I buy a bag of the hot candies, just to have something to physically hold, some tangible proof as I go next door to the Dollar Tree. Same thing. Rows and rows and all the items clock in around 4 ounces.
Sitting in my sweltering car, I knead the bag in my moist hands and then throw the car into gear for the trip north. I have to be sure. I want... no, I need to know that there is a thread that I can pull that will unravel the kidnapper’s life. I think I’ll find that thread in just minutes, but I already know what I’ll find.
The Keeley’s candy wrappers found at both abduction sites were never bought at a regular store.
1 and 7/8th ounces.
*
The Indian/Pakistani man behind the counter in Plum didn’t remember me but Freddie the beer- man gave me a look like I might be someone he should know. I ignored him and went to the long rack of chips and nuts. The Shell station was out of Red Hots but I bought the only size of Keeley’s sunflower seeds (sizzling Ranch flavor!) that they carry. 1 and 7/8th ounces. Freddie left and headed for the highway entrance for further north and as I pulled onto the southward access to the same highway I quickly glanced back and spied the entrance to Grandma’s Rockaway Lane.
The sun was just threatening to go down as I entered Jolene’s Quik-Stop. It must have been Jolene’s day off because there was a tall, heavy-set burly-man; tattooed and sunburned, behind the counter ringing up some woman’s cigarette purchase. My hands trembling a bit, with an odd fire rising in my stomach, I took my purchase to the behemoth behind the counter. The man wore a small laminate that proclaimed him “Tiny” (of course) and I scattered my selections over the counter: one bag of sunflower seeds and the last bag in the store of Keeley’s Red Hots, each one 1 and 7/8th ounces. The woman with the smokes went out the door.
Eyeing his name tag I said, “‘Tiny’ – that’s pretty funny.”
Tiny thought so, too. “Yeah – been called that all my life. Mama must have fed me too much.”
“Nah, you’re just big-boned.”
He chuckled and winked at me. It was “just-us-guys”. He said, “That’s what she said.”
Ringing up my items he said, “To tell you the truth, I get a little tired of having to be the Santa at Christmas. A small town like this, everybody assumes that you were the line guard in high school football and you’d be more-than-happy to play a little pick-up game on the weekends. Me, I like to practice my cello.”
Cello? I grabbed my wallet and said, “This looks like your last bag of Red Hots. D’ya know when you’ll be getting more of them in?”
“Tiny” tried to look sage and wise. “Hard to say. The delivery dude keeps track of that stuff. This ain’t my store; woman by the name of Jolene owns it and she would know more about it. You really like those things? They give me the green-apple-quick-steps, if you know what I mean.”
I tried to look sympathetic. “Yeah, you got to watch them. You know, I can never seem to find a bigger bag of these things. Is this the only size you carry?”
He rubbed his chin with sincere concentration. “Now, that I know. You want the bigger size you got to go to a grocery store: Sprouts or H-E-B – someplace like that. You aren’t going to find a mini-mart that carries anything larger than what we got. Same thing with peanuts or cashews. They’re what we call travel-size, you know?”
“If you wanted to carry the larger size, could you?”
Tiny was starting to look at me funny. “I doubt it. These are probably all the distributor carries.” He leaned a little closer. “Is this real important to ya?”
Seeing an imposing freightliner like Tiny lean over the counter made me feel like my time here was up. I paid him without explaining my fascination with the cinnamon candies and beat a hasty retreat to the Volvo. Standing in the still-hot parking lot, I lit up a cigarette and made a three-sixty to see in all directions. The poster of Josh Herndon had been replaced by a revised one that offered a $1,000 reward for anyone who had knowledge, etc. Where James Herndon was getting the money, heaven only knows. In northerly and southern directions were the Dewey’s and the Rolly’s and the breakfast places I had come to know but in no way could I see a clean field of vision to Fowler Park. It wasn’t far, but you couldn’t see it from here.
