without them? Glad you like my drawing better than you did my dancing.” Shivering inwardly, Hale realized the message could only be from one person. The only problem was, that one person was dead. With his own two eyes, he’d seen the boy fall from the cliff. There was no plausible explanation for what was happening now. Nothing that would explain the drawings or the phone calls.
He thought again of the boy’s voice. “‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none.’ “ Someone was trying to drive him over the edge. He laughed at the absurdity of his own image. Over the edge — terrific! If he didn’t keep his wits about him, he might really self-destruct. His only hope was to find this recluse, this Ezmer Hawks, or whatever his real name was, and demand some answers. Glancing at the glove compartment where he’d stashed his gun, he felt certain that today, no matter what it took, he was going to put a stop to this terrorism once and for all.
An hour later, the Soldiers Grove water tower appeared in the distance. He was almost there. The first order of business was a phone directory. Perhaps this Hawks character had a published street address. It was worth a try. He pulled into a gas station and got out. The cold wind felt bracing after the overheated car. After perusing the local directory, he slammed the book in frustration. No Ezmer Hawks was listed. The station attendant pointed the way to the post office across the street.
Once inside the small building, Hale quickly found box 183. He bent down and looked through the glass, but it was empty. Only one other person seemed to be around. A man standing behind the front counter. Mid-sixties. Balding. He looked as if he’d lived his entire life in the small town and probably knew everyone. Hale approached cautiously. He wasn’t sure what was the best tactic.
“Can I help you?” The postal employee gave Hale the once-over.
Hale smiled easily. He knew his cashmere overcoat and heavy gold jewelry probably pegged him as a rich outsider. It gave him a certain satisfaction — since he’d grown up in a town very much like this one and didn’t like being reminded of it. “Yes,” he said, feeling in his back pocket for his wallet. “I’m looking for someone.”
The man merely stared.
“Ezmer Hawks. Do you know him?”
“Ezmer Hawks,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“He rents a box here. Box 183.”
“Well then, I’m sure we’ve met. I just can’t place the name.”
Hale was becoming impatient. “He’s not listed in the phone book.”
“Is that right?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could give me his address.”
The man shook his head. “Nope. We’re not allowed to give out that information.”
Hale laid his wallet on the countertop.
The man’s eyes fell to it.
“You’re sure?” he said, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill.
“Well, that’s policy. But then, I hate bureaucrats, don’t you?” He reached for the money. Taking out a ledger, he flipped a few pages until he found the address. “Hmm. Here it is.” He found the spot with his finger. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny about it?”
Again, the man glanced at the wallet. “Nothing. The address is 4712 East Pine Lake Road.” He wrote it down on a notepad and handed it to Hale. “Make a left when you get back on the highway. The road is about a mile out of town. Turn right and follow it until you get to the house. The road parallels the lake, so you can’t get lost.”
“Thanks.” Hale returned the wallet to his back pocket with a small feeling of triumph. Money could buy almost anything. Even answers from Ezmer Hawks.
Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a mailbox along the side of the road. He pulled his Mercedes over and got out. The name on the box was Westman, but it had been scratched out. What was most
He thought again of the boy’s voice. “‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none.’ “ Someone was trying to drive him over the edge. He laughed at the absurdity of his own image. Over the edge — terrific! If he didn’t keep his wits about him, he might really self-destruct. His only hope was to find this recluse, this Ezmer Hawks, or whatever his real name was, and demand some answers. Glancing at the glove compartment where he’d stashed his gun, he felt certain that today, no matter what it took, he was going to put a stop to this terrorism once and for all.
An hour later, the Soldiers Grove water tower appeared in the distance. He was almost there. The first order of business was a phone directory. Perhaps this Hawks character had a published street address. It was worth a try. He pulled into a gas station and got out. The cold wind felt bracing after the overheated car. After perusing the local directory, he slammed the book in frustration. No Ezmer Hawks was listed. The station attendant pointed the way to the post office across the street.
Once inside the small building, Hale quickly found box 183. He bent down and looked through the glass, but it was empty. Only one other person seemed to be around. A man standing behind the front counter. Mid-sixties. Balding. He looked as if he’d lived his entire life in the small town and probably knew everyone. Hale approached cautiously. He wasn’t sure what was the best tactic.
“Can I help you?” The postal employee gave Hale the once-over.
Hale smiled easily. He knew his cashmere overcoat and heavy gold jewelry probably pegged him as a rich outsider. It gave him a certain satisfaction — since he’d grown up in a town very much like this one and didn’t like being reminded of it. “Yes,” he said, feeling in his back pocket for his wallet. “I’m looking for someone.”
The man merely stared.
“Ezmer Hawks. Do you know him?”
“Ezmer Hawks,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“He rents a box here. Box 183.”
“Well then, I’m sure we’ve met. I just can’t place the name.”
Hale was becoming impatient. “He’s not listed in the phone book.”
“Is that right?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could give me his address.”
The man shook his head. “Nope. We’re not allowed to give out that information.”
Hale laid his wallet on the countertop.
The man’s eyes fell to it.
“You’re sure?” he said, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill.
“Well, that’s policy. But then, I hate bureaucrats, don’t you?” He reached for the money. Taking out a ledger, he flipped a few pages until he found the address. “Hmm. Here it is.” He found the spot with his finger. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny about it?”
Again, the man glanced at the wallet. “Nothing. The address is 4712 East Pine Lake Road.” He wrote it down on a notepad and handed it to Hale. “Make a left when you get back on the highway. The road is about a mile out of town. Turn right and follow it until you get to the house. The road parallels the lake, so you can’t get lost.”
“Thanks.” Hale returned the wallet to his back pocket with a small feeling of triumph. Money could buy almost anything. Even answers from Ezmer Hawks.
Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a mailbox along the side of the road. He pulled his Mercedes over and got out. The name on the box was Westman, but it had been scratched out. What was most
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