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Safer - Hardcover

Doolittle, Sean

 
9780385338981: Safer
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0385338988 ISBN 13: 9780385338981
Verlag: DELACORTE PR, 2009

Inhaltsangabe

For Paul Callaway and his wife, Sara, moving from the East Coast to a quiet midwestern town was a major adjustment. But right from the start, Paul has tried to fit in. He's played golf with the guys. He's even joined the Neighborhood Patrol, grabbing a flashlight and a walkie-talkie to make these neatly tended streets even safer. Then Paul makes one mistake - and now they want him gone.
But nothing could have prepared Paul and Sara for the quarrel that has erupted between Paul and a neighbor - the self-appointed leader of the Neighborhood Patrol. Or for the next outrage, as police arrest Paul for a sordid crime he didn't commit. Suddenly Paul's life, university career, and marriage are at risk, as he finds himself locked in a desperate fight with an angry man, a dark conspiracy, and a secret that began with a child's disappearance ten years before.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sean Doolittle is the author of four novels: The Cleanup, Rain Dogs, Burn (winner of the gold medal in the mystery category of ForeWord Magazine's 2003 Book of the Year Award), and Dirt (an Amazon.com Top 100 Editor's Pick for 2001). His short stories have been collected in Plots With Guns and The Year's Best Mystery Stories 2002. He lives with his family in Omaha, Nebraska.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Friday, December 16—9:25 p.m.

Chapter One


My wife, Sara, and I are hosting a faculty party at our home when the Clark Falls Police Department arrives to take me into custody.

It's the last day of the fall semester. On campus, offices are darkened, final exams completed, lecture halls standing empty until the new year. Most of our colleagues, a few graduate students, and assorted companions have retreated here, at our invitation, to shake off the cold and brace for the holidays.

The house smells like mulled cider and catered food. Hickory logs crackle in the fireplace while conversation bubbles and alcohol flows. I'm at the foot of the staircase with Warren Giler, the chancellor's husband, where we've found common ground on Islay scotch, the '04 Red Sox, and a mutual ambivalence regarding faculty parties. Winter air threads its way into the festivities.

"I'm sorry?" I hear my wife say. She's standing at the front door in her dress and heels, talking to a man in an overcoat. I see two uniformed officers behind him, breathing clouds on our stoop. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

"Uh-oh," Giler says to me. "Those men look stern."

He's right. They do. "I'd better go help," I tell him. "You're not wanted, are you?"

"Not to my knowledge. Possibly the music is too loud?"

I chuckle and excuse myself. Sara gives me a worried look as I join her at the door. She looks terrific with her hair up.

"Evening, guys." I smile. "Cold tonight."

"Paul Callaway?"

"That's right." There are two squad cars parked in front of our house, plus an unmarked sedan in our driveway, behind the catering van. "Is something wrong?"

The man in the overcoat reproduces the badge he's just shown Sara, a gold shield seated in a black leather wallet. He stands medium height, trim and efficient-looking, gray hair neatly combed. Detective Bell, according to the ID card. "Mr. Callaway, we're here to place you under arrest."

"Excuse me?"

Bell hands me a folded document. "I'll give you a minute to find a coat."

Sara takes the papers out of my hand. "Let me see that."

"Guys," I say. "Obviously there's a mistake."

"I'll give you a minute," Bell repeats, "to find a coat."

Our guests are starting to pay closer attention. The simmering stew of conversation thins near the door. Sara, leafing through what appears to be a court-issued arrest warrant, takes a short breath and whispers, "Paul . . ."

"I'm telling you, I don't even have any parking tickets. Arrest me for what?"

"Suspicion of the sexual exploitation of a minor," Bell informs me, this time louder than strictly necessary. He produces a second document. "This entitles us to search the premises, as well as your office on campus."

"My office on campus?" I don't even have an office on campus. I have a mailbox and a table I like in the faculty lounge. In the pin-drop background, all conversation has ceased. I hear the silence rippling through the house, but I've had three rounds of scotch with Warren Giler and now I've lost my temper. "Let me see that badge again."

