Phantoms of the Moon

by Michael Ciardi

Unlike many of the lesser-known communities dotting the landscape, those who determined the fate of Glen Dale’s milieus resisted a temptation to sacrifice the pristine woodlands for the sake of industrialized pursuits. Much of the town’s backdrop remained as charmingly rustic as it appeared fifty years ago, and a few surviving old-timers still cantankerously defended its reputation as a pleasant place to reside. One lifelong resident had made it his personal quest to keep the township as idyllic as he remembered since his own boyhood.

  No one within earshot of Glen Dale ever praised Gary Wescott as a competent detective, but they certainly could not disrepute his status as a dedicated member of the district for nearly forty years. Even after his retirement from the police department six years ago, Wescott remained a prominent figure at most of the township’s functions. He still visited the police headquarters on occasion, too, reminiscing about his days at the helm of the six-officer force. One of his proudest achievements, which he never let a soul forget, was an unblemished record of non-violent crimes that endured for more than thirty years while he was in charge.

  Since Wescott’s retirement, a few changes inevitably altered the town’s complexion. The police force itself had nearly doubled along with a significant escalation in civilian population. A few shopping malls also sprouted up between the wheat and cornfields on the fringes of town, but this did not perturb folks as much as the planners originally anticipated. Another change, which seemed far less surprising, existed in a gradual decline of Wescott’s health. He had always been a rather rotund man, who preferred to call himself big-boned to those who jokingly suggested that he monitor his eating habits.

  The condition of his obesity only intensified since he retreated to a log cabin on the outskirts of town to live the bona fide life of a woodsman. His dream was to spend his time fishing and hunting in the forested sanctuaries surrounding his property. Of course, like most who hibernated from society in order to embrace their golden years, Wescott soon became excessively bored with his romanticized endeavors. He also developed diabetes, which required him to inject himself with insulin twice every day. Though he once flirted with the option, he never married, and so much of his present time was squandered in front of a fireplace pondering the shortcomings of his existence.

  Sheer bulk and a nagging knee injury kept Wescott sedentary for most of his wakened hours. At least he had the common sense to avoid hanging too many mirrors in his home, which only reminded him that grace and age did not necessarily commingle. What remained of his chestnut-colored hair had turned pale white, and these same colored whiskers speckled his chin and engorged gullet. His eyes appeared drowsy and dull, woefully deprived of an enigmatic spark that kept some men appealing as they aged.

  If Wescott elected to review his circumstances with any real scrutiny, he would have recognized that he had literally and figuratively outgrown Glen Dale’s confines. Most of his neighbors had either moved away or died, and the younger folks who settled in their places only offered polite interest in the regurgitated yarns of a man who relished his past more than what his future days promised.

  Despite all his exaggerations, Wescott refrained from fielding questions publicly about the one incident that captivated the outsiders’ attention. This represented the irony of Wescott’s life because it was the only untold story he knew that people deemed newsworthy. Wescott was not one to immerse in hype, and the proceedings surrounding the family’s disappearance registered as the only unsolved case in the history of his reign as police chief. Over the years, he had been offered numerous incentives to retell the events of that night, but he always declined, indicating that there was nothing left to divulge. Without any new evidence, he saw no point—outside of lucrative advances—in rekindling a tragedy that besmirched the town’s reputation.

  Wescott was not persuaded to reassess his position on this issue until he received a phone call from Doctor Evans two nights ago. He was immediately intrigued by Evans’s connection to Ryan and equally impressed with the doctor’s promised discovery of fresh evidence possibly associated with the mystery. Wescott agreed to a visitation from Evans on the premise that Evans met him with the proof in hand. The doctor refused to specify any details on the phone, but Wescott had a hunch the man’s word was as reliable as his reputation as a psychiatrist.

  A gentle snow still cascaded from the sky on the evening of Wescott’s scheduled appointment with the doctor. Although the forecast did not call for any further snow, at least seven inches had already fallen over the past several days. Wescott busied himself by kindling a fire in the stone-veneered fireplace at the center of his living room. By positioning his rocking chair directly in front of the flames, Wescott experienced instantaneous relief in his aching joints. As the fire crackled, the room filled with a scent of burning oak.

  Dr. Evans arrived in Glen Dale at eight in the evening, but it took him another twenty minutes to navigate his car along the narrow gravel lane leading to Wescott’s residence. Evans’s journey became especially problematic since the accumulations of snowfall obscured most of the surroundings of Wescott’s four-room shanty. After parking his car about fifty feet from the dwelling, Evans exited the vehicle and shuffled through the snow toward the cabin’s main entrance.

