by Shawn Inmon
He listened to the first three, taking quick notes on his pad. The fourth played.
“Hello? This is Clayton Hollister. My son, Michael, will not be returning to school after the new year. His mother and I have decided that it is best for him to return to our public school here in Middle Falls. We have paid his tuition for the year in advance. Please have your accounting department send a refund for the unused portion to our address on file.”
“What the hell is he up to now? Why wouldn’t he want Michael to come back here, when he’s doing so well?” he muttered to himself.
His eyes fell on the envelope. He slit one end open with the letter opener shaped like a saber and shook the contents out on his desk. A hand-written letter, plus an official-looking sheaf of papers. The letter was short: “Curtis, this took some digging. Someone didn’t want this to be found—Mort.”
The documents, stapled together, told a story in themselves. Some pages were stamped “Springfield, Oregon, Sheriff’s Department.” Others, “Court of Springfield County, Oregon.” The pages bore different dates. They began with an interview sheet produced by an under-sheriff who had interrogated a twenty-two-year-old Clayton Hollister regarding the molestation of a six-year-old boy, as reported by the boy’s mother, dated August 10, 1951. They ended with a sentencing document, dated November 17, 1951.
The sentencing document mentioned a guilty plea by Clayton Hollister, saving the county the trouble of a trial. The judge ordered Hollister to serve three years’ probation, after which the file was to be sealed.
“I’ll never know how he manages to ferret this stuff out, but if there’s something to be found, he will,” Hartfield said, again to himself.
Just then, he heard footsteps. He looked up to see Phillip Peterson opening the door into the outer office.
“Can’t stay away either, huh, Phil? You don’t report for duty for two days yet.”
“There’s only so many days I can sit around with my relatives before I go stir-crazy. After a while, filing and going over reports here starts to look better and better.”
“Since you’re here, can you find Curt? I’m sure he’ll be in my quarters, with Max. Let him know we’ve got to make a trip up to Oregon first thing tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Forty
Carrie paused her pyxis. She was starting to get the hang of how to operate it, although she hadn’t yet mastered moving time forward and back with it.
Something tickled at the back of Carrie’s mind, so she spun her pyxis counterclockwise, showing her events back in Michael’s timeline. She paused it when the screen turned the brightest white imaginable—the night that Michael was sobbing into his pillow. She backed it up a little more and watched the whole scene unfold. The boy looked so small and helpless.
Oh. Oh, Michael.
Chapter Forty-One
Michael was in his bedroom, but that was nothing new. He had been in his bedroom constantly since his father had told him he was pulling him from Hartfield Military Academy. He came out for meals and to use the bathroom, but nothing else.
This is such a screwed-up situation. I didn’t want to go there in the first place, but when it turned out to be great, he yanks it away from me. And what can I do about it? Nothing. I’m still only nine years old. Can’t get a driver’s license. Can’t earn a living. I’m totally screwed.
Michael had skipped breakfast and it was after two in the afternoon, so he went downstairs to make himself lunch. He was heating a can of chicken noodle soup on the stove and making a sandwich when the doorbell rang.
To hell with that. It’s New Year’s Day. They can answer the damn door themselves.
His father was in the television room, watching a football game. He yelled, “Margaret, get the door, will you? I’m watching the Rose Bowl!”
Michael heard his mother come downstairs and open the front door. “Yes?” she said. There was a note of surprise in her voice.
“I apologize for dropping in unannounced. Is Mr. Hollister home, and can I speak with him, please?”
“Oh! Oh, certainly. Come in. Please, wait here. I’ll get him.”
Michael froze. That’s Commander Hartfield’s voice. What’s he doing here?
He heard his mother walk into the television room, then muffled whispers. A moment later, the television clicked off.
More footsteps. “Yes? What can I do for you?” he heard Clayton Hollister say.
Michael peeked around the corner of the kitchen and saw his mother and father on one side of the entryway, Curtis and Curt Hartfield on the other. The Hartfields were both wearing their full uniforms. Both of the visitors were taller than Clayton, but the older Hartfield towered over him by at least six inches. Curt glanced around, saw Michael peering around the corner, and gave him a barely discernible nod.
“Mr. Hollister, I am Curtis Hartfield from Hartfield Military Academy. This is my son, Curt. We have some important business to discuss. Mrs. Hollister, would you excuse us?” He looked back to Clayton. “Is there some place we could sit and talk?”
Michael ducked back into the kitchen just as his mother passed by him on her way upstairs. When she saw him, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged. He heard the others go into his father’s office and close the door.
Clayton Hollister sat back in the swivel chair behind his desk, the Hartfields in the chairs opposite.
“Now what’s this all about, coming to my home like this? I left a message for you at the Academy. Is this really necessary?”
“I think it is, yes,” replied the elder Hartfield. “I got your message. I drove five hours up here to give you mine. Michael is going to come back to the Academy with us and resume his schooling.”
Clayton Hollister sputtered, turned red in the face, then blurted out, “Like hell he is. Who do you think you are? Michael is my son, and he will do exactly what I tell him to do, do you understand? Now, get out of here, before I have to call the police.”
