“Speaking of triggered,” I asked, bending my promise to Kim a bit, “did Stephen have a gun?”
Eleanor Kinnington’s throat worked once before any sound came out. “A … gun?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to know about guns?”
Plural. “Please, Mrs. Kinnington?”
She considered. “My son, that is, Stephen’s Uncle Telford, left him a pistol in his, ah, will. Some sort of fancy target contraption. To start him properly. Stephen, almost before he could write, would shoot on the grounds with Tyrone, who was our houseman then. But I haven’t seen the gun, nor Stephen with a weapon of any kind, in years.”
“Well, he has one now,” I said as I rose.
“How do you know that?”
I ignored her question, substituting one of my own. “By the way, was a gun all that Stephen and Telford shared?”
Mrs. Kinnington looked at me suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”
“I have reason to believe that Telford was institutionalized, or nearly so, while he was in the service. Stephen was institutionalized after his mother’s death. Could it be that mental illness runs in your family, Mrs. Kinnington?”
“That’s preposterous, and I’ll not have you spreading a lurid, defamatory statement like—”
“I’m not,” I said with my hand on the doorknob, “but Stephen and his gun might be.”
“Mr. Cuddy, do you know where Stephen is or not?”
“I don’t. But in view of Blakey’s involvement and temperament, I’d be afraid to tell you if I did.”
As I pulled out of the Kinnington driveway, my mind was working on the most direct route to the Mass Pike. As I skirted Meade Center, I went past a large public building on my right. There was a sign just beneath the flagpole. I hit my brakes and eased to the curb. From what Valerie Jacobs and Mrs. Kinnington had told me of Stephen’s reading habits, he must have exhausted the contents of his school’s library years ago. It was a longshot, but I was pretty much down to longshots right then.
The public library was itself a restored quasi-mansion, red brick with four white columns. There was a meticulous expanse of lawn and a semicircular parking lot. Inside, the librarian was a pleasant change of pace from most Meade residents I’d met.
Meaning, polite.
I identified myself to Cornelia Traub and explained that Ms. DeMarco and I were investigating Stephen’s disappearance. Since I was out here speaking with Mrs. Kinnington anyway, I thought I’d stop by and check the boy’s library borrowings. I wasn’t sure if Ms. DeMarco had done so yet.
Traub’s middle-aged face grew concerned. “You know, Mr. Cuddy, I wondered whether someone was still looking into that. Such a poor, unfortunate family. First Telford, then Diane—they were the judge’s brother and wife, you know—and now Stephen. The whole town is whispering about it, but nobody really knows anything. You make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be right back.” She walked back into an inner office behind the counter. Traub came back with a tray of perhaps a hundred, old-style computer cards and set it on the counter.
She looked down and began flipping through some cards. “You know, I nearly cursed the idea of a computer system for borrowers. Imagine, a computer in Meade! But I must say it is more efficient once you get the hang of it. Here.”
Traub slid the tray gently toward me. “Stephen’s read all these books?” I asked.
“Oh, my, he’s read many more than just these, which are only the ones he’s borrowed since January. He’d also spend nearly every afternoon after school here in our reading room, literally devouring both books and magazines. I never saw the like of him, poor boy.”
I started to flip through the cards the way Traub had. Almost all were novels or historical works. Two I came upon dealt with camping. I was about to ask my new-found friend if I could see those when a photocopier began hiccupping behind me. It was one of those open-topped machines for use with books. I hadn’t noticed it when I came in.
“Did you see Stephen photocopying any maps recently?” I asked.
“Maps? No-o-o, but now that you mention it, I did see him photocopying something that was in an issue of New England Outdoors. In fact, shortly before he disappeared, though I never would have thought about it if you hadn’t asked me. You see, many of the ah … young boys try to copy certain, well, advertisements for, ah, women’s clothes, and I never thought Stephen was that type, but when I came close to him as he was copying something, he became secretive, so I wondered if I was wrong about him. But I watched him put the magazine back, and I checked on it and was relieved.”
