I could see her appraising me, the sick feeling in my stomach obviously showing on my face. I said, “You said ‘Dr. Stroud’? Perhaps his son is sick or…”
The woman said, “Dr. Stroud is a dentist. Surely this has noth…” Her hand flew to her throat in concern, knowing that she had volunteered too much.
Again she said, “What did you say your name was?”
I did not want to be here when the police showed up. I was dressed poorly and still had a day’s growth of hair on my face and would probably generate the wrong sort of attention at a time when the authorities would be looking at everyone with suspicion.
I said, “I’m so sorry to catch you at a bad time. I’ll be back to you in the near future.” I turned immediately and left, the woman’s eyes burning holes in my back.
Feeling as if someone was peering out of the school’s windows and recording my license plate number, I slunk back to the Volvo and immediately moved it to the back part of the lot. I sat; air conditioning turned to the max, letting the shock wash over me. So close! I was so close! Every molecule in my being was crying out that this was no coincidence, no mistake... little Donny Stroud would not be found at a friend’s house, a case of a simple misunderstanding. Donny Stroud was gone, kidnapped, and no amount of wishful thinking was going to change that. An abject feeling of failure penetrated me, my stomach caught up with me and it was all I could do to keep from vomiting all over the car. I looked in the rear view mirror and told myself: you were so close!
Too late! And too slow. Bruised and abraded, I should have left James Herndon and Smithville that very night and driven home to begin my computer search. My feeling of failure was overwhelming but one thing rang true: My instinct had been right.
He had been here.
He had hunted here.
Slamming the car into gear and hoping that Sheila Cook-Walden and the other woman were too upset to remember my unshaven face, I drove out of the school parking lot and sought out a cheap motel. And a liquor store.
Chapter Eleven
Someone was watching. The Good One didn’t know how this could be so but it felt like someone was watching... no, more like someone was coming. It didn’t make any sense so he put it off to the hunger appearing so quickly but that wouldn’t still the uneasiness in his heart, his mind. Usually the taking of the face brought on a cool, calming reaction; as if he were bathed in alcohol as he had been in his youth when he had the fever. Mama had known what to do then and she would have known how to stem this disquiet in his heart now. If only she were here…
*
Too late! Too late! My nose detected the cut grass, felt the summer heat rising up off of the pavement but I was too slow. The black van turned the corner of the street next to the playground and even though my feet were churning as fast as they could I was in slow motion and the van turned another corner, making its way past Pioneer Circle, undoubtedly heading for the freeway with my son trapped behind the van’s locked doors. I could hear him screaming…
I awoke in a cold sweat. My head was already pounding but I had enough clarity to see my insanity. It was insane – I had not been there, there might not have been a black van, the only factual part of the nightmare was the grass smell. I wasn’t there – I was grading papers at school when I got Jeanie’s frantic call.
I put my head in my hands and sat at the edge of the motel’s cheap bed. My mouth tasted like ashes and my head throbbed as the stricken face of the library woman mouthed the word “missing” in my mind. I looked around and realized that I had achieved my goal: find some place cheap to hole up for the night (and hide from an inquisitive police department), get drunk, and violate the no smoking policy of the motel. I was not too hung-over to tell that I was not the first to do so. The room had the usual appointments of cheap sofa, cheap chair, one lamp, and it smelled like they were having a fire-sale.
I had forgotten to eat last night and my stomach roiled as I stumbled to the shabby bathroom, there to torture myself over-and-over with hot, cold, hot, cold – until I rejoined the land of the living.
The waiting room at the Plum Medical Center was fairly busy so I had hopes that my presence there would go unnoticed but as I worked my way through the tiers of magazines set against one wall a receptionist noticed me and said, “Have you signed in yet?”
I had replaced my shirt with a slightly less wrinkled one but I still had on the jeans and coat from the day before and worried that if I ignored the lady I might draw more attention to myself so I went up to the reception window and tried to look as if I belonged there.
I said, “No, sorry. It’s my first visit here. I didn’t realize I should sign in.”