In total disregard for the laws of the great state of Texas, I went back in and had Tiny bag me up a six-pack of Amstel Light to carry me through the trip back to Austin. I told him, without any irony or sarcasm at all, “good luck with the cello lessons”. He looked at me with thinly-veiled sympathy, as if I were a mentally-challenged child, and said, “Practice, dude. Cello practice.”
*
Back in my own bed that night I had the dream again – only this time it was augmented with Keeley’s Red Hots wrappers; hundreds of them swirling up from the road in a twister dust storm created by the black van’s speeding path. I smelled the grass, felt the hot Texas air, and heard off in the distance someone’s chirping lawn sprinkler. I cried out…
I woke up to a pounding in my head and I cursed myself for drinking the night before but... there was pounding. A pounding coming from my front door. I glanced at the alarm clock next to my bed and saw that it read 7:30am. I struggled into shorts and a t-shirt while trying to yell downstairs for whoever it is to keep their shirt on – and then finally unlocked the door. Standing on my stoop was Perez, western-styled brown suit and boots with aviator sunglasses and another cop I didn’t recognize. That was unusual. I had hung around the cop shop so often that I knew by sight everyone who worked there. I was to discover that the reason why I didn’t know this man is because he doesn’t work for the Austin police – he’s a Fed.
Taking off his sunglasses, Perez walked directly into my living room with the stranger in his wake. Perez chose a chair and the other cop did the same. I said, “I don’t recall inviting you in,” as I closed the door.
Ignoring me, Perez said, “This is Agent Fulton…” The agent flashed a badge, “Calvin Fulton. FBI out of Dallas.”
I was still shaking off the effects of the dream. I sat on the sofa, putting my bare feet up on the glass coffee table and realized that in my haste to get on my shorts – I had neglected to zip up my fly.
I tugged my zipper and Perez said, “Rough night last night?”
“Same as always – popcorn and a movie on Tivo.” I looked at the federal agent. “Cal, I’m a little confused as to why the FBI is visiting my house at seven in the morning.”
Agent Fulton, a short, dark-haired man, was not happy with me using his first name so familiarly. He crossed his legs and said, “It’s Agent Fulton. To answer your question, the Bureau is considering coming into your case, Mr. Cain.”
I said, “I’ve wanted you Feds to light a fire under this guy’s ass... ”I pointed at Perez, “…for a long time but Johnny Ringo here keeps telling me this is a state matter.”
I all of a sudden felt that Fulton was in charge of the conversation. There was a seismic shift in body attitude coming off of Perez. Typical. Perez and his buddies all piss in their pants once they’re in the presence of the mighty F-B-I.
“Well,” Fulton said, “New information has come to light and it’s being considered that we may have to bring things under our umbrella.”
Oh? I said, “What kind of new information?”
Rather than answer me, Fulton pulled a piece of paper from his suit pocket and appeared to consult what was written there.
“Mr. Cain, have you and your wife, together or separately, had the occasion in the last year to drive out-of-state? Specifically, Oklahoma?” He looked up from the paper, piercing me with cold, gun-metal blue eyes.
I was taken aback. Jeanie and I had taken a day trip to the Choctaw Casino over in Durant about nine months ago, a month or two before she left to go “find herself” with her parents. The gambling trip was just one of the many times we tried to do some new activity where we wouldn’t have to actually talk to each other.
I said, “I can recall us making a day trip up to the In
dian casinos, but that’s all it was – one day, up and back. Why?”
This is the quietest I’d ever seen Perez. Local cops must have a huge case of Fed penis-envy. Perez looked like the dirty undersides of my bare feet were making him sick. Good.
Fulton said, “It’s come to our attention that a little boy…” He actually snapped his fingers at Perez, making him startle and then rapidly produce a photo from his own suit coat. “…uh…Kevin Conroy, was reported missing about the same time frame as your little ‘excursion’ to the casinos.”
Fulton tapped his finger on the photo that Perez had put on the coffee table. Blond, about nine-ish, with a slight gap between the two upper front teeth. Not enough to drive away the girls when he started paying attention to them, just off of alignment enough to be cute. The similarities to Lucas were many and the poor kid’s picture could have easily been one of the nine that I had in my briefcase under the bed.