“Do you remember what issue we’re talking about?”
“I think so,” Traub said as she came out from behind the desk and walked over to some periodical racks. “It was,” she said, thumbing through the magazines, “this one.”
Just as Traub handed it to me, her phone began ringing. She left me, and I sat down in a stuffed leather chair.
I opened to the table of contents. Five lead articles, six departments on camping subspecialties. I skimmed the articles. The third one was about the great number of abandoned, tower-style ranger stations and the dangers in using them as shelters. The article mentioned that there were thirty-seven such stations north of New Jersey and it named several. Four were spread widely over the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts. One page of the article was a map showing the stations. I looked up. The copying machine took dimes.
As I left the machine, I waved to Cornelia Traub, who gave me a can’t-you-stay-till-I-get-off-this-call? look. I couldn’t.
As soon as I left the library, I began looking for a pay telephone. I found one outside a superette market on Meade’s main drag and dialed Valerie Jacob’s number. No answer, indicating that she had left to meet her friend in Boston. I hung up and tried the Kinningtons. The judge answered. I hung up and drummed my fingers on the little metal counter that’s too narrow to write on and too slanted to rest coins on. I dialed directory assistance and got the Sturdevants’ number. I called, hoping for Kim, and raised old Hal instead. I hung up on him, too.
I jackknifed open the telephone booth door and went back to my car. I took out the New England Outdoors page I’d photocopied and studied the small-scale map on it. I had a rough idea where the Willow Wood sanatorium was, but none of the ranger stations seemed very close to it. The two farthest stations were at least sixty-five miles away from each other and probably not easily accessible by car. Which meant a day or two of scouting them out, assuming Stephen would be in the last one I’d check.
Assuming that he was in any of the stations. Assuming that this was the article he had copied. Assuming that Ms. Traub was right about which issue he’d had.
The alternative was to try to find out if there was any faster way to trace him to one of the stations. Valerie still seemed the best bet for that, and I could call her later tonight or earlier tomorrow than I could either Mrs. Kinnington or Kim.
I folded up the map and drove impatiently homeward against the rush-hour flow.
Eighteen
I PICKED UP A bucket of chicken at the Kentucky Fried on Brighton Avenue in Allston, once again bemoaning the passing of the franchise that had been diagonally across from my apartment on Charles Street. I wrestled the rental into a parallel-parking space with six inches to spare front and back.
The red light on my telephone-tape machine was lit, but I decided it could wait until after dinner. I washed the chicken down with two Molson Golden Ales and settled into an easy chair with one of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels. I had read four pages when a phone in the book began ringing. Memory jogged, I put the novel down, walked to my answering machine, and replayed the short message. I then replayed it several times. The muffled voice on the other end said only the same one word each time:
“Remember.”
The chicken parts in my stomach made an effort to reassemble themselves. I had another Molson’s to calm them down.
I tried
Valerie Jacob’s number every half hour up to and including 11:30. I know, because I could recall seeing Johnny Carson’s monologue but drew a blank on his guests, as I stretched stiffly in the easy chair. The clock on the mantel said 4:15. I went to bed, resetting my clock radio for 6:15. I awakened to Deep Purple’s classic “Smoke on the Water” on WCOZ (whose motto is “Kick-ass rock-and-roll”). I splashed some water on my face in the bathroom, then called Valerie.
It rang four times before I got a sleepy “Hullo.”
“Val, it’s John Cuddy.”
“Oh, hi, John. I must have over—hey, it’s only six-thirty!”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, but I might be on to something.”
“Oh, really?” she said, in my mind’s eye sitting up in bed and pushing her hair back. “What is it?”
“Remember when we were on the beach, with those guys playing football?”
“Hmph. I’ll never forget it.”
“I asked you about what transportation Stephen might use, and you said you couldn’t think of any.”
“Right.”
“How about the Berkshires?”
“The Berkshires? The mountains or the region in general?”