“Carmela Anderson”, according to her plastic nametag, said, “Yes, you need to sign in first. Who is your appointment with and what time is your appointment?” She pushed forth a clipboard with a form on it.
Pretending to look at what I was signing I said, “Dr. Stroud. I’ve got an 11:30 appointment with him. Gee, I hope I’m in the right office.”
Looking at my signature “Carmela” said, “Oh yes – this is the dental offices... Mr. Irwin, is it? I’ll need you to fill out some basic medical history and insurance information for me.” She handed me another form and a pen. “If you’ll just fill these out I’m sure Dr. Stroud will be with you shortly.”
Carmela hadn’t gotten the word. Dr. Stroud wouldn’t be drilling on molars and filling in cavities today. I took the form over to my seat and pretended to fill it out as I patiently went through every one of the magazines until I found the one I wanted: the only magazine here whose mailing address hadn’t been removed. I gazed at the address on Mrs. Stroud’s used home copy of “People”: Elena Stroud, 1301 Camden Place Plum, Texas. 78663
I left the insurance form and pen on top of a cover story about how Oprah lost all that weight.
*
1301 Camden Place was a quiet, unassuming two-bedroom Californian-style home with two squat cactus ferns bracketing the front porch. By Plum standards I guess this is where professional people live but I didn’t get the sense that the residents of Camden Place were especially wealthy. I had parked across the street, allowing a half hour to go by to gauge the foot traffic and make sure there was no discernible police presence. Looking at my scruffy appearance in the Volvo’s rear-view mirror, the irony was not lost to me that I had used my library lie to get to Dr. Stroud’s vocation and address, and now I was going to use my brownish peach fuzz as a disguise; but a truthful disguise: the world-weary bohemian professor, here at your door with psychological support.
I am shameless when pursuing what I want.
Only one eye of Elena Stroud’s face was showing behind the security chain when she answered my knock. She looked me up-and-down, focused on the days-old beard and the abrasion on my forehead and said, “If you’re a reporter, go away.”
I spoke quickly but in my best clinical tone. “Mrs. Stroud? My name is Benjamin Cain.” I fumbled for my business card and held it up. “I do consultations with the state. Psychological consultations. I’m aware that you and your husband are in a very stressful situation and I just want to speak with you for a few minutes…” she eyed my card with a dubious look. “Really, Ma’am. We just want to help.” I tried my most sympathetic look – it wasn’t hard to conjure up.
It was like a dam had burst. Her demeanor when she opened the door was weary mistrust but all of a sudden her tear-filled face relaxed, she drew back the door and released the chain. Opening the door wide, she grabbed my card and said, “Oh good! I think I‘m going out of my mind. I’ve got no one to talk to! Robert won’t speak to me and there’s no one in my family that I can talk to. You can’t imagine what that’s like.”
Actually, I could. Elena led me into a pleasant, wide living room that normally would have been cheery and warm but the windows were shuttered and only a single table lamp was on. It was only one in the afternoon but the home looked like night. Without offering me a seat, Mrs. Stroud sat on an
Appalachian-back chair and picked up a tumbler of something brown and a large white handkerchief.
Seeing me nervously standing by a cushioned chair she said, “Oh God! Look at me! I’m sorry... I’m just so frazzled that I don’t know if I’m coming or going. Please... please sit. Can I get you anything?”
Just looking at what I suspect is bourbon made my stomach do flip-flops so I said, “No, thank you. Is Mr. Stroud here?” The house felt deserted.
“No. He’s with the police right now. You must have just missed him at the station.” She fingered my card, took a second glance and placed it on a coffee table.
The station? Ah... I got it. Elena Stroud assumed that I was working directly through the police or Social Services. All the better – much better than the lie I had come up with. I would have to go slow, ignoring the alarm bell ringing in my head telling me to get out. Get out before the husband comes home and in his grief and confusion kicks my sorry ass from here-to-kingdom-come.
