by Ritter, Todd
ELEVEN
Nick hoped cows liked the Beatles, because the ones grazing on the side of the road were being blasted with them. Driving with the windows down and the White Album blaring, he was on his way to Fairmount. From what he could surmise, the land between there and Philadelphia was one huge cow pasture. Sure, he had steered through a small town or two—most of them carbon copies of Perry Hollow but without the charm. Mostly, though, he saw cows, cows, and more cows. Black ones. Brown ones. White ones. It made Nick long for a purple one, just to mix things up a bit.
Now he was five miles outside of Fairmount. At least that’s what the road sign was telling him. Nick kind of doubted it. All he saw on the horizon were more cows.
On his stereo, “Sexy Sadie” ended and the rebellious crunch of “Helter Skelter” began. Nick cranked up the volume while simultaneously flexing his right leg. He had been driving for three hours, and his knee was killing him. He could only imagine what kind of agony he’d be in if he had been using that leg to work the pedals.
After Nick busted his knee beyond repair, there was concern on his part that he’d never be able to drive again. His right leg, after all, was his driving leg. But a solution soon presented itself, one used for years by amputees. He had his car modified, with the gas and brake pedals shifted to the left. It was strange at first, letting the right leg sit idle while the left one did all the work. Even more frustrating was getting his left foot up to speed on the quick reflexes necessary for driving. It took him a month to get the hang of it, although the learning curve included a few fender benders and one unfortunate run-in with a plate-glass window at a 7-Eleven.
But now he was a pro, which was good, because he had a shitload of driving to do in the next two days. Vinnie Russo had been able to locate the Fairmount home of Dennis Kepner’s mother, Sophie; the camp where Dwight Halsey disappeared; and the Centralia address of Bucky Mason’s father, Bill Sr. As far as Vinnie could tell, there were no known survivors of Noah Pierce and Frankie Pulaski. Not exactly the result Nick had hoped for, but three out of five wasn’t bad.
Up ahead, the pastures ended and Fairmount began with almost no transition between the two. One moment, Nick saw a cow dropping a few patties. The next, he was looking at the parking lot of a Dairy Queen. Soon he was gliding down the town’s main thoroughfare, seeing the usual parade of drugstores, banks, and beauty parlors.
According to Vinnie’s information, Sophie Kepner still lived in the same house from which her son had left and never returned. While spending forty years in the same home sounded crazy to some, Nick had learned enough about small-town Pennsylvania to know it wasn’t uncommon. Its residents put down roots. If they settled in a town, chances were they’d stay there.
Nick found the Kepner house with little effort. Just like Perry Hollow, the town’s relatively small size made it easy to navigate. Pulling up to the curb, he saw that Sophie Kepner lived among a series of row houses that lined the block. Her dwelling—forty-two was the number on the door—was in the middle, a redbrick abode with lace curtains in the windows and mums on the front stoop.
Across the street was the park where Dennis was last seen. As far as parks went, it wasn’t much. Small duck pond. Gazebo in need of a paint job. A bike trail that approached a thick cluster of pine trees where a young woman was now walking a golden retriever. But its splash of green in an otherwise drab part of town no doubt appealed to the children who lived there. Nick easily pictured Dennis hopping off the front stoop and sprinting into the park’s embrace.
Sliding out of the car, he leaned on his cane and surveyed the park. The woman walking the dog had temporarily disappeared from view. Quite a big feat for such a small patch of land. Nick’s gaze flitted from gazebo to pond to trees, detecting no trace of her. When she eventually emerged into view again, it was from among the pines themselves. She had been following the bike path, which cut directly through the cluster of trees. Nick didn’t know if those trees had been there in 1969. But standing in Dennis Kepner’s old neighborhood of open streets and uncovered front stoops, he was certain they were the easiest place to grab someone unnoticed. Especially if that someone was a ten-year-old boy.
