Greely's Cove

by Gideon, John

  As the foreman closed the door behind him, Carl stood in the yawning silence of his home, his hands pocketed in grungy Levi’s, lamenting the stark emptiness of the place. The walls were bare of his treasured books and beloved Matisse prints, now crated in cardboard and entrusted to people he did not even know. Gone were his Roche-Bobois leather furniture and Fisher stereo system, as were his television and VCR, his collection of antique chess sets and most of his clothes.

  The home itself would soon pass from his ownership. The previous day a realtor had presented him a buy-sell agreement, which he had executed on the spot. The nation’s capital would soon officially lose Carl Trosper as a resident.

  He had flown back to Washington two days after Lorna’s funeral, leaving Jeremy in the care of a committee: his old boyhood buddies, Stu Bromton and Renzy Dawkins, and his former mother-in-law, Nora Moreland, who had somewhat hesitatingly offered to stay with the boy in the Trosper bungalow on Second Avenue. Carl had verged on declining Nora’s offer, for he had sensed her unease about staying in the house where Lorna had lived and died. More than once he had overheard her remark about not sleeping well there. But when it came down to brass tacks, he had little choice but to accept.

  He had assured Nora that he would not be away for more than two weeks, that in his absence both Stu and Renzy would look in on Jeremy daily. As would Lindsay: Apparently in an effort to shore up the new spirit of détente she had effected with Carl, she’d volunteered to take the boy to his therapy sessions every Tuesday and Friday.

  Two weeks. A fortnight. Half a month in which to clip the bonds to the city that had been his home for more than nine years.

  Closing bank accounts, charge accounts. Filling out change-of-address cards. Cancelling utility service and memberships in the sailing club and health club and country club. Packing cardboard boxes with virtually everything he owned.

  These were the comparatively easy things.

  Not so easy was the confrontation with his colleagues at J. Howard Maynard and Associates, who had counted him among the strongest in their stable of high-horsepower political consultants. After hearing Carl’s revelation that he intended to quit the firm and move back to the provinces, the senior partner had “gone ballistic” and rattled the windows of his plush office with his anger. How in the hell could Carl do this to them? he had demanded to know. The congressional elections were a mere nine months away, and the firm had accepted lucrative campaign-management contracts based on Carl’s experience and brains, not to mention the assurance of his presence in the firm. Didn’t he feel any sense of responsibility to his clients and colleagues? How in the fucking blue blazes did he expect the firm to fill his shoes on such short notice?

  His carefully rehearsed answers to these questions had sounded shallow and unconvincing. His son needed him. For medical reasons his son needed to be in Greely’s Cove—not Washington, D.C., the city that boasted the finest medical facilities in the world. But Greely’s Cove, a foggy little backwater on the shore of the Puget Sound, where lived the only doctor in the galaxy who could help. Right.

  Still worse had been his confrontation with Melanie Kraft, the chestnut-haired lawyer with whom he had shared most of his free hours during the three months before Lorna’s death. Over drinks in a dusky cubicle of the lounge in the Hay Adams Hotel, he had told her point-blank that he was quitting Washington for the quietude of a cedar-shingle law practice in his old hometown. Their relationship—good as it had been—must end. Jeremy needed his father, and Carl himself needed the healing simplicity of Greely’s Cove. There was atoning to be done. There were debts of guilt to be paid, old wounds to be mended. Could she understand this?

  Yes, she could, and this is what made the confrontation all the more wrenching: She understood perfectly. With her brown eyes brimming, Melanie had agreed that Carl should do exactly as his heart dictated.

  Thus it was over between them, without eruptions of venom or wounded pride. In the aftermath Carl felt hollow, having underestimated both the intensity of Melanie’s love for him and its importance to his life, a love he had neatly rejected in order to pursue better things. This realization had a disturbingly familiar ring.

  The telephone bleeped loudly, undampened by walls bare of drapes or books or furniture. He crossed to the nearest extension and picked up the handset.

  “Carl, it’s me,” said Stu Bromton’s voice in faraway Greely’s Cove, where it was still morning. “Can you talk?”