  After the cabin’s front door creaked open on its corroded hinge, the doctor was nearly scorched by a torrent of hot air wafting from the cabin’s interior. Evans usually preferred a cooler environment, but the outside air was frigid enough for him to welcome an immediate variation in temperature. Since the men were not formally acquainted, there was an awkward exchange of glances between them before any dialogue commenced. Obviously, they had little in common outside of their social contact with Ryan.

  Wescott greeted his casually garmented guest in a tattered sweatshirt bearing the logo of a college he never attended. Accompanying his choice of attire, the former chief also sported an old pair of sweatpants that appeared stretched beyond their reasonable limitations. Even though the doctor had taken the time to look presentable, he did not want to prejudge the retired lawman based on his wardrobe and slovenly demeanor.

  “I presume you’re Gary Wescott,” said Evans, cheerfully extending his gloved hand. Wescott instantly noticed the tidiness of Evans’s clothing; nothing relating to his taste was particularly fancy but everything was in order, including his salt-and-pepper hair that seemed imperviously untouched by the winter wind.

  “Glad you made it out here,” Wescott responded while scratching his crotch as though it had become a habitual exercise rather than a spontaneous reaction. The plump man promptly scooted to the side of the cabin’s threshold so that Evans had ample room to squeeze inside. “C’mon in out of the cold, Doctor. I got a nice fire burning.”

  Evans complied with this request and angled past Wescott. He then stepped somewhat cautiously into the home’s living area. Once inside, Evans set a folder he was holding on a nearby table and removed his suede overcoat. Wescott eyed the man’s garments with either envy or disgust; a smirk on his lips made it tough to determine his exact opinion of the doctor.

  Evans surveyed the room’s contents with a similar uncertainty. The cabin’s workmanship seemed impeccably designed. Each section of hewn wood was assembled with scrupulous care. The interior’s knotty, pine beams were perfectly squared and rounded at the corners, and the stone fireplace was particularly pleasing to gaze upon. Hunting equipment and pelts of deer and wolf dominated the hardwood floor’s dimensions. A centerpiece to Wescott’s perceived pastime existed in the form of a six-pointed buck’s head mounted above the fireplace.

  By examining Wescott’s environment, Evans immediately characterized the type of man he hoped to engage in meaningful conversation. The cabin’s charming ambiance partially eclipsed Evans’s initial impression of Wescott. Of course it took more than an assortment of blue and gray fieldstone and a warm fire to fully alter the doctor’s preconceived notions regarding the former chief’s credibility.

  “You sure look far from h
ome,” Wescott noted as he motioned to the doctor’s pleated slacks and button-down sweater. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Call me Jack. I don’t like to be too formal when I’m not at the office.” Evans forced a contrived chuckle and then proceeded to clear his throat.

  “Okay, Jack, make yourself right at home.” Wescott directed Evans to a couch littered with cut coupons and cellophane food wrappers. “You’ll have to pardon the mess,” Wescott continued with a cocksure grin, “I gave the maid off this week.”

  Evans simpered at the man’s unexpected humor. “Now that’s funny,” he said to Wescott as he shoved a pile of newspaper to one side of the couch’s cushion in order to sit down. “I enjoy a good sense of humor just as much as the next guy.”

  “What’s funny about what I said?” Wescott grumbled. “I really did give the maid off.”

  Evans cleared his throat again and decided to continue without commenting on the likelihood of a housekeeper attending these premises. “I’m thankful you invited me to your home. It’s a little out of the way, but very humble.”

  Wescott continued to claw at the nether regions of his sweatpants with the same distasteful tenacity as before. Evans casually looked in the opposite direction as Wescott spoke. “It’s not often I get folks visiting me out here. Most of the people around these parts nowadays are transplants—not true woodsmen like myself.”

  “I see you do quite a bit of hunting,” Evans mentioned. He then gestured to the buck’s head. “That’s a big deer you bagged there. The big fellow must’ve given you some trouble, huh?”

  Wescott espied no benefit in informing the doctor that the buck was not actually killed by him—his father earned those honors many years before the former chief ever considered adopting a halfhearted interest in hunting. But like most things on display in the former chief’s home, they were meant to showcase a lifestyle Wescott fantasized about more than what he truly achieved with his own ingenuity.

  Before Evans became wise of Wescott’s charade, the corpulent man decided to change the subject. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to a shrink before,” he commented without intentionally trying to insult the doctor.

  “Well, most people would probably agree that it’s a good thing you haven’t,” said Evans as he removed his gloves and folded his coat neatly across his lap.

  “I always thought you educated types were stuffy,” remarked Wescott. “But it seems to me that you’re still human.”

