by David Stout
Graham kept his face impassive. “The ransom was delivered as per instructions, and I will not comment on the other parts of your question.”
The reporter with the dirty raincoat was on his feet. “Agent Graham, in view of the fact that the authorities issued an ultimatum, namely that there must be proof the boy is alive and well before any more ransom is delivered, what do you think this sighting means?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Well, sir, I mean, do you think the kidnappers are moving the boy to a different hiding place? More to the point, has he been under your nose all the while?”
“I have no way of knowing that,” Graham said. “There’s a lot of places a child can be hidden. And moving him from one place to another would probably not be that difficult. How many vans and pickup trucks are registered just in Hill and Deer counties? Thousands. And you don’t have to drive very far to find some of the densest woods in the Northeast. We’ve got a couple hundred square miles of forest that start just a short drive from here.”
“Agent Graham, in view of what you now know, might it not have been wise to conduct a thorough search of the woods in the region?” asked the reporter with the big biceps.
Graham bit his lip, then answered. “It’s not that simple to conduct a thorough search, as you put it, of dense woods. Especially when the weather is iffy. But as a matter of fact, I can tell you now that state police aircraft have been keeping their eyes open, so to speak.”
Will couldn’t help but be amused. Graham had practically chewed his last words. Will recalled that Graham had trained in hand-to-hand combat. Perhaps the FBI man was even now fantasizing about being in a room alone with Big Biceps and bouncing him from wall to wall.…
“Mr. Graham, no doubt the boy’s parents have been notified. How are they reacting?”
“Like any parents would. They are, naturally, hopeful that the child sighted is indeed their son, and that no harm has yet come to him.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” It was Dirty Raincoat again.
“I shouldn’t have to spell that out,” Graham said coldly.
Jerry, Jerry, Will thought. Learn to suffer the fools.
“Sir, some of us have heard a rumor that the kidnappers threatened to assault the boy sexually? Can you comment?”
“I have no comment,” Graham said, barely in control. “Except that whoever would spread rumors like that is beneath contempt.”
That brought silence to the room. Impatient to get things over with, Will stood up. “Jer … Agent Graham, is a search of the woods being done now, and was the man who called the Deer County Sheriff’s Office able to pinpoint the sighting?”
“Yes. As we speak, a search is under way in a selected area, in the section of woods where the hunter thinks he saw the man and the boy. The weather forecast is not promising, but we have no choice but to press the search at this point.”
Another question occurred to Will, one so obvious that he was surprised no one else had asked it. He must phrase it as though he knew it to be a fact: “Agent Graham, I assume the Deer County Sheriff’s Office tape-records its incoming telephone calls. Is the tape of the hunter’s call being analyzed, or will it be, and what do you hope to find out?”
“Yes, the tape of that call will be analyzed. For what it’s worth, we think from the tone of voice and the caller’s tendency to mumble certain words that it was an older man. And I don’t know what we’ll find out, other than that he has loose dentures.”
There was a low collective chuckle in the room. Several pairs of eyes turned respectfully to Will, who would have been flushed with pride except that he was dying to talk to Jerry Graham alone.
The lovely TV reporter raised her hand. “Mr. Graham, what about the previous messages from the kidnappers? I mean, their having been sent from different locations and all? What does that mean in view of the boy’s being sighted in the deep woods?”
Which was precisely what Will was trying to guess at.
“Who can say?” the agent replied. “We already know there were at least two kidnappers, after all. If I had more answers, I might have the boy.”
“Well,” the gorgeous reporter pressed, “do you think the different locations used in the ransom mailings were meant as a diversion, or are the kidnappers just toying with you?”
“I don’t know,” Graham said. “I suggest you ask the kidnappers. When we catch them. Which we will.”
“Sir, are you yourself going to the search area? And will the press be allowed to accompany the search party?”
“I am going out there as soon as we’re done here. And we can’t have all of you tromping all over the place. So the chief and I have decided to have a pool arrangement. Two representatives of the print media, meaning one reporter and one photographer, and one cameraman and reporter from TV. Ladies and gentlemen, this is not negotiable, so please do not push me.”
A rumble of discontent went up: even though whoever was selected for the pool would be obligated to share what they filmed or saw, those left out would be furious. Sure, Will thought. That’s why we all got in this business once upon a time: to be where the action is. Not to have someone else tell us about the action.
The next voice was the police chief’s: “Everyone come up here and write your name on a piece of paper from this pad. Put it in this basket, and we’ll shuffle them and see who gets to go.”
All but oblivious to the grumbling around him, Will stood in line to sign his name. He was frustrated and furious. He had cooperated with Jerry Graham early on—lent him some of his expertise, for God’s sake!—and now he, Will Shafer, was about to be shut out unless the luck of the draw favored him.
Will signed his name, put the piece of paper in the little basket, tried desperately to get the attention of his old friend the FBI agent, who was standing off to one side, seemingly intent on ignoring him. Will had never been good at being pushy, and he envied reporters who were. Now that feeling came back to him, and he felt humiliated as well as angry. Jerry, don’t do this to me!
