Mickelsson's Ghosts John Gardner (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📖

past his shoulder. It was the real-estate man, Charley Snyder, bundled up against the cold, elegant even so, hurrying down the sidewalk to catch him. “I’m glad I ran into you. Saves me a trip up to your house!”

Mickelsson struggled to get his face in control. To give himself more time he fussed with his scarf, tucking his head in as if to watch the work of his fumbling hands.

“Any developments on that break-in up there?” Snyder asked.

His heart slammed; then he realized what Snyder meant. “Nothing yet,” he said, and shook his head, ruefully, then horribly winced.

Snyder took his arm, drawing him back toward Reddon’s door. “Listen, you mind giving me a minute of your time? Let’s go inside, where it’s warm.”

Mickelsson jerked his head in a kind of nod, glancing left and right, and made his face rigid, hiding panic and what might appear even worse—impatience, extreme irritation. He moved inside the drugstore with Snyder. The electric door whooshed shut and warm air fell over them.

“You aware of the Lonergan Hill business?” Snyder asked.

Mickelsson looked hard at the bridge of Snyder’s nose, trying to pay attention. “I guess not.” He grinned, then dropped the corner of his mouth, teeth still bared, like a man in pain.

“It’s a dumping spot—legal, I’m sorry to say; there’s plenty of the other kind. Anyway, the Department of Environmental Resources OK’d it. You know how they are. Don’t let the name fool you; they work for the companies.” He still had his gloved hand on Mickelsson’s arm, as if afraid he might bolt, and he leaned close to speak, as if company spies were everywhere. “They’ve granted permission that chemicals from at least twenty-three locations be ‘disposed of’ there. Eighty-five per cent of it’s from outside Pennsylvania—New Jersey and New York. It’s bad stuff. Carcinogenic, mutagenic …” He checked Mickelsson’s eyes, perhaps saw confusion and impatience, and hurried on. “To make a long story short, we think it’s serious. There’s at least seventy-five families living on the roads around Lonergan Hill that get their water from wells and springs, every one of ’em in danger of pollution.” Again he checked Mickelsson’s eyes, then drew back a little. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Mickelsson said quickly. “The heat in here—after you’ve been out there in the cold for a while—” He laughed loudly.

“Maybe we should go back outside.”

“No, I’m fine.” He gave another laugh, then sternly concentrated his attention on Snyder, waiting for the speech to be over.

“Well, OK, if you’re sure.” After a minute he continued, reaching inside his coat and drawing out papers as he spoke, “People may never even know when their water’s gone bad. Last Saturday we had a meeting in Harrisburg and a woman told me her family’s been hauling water for three years, ever since they found out, completely by accident, that their well had been poisoned by a landfìll. The same thing could happen at the Lyncott fill. Here, let me give you this—all the facts and figures.”

Mickelsson blinked, uncertain whether Lyncott and Lonergan Hill were the same place; but he had no intention of prolonging things by asking. He took the papers from Snyder, glanced at them, then put them in his pocket.

“They’ve applied for an expanded permit,” Snyder said. “Instead of the original ten acres they want a hundred and forty-six. That’s bad business—bad real-estate business and bad human business. The company applying already has a record of illegal and misidentified waste disposal. I’m a county commissioner, as you may know, and we’re having hearings on the subject; but for me that’s not enough. I have a petition here—” He released Mickelsson’s arm and with one hand opened the front of his coat while with the other he reached inside to extract a brown folder.

“Ah!” Mickelsson said, “you want me to sign! Certainly I’ll sign!” He took the pen Snyder offered him and quickly signed his name, then wrote his address and put a period after it. “There,” he said. “My soul for infinite power.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Snyder asked. He glanced at the druggist in his high box.

Mickelsson grinned, waved, and without a word hurried out onto the street.

He got groceries at the Acme, enough to hold him for a good long while—several days, anyway—in case he should decide he wasn’t in condition to see people. He was convinced that he was safe, had gotten away with it, at least for the time being; and time was always on the killer’s side. Nevertheless, since he couldn’t trust himself—since remorse walked only a step behind him, cursing him, wringing its pitiful, domestic hands—it would be best to stay close to his house. At the check-out counter he remembered they no longer accepted his checks, and he blushed, wincing, breaking out in sweat, drawing his hands to his face like a man feeling monstrously guilty, perhaps a shoplifter with his pockets full of goods. “I’m sorry,” he said, slapping his forehead, crazily smiling at the check-out girl. “I completely forgot that I’m not supposed to write checks here!” He flung a desperate glance around the store as if thinking he might see a friend who would help. How stupid, he thought—and furiously blushed again—to kill a man for his money and then recklessly throw it all away, not even keep forty-five dollars for groceries! His distress must have been a pitiful thing to see, because the girl said, “Just write out the check. It’s OK, this once. I’ll tell the manager I forgot.” He fell all over himself, foolish with gratitude, then finally got himself in control, took off his glasses, and wrote the check, then carefully entered it, the only check he’d entered in months. Then he snatched back his glasses and, all in one armload, carried the four large sacks of groceries out to the car. When the engine caught, a gray, putrid cloud rose not only from the car’s rear end but from under the hood as well. No matter. For the moment