Forty Words for Sorrow

He left by the side door and sat in the car making notes. Christ, I'm a rotten cop, he thought. People have no idea how rotten. A stupid piece of misjudgment had cost him the opportunity to look around Woody's house. He would never even know how far back that set the investigation. Let Channel Four get ahold of that one, they'd have a field day.

Delorme came out half an hour later. "That poor woman," she said, slipping into the driver's seat.

"Did she let you look around?"

"Yeah, there wasn't much to see. But I found these." She handed him a manila envelope.

Cardinal pulled out a stack of Polaroid photographs, some of them stuck together. There were pictures of the Algonquin Mall, the Airport Hill Shopping Center, and Gateway Mall, all taken from the back.

"I just glanced at them," Delorme said, "but it looks like he was casing the malls."

"Seems out of character for Woody."

"He only hit houses, far as I knew. We never nailed him for anything else."

"There's just the one of Gateway. There's more of the other two places."

"Lot of parking lot in there. Maybe he was following a particular car?"

"He wouldn't need to take pictures of that. But he might take pictures of stores he wanted to break into. Someone may have seen him. Might've seen somebody with him."

43

ERIC Fraser finished polishing the D-35 and hung it up on the rack behind the counter. It was one of his tasks to polish the guitars once a week, and he preferred it to working the cash or uncrating amplifiers; he liked cleaning things- it was pleasantly mindless, allowing his thoughts to drift wherever he cared to let them: to the island, to the abandoned house, to the boy in Edie's basement.

"How much is the Martin?" a fat kid with a mustache of sweat wanted to know.

"Three thousand six."

"And what about the Gibson you got there?"

"This one's twelve hundred."

Eric could tell the kid wanted to try it out, but he didn't suggest it. Alan didn't like people trying out the expensive guitars unless they were serious.

The kid shuffled over to the music books, and Eric started polishing the Gibson. He never played the guitars himself. Carl and Alan were real musicians, and Eric hated to display his lack of talent in front of them. Keith London's guitar, an Ovation in excellent condition, lay at home beneath his bed. He'd tried it out, but he was so out of practice that the strings hurt his fingers.

A young girl came in and started studying some sheet music, trying to memorize a Whitney Houston song. She was about twelve, with long straight hair. It was wonderful to be able to look at her without desire; having a prisoner made him impervious. Katie Pine had not been so lucky. Eric had actually been thinking about Billy LaBelle when Katie Pine happened along, looking at the band instruments but not buying. But the moment she had come in, Eric had felt the grip of destiny; she would be his, and nothing anyone could do would stop it.

The LaBelle kid was a different matter. Billy LaBelle came in regularly for his lessons, and Eric had watched him over a period of weeks. Always came in by himself, always went home alone after a lesson, lugging his guitar. He'd had big plans for Billy, and then he'd gone and died on them. Well, he and Edie had learned their lesson; it wouldn't happen again. No, no, he had big plans for this one.

He thought about his prisoner all the time, now, imagining all sorts of things to do to him. Keith London's picture was everywhere- it was up in the mall right outside Troy Music, on the streets, at the bus stops- but he'd been in town only about two hours before disappearing. No one was ever going to find him, certainly not the cops he'd seen on TV.

If only he could find exactly the right place- somewhere secluded but easy to equip, somewhere he could really be free in. Somewhere he could set up camera and lights. It wasn't easy. Abandoned houses don't come along all that often.

"Finish that tomorrow, Eric. Look after the cash for a while, will you?"

"Okay, Alan. You said there was some inventory stuff, too."

"You can take care of that tomorrow. Look after the register now."

The reason I have to look after the register, he thought, is because you have to play the old expert, don't you. Have to show these suckers how to play a thing or two, right? Alan was tuning up a Dobro for some guy with hair down to his knees. In some ways, with his firmness and his gentleness, Alan reminded him of his last foster father.

The girl finally gave up trying to memorize the chords right there in the store and decided to buy the Whitney Houston song after all.

"You play piano?" This bit of friendliness for Alan's benefit, of course.

"Piano, yeah. A little bit."