The woman walking the dog noticed Nick watching her and quickened her pace, trotting to the stretch of row houses that also sat on the opposite side of the park. Turning around, Nick saw an elderly man peeking out of one of the windows in the building behind him. A few stoops away, a young mother balanced a baby on her knee while eyeing him with suspicion. Apparently, it was a watchful street, which only supported his case that the trees were the most logical abduction site.
Nick moved down the street and up the front steps of number forty-two. A cat sat in the picture window next to the door, swishing its tail back and forth. It stared at Nick with feline disinterest as he rang the doorbell.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Heavy and uneven, they were accompanied by a hollow thudding. Nick recognized it immediately as the noise of a cane coming into contact with a hardwood floor. He heard it himself every day.
The door was opened by a woman who appeared to be in her seventies. Short in stature and heavy in build, she had a thinning white perm and a wary smile. In her left hand was the cane, which was more utilitarian than Nick’s. No fancy handle. No expensive wood. Just a sliver of metal to help her get through the day.
“Mrs. Kepner?”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Kepner?”
“That’s right.” Her smile grew pinched. It physically pained her to be standing there. “Can I help you?”
Nick introduced himself. He offered his card. He explained who he was, where he was from, and that, if she didn’t mind, he wanted to ask a few questions about her son’s disappearance. When he was finished, Mrs. Kepner frowned. She also looked confused, as if she hadn’t understood a single word he’d just said.
“Who are you again?”
“Nick Donnelly, ma’am.”
“And why are you here?”
Nick wasn’t one of those people who thought anyone over sixty-five was batty in the brain, but Mrs. Kepner’s profound confusion made him wonder if something was wrong with her mental capabilities. It happened to the best of them.
“I’m investigating the case of a boy who disappeared in 1969 from a town called Perry Hollow,” he said. “I have reason to think it was related to the disappearance of your own son.”
Sophie Kepner sighed in agitation. “How many of you are there?”
It was Nick’s turn to be confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“People asking about Dennis,” she said. “One of you is already here.”
Nick looked past the woman into the depths of the house. At the end of the hall was a small dining room with glass doors that overlooked a sad, tidy backyard. To the left of the door was a rickety set of stairs that Sophie probably had a hell of a time trying to climb at night. Across from the steps was what appeared to be a living room. Nick saw floral wallpaper, framed photographs, the end of a couch with a lace doily on the arm. Inside, a chair creaked from an unseen corner of the room. A figure edged into view, someone tall, wide, and possessing the muscular build of a California governor.
He didn’t need to see the person’s face to know who it was. Nick could recognize that massive body from a mile away. It belonged to Tony Vasquez, one of his former colleagues. Instead of the trooper’s uniform Nick last saw him in, Tony wore a black suit that could barely contain his muscles. Approaching the door, he stood beside Mrs. Kepner and smiled at Nick.
“Donnelly. I was wondering if you were going to show up.”
When they worked together, Nick liked and respected Tony. He was brave. He was determined. And as an avid bodybuilder and Mr. Pennsylvania finalist, he could probably lift a bus off you if the need arose. Then shit happened, Nick was fired, and when the dust settled, Tony had acquired Nick’s old job.
“Lieutenant Vasquez,” Nick said, using Tony’s new title and h
is old one, “what are you doing here?”
“Working on a tip from a concerned citizen.”
“Do I have to talk to him, too?” Mrs. Kepner asked Tony.
“We have all the information we need.” Tony shook her hand and patted her arm. “Thank you so much for your time.”
It was obvious Tony had been there awhile. Nick had known Gloria would follow up on the information he gave her. He just didn’t think it would be so fast. The speed of the investigation—not to mention Tony’s involvement—was a clear sign that, like Nick himself, she thought the disappearances were more than mere coincidence.
Sophie Kepner closed the door, leaving Nick with nothing to do but follow Tony off the stoop. As he trailed the trooper-turned-lieutenant onto the sidewalk, Nick realized he had more than a string of missing boys to investigate.
Now, he had competition.
TWELVE
“Will iced tea be acceptable for the both of you?” Becky Santangelo held up the pitcher of tea for their approval. “It’s the only thing I could muster on such short notice.”
