Joe Burke's Last Stand Part 46

"Quack," he said, propelling them down the steps into the rain.

"Quack is right," Patrick said. "See you, w.i.l.l.y." Habit took him along the street to Ann's where he hesitated and then went in. "Hi, Willow.

Rained out!"

Willow looked up. No one else was in the deli. "Patrick, I'm sorry I left so abruptly last night. I just couldn't . . . "

"That's O.K.; I won't talk about art anymore."

She smiled at him reprovingly.

"Anyway, I can't live without your sandwiches. How about turkey, today?" He stowed the sandwich in a small army surplus backpack that he'd bought after his first week in town.

"What are you going to do today?"

"I don't know," Patrick said. "Go to the library, I guess. I'm reading a great book on mathematics."

"There's supposed to be a party this weekend, Sat.u.r.day, on the mountain. Mead's meadow, wherever that is. Music, kegs, a big blowout.

Art says it's a good time. They do it every year."

"You going?"

"Yeah, for a while anyway."

"Maybe I'll see you there," Patrick said. "Day after tomorrow--the rain should be over by then." Willow seemed pleased, and Patrick left for the library. Hard to figure, he thought. Last night she wouldn't talk to me; this morning she invites me to a party. He thought he'd go, if he could find it. Maybe Art would fall off the mountain.

The library was pleasant and well lit. The science section was a bit out of date. There were many expensive art books locked in a big case.

The children's room was large and cheerful with a painted wooden riding horse in one corner. He read for an hour and thought of writing to his parents, but he hadn't looked up his father's friend. He wanted to do that before he wrote, so he asked for a telephone book. Heidi Merrill was listed with an address on Lower Byrdcliffe Road. There was no pay phone in the library, so he walked over to the Woodstock Laundromat.

Joe Burke was folding clothes, standing at a counter beside a tall slender woman with long hair. She was teasing him about his folding. He leaned and said something softly in her ear that made her laugh. Her voice was low and appealing; it sounded to Patrick as though it had started in Texas and traveled around the world before it got to the laundromat. The energy between the two was intense and relaxed at the same time. Patrick stared.

"h.e.l.lo, Patrick," Joe said, turning. "This is Daisy."

"h.e.l.lo, Patrick," Daisy echoed. She looked at him with calm gray eyes and then picked up her basket of clothes. "Well . . . " she said.

"Onward," Joe said.

"Yes." Their eyes met, and she left, walking as though she were going slightly uphill. Patrick felt suddenly lonely.

"So, Patrick, what's happening?"

Patrick looked back from the door. "Oh. I'm trying to find someone named Heidi Merrill. Do you know where she lives?"

"Sure do, going right by there, if you want a lift." What the h.e.l.l, Patrick thought, nothing else to do. It doesn't matter if she's home or not.

"Good deal."

They drove out of Library Lane, pa.s.sing Billy at the entrance to Tinker Street. Joe rolled his window all the way open. "Hey, Billy. Want a lift?"

"Quack. You want me to miss my shower?"

As they drove through town, Patrick said, "I met him this morning in the News Shop. Quite a character."

"Yeah, we go way back," Joe said. "Used to take me pickerel fishing, Billy did--one of my heroes. He just got out of the slammer."

"What did he do?"

"One of the state cops, Dusty Rhodes, drove his cruiser into Billy's driveway to check him out for something or other, about three in the morning. The way Billy tells it, he woke up with a headache listening to a siren. He looked out his upstairs bedroom window. 'That d.a.m.n flashing light hurt my eyes,' Billy said. So he shot it out with a 30-30. Dusty arrested him for a.s.sault with a deadly weapon, and the judge asked him what he had to say for himself. 'Your Honor,' Billy said, 'a.s.sault? Do you think if I'd wanted to hit Dusty, I'd have missed him?' The judge gave him six months."

"He seems like a good guy," Patrick said.

"He is. That's the Merrill's road, there."

Patrick thanked Joe and walked fifty yards through trees to a rambling house with clapboard siding stained brown. There was a second smaller house, or studio, some distance behind and to the right. A green Cadillac, at least ten years old, gleamed in front of the house.

Patrick knocked on the screen door. A woman with a heart shaped face, wheat colored hair, and clear blue-green eyes answered his knock.

"Yes?"

"Good morning. Are you Heidi Merrill?" She nodded. "My name is Patrick O'Shaunessy." She straightened. "My father said that you were an old friend. He asked me to say h.e.l.lo for him and see how you're doing."

"Well! What a surprise. You must tell Brian that we are doing just fine. Come in." She led Patrick to a s.p.a.cious kitchen where she poured coffee into hand-painted mugs. "So, Patrick, how long will you be in Woodstock?"

"Good question. I think until winter, at least--maybe longer. I like it here, so far."

"How long have you been here?"

"About a month."

"It is a nice town." A red '52 Chevy with a white convertible top drove past the kitchen. "Oh, there's Martin, my son. He lives in the studio behind the house." She looked at him closely. "You do remind me of Brian, but you must take after your mother. You're shorter, broader across the shoulders . . . "

"Yes, I guess I do."

"Same smile, though. How is Brian? You have a sister, don't you?"

"Yep, Molly, a year older than I am. She's married, living in Atlanta.

Dad's fine. He's just about to retire from the Army. He and Mom are arguing about whether to live in Florida or Costa Rica. Heidi went over to the door where there was an intercom much like the Van Slyke's.

"Martin? Martin, can you come over? Patrick O'Shaunessy is here. His father is an old friend."

A voice crackled through the speaker, "O.K., just a minute."

Patrick looked around. "Nice house," he said.

"We've been here many years." There was a defensive note in her voice that surprised him. As he was telling her about his job, a tall man in his late twenties pushed open the kitchen door. He walked directly over, holding out his hand.

"Patrick O'Shaunessy?"

"Yes," Patrick said, standing and shaking hands.

"Martin Merrill."