“All right,” the police chief said. “I’ll draw the names now.”
Of course, Will’s name was not one of those drawn, and his face stung as though he’d been slapped. He would get out of the newspaper business and get a job in public relations. This time, he really would. But first, god damn it, he was going to try his damnedest to get out to the woods with the searchers, even if he had to get arrested.…
“All right,” Jerry Graham said, “those of you who have been picked can come with us. There’s a van waiting out back. The rest of you, well, you can wait here, I guess. There’s not much point in your trying to follow on your own, because the roads leading into the area will be blocked off at a certain point.…”
One last time, Will tried to catch the eye of his old friend Jerry Graham (the man he’d been with on a stakeout in the woods, the man he’d had dinner and drinks with, for Christ’s sake!), but in vain.
Well, Jerry Graham could shit in his hat and pull it down over his ears as far as Will Shafer was concerned. Will thought he just might put everything he knew in his next story, including the stuff that had been off the record. He wasn’t going to be treated this way.
Will left by a side entrance. It was getting colder, snowing again. A good day to stay in a second-rate hotel and consume what was left of the scotch, then file a story that the editors back in Bessemer would have trouble translating. He wouldn’t be the first reporter to get drunk before writing a story. Ah, Frannie, I don’t blame you, Will thought. I really don’t. Will had never felt lower, or madder.
He paused as he opened the door to his car. Should he go back and find someone—anyone—to tell what he knew? Screw it. Maybe he’d talk to Jerry Graham later. And maybe—
Just as he was getting into his car, a powerful hand clutched his shoulder, so suddenly that Will felt a jab of fear.
“Mr. Shafer?” It was a cop. Midthirties. Hard, square face, partly hidden by amb
er sunglasses, the kind of glasses cops sometimes wore on the pistol range. “Relax, Mr. Shafer. Agent Graham sent me to get you before you got away. Come on with me.”
“Will, I’m sorry for the little charade. A necessity, I thought. Want to come along?”
“Of course, you bastard. I was fit to be tied.”
Graham laughed, then gestured to the cop who’d retrieved Will. “Meet Officer John Raines, Will. One of the few people around here who seems to know what he’s doing.”
Momentarily startled by the FBI man’s candor, Will shook hands with the smiling officer, who had removed his shooting glasses to reveal cool gray eyes.
“You have something to tell me before we go, Will?”
“Yes. It’s about the ransom notes.”
“John, would you excuse us for a minute?” Graham said. “Officially, the bureau doesn’t operate quite the way I am now.”
“No problem. I’ve got something to do anyhow before we leave. Good meeting you, Mr. Shafer.”
“It’s Will. Same here.”
As soon as they were alone and the door was locked, Graham opened the desk drawer and took out the cardboard sheets. He held them up and raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for Will to prove something.
“It’s with the second and third ones, Jerry. Remember how we thought maybe one guy had done the first note but not the others?”
“Right.”
“And we noticed the shortcut he took there, with the abbreviation, and most important right there.” Will leaned forward to point to something in the third note. “There, Jerry, that word quarter that’s pasted up intact. It’s Latin Condensed type, Jerry.”
The agent looked at Will as though his old newspaperman friend was speaking Chinese.
Will went on. “Latin Condensed is an old-fashioned type-face, Jerry. Rather formal for the look most papers want nowadays. Stuffy, even. Not that many papers use it.”
Graham nodded. “And you know the ones that do?”
“Not the Bessemer Gazette, Jerry. Not the Long Creek Eagle. In fact, none of the hometown papers from this area. It’s the New York Times Jerry. The New York Times uses Latin Condensed type in some of its headlines.”
“The New York Times…”
“Jerry, I feel like a fool. I’m so used to seeing it, because I read the Times every day. So it didn’t dawn on me that it was unusual. In fact”—Will bent forward and pointed to two other letters, both on the second ransom note—“those letters there are Latin Condensed also.”
The agent listened with razor-sharp concentration.
“Jerry, the New York Times has trouble getting its papers into this region. Geography, weather, shipping problems, most of all the lack of a good satellite printing plant. You can buy the Times in only a few places around here. It’s available here in Long Creek, though sales are sparse. The next-closest place is Bessemer.”
“You’re sure?”
“I verified it last night by calling the Gazette’s circulation chief.”
“So,” Graham said. “Whatever it means, those postmarks all those miles apart on the ransom notes, and the bragging about being able to move the kid at will…”
“Jerry, some of the newspapers used in the pasteups of the second and third notes were bought right here in Long Creek.”
Graham put the ransom notes back in his drawer and locked it. “We’ve got to get going, Will. How would what you just told me dovetail with the boy’s being sighted in the woods?”
“I don’t know. There are at least two kidnappers. We know that.”
“Right. Could be those distant postmarks are supposed to divert us. Or maybe the kidnappers just get their rocks off by toying with us. God, I don’t know.”
Will felt a little let down. He had been proud of his discovery (belated or not) and had expected Graham to … what? Be more enthusiastic? Offer a new theory?
“Will, Officer Raines can drop you at your hotel for a minute if you want to get your hiking boots or whatever. He’ll drive you out to the search area. Okay?”