In reality, the pitcher, glasses, and ice had been brought outside by a weary-looking housekeeper in white Keds and a faded blue cardigan while Mrs. Santangelo simply watched. Still, the meaning of her words was clear—they should have told her they were coming.
Mustered iced tea and attitude aside, Becky didn’t appear harried or put out. In fact, she looked like a woman who was constantly expecting guests. Well preserved for someone edging past seventy, she sat on the veranda in a yellow chiffon dress and a single strand of pearls. Her clothes, pearls, and posture reminded Kat of women only seen in Technicolor movies that featured plantations and horse racing.
Yet there was also an air of faded glamour about her, like a heroine in a Tennessee Williams play. The upswept hair, colored a shade of blond not found in nature, was falling loose in the back. The dress, besides being far too youthful for a woman Becky’s age, was slightly threadbare at the shoulders. And when she offered a crisp smile, the rest of her face barely moved. Plastic surgery. From the looks of it, Kat assumed Mrs. Santangelo had gone under the knife multiple times.
Taking a dainty sip of tea, Becky patted Eric’s knee. “Look how you’ve grown up, Mr. Famous Author. So handsome. Whenever I buy one of your books, I tell the clerk that I knew you when you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”
Mrs. Santangelo either had a spotty memory or else she was trying to feed them a heaping helping of bullshit. According to Eric, she had barely spoken to him in his entire life. Still, she seemed pleased to see him, probably because it gave her something to brag about to other visitors when they were brought iced tea on the veranda.
“But for the life of me,” she continued, “I don’t understand why you’re asking me about your brother after all these years.”
“We have reason to believe his disappearance wasn’t an isolated incident,” Kat said.
Becky’s hand fluttered to her pearls. “Other accidents? I had no idea.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Kat told her. “At least, we don’t think it was.”
“That’s terrible. Just terrible.”
“Our reason for coming here is to see what you or your husband remember about the night Charlie vanished.”
Still fingering the pearls, Becky looked surprised by both the request to question them and the assumption that she or her husband knew anything worthwhile. “My husband spoke to the police about it long, long ago. I don’t see what I could possibly add to the matter.”
Kat had a few suggestions, starting with the identity of the woman Maggie Olmstead claimed to have seen in the window that night. But that one would have to wait. She needed to work her way up to the big questions.
“Chief Campbell is just making sure all her bases are covered,” Eric said. “Just in case something was missed the first time around.”
Becky softened at the idea after he explained it. Naturally. Kat wondered what else his celebrity could get her to do.
“I’d be happy to answer any questions you have,” she said. “But it was such a long time ago.”
“What do you remember about that night?” Kat asked.
“Nothing of value. I wasn’t home. I only learned about poor Charlie when I returned the next day. He was such a good boy. Always running over here to talk to Lee or taste one of my cookies. He loved my peanut butter cookies.”
“Where were you that night?”
Becky didn’t hesitate, giving Kat the same information that was in the police report. “My sister’s house. She lived in Harrisburg at the time.”
“And where was Mr. Santangelo?”
“Lee was here at the house. And I don’t see what any of this has to do with Charlie.”
Kat backed off when she noticed a flicker of worry in Becky’s eyes. If she got spooked too early, she’d clam up and tell them nothing.
“You said Charlie liked to talk to your husband. Was he here often?”
“All the time. He loved hearing Lee’s stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
Becky, who had been preparing to take a sip of tea, lowered her glass and gave Kat another strangely immobile smile that was anything but friendly. “Before my husband served this great state for twenty years, he served his country first.”
“I’m aware of Mr. Santangelo’s accomplishments,” Kat said.
“Charlie was keenly interested in my husband’s work. He would spend hours in the trophy room.”
Kat cleared her throat. “Trophy room?”
“Yes,” Becky said. “I could show you, if you’d like.”
Rising from her chair, she grasped Eric’s hand—a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Kat—and led him off the veranda into the house. Kat followed, pushing quickly through the kitchen, where the housekeeper was scrubbing the countertops, down the hallway, and into what at first appeared to be a sitting room. The drapes were drawn, shrouding the room in darkness. When Becky whipped them open, the morning light tumbled across walls covered with framed photographs, clippings, and other memorabilia.
