The Rag and Bone Shop by Robert Cormier Read Free Book Online

wonder, Ms. Downes?” His voice light, but not playful, suspecting a revealing remark.
    “First, you can call me Sarah, since we’ll be working together.”
    Trent withdrew a bit. He had admitted no one into his privacy, had avoided intimacy since Lottie’s death. No first-name greetings, no first name given. He wanted to operate alone, travel light. Yet he wanted somehow to convince this young woman that he was more than just an interrogator, not some sort of monster who neglected the human condition of his subjects and their victims.
    “All right, Sarah,” he said, conceding her name but withholding his own. “What do you wonder about?”
    “How you can stand it. All those confessions. I’ve often wondered how priests handle it, sitting in the dark, listening to all the sins, all the foul things people do to each other.”
    The foul things.
    I must lie down where all the ladders start,
    In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
    The old poem which had become a sort of credo through the years.
    He said the words aloud but almost to himself: “ ’Down where all the ladders start, in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.’ ”
    “Yeats,” she said.
    Gratified that she recognized the poem, he said: “I admit that I have sleepless nights. Or I wake up from dreams I can’t remember except that terrible things happened in them. All of it, I suppose, from what I’ve heard in the interrogations. But you learn to live in isolation. And that’s where the trouble lies.” What was he admitting to this young woman that he had never admitted even to Lottie? “The terrible thing is that the priest can give absolution. Absolve the sinners. Send them on their way with a clean heart. I can only listen and turn the confession into an indictment. And go on my own way . . .”
    “To another case, another interrogation.”
    He nodded in agreement.
    “And that’s enough for you?”
    You are what you do.
    Or should I be more than that?
    The limo swerved, and he and Sarah Downes were almost thrown against each other, shoulders touching, the faint scent of her cologne reaching him, like a soft breeze in a leafy glade, the echo of an old song coming into his mind.
    “Sorry,” came the word from the speaker connected to the driver. “A dog in the road . . .”
    Sarah Downes drew away, a wan smile on her face.
    “I guess I’ve envied you for a long time,” she said. “Wanted to be as expert, as efficient . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    “But now you’re not sure,” he suggested.
    She turned her eyes on him, said nothing.
    What did he see in those deep gray eyes? Pity, perhaps? Or revulsion? And which was worse?
    An unaccountable sadness settled on him, along with the familiar exhaustion that he wore like an old suit, as the limo continued on its way to Monument.

    L ieutenant Braxton greeted Trent at the rear door of police headquarters. As the detective introduced himself, Trent took in the wiry intensity of the man. Tall and thin, all sharp angles, cheekbones and chin, shoulder blades sharp in the sweat-stained white shirt.
    “Glad you’re here,” Braxton said, voice brisk. His handshake was also brisk. And brief. “No time to waste,” he said. “Sarah Downes filled in the cracks.” Not a question but a statement that required no answer.
    Sarah had quietly drifted away after a curt nod to both men.
    “Let’s go,” Braxton commanded, turning abruptly toward the hallway.
    Trent disliked being hurried and purposely lagged behind. Braxton stopped and looked over his shoulder at him. “The senator would like a word with you.”
    At the same moment, Senator Gibbons stepped into the hallway. He looked as if he had just emerged from a political cartoon, everything about him spectacular, almost a caricature. A shock of white hair, bulbous nose, wide smile and gleaming buck teeth. But he carried himself with an air of authority that contradicted the exaggerations.
    Trent expected a booming hearty