  “I learned at a very early age. What’s up?”

  “Carl, I think you better get back here as soon as you can.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s only the twenty-first. I’m not due back for three more days, and I’ve still got a ton of stuff to do. I haven’t even sold my Porsche yet.”

  “It’s about Jeremy,” said Stu, clearing his throat. “I’ve got , him here at the station house, and unless you show up soon to take custody of him, ihe county juvenile folks are going to haul him over to the youth-detention facility pending court action.” Carl felt his face beginning to flush, and a pit formed in his stomach. “Detention facility? What in the hell’s going on, Hippo? Is he under arrest or something?”

  “He will be, unless I can sign him over to you, his new guardian, and real quick.”

  “Do you mind telling me what this is all about? Has Jeremy done something illegal?”

  “That’s a little unclear right now, but there’s a possibility that he was involved in some criminal mischief. Remember those two assholes I told you about—the kids who were out with Teri Zolten’s girlfriends on the night she disappeared ?”

  “I think so. Wasn’t one of them the Tanner kid?”

  “Kirk Tanner and Jason Hagstad, seniors in high school, a pair of little pukes with too much time on their hands and too much money to spend. We got Tanner on a drunk-driving charge that night, remember?”

  “I remember. Are you telling me that Jeremy was involved with those guys?”

  “From what I’ve got so far, it looks like they’ve been harassing the hell out of old Hannie Hazelford. Four nights ago they—”

  “Hannie Hazelford? That cute little old English lady? Why would someone want to harass her?”

  Stu Bromton made fidgeting sounds on his end of the line, as though he appreciated how absurd his story would sound. The facts were these: On the night of Monday, February 17, someone had slashed all four tires of Hannie’s red Jaguar, which she had locked in her garage for the night.

  On the following Wednesday, sometime shortly after midnight, someone had broken into the municipal vehicle park and stolen the city garbage truck, which happened to be full of garbage awaiting hauling to the county dump the next morning. After beating in the rear door of Hannie’s boutique on Frontage Street, the thieves had shoveled the entire load of garbage into her stockroom, after which they fled in the truck.

  And finally, that same someone had firebombed the front door of Hannie’s cottage on Torgaard Hill at 2:00 a.m. on Thursday, February 20. Fortunately the bomb had been a crude Molotov cocktail consisting of a Gatorade bottle filled with gasoline and stuffed with a rag. Quick action by the fire department had prevented a really serious fire, but the damage had nonetheless run into the thousands of dollars.

  “Hannie was lucky it was raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock, so the fire didn’t really take hold,” said Stu, “and fortunately one of the neighbors got a look at the perpetrators’ car, which—”

  “Let me guess: belonged to either Tanner or Hagstad.”

  “Kirk Tanner, to be exact,” confirmed the police chief. “A black ’67 Chevy. We even got the license number. I’ve had them in custody since this morning.”

  “And you think that Jeremy was somehow involved in all this madness?”

  “All I know is what Tanner and Hagstad have told me,” said Stu. “They’ve both confessed to the tires, the garbage, and the bomb, and they’ve both implicated Jeremy. They say that it was all his idea, and that he somehow ma
de them do it.”

  Carl gave out a disbelieving, rebuking laugh. “And you believed them? For crying out loud, Stu, they’re seniors in high school, and Jeremy’s just a thirteen-year-old kid! Since when do seniors in high school let themselves be led around by a little boy?”

  It did sound weird, admitted Stu, but Tanner and Hagstad had told the same story with minimum prompting, and separately.

  A story about a tagalong kid they had met a few weeks earlier in the parking lot of Liquid Larry’s bar. A kid who had approached their car as they were firing up their crack pipes, having just bought a couple of hits from someone named Cannibal. This kid had literally charmed his way into their company, with tales about strange powers and promises of awesomely good times. He’d made them feel things they had never felt before.

  “I know it sounds incredible,” said Stu, “but they both said it was Jeremy, the kid who used to be a retard, or words to that effect. And they described him right down to his sneakers.” Carl was incredulous, and becoming angrier by the second. “Don’t you think it’s possible that they cooked up this tub of shit in advance, just in case they were caught? I mean, who better to blame things on than the weird little boy who everybody knows isn’t all there?”