  Evans shrugged his shoulders naively and waited for Wescott to dispose with any further small talk. After politely declining the former chief’s offer of a beer, Evans reached for the folder he placed on a table before sitting down. The doctor’s expression became instantaneously serious, which prompted Wescott to crouch down upon his rocking chair. He sensed the doctor’s urgency to address the facts that had ultimately brought them together tonight.

  “A man of business,” said Wescott, somewhat contemptuously. “Okay, Jack, we’ll do it your way. “I understand you have some information to share about the Hayden boy.”

  “Yes,” Evans stated hastily, “but I first must remind you that Ryan is still my patient. I’m bound by a conduct of confidentiality. I won’t be able to discuss any part of the boy’s therapy with you.”

  Wescott was mildly amused by the doctor’s ethics before he chortled, “You’re not hard to predict, Jack. I figured you’d take that route. I guess I’m just slightly curious on how the boy’s doing. I assumed he’d put this all behind him by now.”

  “As you know, they’re still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  Wescott enlaced his fingers across his belly as he rocked steadily in the creaking chair. “Let me clarify my own rules on all this,” he said. “I’m not planning to do any guesswork on what might’ve happened to that boy’s family. I already told you on the phone—everything I know was accounted for in my original report.”

  “I understand,” replied Evans, tapping the folder with his index finger. He then opened the manila cover and revealed a photocopy of the original police report scribed in Wescott’s rather illegible handwriting. He then leaned forward and placed the document in the former chief’s awaiting hand.

  “Maybe your memory will be refreshed if you read it again,” Evans advised.

  “No need for that—my memory is sharp. I’ve reviewed it more times than I care to remember.” Wescott flipped the report back to Evans’s lap. “Now let’s talk about why you’re here, Jack. You pointed out on the phone that you discovered some new information relating to the report—evidence I presume?”

  “I can’t say for certain that it’s evidence,” Evans responded, “but it’s definitely something I need you to verify.”

  Evans’s attention reverted to the police report. He had taken the time to highlight key areas of interest on the paper. Wescott seemed impassive at first because he assumed the doctor had virtually nothing new to introduce.

  “That report can’t tell me anything I don’t already know,” Wescott chided.

  “Yes, we’ve established that,” Evans declared. “But I want to call your attention to one detail—it’s quite specific.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “After recovering Ryan from the roadside, you indicated in your report that you found an unknown substance covering portions of the boy’s skin and clothing. You referred to this material as ‘silvery and glowing’ in its consistency. Does that sound familiar?”

  Wescott rocked steadily in his chair while gazing at the flames in his fireplace. In truth, the former chief’s memory had withered away with the rest of his ill-fated body, but he stood by his earlier statement as if he had something to forfeit by being honest.

  “If I wrote it in my report, I must’ve seen it,” Wescott answered jadedly.

  “Do you think you’d remember the substance if you ever saw it again?”

  Wescott shrugged his shoulders and pivoted toward the doctor with a heightened level of curiosity. “Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, Jack. Do you have something to show me or not?”

  Perhaps Evans could not accurately divulge the relevancy of this information at the moment, but an identification of the material in question at least placed it in the possession of the same person at two different locations nearly ten years apart. For this reason alone, Evans assumed it was a worthwhile venture to salvage the particles left behind in his office and bring them to Wescott for further evaluation. The doctor collected the material in a plastic container no larger than the size of his balled fist. He managed to gather only about four centimeters of the substance, but it was more than enough supply for Wescott to scrutinize.

  Based on Wescott’s skittish facial expression alone, Evans discerned that he was unnerved by the substance’s presence. The doctor paused for a few moments to permit Wescott to cogitate the details with better clarity.

  “I know it’s been a decade since you’ve last seen it,” said Evans as he watched Wescott stare at the container’s contents through the firelight. “It struck me as peculiar. Even after ten years, I think it would be difficult to forget if I had encountered such a substance before.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  Evans refused to offer a response, but he really did not need to say anything. Wescott’s mind functioned with sufficient logic to surmise that the substance was linked to Ryan in some unexplainable nature.

  “Have you had it analyzed yet?” Wescott questioned.

  “I did not,” Evans admitted. “I was hoping to get some clarification from you first.”

  “Well, just because I might’ve seen something like this before doesn’t mean I know where the hell it came from.”

  “But you’re certain you’ve seen it before?”