I said, “Mrs. Stroud, I’m sure the police have told you that there are many possibilities as to where…” I pretended to fumble with the name, “…Donald – Donny is. I want to assure you that…”
I didn’t get any further. As soon as I said “Donny” she began to wail and shake so hard that her drink spilled onto the hardwood floor. I leaned forward and placed my hand on her handkerchief-ed one. All of a sudden my little act was gone and I didn’t see Elena Stroud crying loudly in her chair – I saw my wife Jeanie: her tan face a rictus of muscle, screaming so hard that no sound came out and her eyes bulging wide but seeing nothing.
I struggled to control myself and said, “It helps to talk about it, Mrs. Stroud... really. Really it does. Tell me how this happened.”
I didn’t know the particulars of their relationship, their marriage, but Elena Stroud had been dying for someone to talk to, to let it all out. Between her tale and the tears, I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise.
“He’s only eight years old, for God’s sake! My poor Donny... he must be so scared. On schooldays he always... always goes to his Grandma’s, that’s Bob’s mother, she lives only two blocks away. The bus let him off right on schedule and his grandmother’s house is right in-between the stop and here. He usually has cookies and watches TV until Bob and I get home from work. We’re very firm about that: you don’t go anywhere but Grandma’s after school. Anywhere!” She sounded as if she were scolding him right here and now. “She didn’t think too much of it when he was a little late; sometimes the bus gets held up, but when it got to be about 4:30pm she started calling around. I was just leaving work when she caught me and I knew... I just knew that something was wrong. I hurried home as fast as I could but we couldn’t find him anywhere. Then Bob came home and we... we called the police.” Elena broke down in a fit of crying.
I could see it all: the police, the well-intentioned questions, the soft inquiries about a misspoken word, a bad report card, a broken promise of a baseball game. Maybe even questions about “Grandma’s” mental health.
While Elena was in the midst of getting herself another drink, I rescued my card off of the coffee table and slipped it into my coat.
Seating herself again, Elena looked over her glass and said, “I’m never going to see him again, am I?”
“No, no, no... don’t ever say that! I’m sure the police are doing everything they can to get your little boy back to you,” I lied, “Exactly where is your mother-in-law’s house?”
She eyed me oddly but told me. The house felt unusually cold and I resisted the urge to run out into the sun – run and run and run and never have to see a face like Elena Stroud’s again.
Elena grew strangely quiet. After a moment she said, “I’ve seen those programs. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“What? I’m not sure…”
“I mean, that’s why you’re really here – right? I’ve seen those programs, the ones where they tell you if they don’t find somebody within 24 hours you’re not going to find them at all. That’s why you’re here.” She sounded certain now. “It’s grief counseling. It’s grief counseling because I’m never going to see my Donny ever, ever again... because he’s dead!” She collapsed into more tears and the glass of brown liquid started slipping from her hand again. I clumsily righted it but the damage was done. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t care if the liquid marred the wood on the floor. As much as I was feeling for Elena Stroud, I had to get out. This was too much, too painful, too familiar.
“Mrs. Stroud, I’m going to leave you now. I’m certain that your husband will be returning soon.”
“Wha..?” Her eyes were cloudy, uncertain, “What do you mean?”
I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t even form the words in my mind. If I were to tell her the truth there was a real possibility she might lose all hope and do something drastic – and I had enough on my conscience without dealing with something like that.
Against my better judgment I said, “Mrs. Stroud, I don’t want you to lose hope but I want to make a promise to you…” Her head came up and she met my eyes. “I promise…” and now my voice cracked, “…that whoever is responsible will be dealt with.”
I got up, walked to the door and left; leaving a confused Elena Stroud to what can only be called Hell.