"I can instruct the officers to handcuff and Mirandize you right here on the steps if that's the way you'd prefer to accomplish this." Bell looks me in the eyes. "But I can see that you're having a party."

"Some detective."

Sara says, "Paul . . ."

In spite of the shock I know exactly who's behind this little production. But it still doesn't make any sense. Sexual what? I picture all of this from the point of view of one of our guests—say for instance Warren Giler, the chancellor's husband—and I realize that by reacting the way any reasonable person might, I'm only making things worse. In fact, I can see in the tense, readied looks on the faces of the two officers flanking Detective Bell that I'm possibly one good outburst away from getting Tasered in my own doorway.

"This has to be a joke," I say.

"Mr. Callaway, you have the right to remain silent." Detective Bell stands aside as one of the officers moves his hand to the cuffs on his belt.

"Jesus." I kiss Sara on the forehead, break away, and reach for the closet.

"Paul, this says . . ."

"It's okay." I nod inside the house. "See if anybody in there knows a lawyer who can make things as unpleasant as possible for Detective Bell and his teenage sons here."

"I want your badge numbers before you leave," Sara says. "All of you." She's taken her administrative tone, and something about the sound of it fills my heart with gratitude. It tells me—if I needed to know—that despite all we've been through these past few months, we're still playing on the same team.

For the moment, that's all I need to set aside the fundamental injustice under way here, swallow the hundred protests clanging in my head, and move this insanity away from our doorstep. I put on my coat and join the two officers waiting to escort me to the curb.

The night air is a bracing slap that leaves me hyperalert, yet strangely numb at the same time. On either side of me, I can feel the officers' hands on my elbows. I can feel the flagstones beneath the soles of my shoes. I can hear myself breathing, feel the hairs freezing in my nostrils, but none of it feels real.

At the curb, the cop on my left cuffs my hands in front of me and puts me in the back of the lead squad unit, behind the wire cage. The other cop finishes informing me, in case I didn't catch it the first time, of my right to remain silent. As to rights, I have a number of others, and he lets me know about those. Do I understand?

No.

I nod my head anyway. The door slams shut, muffling the world outside.

The officer who handcuffed me retraces his steps back to our front door, where he says something to Detective Bell, then something to Sara. Giving his badge number as requested, I presume. The silence around me is punctuated by the occasional soft crackle of the police radio up front. The car smells like peppermint and sweat.

After a few moments, the officer returns and gets in behind the wheel.

"I know you're just doing your job," I tell him through the wire cage, "but this is bullshit."

He makes a sound like it isn't a shift until somebody tells him that. How old is this kid? Except for the uniform, and the gun that goes with it, he looks like he could be a new freshman on campus.

"Out of curiosity, who am I supposed to have exploited? I'd really love to know."

The officer speaks a few words into his radio in a code-riddled language I don't understand, then fastens his seat belt and starts the car.

Our house is the first on the left as you enter the circle, making it the last house you'd pass as you leave. All of our guests' cars are facing my direction. But these cops came in backward, straight to our address, which means that we have to drive clockwise all the way around in order to exit, past each of our neighbors, one by one. Through the foggy backseat window, I see Pete and Melody Seward's porch light go dark as we roll past.

"I guess these cars don't go in reverse," I say, still too angry to be humiliated. We pass Trish and Barry Firth's house, now Michael and Ben's. I saw Michael not half an hour ago, in our kitchen, tutoring the caterers. "Why didn't you back up into the driveway, turn around—wait, but then you couldn't have paraded me around the neighborhood first. You're right, this is much better."

"Let's have a contest," the young cop finally says. "Whoever can be quietest all the way to the station wins. How about that?"

"Gee, I don't know, Officer." Condescending prick. "Who gets to judge?"

Sycamore Court is decked for the holidays. All around the circle, white light drips like icicles from the dormers and eaves....

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Verlag
DELACORTE PR
Erscheinungsdatum
2009
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385338988
ISBN 13 
9780385338981
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
334
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Verantwortliche Person
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