The Yearbook Read Online Free PDF Page B

younger cop.
    “Chief Hayes!” I called, stepping out the door.
    “ ’S’my name,” he mumbled over his shoulder.
    “I — I can show you where Rick Arnold is.”
    He turned to face me, with what might have been a tic of interest in his stony expression. “Get in my car.”
    I obeyed. He did some last-minute ordering around, then climbed into the driver’s seat. “What’s your name, kid,” he said, starting up, “and where are we going?”
    “David Kallas,” I replied. “And … the Ramble, near Cass and River View.”
    Chief Hayes’s face remained unmoved. But his hand yanked the automatic shift straight past Drive and all the way to L2. Murmuring a curse, he flicked it back up again. “You … saw the missing person in the Ramble, son?”
    “Yes.”
    “Am I correct in assuming, since you say this person is still there, that he is not presently alive?”
    I felt absurdly guilty. I think if he’d asked me to confess to the murder, I’d have done it. “Yes.”
    The car screeched away from the curb as he said something under his breath. I believe it was “Lord, have mercy.”
    I was seized with violent chills as Chief Hayes parked by the Ramble. He noticed right away.
    “You don’t have to come with me, you know,” he said. “As long as you give me the location of the body.”
    “Okay,” I replied, but I was shaking so badly, it came out more like Kuh. “T-to the left of — of the car p-path.”
    “Near the big drainpipe?” he asked.
    I nodded.
    “Stay here. Take deep breaths and put your head between your knees. If you feel sick, for God’s sake, get out of the car.”
    Chief Hayes wasn’t going to win points for sensitivity.
    I watched him plod into the woods. I figured he must have been about sixty, but he was still a bull of a man. He had a slight limp, which somehow made him look tough and heroic.
    Chief Hayes was gone about a half-hour, I think. When he came back, he looked as if he’d aged ten years. His taut, wary features had gone droopy like a basset hound’s, and his eyes were glassy.
    Neither of us said a word as he plopped into the front seat. He stared at a spot just above the steering wheel.
    “I — I didn’t do it,” I said weakly.
    Chief Hayes nodded. “I know.” He took his radio mike from its holder and put it slowly to his mouth. “Sergeant Kinsman, do you read me?”
    “Yeah, Chief,” a voice crackled back.
    “We have located a male corpse matching the description of the Arnold boy.”
    As he gave the details in a dull monotone, he rubbed the back of his left hand against his eyes. I noticed a wet sheen along his thumb when he pulled his hand away.
    If I didn’t think such a thing was impossible, I’d be convinced Chief Hayes was crying. He slammed the mike down after he was done and muttered something about hay fever.
    Another cop car arrived in minutes. Chief Hayes went out for a conference, then came back in and started the car.
    He pulled away from the curb jerkily and nearly rammed into a road construction site barrier. Then he ran a stop sign on Cass, only to slam on the brakes and curse. I’d have offered to drive, but I was afraid he’d throw me in jail for asking. Instead, I settled back and was thankful we weren’t in a high-speed chase.
    Eventually we arrived at the police headquarters, a squat, yellow-brick building in the same Late Eyesore style as the rest of downtown Wetherby. Chief Hayes led me inside. His office was at the end of a dim, tiled hall. Inside, a rotating fan swept past file folders stacked on a row of metal cabinets. Jutting triangular corners of paper razzed us like small white tongues in the breeze. Chief Hayes sat behind a wooden desk covered with papers and an old computer. I sank into the torn green cushion of a chair opposite him. I noticed a chunk of wood was missing from the lip of his desk on my side, about the size and shape of a bite mark. I couldn’t imagine what jail must be like if this was the police chief’s