“Either. Did Stephen ever talk with you about the Berkshires?”
Valerie paused. “No, not that I can think of. Why the Berkshires?”
“Well, a couple of things. Someone saw him looking at a magazine with an article on them. He also spent time in a mental institution out there, so he might know a little more about that area and therefore head that way.”
“Stephen was so interested in so many things, but I can’t think of anything—Wait a minute! He did do a social-studies paper a month or so ago about … oh, what was it? Meat, that’s right, meat. He had written it for another teacher, but was proud of his work, so he wanted me to see it. Stephen’s paper involved how meat went from somewhere in Boston all over the state by truck. I’m pretty sure part of it dealt with the Berkshires.”
“Kind of thin. But I think I know where to start.”
“Oh, John, will you still be able to come for dinner tonight?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
I debated a lie. “I’ll be there,” I said.
“Terrific. Seven o’clock?”
“You bet.”
She giggled. “See you then.”
“Bye-bye.”
I hung up and checked the clock. This would be the busy time down at the meat exchange and I wanted to get there when the boys had a little time to talk, so I ran a long-for-me six miles along the river to burn off the chicken and the Molsons, trying not to think about the voice on my tape, which I knew but could never prove was Blakey’s. I had breakfast and decided on a T-shirt and Levi’s for the trip to the market.
The meat exchange is nestled in a noisy bunch of hangarlike buildings just off the Southeast Expressway on the outskirts of Boston. It was nearly 10:00 a.m. by my watch, which meant that the man I wanted to see had already been on the job for five hours. I parked the rental and walked into the biggest of the structures. I was struck by the cool, nearly overpowering atmosphere of fresh—but dead—animal meat. I turned two interior corners before I saw Al raising his cleaver.
Al Bufone is five-five in height and three-five in width. When he picks up a meat cleaver, it looks like an old-fashioned straight razor in comparison to his hands. He sports three Navy tattoos from the South Pacific on his right arm and a few wispy black hairs in a clump at the top of his forehead. He looked up and saw me.
“John-boy, whaddaya say?”
“Not much, Al. Yourself?”
“No complaints.” He whacked twice with the cleaver. “Rose and me hit the doggies Monday. Missed the double by a nose, but we did awright otherwise. Hey,” he said, hefting a veal leg, “can you use some?”
“No thanks, Al. Could use some information, though.”
Al set down the veal leg and wiped his hand on his apron as he looked around carefully.
“B-and-E or hijack?” he asked softly.
“Neither,” I replied, reflexively looking around, too. Some people don’t like other people talking to insurance investigators about certain transactions. “I’m looking for a fourteen-year-old boy.”
Al laughed. “I heard you went out on your own. Where’s the kid from?”
“Meade.”
Al laughed harder. “Oh, yeah. Sure, John-boy. He’s in the fuckin’ back room sweepin’ scraps. This was the first place his guidance counselor referred him.”
“He’s a runaway, Al. I thought he might try to cop a ride from here to the Berkshires on one of your trucks.” I showed him Stephen’s photo.
“Nah,” said Al. “Never seen him before.”
As I drew the photo back, he said, “Wait a minute.” He looked at it again. “There was a kid here, maybe two months ago? He looked older than fourteen to me, but his eyes were like your kid in this picture. Sorta deep ’n’ sad, y’know?”
I felt hope rising. “Did you talk to him?”
“No. I remember Vinnie sayin’ somethin’ about the kid writin’ a paper for his school on somethin’.”
Bingo. Maybe. “Where’s Vinnie?”
“Haven’t seen him today. But I’m pretty sure Sammy DiLeo talked to the kid, too. He just got in from Pittsfield a half hour ago.”
Pittsfield, the major city in the Berkshires. “Where can I find Sammy?”
Al gestured toward the loading docks. “He should be checkin’ on the load he’s takin’. Probably Dock Two.”
“Thanks, Al.” I started walking.
“Oh, and John-boy? Mind Sammy now. He’s kind of a weasely bastard.”
