Rescue

north on interstate 93, noticing half a dozen places on the other side of the road where the redheaded guy in the GMC truck could have waited to pick up and follow Melinda and Eddie southward into Boston . Crossing the New Hampshire line, I stayed on 93 through Manchester . After twenty minutes or so, I saw an exit for Elton and two other towns, the exit ramp having at its bottom another sign with Elton to the left and the other towns to the right.
    Turning left took me onto a two-lane road, wild meadows and small ponds on either side. I opened the moonroof to enjoy the slower speed. The air was bracing, less like the last day of summer and more like the first day of fall. The lanes grew narrower, then started to climb, pines and hemlocks now bordering the road. I went another six miles before descending toward a little town that looked as though it had jumped off a tourist’s postcard.
    White steeple like a whooping crane towering over all the other buildings, some red brick, others clapboard in white, blue, and yellow, all with black shutters and close to the street. Stately maple and oak for shade, the shrubbery in front most houses trimmed lovingly. There was a blinking light at the center of Main Street , where the octagonal gazebo on the green bespoke brass band concerts a century ago. Across from the green was the municipal office building, stolid in gray granite, a hunk of oak with curlicue lettering advertising library, town clerk, and police. I left the Prelude in a visitor parking slot and walked into the building.
    Red arrows on the corner of the entryway pointed every which way. I took the one toward POLICE,
    The door with the stenciling on it reminded me of my pebbled-glass one at the office, a fine web of chicken wire visible through the translucent glass. I knocked and heard, “Come on in.“
    The voice was male, that low, intimate tone of an airline pilot explaining to the passengers why he’d suddenly climbed three thousand feet without warning. The only man in the outer office was standing behind a waist-high counter, his right hand holding a telephone to his ear, his left hand beckoning me as he nodded in my direction. He was about forty, no more than five-seven but burly, his forearms under a short-sleeved, powder blue uniform shirt—the kind you see an men used to driving nails or shooting pucks. A big semiautomatic filled a strapped holster on a Sam Browne belt. His pants were dark blue with a cavalry stripe down the sides, the shoes a Corfam black with no apparent lifts in them, which I found admirable. The hair on the blocky head was chocolate-colored, crew-cut with a moat of baldness around the patch of hair at the top of his forehead. Beyond the moat, the hair rode over tiny ears, the sideburns in front of them almost hiding them.
    Into the phone, he said, “Well, what do you have that’ll get it out?... You can’t smell it? I can smell it, and I’ve got to be riding around—... Well, try that, then, and give me a call back.... Soon’s you can... Right, thanks.“
    Hanging up, he blew out a breath. “Had a couple of teenagers drinking beers out behind the high school Saturday night. Nothing so wrong with that, rather see them on beer than dope, I guess, but one of them got upset enough as I was driving him home that he urped up in the back of my cruiser. Stinks to high heaven, and the boys at the car wash don’t know what all to do about it.“
    “Disinfectant’s the only thing I remember working, but it’s going to smell, too.“
    He looked at me. “Be the lesser of two evils, anyway. You with a department now?“
    “Never was. Back in the service we had mostly jeeps, and you could take down the canvas, air them out some.“
    “MP?“
    “Yes.“
    “Overseas?“
    “Among other places.“
    He considered that, stuck out his hand. “Kyle Pettengill.“
    “John Cuddy.“
    After we shook, Pettengill said, “What can I do you for?“
    Folksy of him. “I’m a private investigator in Boston . I have what might be a case I’d like to talk with somebody about.“
    “Well, I’m somebody. Will I do?“
    “Don’t see anyone else.“
    “And you won’t. Girl’s out sick, some kind of Asian flu already this year. I’m kind of the day shift. Come on in my office.“
    I walked around the counter and followed Pettengill to another pebbled-glass door that had K. PETTENGILL, CHIEF lettered across the middle.
    He pointed to his title on it. “I’m a little shy on