“You’re welcome to call the police, Mr. Hollister, but there’s something you should see first.” Hartfield reached inside his uniform jacket and withdrew a sheaf of folded papers. “You’re going to want to look these over.”
Hollister snatched the papers out of Hartfield’s hand, tossed them down on the desk in front of him, then froze when he saw the county sheriff’s stamp in the corner. The blood that had rushed to his cheeks suddenly dissipated, and he turned as gray as the Oregon sky outside.
“What ... what ... how did you ...”
“That doesn’t matter, does it? Now, if you want to call the police, I am happy to share these reports with them, and I have a strong hunch Michael would have a story to tell them, too. A story that you very much would like to keep them from hearing. If that’s not enough, I’ve made copies of this report that I am happy to share with the other business leaders here in Middle Falls. I’m not sure what this would do to your business and reputation, but I have to guess it wouldn’t be good.”
Clayton Hollister rose, leaning forward with his knuckles on the desk, and glared at Curtis Hartfield. Hartfield held his gaze. After a few seconds, Hollister fell back into his chair. He looked beaten for a moment, then gathered himself and said defiantly, “You want him? Fine. Take the little shit. Just don’t ever expect to see another dime from me. I don’t know what you see in that little freak. He’s threatened to kill me, did you know that?”
“I’m sure he has. I don’t blame him.”
“That’s fine,” Clayton said. “I don’t give a damn. I sent him away because I was washing my hands of him. He’s all yours.” He stood, threw the doors to his study open, and strode to the back door, slamming it behind him. He stood with his back to the house, furiously tamping tobacco into his pipe and attempting to light it with shaking hands.
Still in the kitchen, Michael stood silently. The soup on the stove, long since forgotten, bubbled over with a hiss. He switched the burner off, then turned to see both Hartfields smiling down at him.
“Go pack your ba
g, Michael, and don’t forget to kiss your mother goodbye. We’re taking you with us.”
Part Three
Chapter Forty-Two
July 1969
For two and a half years, the world continued to turn.
In 1967, the Summer of Love, Woodstock, free love, Haight-Ashbury and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band came and went without leaving so much as a mark on Hartfield Military Academy. Parents continued to enroll their sons as cadets, believing it was just what he needs to be a better man. Those cadets continued to wear their hair high and tight, pledge their allegiance, and learn what honor and brotherhood was. Curtis Hartfield IV, who graduated at the top of the Hartfield Academy class of 1967, was accepted into West Point and began his four years of study there.
The year 1968 began with the Tet Offensive in Vietnam. Thousands of American soldiers died, including two dozen who had attended Hartfield Academy. The entire school gathered on the front lawn each time the death of a Hartfield alumnus was announced. Max played Taps each time, as he was the most talented bugler Hartfield had. In the spring of that year, hundreds of unarmed men, women, and children were killed in an incident known as the My Lai Massacre. Lt. William Calley Jr. was the only soldier court-marshaled in its wake.
Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated. Anti-war demonstrations grew in strength and number across the United States. Riots broke out at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. George Wallace ran for president on a pro-segregation platform.
For the cadets of Hartfield Academy, though, it might as well still have been Eisenhower sitting in the White House. The sexual revolution and the civil rights movement passed by without ruffling a single hair on their crew-cut heads. The cadets wore their uniforms proudly, obeyed orders, and marched endless miles around the track.
July 1969 marked the fourth summer Michael Hollister spent at Hartfield Academy. Unlike that first summer, when he had spent his days laboring over flower beds, he either assisted
Captain Peterson with filing and organizing student records or worked in the academy’s library—the finest military and strategy library outside of Washington DC, as Max was fond of pointing out.
On July 20, Commander Hartfield brought all the staff still on site into the officer’s mess hall. He had set up a television on a rolling cart, and it was tuned to CBS. Iggy had cooked fried chicken, potato salad, and peach cobbler. The tables were covered in red-and-white checked tablecloths.
That evening, Neil Armstrong made a small hop off the ladder of the Lunar Lander and pronounced, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” The men of the academy applauded.
“One very large step for America,” Commander Hartfield said.
MICHAEL STOOD ON THE sidewalk, watching the stream of cars as they arrived that Sunday afternoon of Labor Day weekend. If the arriving student was a First Year, he talked to both the student and the parents, making sure they knew where to go first. If a Turtle appeared, he smiled and hollered the barrack number that would be theirs for the year. Mostly he was waiting to see Dominick, Will, or Pete arrive. The fifth of their group, Jimmy Markson, had been forced to drop out of the Academy after his father’s dry-cleaning shop had gone out of business.
Dominick was the first to arrive. As soon as his parents’ Chevy stopped rolling, Dominick bolted out the back door and ran straight to Michael. “What’s up, genius?”
Michael smiled. “Nothin’, hothead. It’s been a long, boring summer around here without you to help me get into trouble.”
Dominick flexed his fingers away from him, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that!”