“Thanks,” I repeated, and kept walking.
Dock Two was off by itself, a large overhead garage door that opened to the sunshine. As I approached, I could see two men arguing in the gaping rear mouth of a refrigerated trailer-truck. The air grew warmer and the smell of meat less striking as I moved toward them.
“Sammy, you goddamn thief, I’m not fuckin’ short and you know it. Every case on that invoice is in this fuckin’ truck.”
“Look, George, either you reduce the fuckin’ bottom line on this invoice or I make you unload this fuckin’ truck and recount. On your fuckin’ time.”
George was getting redder and redder, brandishing his clipboard like a war shield.
“Every time you do this, Sammy. Every fuckin’ time.”
“Refigure or unload,” said Sammy with a smirk.
George turned and stomped away. “I’m gettin’ Al.”
“Al can’t change the union contract,” Sammy smiling as George passed me. Sammy reached into his pocket and pulled out a huge ring of keys as I grew closer to him.
“Shouldn’t you wait for Al?” I said.
Sammy gave me the defender-against-invader look. “Who the fuck are you?”
“John Cuddy,” I said. “I’m looking for a young boy.”
Sammy sneered. “Whasamatter, the wife got lockjaw?”
I decided where I was going to hit him, but not when. “I’m a private investigator.” I showed him Stephen’s photo.
As Sammy looked at the picture, a faint flush spread up his neck, then faded. “Nah, never seen him. I gotta go.” He half-turned and fumbled with the key ring.
“I’m told you and the boy had a talk two months ago.”
Sammy turned back and tried to stare me down. “Oh, yeah? Who says?”
“A man you’d best not suggest is a liar.”
Sammy blinked. “Fuck you. I gotta go.”
I caught his arm and spun him into some stacked crates nearby. Sammy’s momentum led him to sit down awkwardly and heavily on one of them.
“The boy is missing,” I said, then embroidered a mite. “And you’re the last one to see him. How does a pedophilia charge strike you?”
“Whaddaya mean, pedo—? You callin’ me a fag?” Sammy flexed for me.
“No, but I’m suggesting the boy might b
e gay. Where do you suppose that leaves you?”
Sammy thought about it and didn’t seem to like his position. “Second time, his hair did look a little funny.”
I registered “second time,” but said, “His hair?”
“Yeah. The kid comes by, I don’t know, couple months back? Asked me all kinds of questions. For some school report, he said.”
“What happened?”
“Nothin’. I told the kid what I knew about delivering product out to the Berkshires. Gotta educate the next generation, right?”
Yeah, right. “What about his hair?”
“Like I said. First time he’s here, it’s real dark, but … natural? Then he shows up again, maybe two weeks ago. Only now his hair is almost blonde, and fake-looking.”
“Fake? You mean, dyed?”
“Yeah, like that. Faggy, y’know?”
Why am I going to hit you, Sammy? Let me count the reasons. “This ‘second’ time, what happened?”
“Look, man, nothin’ ‘happened.’ Again. Only this time, the Clairol Kid asks me for a lift to the mountains, for his school report.’
Didn’t compute. Stephen’s paper on the meat industry was submitted—and read by Valerie Jacobs—well before he disappeared.
“Where in the mountains, Sammy?”
“Granville. It’s a little town way northwest, maybe four miles off the Pike, Lee exit.”
“And you dropped him … ?”
“About a half-mile before Granville Center. Kid had a backpack and everything.”
Another non-compute. “If he was going on a ‘report-trip,’ why didn’t he ride with you all the way into town?”
Sammy sneered again. “He didn’t fuckin’ say.”
I leaned over. “I think you tried to shake him down.”
Sammy started to rise, swinging a left at me. His left was a little slower than it needed to be. I deflected it and him with my left palm and gave him a moderate cupped-hand dig in the back, near that kidney. He sagged down, doubled over.
“What did you try to charge the kid for the lift, Sammy?”
Blunt Darts Page 11