Becky clutched Eric’s hand again and pulled him to an oil painting that dominated one wall. Depicted in a swirl of color was Lee Santangelo wearing a uniform and leaning against the side of an airplane. Next to the portrait was the photograph on which it was based.
“The photograph appeared in Life magazine,” Becky said. “Of all the airmen who could have been photographed, Alfred Eisenstaedt chose Lee.”
Kat moved in to get a closer look. The photograph, she had to admit, was far superior to the painting it had spawned. The portrait was nice, but it failed to capture Lee Santangelo as well as the photo did. Arms crossed, hat rakishly askew, he resembled a matinee idol who had stepped right off the silver screen.
Lee looked just as debonair in all the other photographs, which traced his career from military pilot to potential astronaut to state legislator. Only the details changed. Black-and-white soon blossomed into color. The uniform went from military formal to NASA chic to three-piece suit dull. Lee’s hair seemed to grow in each picture, transforming from fifties buzz cut to seventies shag.
“Charlie especially enjoyed hearing about my husband’s training for the Apollo program.” Becky pointed to a picture of Lee and Buzz Aldrin sharing a laugh outside an airplane hangar. “NASA wanted Lee to go to the moon. They said he was one of the best candidates they’d ever seen. But he thought he could better serve the people as a lawmaker.”
Kat had heard a different story. In that version, Lee had indeed been one of several pilots considered by NASA, but he was eliminated swiftly and early. He went into politics solely because he didn’t know how to do anything else. Kat wondered what that kind of rejection did to a man. Was Lee bitter about it? Probably. Bitter enough to take it out on a few kids every time a successful Apollo mission took place? Maybe.
Becky moved to a photograph clipped from a newspaper that showed Lee, still in uniform, standing with a delicat
e beauty in a white gown and sash.
“This was the night we met,” she said. “Miss Pennsylvania Pageant, 1962. I was second runner-up, which is just as much of an honor as winning the crown.”
Kat studied the caption beneath the photo. CAPT. LEE SANTANGELO IS INTRODUCED TO MISS BUCKS COUNTY REBECCA BATEMAN. Surrounding the photo were more pictures. Lee being sworn in, with Becky by his side aping Jackie Kennedy in a pillbox hat. Lee at the White House with Richard Nixon. Lee collecting the key to some unnamed city. Lee talking to a group of kids at a school, at a camp, at a church. Each frame bore a small plaque indicating the photo’s date and location. PERRY HOLLOW ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, 1969. ST. PAUL’S METHODIST CHURCH, 1972.
“Thank you so much for sharing this,” Kat said, not meaning it. “It was very illuminating.”
“I’m pleased you enjoyed it,” Becky replied, also not meaning it. “Will there be anything else?”
“Well, I’ll need to talk to your husband. I’d like to hear what he remembers about the night Charlie Olmstead vanished.”
Standing in the middle of the room dedicated to his life, Becky Santangelo laughed. It was an inappropriate burst—practically a snort—that reverberated off the walls and rattled the frames upon them.
“I’m afraid you’re a little late for that.”
“Has he gone for the day?” Kat asked.
“Of course not.”
“Then may I see him?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
She took in Kat’s uniform, badge, and handcuffs, which dangled from her duty belt like some piece of Goth jewelry. The contemptuous sniff that followed indicated that Becky thought she wasn’t properly ladylike. Kat didn’t give a damn. She loved her uniform, her badge, her cuffs.
“Let me put it this way,” she said. “I’m not asking to see your husband. I’m demanding it.”
Becky sniffed again. “Fine. But you’re going to be disappointed.”
She was right.
A sinking feeling hit Kat as soon as Becky ushered them into the upstairs bedroom where her husband was located. Lee Santangelo sat in an easy chair so large that he was barely visible. Kat could only see the sleeve of a sweatshirt resting on the chair’s arm. Poking out of it was a gnarled hand dotted with age spots.