I said, “I don’t get it. This is a state matter for the Okies, mine is Texas jurisdiction, I don’t see…” And then I did see. If the same person who took this boy in Oklahoma also took Lucas, logic said that one or more of the boys crossed state lines, making it a federal crime. The fact that I was in Oklahoma... ah, Christ!
I said, “You can’t possibly think that I had anything to do with this boy’s disappearance!? Jesus, my wife was with me, for Christ sakes!”
Fulton only looked at the photo. “Well, we’ll want to speak with her about that.”
“You guys are nuts. I expect this kind of crap from these guys,” I gestured at Perez, who immediately got angry, “but I expect better from the U.S. government. Jesus, you guys take the cake!”
Fulton went out of his way to stare me down. “Mr. Cain, being a professor of behavioral psychology, I’m sure you are aware of transference and role-playing as an expression of aberrant behavior.”
Unbelievable. This little twat is suggesting that I took this kid in Oklahoma. He’s implying that I’m off my rocker and I’m looking all over the country for any boy that reminds me of Lucas. Screw these people!
I said, “Gentlemen, I think I’d like you to leave.”
Fulton wasn’t having any of that. He said, “Mr. Cain, have you recently been in Plum?”
Uh oh. “I may have.” Perez was starting to look interested.
Fulton, however, was getting perturbed. “Look, we’ve got photos of you in Plum, right about the time that a little boy went missing. Quite the coincidence. Lying to a federal officer is a felony, Mr. Cain.”
Photos? But how? Then I thought of the Indian/Pakistani clerk at the Shell station and the row of four small TVs on the wall behind him: Security cameras, and one of them had been trained on the gas pumps…
I said, “That was at least 24 hours after the boy was reported missing.” Shit. Shut up, Ben.
“And how did you know that?”
“Uh, someone in a store was talking about it.” That sounded lame even as I spoke it.
“There was nothing released to the media at that point. Care to try again?”
“I just happened to overhear some people talking.”
Fulton was looking at me like he wanted this day to end with me in handcuffs staring at four gray walls. Previously silent during this inquisition, Perez decided to get over his FBI hero worship and join the party.
He said, “Why were you in Plum in the first place?”
My skills at lying hadn’t improved. I said, “I don’t like to drink around here – too many nosy neighbors.”
Fulton was just now appraising my living room. “And how does Mrs. Cain feel about this?”
Reluctantly I said, “She’s staying with her parents up in Seattle.”
Both Perez and Fulton exchanged looks and in spite of the air-conditioning I felt a sickly sweat forming on the back of my t-shirt. My mouth was dry and I needed a drink; water or something harder and brown-colored.
Perez leaned forward, his eyes black dots filled with mischief. I could swear the little shit was enjoying this. He said, “Let’s cut to the chase…” He glanced at Fulton, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “We’ve got you in Plum just about the time a boy was reported as missing, You’ve been in Smithville and we suspect a boy is missing there, and now we find that you have been to the Durant, Oklahoma area in the past where yet another boy is missing. Have I left anything out?”
I feebly said, “My wife was with me on that trip.”
Fulton stood up. Like a good little puppy dog, Perez did too and Fulton made like he was going to the front door. He said, “We’ll be discussing this ‘trip’ with Mrs. Cain.”
“Well, don’t you want the number for her parents in Seattle?”
Fulton and Perez had just reached the door when he turned and said, “Oh, we have the number, Mr. Cain.”
I must have looked like the perfect criminal, standing there in shorts and dirty t-shirt, my hair all akimbo and days-old stubble on my face. I nervously thought of the .45 resting in the box in the garage.
I couldn’t keep the tremor out of my voice. “That’s it? You wake me up early in the morning, practically accuse me of being a serial murderer, and that’s it? What should I do?”
Fulton gave me his best “I-am-the-FBI look” and said, “I would advise you not to leave the state, while we look into a few things.”
“Don’t leave town? A little too Jack Webb/Dragnet don’t you think?”
