All eyes in the crowded room snapped to attention as Tripoli and the chief entered, and the room lit up in a blazing array of lights as cameras started rolling and reporters and cameramen jockeyed for position. Tripoli followed Matlin as he mounted the elevated platform and approached the jumbled bank of microphones that had been hastily mounted on the lectern. The air in the room was thick with noise and sweat. Gazing out over the sea of people, Tripoli did a quick head count. There were twenty-five people, maybe thirty. In addition to the usual locals from Syracuse and Elmira, lots of out-of-towners. The big name networks, too; even a camera crew from Japanese television. Nothing like this since that family out in Ellis Hollow got butchered and burned ten years ago.
The chief moved close to the microphone and cleared his throat. The room quickly quieted.
“First of all, I want to thank you for the stories you carried in the past…”
Tripoli watched Matlin as he spoke. Though he was masterful at stroking the press, Tripoli could see that the muscles in his face were taut. It didn’t take much imagination to comprehend what he was going through. What he said earlier was true. They had plenty of cases to handle. Besides the usual run of robberies and drug busts and assaults, they had those leaky barrels of low-level radioactive waste just discovered in a lot off Cherry Street. A witness claimed to have seen a truck from a Buffalo company unloading something just the night before. Up on Gun Hill Road, the residents had been complaining about a strange smell coming from storm drains. It turned out to be pure TCE, trichloroethylene, a potent carcinogen. It was not clear if it was leaking from the old Ithaca Gun Plant or if someone was actually dumping the stuff. Of course, none of the reporters really gave a crap about that. The kid was what they were after. Danny. Human interest.
“…And since that day in October, this department has dedicated exhaustive resources…”
Before coming to Ithaca, Matlin had been a lieutenant on the force in Hoboken. He moved the family here after his daughter fell chronically ill with lung and blood problems, here to what he had thought was pristine Ithaca, hoping to escape the poisons of New Jersey. This was getting to look more and more like Hoboken, thought Tripoli as he watched the Chief serenading the press.
“So let me introduce you to Louis Tripoli, our senior investigator, who's been heading up this case since its inception. I’ll turn this over to him. Lou?”
Tripoli stepped up to the bank of mikes. Swallowed.“Because of the nature of this ongoing investigation, I’m not at liberty to answer all of your questions,” he said, sensing the weight of cameras and stares.“But I can tell you that the boy is in good health. He doesn’t appear to have been physically harmed in any way.”
“Physically?” A woman reporter in the rear picked up immediately on it.
“I’m not a psychiatrist. And we really haven’t had a comprehensive evaluation yet. Though we will. We wanted to give the boy and his—”
“So where was he all these months?” was the next question shot out from the crowd.
“Well, that's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” admitted Tripoli.“We suspect that he was living somewhere in the countryside. We think it might have been in a forested region, in all likelihood somewhere south of Ithaca, possibly in the Danby area. Indications are that the boy may have been living in a rather primitive type of housing. Perhaps a hut or a shack. We think the boy may have been kept by an older or elderly man who had a full beard and mustache.”
“What does the boy say?”
“Errr…” Tripoli turned to Matlin, who looked back at him deadpan.“He's reluctant to talk.”
“Why?”
“You’re asking questions I can’t answer right now. But we’re going to need the public's help to resolve some of the issues. We’re asking anybody who has any information regarding the whereabouts of this site or such a person to contact us immediately. We still have the same hotline number here at headquarters. Or people can contact their local State Police barracks. Or the FBI—who are also investigating.”
The questions followed in rapid fire. What has the boy said? Has he said anything? Is he happy to be back? Unhappy? Traumatized? Any truth to the story that a cult had held him captive? That he was brainwashed? Tripoli had to keep deferring answers, continually repeating, “We don’t know. We just don’t know yet. You’re going to have to be a little patient.”
“We’re hoping to have a quick resolution to this case,” said Chief Matlin, moving in to take over. “At which time we’ll provide you with all the pertinent details. Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming.” And with that he quickly exited the room with Tripoli close behind.
Late that same afternoon, Tripoli climbed into the rear seat of a State Police chopper. It lifted off from its helipad at the new barracks in Dryden, tilted forward, and skimmed over Turkey Hill. The vibrations from the engine pulsed through his whole body. Scant minutes later they reached the edge of the Danby State Forest. Below Tripoli spread the tops of the newly leafed trees. Following the contours of the hill, they formed undulating waves of soft, light green. In the lowlands, the skeletons of drowned trees angled out of the shimmering water.
The pilot let the machine hover while he checked his map, then consulted over the intercom with the spotter sitting beside him. Then, following a carefully mapped grid, they started the search, skimming mere yards above the trees. The spotter kept alternating between his binoculars and checking the screen of their infrared detector penetrating the foliage. When Tripoli leaned over the front seat to peer at the eerily glowing screen, he realized the device was so sensitive that he could see a squirrel hidden by the dense canopy as it darted across the ground.
On their first pass, the spotter signaled the pilot and he made a tight circle and maneuvered the craft over a small opening. Tripoli strained to see what they were looking at.
“What's up?” he shouted above the roar.