  “Come off it, Carl, they had no reason to finger Jeremy. They were amply aware that they couldn’t make things any better for themselves by blaming someone else, least of all a thirteen-year-old. Besides that, they were scared—”

  “As well they should’ve been.”

  “Not scared of me, or the cops, or the system, Carl. They were scared of Jeremy.”

  “Jesus, Stu!”

  “I mean it. I videotaped their confessions, and I’ll play the tapes for you when you get here. You can see the fear in their faces, the way they were sweating and shaking. Jeremy did something to scare these two dirtballs to death.”

  Carl shook his head and groped for words. How could this be happening, just when he was on the verge of a new life, one full of goodness and decency and quiet fulfillment? What malevolent god had brewed up this heap of excrement to dump on his shoulders?

  “What about Nora?” he asked. “Is she okay?”

  “That’s the other reason you need to come back, Carl,” said Stu. “Jeremy’s been driving her crazy. He’s been refusing to do anything she says, stays out late at night, talks back. And he’s been picking up stray animals—dogs and cats—and he insists on keeping them in the house. Plus—” Stu broke off, allowing a tense silence to endure.

  “Plus what?” demanded Carl.

  “She’s scared, Carl. Jeremy’s been saying strange things to her, like—well, I’d prefer that she tell you herself. The woman’s close to a breakdown, and Lindsay’s taking her back to Seattle today.”

  “So there’s no one to take care of Jeremy?”

  “He can stay here at the station house until you get here. Which I hope is soon.”

  Wonderful, thought Carl. My son is in jail at the age of thirteen, under suspicion of criminal mischief. His alleged co-conspirators are scared to death of him, as is his grandmother. And from the sound of Stu’s voice, so is he.

  “Tell me this,” said Carl in a flat tone that hinted of accusation. “You and Renzy agreed to help look after Jeremy while I was gone, right? Did you do it?”

  “I’ve been stopping by the house every day, usually around lunchtime. A couple of times we went out to eat, and I even took him for rides in the police car.”

  “And how did he seem to you? Any signs of his being involved in a vendetta against Hannie Hazelford?”

  “None at all, Carl. He seemed—well, he seemed fine. A little quiet, a little suspicious, maybe, but just fine. I got the definite feeling that he would rather have been with someone else, that’s all.”

  “And what about Renzy? Did he notice anything?”

  “You’ll have to ask Renzy about that. I hear that he took Jeremy out to his boat several times, taught him how to tie nautical knots and read charts, all that sort of thing. Jeremy seemed to get a kick out of it, from what I gather.”

  Renzy Dawkins lived on a magnificent forty-two-foot Hinckley sloop that was permanently docked in Greely’s Cove Marina, the final trapping of his patrician life. He had promised to take both Carl and Jeremy sailing as soon as the weather warmed and cleared, and Jeremy had seemed excited at the idea. Perhaps even as excited as Carl had been.

  “Okay,” said Carl with a tired sigh, “I guess you’re right. I’d better get my ass out there. I’ll call the airport and get on the first plane that has an open seat.”

  “Good. I’m sure that’s what’s best for Jeremy.” Stu grew quiet again, and something in his silence suggested that Jeremy was not the most major of his troubles. Carl detected it.

  “Is there anything else I should know about?”

  “Yeah, I guess maybe there is. I don’t know what’s happening to this town, Carl. Everything is getting crazy and distorted.” He coughed into the receiver, causing Carl to wince on the other end. “This thing with Jeremy is only the latest, and I have an ugly feeling in my guts that it won’t be the last.”

  “What is it? What else has happened?”

  “We’ve had another disappearance—this one ahead of schedule, not even two weeks since Teri Zolten. All the others were a month apart, and I’d let myself think we’d have some breathing room before we needed to start worrying again. That’s funny, isn’t it? A little breathing room until another citizen is wiped off the face of the earth!”

