pay phone I found there, and punched out the number Stern had given to me, where he was waiting close by for my report.
“Yeah, Stern,” he answered.
“He wasn’t there. Nobody was there. But—I found his sneaker.”
“Slow down,” said Stern. His voice was low and calm. “Start over.”
“E.J. wasn’t there. I went and waited. Like they said. I found a sneaker in the shack. It’s his. I’m sure it’s his.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.” His businesslike patience was annoying me.
“Look. There’s this deep pool of water. It looks bottomless. It—”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“You know what I’m saying, then?”
I heard him sigh. “Yes, I know what you’re saying. Look, okay. We’ll get up there. You go home.”
“Divers?”
“Yes. We’ll bring divers.”
There was a heavy lump in my chest. “That’s what I was thinking,” I said.
“Just go home, Mr. Coyne. You did fine.”
“What about the sneaker?”
“Bring it with you. We’ll have to show it to Mrs. Donagan. Unless you want to do that.”
“No. No, I don’t want to do that. And I’m not ready to go home. I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ve done your part. You’ll just be in the way. Division of labor, remember?”
“Up yours,” I said, and I hung up.
Stern arrived at the roadway a few minutes after I did, followed in short order by several more vehicles, including two State Police cruisers, each manned by two uniformed officers, and a panel truck containing two hefty guys with diving gear. I gave Stern E.J.’s sneaker, which he dropped into a Baggie and locked in the trunk of his car.
We trekked up the road to the quarry, then made our way among the tumbled granite slabs to the shack beside the pool. There the men gathered around Stern, who spat out his orders. Most of the men, including the state cops, he directed to explore the floor of the quarry to search for footprints, tire tracks, anything. The two divers moved toward the pool. I took Stern into the shack.
He flicked on the big flashlight he was carrying and probed methodically through the darkness into the corners of the room. “I suppose you’ve touched everything,” he muttered.
“Not really. As soon as I found the sneaker I went outside.”
“Humph.”
The dirt floor was caked too hard for footprints to show, but Stern nevertheless knelt down and studied it closely. Then he examined the heap of empty beer cans near where I told him I had found the sneaker. After a few minutes we went back outside and Stern called to one of his men who was heavily armed with camera gear.
“In there, Soderstrom. Get everything.” He turned to me. “I couldn’t see anything in there.”
We walked over to the pool. One of the divers, wearing the top of a wet suit, bathing trunks, a facemask, and a pair of big metal tanks strapped to his back, was just lowering himself in. He carried a big square waterproof flashlight, and had a rope tied under his arms. The other man knelt beside the pool, holding the rope.
“What’s going on?” said Stern.
“No purchase. The sides are pure vertical and slick as a whore’s thighs. Algae growing all over them. Nothing to hang onto. I’m gonna lower him down. It looks deep and dark. No fun.”
Stern nodded. He and I squatted beside the pool and watched the diver sink slowly down. The man beside us paid out the rope a foot at a time. We could still make out the fuzzy image of the diver when his partner muttered, “Fifteen feet.”
One of the uniformed State Police officers approached. “Sir?”
“What is it?” said Stern.
“We found these.” He handed Stern a plastic bag. “Cigarette butts. Fresh, from the smell.”
“They’re mine,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” Stern muttered. “Okay. Keep looking,” he said to the policeman.
“Twenty-five feet,” announced the man holding the rope. From the depths of the water I could see the shimmering rays of the light. The diver had disappeared
“Yeah, Stern,” he answered.
“He wasn’t there. Nobody was there. But—I found his sneaker.”
“Slow down,” said Stern. His voice was low and calm. “Start over.”
“E.J. wasn’t there. I went and waited. Like they said. I found a sneaker in the shack. It’s his. I’m sure it’s his.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.” His businesslike patience was annoying me.
“Look. There’s this deep pool of water. It looks bottomless. It—”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“You know what I’m saying, then?”
I heard him sigh. “Yes, I know what you’re saying. Look, okay. We’ll get up there. You go home.”
“Divers?”
“Yes. We’ll bring divers.”
There was a heavy lump in my chest. “That’s what I was thinking,” I said.
“Just go home, Mr. Coyne. You did fine.”
“What about the sneaker?”
“Bring it with you. We’ll have to show it to Mrs. Donagan. Unless you want to do that.”
“No. No, I don’t want to do that. And I’m not ready to go home. I’ll meet you there.”
“You’ve done your part. You’ll just be in the way. Division of labor, remember?”
“Up yours,” I said, and I hung up.
Stern arrived at the roadway a few minutes after I did, followed in short order by several more vehicles, including two State Police cruisers, each manned by two uniformed officers, and a panel truck containing two hefty guys with diving gear. I gave Stern E.J.’s sneaker, which he dropped into a Baggie and locked in the trunk of his car.
We trekked up the road to the quarry, then made our way among the tumbled granite slabs to the shack beside the pool. There the men gathered around Stern, who spat out his orders. Most of the men, including the state cops, he directed to explore the floor of the quarry to search for footprints, tire tracks, anything. The two divers moved toward the pool. I took Stern into the shack.
He flicked on the big flashlight he was carrying and probed methodically through the darkness into the corners of the room. “I suppose you’ve touched everything,” he muttered.
“Not really. As soon as I found the sneaker I went outside.”
“Humph.”
The dirt floor was caked too hard for footprints to show, but Stern nevertheless knelt down and studied it closely. Then he examined the heap of empty beer cans near where I told him I had found the sneaker. After a few minutes we went back outside and Stern called to one of his men who was heavily armed with camera gear.
“In there, Soderstrom. Get everything.” He turned to me. “I couldn’t see anything in there.”
We walked over to the pool. One of the divers, wearing the top of a wet suit, bathing trunks, a facemask, and a pair of big metal tanks strapped to his back, was just lowering himself in. He carried a big square waterproof flashlight, and had a rope tied under his arms. The other man knelt beside the pool, holding the rope.
“What’s going on?” said Stern.
“No purchase. The sides are pure vertical and slick as a whore’s thighs. Algae growing all over them. Nothing to hang onto. I’m gonna lower him down. It looks deep and dark. No fun.”
Stern nodded. He and I squatted beside the pool and watched the diver sink slowly down. The man beside us paid out the rope a foot at a time. We could still make out the fuzzy image of the diver when his partner muttered, “Fifteen feet.”
One of the uniformed State Police officers approached. “Sir?”
“What is it?” said Stern.
“We found these.” He handed Stern a plastic bag. “Cigarette butts. Fresh, from the smell.”
“They’re mine,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” Stern muttered. “Okay. Keep looking,” he said to the policeman.
“Twenty-five feet,” announced the man holding the rope. From the depths of the water I could see the shimmering rays of the light. The diver had disappeared
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