  Wescott inspected the material more vigilantly before returning the container to Evans’s twitching fingers. He then declared, “Yeah—it looks like the same stuff I found on that kid ten years ago.” The former chief then suddenly peered at t
he doctor with fixated eyes. His chair stopped rocking when he said, “Why don’t you skip all the mumbo-jumbo about confidentiality, Jack? We’re talking off the record here. You know that boy a lot better than most folks, and it’s fair to assume that you wouldn’t be here unless he told you something mighty unordinary.”

  Evans remained true to his earlier vow. He could not allow himself to discuss Ryan’s personal conversations with Wescott, no matter how enticed he might have been.

  “As I’ve told you, Mr. Wescott, whatever transpired between Ryan and I must not be repeated—my reputation is at stake.”

  Wescott snorted with dissatisfaction and replied, “Oh, spare me the theatrics, Jack. Do you want to find out what happened to that boy’s family or not?”

  “You’ve already told me you don’t know such information.”

  “And I don’t,” Wescott conceded. “But something tells me that you might know more than I do.”

  Evans scoffed at Wescott’s ridiculous notion, but he now determined that the man was not going to be as cooperative as he promised on the phone. Before their conversation became anymore antagonistic, Evans elected to excuse himself from the predicament. Wescott, however, was not so easily dissuaded from the task of extracting as much information as possible from the doctor.

  “You’ve heard all the same rumors I have over the years,” Wescott told Evans, his voice now becoming as irritating as his rude habits.

  “The tall tales have been difficult to ignore,” Evans acknowledged faintly.

  “But I’ve lived them—and no one ever cared when it was my reputation at stake. Ten years have gone by, and in all that time I never heard a word from you about that boy until a phone call two nights ago.”

  “I’m not a detective, Mr. Wescott—”

  “Please—call me Chief,” Wescott countered. “Unlike you, Jack, I’m partial to formalities.”

  “Well, Chief,” Evans stated with his own degree of hostility. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that it’s not a function of mine to investigate the whereabouts of my patient’s family for the sake of any type of recognition in the media or otherwise. I’m here tonight only for the boy’s welfare. I want him to move on with his life in a productive way, but I need to learn some answers before that can occur.”

  “It all sounds too rehearsed to be accurate,” said Wescott. “But even if I believe you—are you going to sit there and tell me you’ve never considered the possibility of any of those rumors being true?”

  “I don’t want to sound like an idiot,” Evans started, “but are you referring to the rumors about an alien abduction?”

  “You know I am,” Wescott grimaced with fiendish delight. Through the flickering spikes of the fireplace’s flames, the old chief studied the doctor’s eyes intently, hoping to detect a shift in movement in his pupils. After a few seconds, it was clear that Evans had nothing to reveal in his countenance that satisfied Wescott’s inquiry.

  “I understand your position,” Wescott continued as though he now had the leverage necessary to dictate the flow of discourse. “You’ve cornered me in my own home with a difficult proposition. You expect information from me, but refuse to offer anything in return. Now I know we’re not little tikes running around at recess anymore, Jack, but as far as I can tell that’s not playing fair.”

  Evans closed the folder on his lap and sighed with frustration. He was mindful not to break eye contact with Wescott when he spoke again. “I’m sorry for wasting your time tonight, Chief. At least we know we’re dealing with the same material. All I have to figure out now is where it came from.”

  “You already know that, too,” Wescott noted. “Even if you aren’t an old gumshoe like me, it should be obvious. Haven’t you asked the boy about the substance yet?”

  “No,” Evans answered quickly. “I didn’t want to burden him with any of this unless I thought it was absolutely necessary. Besides, there’s a good chance he’s not even aware of the matter. He’s never mentioned it to me.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Wescott’s voice chimed as if he had finally attained his goal of hurdling the doctor’s wall of silence. “Let’s assume he doesn’t know where the material came from when you ask him—if he’s telling you the truth, what would be the next logical step for you?”

  Evans appeared momentarily baffled, but this was primarily because he figured Wescott wanted him to seem as such. He remained reticent so that the former chief had an opportunity to spout forth a portion of his homegrown wisdom.

  “If I had your good sense, Jack,” Wescott started, “I’d know exactly what to do. Since you know that the material doesn’t belong to you, then the only other place where it could’ve originated is somewhere the boy has been previously.”

  Evans already considered a possibility that Ryan had revisited the original location, but the solution seemed too conventional. But after contemplating the facts as they now stood, it was not unimaginable for Ryan to return to the site where his family disappeared.

  “It’s just been such a long time,” Evans sighed with disbelief. “Ten years—why would he want to go back there now?”

  “Like you, Jack, the boy’s still searching for answers.”

  “But there’s nothing there now—just awful memories.”