  “God, Stu, I’m sorry.” He’s snapping, thought Carl. The sense of helplessness, the frustration, the gnawing expectation of another tragedy were getting to him. “Anyone I know?”

  “I’m afraid so. Sandy Zolten. Happened Tuesday night, or maybe early Wednesday morning. In some ways it was similar to her daughter’s disappearance. We found something slimy on the walls of a closet at the motel....”

  Carl’s mouth went dry, and his bones went cold. He hardly heard the rest of what Stu was telling him, and he had difficulty keeping his grip on the telephone handset.

  For Lindsay Moreland, the emergency could not have come at a worse time.

  She had been wrapping up an important presentation to the senior partners of the brokerage firm on a new investment plan, one targeted at clients who had $100,000 or more to invest. The plan had generated spirited opposition from several of her colleagues in the firm, especially those who worshiped at the shrine of Paul Volcker, the Republic’s white knight in the crusade against inflation. It assumed that the economy would shortly enter another inflationary period. Hence, it called for eschewing bonds, collectibles, and commodities and, in their place, emphasized resource mutual funds, franchise stocks, and gold. Her boss had called the scheme “contrarian.” But he had allowed her this one chance to sell it to the brass.

  “Miss Moreland,” called a secretary from the rear of the walnut-paneled conference room, “please excuse me, but there’s an emergency call for you on line five. The caller says it’s very important.”

  After muttering a painful excuse-me to the assembled mandarins of the brokerage, Lindsay retreated from the conference room to her personal office, where she took the call from Police Chief Stu Bromton. Five minutes later she was in her Saab, pulling away from the parking garage of the glass and steel skyscraper near Seattle’s Pioneer Square, heading for the downtown ferry terminal.

  Destination: Greely’s Cove.

  Jeremy was in jail, of all places, facing charges of conspiracy to commit criminal mischief. Worse, Lindsay’s mother was virtually prostrate with nervous anxiety, in need of immediate care.

  Within the next two hours, Lindsay had transported Nora from the little bungalow in Greely’s Cove to the Moreland home in Magnolia, a posh quarter of Seattle where many houses boasted expensive views of the Puget Sound. The family internist had administered a mild sedative, sending Nora safely to slumber land.

  Lindsay left the sleeping Nora in the care of a family friend and headed bac
k to Greely’s Cove. Stu Bromton had said something on the telephone about turning Jeremy over to the county juvenile authorities unless Carl could return quickly to take custody of him. This, Lindsay had told herself, could not be allowed to happen. Jeremy’s recent aberrant behavior notwithstanding, he had special needs that she doubted the county could fill. He was obviously still very ill and in need of his family. The thought of locking him up in a county facility, treating him like any other juvenile delinquent—even for a short time—raised her choler. She vowed to prevent it.

  Lindsay lost any annoyance over having been disturbed while delivering an important presentation to her bosses: There would be other presentations, other chances to show her mettle. What burdened her now was the collection of anxieties and worries she had acquired within recent weeks, all centering on Greely’s Cove and Jeremy.

  Since Carl had left for D.C., Lindsay had twice taken Jeremy to Whiteleather Place for his scheduled sessions with Dr. Craslowe—on Valentine’s Day, which had been a Friday, and on the following Tuesday. In fact, she would have taken him there today, had the emergency not arisen, at one o’clock, same as always. She would have sat for ninety minutes in the funereal elegance of the dusky front parlor, endeavoring to read the latest issue of Forbes or Town and Country or Gardening, wondering just what the hell was going on in Dr. Craslowe’s inner office, whether Jeremy was under hypnosis or merely having a therapeutic talk with his physician. Craslowe’s assistant, Mrs. Pauling, would have glided into the parlor now and again to offer tea or coffee, and Lindsay would have declined without knowing exactly why.

  The fact was, the house itself disturbed her. Something about it seemed unwholesome, aside from its neglected exterior and grounds. The very atmosphere seemed thick and oppressive, too quiet and too dark. Mrs. Pauling herself exuded a feeling of heavy despair, and behind her almond eyes was a wall of hopelessness like you would see in the eyes of a slave or an indentured servant, Lindsay imagined.