The pilot angled the chopper so he could see. It was a patch of marijuana, a good three dozen plants. The troopers marked it on his map, swung around in a tight arc, and swept the next strip. Tripoli kept trying to look through the breaks in the wall of trees, sure that they would find some signs of life. There were hot spots of deer and coyote, a whole line of wild turkey kept popping up on their screen, but no old man.
Halfway through the search, they spotted a poacher dragging a deer carcass out of a ravine deep in the forest. When the guy heard the helicopter and saw the machine hovering above his head, he made a desperate run for it, tripping over logs and plummeting through the underbrush. No matter where he ducked, the chopper was right on top of him. By the time he finally stumbled back to his pickup, two armed rangers were already waiting for him and Tripoli and the troopers watched as they slammed the man up against the hood of their vehicle and handcuffed him. If it was this easy to nail a poacher, why couldn’t they find the hermit? Maybe he wasn’t in the Danby woods after all? Was Danny misleading him? No. He had gone up South Hill. Tripoli was sure of it. The boy had cited too many landmarks.
Later, they spotted a group of men who were illegally cutting valuable nut trees, then stumbled upon an embarrassed couple making love near the edge of the woods. There was, however, no sign of a hut, much less an old man with a white beard. But the state lands were dense and vast, low swamps thick with reeds and cattails alternating with steep, densely wooded hills. He could have been in a cave or underground, in which case they might have flown right over him. Technology was hardly perfect, Tripoli realized. And they certainly didn’t have ground-penetrating radar.
When they had finished, the pilot turned around in his seat. “There's nothing down there,” he called back to Tripoli.
“Do it again!”Tripoli ordered.
The men looked at each other. The light was already waning and there was a menacing front of dark clouds moving rapidly in from the west.
“Go on!” shouted Tripoli above the deafening noise. “He's got to be here!”
The
pilot shrugged, mumbled something into his microphone and started all over again, moving in lines perpendicular to their previous path.
Twenty minutes later the pilot was again shaking his head. But this time he didn’t bother to inform Tripoli that he was abandoning the search. He simply pulled the bird up to a higher altitude and then skimmed back toward Dryden. As they came settling down on the pad near Route 366, Tripoli understood that nothing short of a foot-by-foot search of the scattered forested lands could rule out all possibilities. Maybe the old man just happened to be out of the woods for the moment? And who was to say, he thought ducking down as he exited the chopper, that the boy had been in the woods at all? Maybe he had just been somewhere in the country? Danny was smart, very smart. He had a lively imagination. Perhaps he really thought he had been living in a forest? The dust, whipped up by the spinning blades, flew into his eyes as he headed for his car.
Clearly, Danny was protecting whoever it was, Tripoli concluded as he drove back into the city. But why? The sky now had turned prematurely dark. The air was getting cold and it looked like rain.
By the time he reached the city line, the first drops were already pelting his windshield. Rolling up the windows, he mulled over the same questions. What was the grip that his captor still had on Danny? Over the years, Tripoli had been involved in dozens of juvenile investigations. Usually the kids who had things done to them seemed spooked. Terrified. Or they were in complete denial, without affect, near zombies. Some never really recovered. But this was different. If Danny hadn’t been harmed or coerced, why the secrecy? And what was this business about getting enough air? If he hadn’t been physically abused, then what had been done to him?
Back in his office, Tripoli called forensics again.
“Come on, what are you people doing over there?” he fumed. “The press is all over us, the chief 's tearing me a new asshole, and you’re sitting on evidence.”
“We’re not magicians,” said the woman who ran the lab in Albany. “You want careful lab work? Then you’ve gotta wait. We’ll call you when we’re ready. So just back off, huh?”
Chief Matlin summoned him again. He wanted to know about the results of the flyover. What did forensics have to say? And the kid, had his mother gotten him talking yet?
“Why don’t we get one of our female officers to question the boy? Liz Spino is really great with kids.”
Tripoli shook his head.
“Or Loretta Drake? She's got a little boy of her own just about his age.”
“They’re going to spook the boy,” he said, adamantly.“Danny’ll talk. He wants to talk, but he's conflicted. The kid needs time. A little space. Look, you’re just going to have to trust my instincts on this.”
“So now you’re a big child psychologist?”
When Tripoli got back to his office, there was a message from the mayor's office demanding an update. Slips from news agencies kept piling up in his message box. No matter how many he tossed away, every time he turned around the box was full again.
That night he called Molly. There had been a severe downpour, over four inches in a matter of an hour. Some of the roadways were underwater. There had been a bunch of accidents out on Routes 34 and 89. Yet as fast as the rain had come, it had cleared, and a cold front had moved in. Now the sky was clear.
Tripoli could hear Danny babbling in the background. “So, how’re things going?”
“Who is that?” asked Danny.
“It's Trip.”
“Oh, it's him. Your boyfriend. The policeman,” he said and laughed.
“Apparently he's not angry at me for today.”
“I don’t think so. Just let's not have a repeat performance. Okay?”
“Anything new?”
“Status quo.”
“What does that mean?” asked Danny, coming close to the phone.