  Wescott suddenly felt rejuvenated at a prospect of being deemed relevant again. He gleamed with the hubris of a Greek hero while watching over the doctor from his rocking chair. If Evans peered closely enough at the corners of the old chief’s mouth, he would have detected him salivating at the prospect of being involved in anything remotely essential.

  “Maybe I retired a tad bit too early,” Wescott contemplated regretfully. “If I’m being honest, Jack, I’ll have to confess my one shortcoming. No matter how many things I’ve done right over the course of my career, my legacy will always be measured against the one incident that went wrong.”

  Evans reflected upon Wescott’s confession, which triggered thoughts of his own failures, including a marriage he blamed himself for inadvertently sabotaging. For a fleeting moment Evans imagined the sense of futility Wescott must have endured and the psychological ramifications of being branded as the only law enforcer in the history of Glen Dale who botched a kidnapping investigation. It was difficult for Evans to show hostility toward a man who only sought closure to the bleakest episode of his existence.

  By giving control to Wescott, Evans presumed the man would have been more accommodating. “I’m open to suggestions at this point,” Evans stated flatly. “Tell me where you want to me go from here.”

  Even on his best day, Wescott’s stale intellect could not match Evans’s fresh wit. The doctor knew the former chief had no choice but to yank on the bait like a hungry fish.

  “I’ve always relished a good hunt,” Wescott fibbed. “And what we’re dealing with now, Jack, is like a wounded animal that needs to be tracked down and put out of its god-awful misery.”

  “Do you think it’s that serious?”

  “As serious as a stroke,” Wescott chuckled. “But in this case, I’m inclined to think that it’s a stroke of luck that’s gotten us together tonight.”

  When the old chief hoisted himself out of his seat, it was not certain if the man’s joints cracked more or less than the chair’s frame. But whether he was in condition for an escapade or not, Wescott continued with his gimpy stride across the floor to fetch his boots near a closet door. He then turned and eyeballed the doctor’s footwear; a hardy laugh forwarded from the oldster, causing his belly to jiggle.

  “You’re not planning to hike into the woods in those shoes,” Wescott tittered mockingly as he pointed to the doctor’s black leather loafers. “There’s a half a foot of snow outside.”

  “Who said anything about hiking?”

  “Any good lawman knows that if the evidence doesn’t come to him, then he’s got to go to it. So we’re going on a little jaunt, Jack. The first lesson I learned as a young cadet was that when your leads dry up, you
go back to the beginning to see if you missed anything the first time around.”

  “Well, I agree with you on one point,” Evans concurred. “The leads must be fairly dry after ten years.”

  “As dry as a granny’s groin,” Wescott smirked as he stepped into his boots.

  Evans tried not to react negatively to Wescott’s crude sense of humor. He had at least spawned a positive reaction from the old man. Still, Evans had to be careful to not seem too eager about the proposition of following the man.

  “I assume you want to go back to the site—do you think that’s wise? Do you even remember where it is?”

  Wescott simpered as if he had stashed away an arcane formula in his mind. In truth, almost anyone in Glen Dale could have escorted Evans to the approximate spot of the Haydens’ disappearance. But Wescott was convinced that he was the only living soul who remembered the precise location. Judging by a mischievous glint simmering in the chief’s eyes, Evans guessed that he burned hotter than his fireplace for a thrill of this magnitude.

  The doctor still downplayed his interest in the suggestion so that Wescott would not become too engrossed with his role as leader in the present circumstances.

  “I guess it couldn’t do any harm to go there and take a look around,” Evans thought aloud, tentatively glancing at his wristwatch as if he was pressed for time. “Is it far from here?”

  “Nah,” declared Wescott as he snatched a wool coat from his closet. “It’s just thirty minutes or so west up Route 51.”

  “Okay,” said Evans in a humbled tone. “If you think it’s worth checking out, I’ll be happy to tag along.”

  “You just stick close to me, Jack, and I’ll make sure you get home to your mother before it gets too late.” Wescott laughed again, but Evans did not rate his joke quite as humorous. Perhaps the doctor was too busy pondering the nefarious reputation the site had managed to establish for itself over the years. Furthermore, Evans found the old chief’s sudden display of enthusiasm somewhat baffling. He secretively wondered how many times Wescott had revisited the site in the past decade.

  Nevertheless, like an intrepid woodsmen, Evans sported the gear necessary for such an excursion. Luckily, Wescott never bothered to throw anything away, so he had accumulated three spare coats and four pairs of boots that no longer fit his bulky frame. The boots served a much-needed function, but Evans opted to don his own coat and gloves. After the men were protected properly from the night’s frigid temperature, they set out to search for any clues that steered them closer to the whereabouts of a family lost somewhere on this Earth or beyond.