Fulton said, “Don’t leave the state,” and he and Perez left, closing my door hard as they did so. I watched them enter a grey/green government car through a slat in the venetian blinds while my stomach churned acid and my mind raced. I heard a buzzing sound clouding my hearing and everything I saw through the window looked filtered through a greenish-white filter. I was in mental overload and in my muddled mind only one thing was clear: I’m in deep shit... and I’m alone.
I really wanted that drink. It was only nine and my mind signaled that need as a warning sign so I made a compromise. I fixed a quick cup of instant coffee and sprinkled it with a liberal dose of Bushmills. As the first hit of my Irish coffee mingled with my sour stomach I went upstairs and withdrew the briefcase under the bed. I splayed all nine photos out across my tangled bed comforter and stood looking at them, sipping on the bracing coffee and making plans.
I was in this alone. I’ll finish it alone.
Nine photos, taking away the two from Smithville and Plum, leaves me with seven. I didn’t need to consider the two, I had failed them already.
Seven boys. There were only about ten more days of school left. My only chance of finding out where all seven live was to follow each and every one of them home after their school day. I looked at the photos on my bed and I saw a sea of Lucases: blond, smiling, and vulnerable – every face full of life and hope and unaware of how quickly it can be taken from them. Is that what he sees... the killer? A sea? A sea of victims?
One boy resides in Rockdale – only minutes away. If I don’t implode I can make it to that area just in time the 3:15 let out…
Chapter Fifteen
I trimmed my prickly mess enough to announce to those who might notice that yes, I was growing a beard and no, it wasn’t going to be one of those Van-Dyke jobs that so many of my collegiate fellows have. The hair on my head was still a respectable dull brown and fortunately there was little gray speckled in my stubby growth – I needed camouflage, but not the kind of disguise that made me look like a lecherous bum; unemployed and adrift with no home and no center – which is exactly what I am. A shower and a slightly better choice of clothes, along with a to-go cup of this morning’s poison made me ready for the ten-minute trip. I could easily get some kind of grease-filled breakfast at a convenience store/gas station in Rockdale.
Because that’s what I am looking for.
I’m looking for a convenience store in Rockdale that is on a visual line with nine-year-old Billy Sheardon’s bus route.
And, I think I’m looking for Arnie.
S
hell station, Conoco, Wag-a-Bag, Quik-Stop, Green-n-Go – it could be any one of them.
Arnie.
*
Bus number 14 (a sign in the driver’s window said “kangeroos”) left McLaren Elementary right on schedule at 3:15pm. Billy Sheardon had been easy to recognize during release because all his male classmates had the same dirty brown mop that I have. Like Lucas and Billy Sheardon, I had an unruly head of blond when I was younger but time, and the influence of Edmund Cain’s genes turned me from tow-head to what my Jeanie used to call “Tom-Hanks-sunny-brown”. The Texas sun had maintained Billy’s hair color so all I had to do is follow a golden Q-tip bobbing amongst a sea of brown as he made his way with the others onto the “kangaroos” express.
Right on Shilton, right on Pascal Way, and finally three-quarters of a mile to a stop sign in front of Dale’s Pharmacy, where customer satisfaction and low, low, prices go hand-in-hand. I watched Billy walk two blocks to Shepard Street and I didn’t even have to twist in the seat of the Volvo to see him enter a white split-level with a forlorn Datsun in the driveway. I looked around me and – no Stop-and-Shop. No gas station. There was Dale’s and a few small thrift/consignment stores but nothing else for at least a quarter-mile. My heart was sinking but I drove down Shepard to make sure Billy’s house was not in sight of any business from the other end of his lane but there was nothing except more housing. I couldn’t leave Rockdale without going into Dale’s and when I did I found no mints, no chips, no Keeley’s Red Hot’s – just pharmaceuticals, feminine products, and a small rack of pain relievers and throat lozenges.
Rockdale was a bust. What an odd, twisted feeling! I was no closer to my man and felt a bitter disappointment, but I felt in my heart that Billy Sheardon... was safe. I pointed the Volvo back towards home.
Candy from a Stranger Page 9