A small, red-headed boy with watering blue eyes walked by them, holding his mother’s hand. He only came up to her elbow.
Dominick looked at Max and shook his head. “No way we were that shrimpy when we got here.” He stopped, gave an appraising look up and down at Michael, who was at the beginning of a growth spurt. “Well, maybe you, Hollister.”
Michael stood up straighter. “Don’t look now, Dom, but I might have you by half an inch or so. Oh, hey, you know what we get to do this year, right?”
Dominick rubbed his chin. “Torture another prefect?”
“Well, yeah, that too. But mostly, we finally get to play in the Game.”
“It’ll be our first year, though. We’re gonna be meat.”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I had a lot of time to think and poke around the Academy this summer. I think I’ve got a plan.“
“And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I like having a genius for a best friend.” Dominick slung his arm around Michael’s shoulders and headed toward their new barrack.
When they were away from all the other cadets and parents, Dominick glanced over his shoulder to see if they were out of earshot. He lowered his voice. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about all summer.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know this is going to sound weird, but, do you believe in ghosts?”
Believe in them? Hell, I am one.
“I didn’t used to, but I guess I do now. That’s a weird thing to think about all summer. Did you see a ghost in your house?”
Dominick shook his head. “No, not really. It’s just ... I know you’re going to think I’m crazy—“
“—I already do—“
Dominick punched him, but not too hard. “—but I kind of feel like I’m a ghost.”
Michael stopped dead. Quietly, he said, “What are you talking about?”
Dominick shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like I’ve lived this life before.”
“Like reincarnation, or something?”
Dominick started to say something, stopped. Opened his mouth again, then shut it in frustration. “You know what? Never mind. It’s too damn weird. So, tell me about how we’re going to win the Hartfield Game as first-year players.”
Michael looked at him for a long moment, almost reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, but stopped.
I’m the last person in the world to pry into someone else’s business if they don’t want to talk about it. But, still. Is Dom going through the same shit I am? I’ve never thought about the possibility that there might be others, too, but why not? Whatever. If he is, he is. If he wants to talk to me about something, he will.
“Okay. You know how the Game is played, right?”
“Sure. Everyone wears flag belts, like a flag football game. If your flag gets pulled, you’re ‘dead.’ Each team has one flag-bearer. When that person gets the flag pulled out of their backpack, your whole team is out.”
“Right. So, there are seven teams. Last team standing wins the Game.”
“And no team in its first year playing has ever finished better than fourth place.”
“Which is why it will be so cool if we manage to win the whole damn thing, right?”
Dom smiled, all talk of ghosts forgotten. He was always ready to fight a big fight or dream a big dream. “Right!”
Chapter Forty-Three
The Hartfield Games were always held the third weekend in October—late enough in the year for the weather to be cold and blustery, but a bit too early for snow.
Many strategies to win the Game had been employed over the years. For the larger, stronger upper years, it was popular to simply surround their flag-bearer and repel any attack with muscle and malice. The younger years tended to hide in the early stages, as they were neither fast nor strong enough to withstand an onslaught. The upper years knew this, and countered the strategy by declaring alliances until the smaller boys had been hunted down and eliminated. Then, they scattered to their own chosen locations and the Game began in earnest. Because of this, hiding spots were like gold, but everywhere a team could hide had been discovered and knowledge of it passed down over the years.
The Game was overseen by Commander Hartfield and the staff of the Academy. Many years, especially in times of peace, former cad
ets would return to help officiate. In 1967, many of those former cadets were either fighting in Vietnam, dead, or too old to attend, so the officiating was somewhat more sparse than normal.
On the day of the Game, Michael gathered the eighteen other Turtles around him in the barrack, away from the listening range of Doug Brant, their prefect for their fourth year. Lieutenant Brant was perfectly fine as prefect, but all their prefects had been a bit boring after the endless entertainment Lieutenant Pusser had provided their first year. They trusted Brant within reason, but knew that when the Game started, he would be participating on the side of the heavily favored seniors.
Michael had been unanimously voted Turtle Captain for the Game the month before and had been perfecting his strategy since then. The Hartfield Game revolved around strategy, and although it could be adjusted on the fly, each team captain wrote out a strategic battle plan in advance and turned it in to Captain Peterson for his approval.
“Okay, Will,” Michael said. “You’re the flag-bearer for the Turtles. I have faith in your ability to do the right thing in a tough spot. Dom, you’re second in command. If I get taken out, it’s all on you. Now, let’s get changed into your Game uniform.”
Thirty minutes later, Commander Hartfield was standing on the front lawn, a steady wind riffling his steel-gray crew cut. The sky behind him was dark and threatening. The assembled staff stood beside him, wearing crimson armbands to identify them as Game officials. In front of him, broken up into their seven groups, were the fourth-year through tenth-year cadets. The first- through third-year classes stood off to the side. The younger classes playing the Game had a single advantage: numerical strength. The senior class consisted of just thirteen cadets, while the Turtles had nineteen. Michael planned to push this advantage to its utmost.