Chapter Twelve
It took me all of one minute to reach Donny Stroud’s grandmother’s house. A small bungalow-style in green, the home sat midway in a cul-de-sac labeled Rockaway Place. I had no intention of bothering the elderly woman but I did park the Volvo one house away from hers and stood on the corner that was the drop-off point for Bus 13, the last place Donny Stroud was seen alive. To the west was the closest thoroughfare, Tate Street, and if a person jogged one block to the east they could throw a stone and hit the Stroud residence. Looking at the quiet residences, sweating in the early summer heat, I couldn’t imagine how anyone could kidnap an eight-year-old boy and drive away without being confronted. In my mind I only had one thought: The assailant had to have looked safe, non-threatening. Perhaps a policeman? Turning in a circle I saw plenty of commerce up on Tate; a small pizza parlor, gas station, and a kiosk that surely was soon to go out of business: a “Short-Stop FotoMat.” Although I could see one person employed with leaning out of the drive-up window, computers and digital processing were making that business obsolete. Still…
Returning to my auto, I cranked the AC to its highest mark and drove to the pick-up window of the FotoMat. Standing and glaring at an ill-performing air conditioner was a teenage girl, her hair a multi-colored swirl of punkish attitude; with five small gold rings in one ear and four in the other. Fingernails were Goth-black and I imagined her toenails were, too.
I rolled down my window and inquired, “Do you usually work here?”
She eyed me suspiciously and said, “What... cops are switching to foreign cars?”
“What? Why, do I look like a cop?”
Goth girl smacked a handful of chewing gum. “Well, you’re either a cop or trying to pick me up. Nobody stops here anymore – not for photos, anyway.”
Ma Cain always said “the truth will set you free, but when in doubt... lie”. I said, “I’m a reporter. Just trying to figure out if anybody saw anything... over there.” I pointed in the direction of Rockaway.
Following my finger she said, “I already told the cops, I ain’t seen nothin’. Yeah sure, I was working; it’s not like the skuzz-bag who owns this box could get anybody else but I didn’t see anything. Is it true what they say? A little boy?” She looked truly concerned.
I said, “That’s what I understand. So, you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary... anything suspicious?”
Photo-girl Grizelda twirled a pink portion of her hair and said, “Nah, it’s really slow here and I would have noticed if something was going on. I do have my nose stuck in a book most of the time, though. Sorry... can’t help you.”
I nodded my thanks. I was preparing to go but she added, “I dig the beard... for
an old guy, I mean.”
I looked for some sign of guile but there was none. “Thanks, I’m working on a disguise.” To her confused look I rolled up the window and made a small semi-circle that put me in line for one of the pumps at the Shell station that shared the lot. After filling the tank for the trip back to Austin, I entered the station/convenience store and waited my turn in line. Pulling cash from my wallet, the photo of Lucas that I always carry with me (let me show you my pride and joy!) slips onto the counter and my heart somersaults all over again. My hands are trembling as I replace it and ask the Indian or Pakistani man behind the counter if he’s seen anything unusual go on across the street in the last few days. I can look right over his shoulder and just make out the tip of the entrance to Grandma’s cul-de-sac.
Through Coke-bottle lenses the man stares at me and says, “I no understand.” I point towards Rockaway and repeat my question but it’s obvious that he’s worked here just long enough to ignore the world outside and focus on the gas, the Chiclets, and more-than-four-students-at-one time-is-not-allowed. I add on a pack of smokes to my total, pay the bill, and turn my Volvo out onto the road leading back to my house-that’s-not-a-home in Austin.
*
The Good One is angry. The boy had struggled far more than the others and now that his shift is over and he can relax in his chair and try to cool down from this infernal heat all he can focus on is the thin red line the boy scratched on his upper arm. There is very little blood but the scratch is on the underside where he can’t quite see it and all he can fix on is how unclean the boy had been. Filthy. Filthy and sweaty with that little boy smell that just tells you he hadn’t bathed in a week and probably played with dirt during recess. Not like his girls who are in the backyard playing as young ladies ought to. No, there was probably pushing and yelling and other sweaty boys piling their filth on top of each other. If he closes his eyes for just a moment’s respite there is no rest because he can actually see the germs squirming in the cut; swimming and oozing and he can almost hear them infecting his arm and he is very, very, angry. If the boy was here he would surely punish him but he’s not and now there is no one here to show how unfair, how unclean, how gosh-darn wrong this all is.
Candy from a Stranger Page 7
