett, née Lewis, of 402 Tuxedo Boulevard, Webster Groves, Missouri, graduate of Webster Groves High School and Washington University (Bachelor of Science), and recipient of one speeding ticket (June 17, 1983, eighty-three miles per hour in a seventy-mile zone), employee of Owl Creek Outfitters, Aspen, Colorado, Social Security Number 499-78-5432, was not related to any woman Frank could have known. He was the son (he hadn’t yet told Frank this) of Fiona Cannon, student at the time of the birth, at Stephens College, Columbia, Missouri. Arthur remembered Fiona perfectly well — a short, daring girl, a talented equestrienne, Debbie’s great friend. What Arthur saw in the boy’s driver’s-license photo and the high-school photo included in the report was not Frank, but Tim. The person he wanted to keep the report secret from was himself.