“Sure.” Why am I going with this guy Raines? Will wondered.
“I’m afraid your fellow journalists would be all over my ass, Will, if it was obvious that I was bringing you along outside of the pool arrangement. So I’d appreciate it if you’d stay close to Officer Raines and be inconspicuous.”
“Sure.” That made sense, but Will thought Jerry seemed hesitant and embarrassed.
“Oh, and Will. As I said, I don’t know exactly what to make of this thing with the Latin, Latin…”
“Latin Condensed type.”
“But if you could, you know…”
Will knew. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “It’s off the record, Jerry. For now, anyhow.”
Raines drove him to his room, where Will called the Gazette and told the editors to go with a wire-service story on the kidnapping if he couldn’t file in time for the first edition.
“My instincts tell me to stay with the searchers no matter what, even if it means not being able to file,” Will said.
Hanging up before anyone could argue, he grabbed his boots, heavy jacket, and hat and was out the door. God, it was great to be on a story again.…
Raines was quiet for much of the ride out to the country. Will was comfortable with the silence. He even closed his eyes for part of the trip. He didn’t doze, but he did relax a little. He wished he’d had a bigger breakfast; there was no telling when he’d be back in town.
“You know this FBI guy from before, I guess.”
Will was almost startled by Raines’s voice. “Yeah. Haven’t seen him for a while, but we first got acquainted back in Bessemer. When we were both just starting out.”
“Him in law enforcement and you in the newspaper business,” Raines said.
Raines seemed to be straining to be convivial, so Will went on. “That was a long time ago. More years than I want to admit.”
They rode in silence a while longer. Will was thankful for the car’s powerful heater, even though he was starting to have to fight off the drowsiness. The cop still wore his amber range glasses and kept his eyes straight ahead, on a road that was starting to get slick in spots.
Snow fell out of the pewter sky. Will wondered where Jamie Brokaw was, whether he was…
No. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“Pretty sharp, isn’t he?” Raines said. “Graham, I mean.”
“I always thought so. He’s what we used to call a straight arrow. I guess I’m dating myself a little.”
“I had him figured for that, too. By the book and all.”
“But not totally,” Will said. “Jerry’s got good instincts, I think. Hunches, whatever you call them.”
“Like in poker.”
“I guess so, although I don’t play cards.”
The mention of poker reminded Will of his encounter with the chief’s brother. Since Raines was loosening up a little, Will decided to fish. “The chief and his brother play poker, don’t they?”
Raines snorted. “Not with me they don’t.”
Ah so, Will thought. We have here a police officer who doesn’t like his chief and some of the people around the chief. Perhaps that fact could be useful.
Will recognized the turnoff; it was the same road Jerry Graham had taken when Will had gone with him on the stakeout. A Sheriff’s Department car with its red gumball blinking blocked the road partly, allowing room for one vehicle to pass at a time. A deputy standing alongside the car waved Raines through. Will saw eight or ten cars parked nearby along the highway: probably the curious who had learned by radio or television that a boy had been spotted in the woods.
Raines drove well beyond where Graham had stopped the day of the stakeout. The road was icy, but Raines seemed to have no trouble. There was a lot more snow out here in the open country than back in Long Creek.
“You’re used to these conditions, I guess,” Will said.
“Sure am. I grew up north of Albany, where we got just
as much snow as here. Plus, I got studded tires.”
“You do any hunting around here?”
“Some. Don’t get much chance. I’m a good shot, though.”
They went up a long hill, and the swirl of snow seemed to thicken as they climbed.
“Weather’s gonna make it tough for the copter pilots,” Raines said. “But they’ll fly as long as they can.”
From the top of the hill, Will saw a big clearing off to one side of the road. The area was jammed with police vehicles. Will also spotted an ambulance, a truck that appeared to be a communications center, several portable toilet booths, and a canteen that was dispensing coffee and sandwiches.
Dozens of lawmen, some wearing uniforms, many carrying rifles or shotguns, stood in clusters.
“This here clearing is owned by the Deer County Rod and Gun Club,” Raines said. “It was the handiest place for a base of operations.”
Raines parked at the end of a row of cars, and he and Will stepped into the snow. Instantly, Will felt himself shivering, but only partly from the cold. The rest was pure adrenaline, triggered by the scene around him. The air was alive with the sound of generators, snowmobiles, and helicopter engines. Will watched one copter lift off, its rotors beating down the air in a cyclone of snow, then bank as it veered toward the dense woods.
This was worth writing about, no matter how it turned out: that a lot of brave people were risking their lives for a little boy.
He walked past a helicopter, saw two people in flight suits jotting on clipboards. The blond hair of one of the pilots curled out from under her helmet.
Will looked for Raines; he didn’t want to loose track of him. There he was, being briefed with several other cops a few yards away.
Will looked back at the helicopter; the pilot had climbed into the plastic blister of a cockpit. Oh, the woman was in the copter, too. Good story, good story, Will thought. Got to find her later, talk to her, weave her into the story gracefully without making too big a deal out of it.
