Cooper continues: “It was strictly some logistical assistance, which will aid us in figuring all this out.”
Fran speaks up again: “Will they be sending more men? More liaisons?”
“We are not anticipating any further outside involvement at this time,” Cooper says. Goddamned press-conference-speak. Snap out of it.
Another hand goes up, like a submarine’s periscope rising in choppy waves. Thank God for the civility of a raised hand, Cooper thinks. He peers out and sees it’s Spiro Mitchum—well, of course it is. Spiro, who runs the commissary, is nothing if not orderly. He wears an actual apron to work every day, like an old-time shopkeeper, bless his heart.
“Is this an outside breach,” he asks, “or are you looking at someone here. A resident.” The crowd communally echoes the question, restating it chaotically.
“That’s ongoing,” Cooper says. “But we have no reason to suspect a breach—”
“What about the newcomers?” someone yells.
“As I said, we have no reason to suspect a breach. But either way, it’s a serious matter. Because someone is in possession of a firearm in this town.” He shifts on the crate, which feels unstable under his boots. “Now, I know some of you might have, shall we say, secrets you keep in your bungalows. Contraband items kept as extra precautions or whatnot. And you know that, normally, as long as there’s no trouble, I don’t like to pry. But in this case, if you know anything at all, please come forward to me or to Deputies Robinson or Dawes.” Cooper nods to the pair of them, standing dutifully nearby. “This is not—” Cooper pauses. Then restarts. “Look, as you know, the Blinds is not like any other place. We have our own rules, our own customs, and, I like to think, our own sense of what’s right. I don’t want to bring up the threat of expulsion, but we need to get this sorted out. If you know something and you come to me, we can work this out, I promise you that. But if Amarillo or the Institute or, God forbid, the federal law enforcement gets involved, then I can’t protect you. Any of you. This is a fragile ecosystem we live in here. Someone out there knows who’s behind this. So I’m counting on you to come forward. Thank you.”
More questions are being lobbed now freely from the crowd but Cooper’s done, it’s over, he’s said his piece and he’s already stepped off the crate. He starts to walk away and motions to his deputies to follow.
“That could have gone better,” mutters Cooper, as the three of them retreat.
“You were expecting different?” says Robinson.
Cooper’s spent and pissed and frankly tired of questions. He looks at Dawes’s placid, maddening face. “You’ve got something to contribute, Deputy?”
“Just observing,” she says, as they walk.
“And what, pray tell, did you observe?”
“People are scared. For good reason. And if we don’t figure this out, or at least give the impression that we’ve got a hunch, I’d worry that mob is going to go door-to-door until they find someone to blame it on.”
Cooper wants to cut her off right there, remind her again that she’s barely six weeks on the job, except he knows she’s exactly right.
“It’s our duty to make sure that doesn’t happen,” he says. “You got any better ideas on ways to do that, you let me know. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got a birthday to celebrate.”
As Bette Burr watches the crowd disperse, she tells herself it’s a simple question of numbers. She has two days, maybe three tops. She’s been here one day already. There’s forty-eight residents in the town, give or take. And there’s three things she knows about the man she’s looking for: He’s old. His name is William Wayne. And he’s been here the full eight years. She thinks she’ll recognize his face, too, given they showed her pictures of him, and he’s the only one in this town who was once famous enough to have been on TV. She remembers those newscasts vaguely, the outrage, though she didn’t pay attention at the time. She didn’t know then what she knows now about him. About him and her father.
She can guess at roughly how old he’ll be because she knows how old her father is, which means the man she’s looking for must be seventy, at least.
Was.
How old her father was. Past tense.
Not a change she can get used to. Or wants to.
When she heard the bells and saw everyone assembling, she hoped she’d spot William Wayne here. No luck, but she’s not discouraged. There’s only so many doors to knock on in this town. Just knock and ask, knock and ask, until a door opens and it’s him.
William Wayne.
People here act funny when his name comes up, she’s definitely noticed that. They whisper. Withdraw. Few claim to have ever even seen him. Yet everyone has a story. A rumor. A myth.
She’s tried to act casual, just asking questions, the new kid in town, orienting herself. Hanging around outside the commissary on the main drag ever since that intake session ended. Chatting up people as they exit the store, asking them to explain how all this works. The Mexican shopkeeper, the one in the apron, Spiro Something, he was friendly. He told her the shop is pretty much picked clean by this time in the week, but not to worry, a new shipment arrives every Wednesday. He said they even get apples and bananas on Wednesdays, fresh produce, though it’s usually all gone by the afternoon. Save up your allotment of chits, he told her, don’t waste them at Blinders on booze, and you can trade them for different treats when they come in every week. Clothes, books, games—sometimes they even get mangoes. He hinted that, if they did, he’d stash a few away for her. Ah, the advantages of being young and cute, she thinks—she’s never had a problem getting people to do her favors, especially older men. It’s kind of her hidden superpower. She’s friendly, approachable, she’s got an “open face,” that’s what everyone tells her, which she hates, because she thinks “open face” is just a euphemism for stupid, which she definitely is not.