Free Far Far Away by Tom McNeal Page B

fateful night I stared out at the thinning darkness and heard the first cock crow, with more soon joining in from one farm and another.
    And what was this? Human voices? At this early hour?
    Yes.
Mein Gott!
—down on Main Street—Sheriff Pittswort and Deputy McRaven were walking door to door, trying a particular key again and again, looking for the particular lock that it would open … as if in some fairy tale.
    I hastened down from my belfry to investigate.

    A very few minutes later, my anguished fears bore unhappy fruit: When the sheriff tried the key at the Two-Book Bookstore, it slid easily into the lock. It was followed by a smooth
click
, and with a twist of the knob the door swung open.
    “Bingo,” Sheriff Pittswort said, and poked his head into the bookstore. “Morning, folks!” he called. “Time to rise and shine! Sheriff’s here for a visit!”
    No one answered, though I heard the faintest stirring in the attic.
    “Sleepyheads,” the sheriff declared, casting a sly smile toward his deputy.
    They were a peculiar pair. Sheriff Pittswort was so large that, in the old tales, he might have been called a giant. His deputy had a squashed aspect and resembled, if it is possible, a large dwarf, with short legs, broad shoulders, and an outsized head. His breath—I knew this even though I hovered some distance away—smelled sourly of coffee.
    They stepped into the room. When the sheriff found large pieces of hardened mud near the window, and then a track of smaller pieces leading to the door at the rear of the shop, he said, “I think what we got here, Deputy, is a Person of Interest.”
    Deputy McRaven’s laugh sent another wave of stale coffee-scented breath into the air.
    “Hey, folks!” the sheriff yelled, louder this time. “Up and at ’em!”
    No one answered.
    Possibly Mr. Johnson could sleep through such clamor, but I had no doubt Jeremy was awake in the attic, lying still, wondering what to do next.
    “Official business!”
the sheriff yelled in a voice that boomed.
    Jeremy poked his head over the top of the ladder, his hair stiff and uncombed. “You’ll wake up my dad,” he said quietly. “He has a hard time sleeping.”
    A derisive smile cut across the sheriff’s face. “What I’ve noticed is that your dad has a hard time getting himself out of bed.”
    Deputy McRaven laughed hard at this. I turned to avoid his breath.
    Jeremy pulled on his clothes and descended the ladder.
    “Guess you know why we’re here,” the sheriff said when Jeremy faced him.
    Jeremy put a hand to his temple. He wanted me to advise him. I knew I should recommend only that he tell the truth, but I did not trust this Sheriff Pittswort and I did not want Jeremy at his mercy. So I advised him as I advised myself when Bonaparte’s brother assumed authority in Westphalia:
Tell no lies, but volunteer no truths
.
    “I guess I don’t really know what you mean,” Jeremy said to the sheriff.
    Sheriff Pittswort’s smile was mocking. He whispered something to his dwarfish deputy, who at once stumped out the door and disappeared. The sheriff drew a small notebookfrom his rear pocket and uncapped his pen. “Okay,” he said, “just for starters, where were you last night between nine and eleven p.m.?”
    Jeremy stared down at his bare feet, then looked up, and was about to speak when a voice from the rear of the shop said, “He was here.”
    Mr. Johnson stood in the doorway, his long hair and beard both a greasy tangle.
    “Well, well,” Sheriff Pittswort said. “He has risen and it ain’t even Easter.”
    Mr. Johnson raked his fingers through his beard with some difficulty.
    The sheriff said, “So where were you last night, Harold?”
    “Here,” Mr. Johnson said. “Right here.”
    “Here in this room, Harold?”
    “No. In the other room. Right there.” Mr. Johnson gestured toward the room behind him. “My room.”
    “And your boy was in the room with you?”
    Mr. Johnson’s gaze slid away. “Some of the