“It's Latin,” said Molly.“It means M. Y. O. B.”
“M. Y. O.…? I got it! Mind your own business!” exclaimed Danny and burst into gales of laughter.
“I was thinking of maybe coming over,” he ventured. He looked out his office window at the darkness, the wet pavement glistening in the street lamps, the stream of cars hissing past on Clinton street.
“Not such a good idea.”
“Oh…”
“Let's just…”
“Yes?” he asked, trying not to sound too anxious.
“Just cool it a little bit.”
“You sleeping out again tonight?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“It's gotten really chilly,” said Molly as she went out to join Danny on the trailer steps. The weather seemed so unstable lately, she thought. One minute it was broiling hot, the next it was freezing. And this was supposed to be the end of May. She took a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.“I don’t want you getting sick, Honey.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” he said. “I just like it out here.”
Molly sat down beside him. She had been reading under the glare of the kitchen lamp and it took a long moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The air was damp and a slight wind was blowing, making it feel even colder.
Danny sat quietly with his head arched back, staring up at the black sky.
The night was dark, moonless, the air so clear you could make out the multitude of stars glistening against the backdrop of the heavens. The band forming the galaxy of the Milky Way stretched above them.
“Come on, Sweetie, let's go back in,” she said finally, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“No, wait,” he took hold of her arm.“Please.” He offered her a part of his blanket, and she snuggled under it close to him.
“Wait for what?” she asked.
Danny just kept gazing up into the velvety blackness as the sound of croaking frogs traveled in from the swamp. She wondered what it was that he saw, that could hold his attention like this. Watching him in profile, Molly felt overcome by waves of love. She was about to kiss him when he jerked upright.
“Okay…Now!” he exclaimed, pointing up over the roof of the Dolphs' trailer.“Look!”
Molly stared up.“Huh? I don’t…”An instant later a meteor suddenly appeared in the western sky. Moving with surprising slowness, it swept across the dome above them, growing ever brighter in intensity and illuminating a brilliant swath in its long wake. It was white and yellow and blue all at the same time, and the colors reminded Molly of her dream about Danny.
“Holy Christmas!” she gasped as it traveled across the heavens.
Finally, the meteor plunged into the line of the horizon, disappearing as if it were a nugget of white hot metal doused in an ocean at the distant edge of the continent. An instant later, the sky was pitch dark as before.
Stunned, she turned to Danny, his features visible in the light from the kitchen. On his face was a proud grin.
“Hey,” she whispered,“Now how in the world did you know—”
“I just did.” He laughed at her look of astonishment.
“But you had to know somehow. Did you read about it?”
“No.”
“Or did someone tell you? Maybe it was in the newspapers, huh?”
“Nope, I just listened.”
“Listened to what?”
“The firmament,” he replied, then turned to his mother and smiled.
It rained buckets again that night. It was still drizzling in the morning, but before noon the clouds dispersed, the sky turned a crisp blue, and the air felt as though it had been scrubbed clean. Molly followed the path that skirted the swamp behind the trailer park, Danny dashing ahead.
“Wait for me, Honey,” she called, as she hurried to keep up with him. The trail curved and he disappeared behind a wall of cattails. “Please,” she said, taking his hand as she caught her breath,“don’t go so far ahead.”
“I’m okay,” he said and smiled up at her reassuringly.“I won’t get lost.”
Earlier that morning, they had dropped by Rosie's place to say hell
o. Dr. Wozniak had ordered Rosie to bed. She was anemic, exceptionally tired, and, given her history, he wanted to insure that the babies would be carried to term.
Nonetheless, Rosie had stumbled out of bed in her nightgown to greet them.
“Sweetheart!” she cried as Danny let out a whoop and rushed to her. He flung wide his arms and tried to clasp Rosie around her enormous waist. “My darling baby! Angel, let me take a good look at you.” She held him at arm's length.“Why you’ve grown two feet taller!”
Danny laughed.
“What have they been feeding you?”
“Food!” Danny giggled, and refused to let her go. “The same thing they’ve been giving you,” he said, patting the contours of her distended stomach.
“Still the comedian, huh? So, are you going to tell your old Aunt Rosie where you’ve been?”
“Nope,” Danny had said with a smile.
Now Danny was again dashing far ahead and Molly charged after him as they left the lowlands surrounding the trailer park and started up the long, steady incline. When she caught up with him, he finally slowed, staying by her side as they cut through a dense grove of trees and then burst out into open, sloping meadows. Reaching a high, wooded ridge, they stopped and turned around to take in the view.
“Wow, what a view,” she remarked.
Sprawled below them lay the whole of the University, the tall towers of the biotech complex, the old Armory that looked like a medieval fort, austere glass and steel modern structures squeezed up against the venerable ivy-covered buildings of stone. From the distance it all looked so small, like a play village constructed for a child.
They climbed yet higher and, finding an open patch of dry grass at the top, Molly lay down. Danny plopped down beside her and then lay back, resting his head on her stomach.
“Mother…” he began.
“Hmm?”
“Is Rosie sick?”
“No, no,” she said quickly.“Why do you say that?”
“I dunno.”
THE LAST BOY Page 20
