He came to the door and eyed the card. “My handwriting,” his wife murmured. He looked me dead in the eye for a good five seconds. “What do you want?”
“I know you have no reason to talk to me,” I told him. “But I think we both know that the little girl was here and...”
“I think you better leave, mister. I don’t know you and I don’t know any little girl. You’re scaring my wife.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, backpedaling quickly. “She sent me this postcard. I have to see if she and her mother are okay. She sent me this postcard for a reason. If I don’t find them, there might be trouble. I only want to...”
“Fuck off,” was all he said before he slammed the door.
I had considered a lot of outcomes for my first foray into investigation, but that hadn’t been one of them. Looking back on it, it made some sense that having an agitated man appear on your doorstep with a postcard asking about a little girl probably wouldn’t inspire confidence.
I couldn’t see going back there, unless all the rest of the postcards proved to be dead ends, so I decided to chalk that one up to experience. But I did come away with what seemed like some useful information: it was clear from Susan’s reaction that she had written the postcard. I couldn’t be sure that they weren’t involved with someone behind the murders, but somehow they didn’t strike me that way. So my first hypothesis was that this couple had seen Megan and Eileen and that Susan had helped her write the postcard.
Which left me with an even bigger question: if they hadn’t gone with the underground railroad, who found the places for them to stay?
I nursed my failure over some decent Fra Diavolo in an Italian restaurant near the motel I’d found. Though the food was good, it couldn’t compete with my depression. I wondered as I started my second glass of wine, if all my other attempts at finding Megan and Eileen would end the same way. I was sure there was a talent needed for investigation; a confident personality, the ability to make people trust you. I doubted I had the talent; I was a Wall Street bullshit artist and it wasn’t in my blood.
As I drank my coffee, I realized that it would probably be a good idea to do some research before going to my next stop. I doubted that the folks of Boston would know much about the Merkison Crafts Festival, but I supposed our great friend the Internet would.
As I paid the bill, I asked for the name of any local Internet cafes. I was directed to a place only ten blocks away called Cyberspice. The name immediately irked me; even in my rabid yuppie days I’d been annoyed by anything that was self-consciously trendy. Cyberspice lived down to my expectations, from the dark Goth interior, to the utter disdain with which my waitress directed me to my table. On the way, I passed a young woman who was typing furiously, mouthing her side of the chat she was engaged in. She caught me looking at her and shook her head despairingly as if we shared the same disgust with whatever she was discussing.
After ordering a cappuccino and some biscotti I dived right into the browser at my table. The postcard placed the crafts festival in Covington, New York. Covington didn’t seem to ring any bells for the search engine I was using, but the Merkison Crafts Festival did. It seemed that the festival had turned a sleepy Upstate New York town into a sort of mini-Woodstock. While the festival had started as a public relations gimmick to get more tourist dollars into Covington, it had grown and so had the town. Now it boasted four bed and breakfasts, a couple of four star restaurants and the standard arts and craft shops.
I had no way of knowing where Megan and Eileen had gone in Covington so I started to get creative, typing in Merkison and the word “child”, then “Merkison” and the word “toys”. I also found the address of the local McDonald's, thinking that Megan would make a point of stopping there. What I found was a toy store specializing in stuffed animals and another shop that sold dolls. There was also a craft store that featured children’s craft kits and daily workshops for children.
I figured I had enough ammunition, so I gulped down the rest of my coffee and returned the browser to its home page. As I turned toward the register I found someone blocking my way. It was the young woman I'd seen furiously typing earlier. I gave her a quizzical stare.
“You like crafts?” she asked.
“Uh...what?”
“I’m sorry; I was looking over your shoulder. I saw you seemed to like crafts.”
“I like the country. I like festivals.”
“Are you on vacation?”
“Yes.”
There was an awkward pause and she immediately rushed in to fill the silence. “I’m sorry. I tend to be a little intrusive sometimes. I come here almost every night and half the fun is watching what other people are looking at.”
“I’m sorry but I’m just passing through.”
She rocked on the balls of her feet. “I guess I’m lonely. You know?”
I did, but I didn’t want to discuss it with her. “I’m sorry.”
“I like guys who are passing through. So much to discover about someone new. I really find people fascinating.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you there.”
“Oh. That guy I was chatting with before. He tells me I’m strange. I met him once.”
“Uh huh.”
She looked at her worn sneakers. “Do you think I’m strange?”
“I don’t know you well enough to give you an answer.”
“Would you go out with me if you were hanging around in Boston?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to hang around for a while to know, and I’m not.”
“Oh. Well, sorry to bother you. “
“No problem.” I walked past her.
“I guess I am,” she said.
I spun around. “What?”
“I guess I’m strange.”
I suddenly felt very sorry for her. “No. You’re just you. I wouldn’t let people you meet on the Internet shape the way you think of yourself. You don’t know enough about them to take them that seriously.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“Take care.”
As I walked to my car, I imagined what I’d find if I stopped in a hundred places in the world, just as I’d stopped at Cyberspice. I saw myself meeting someone lonely and miserable as I had that night, variations on that strange girl, but similar in their isolation. The thought didn’t make me happy.
*
The next morning I headed west, making the trip across Massachusetts to the New York border. The only thing I knew about the area was that Stockbridge was just on the Massachusetts side of the border; that was the same town where Alice’s restaurant had taken place. Once I crossed into New York, things seemed to become almost perceptibly dingier, though that could have been my mood. The late spring air was pleasant, but there seemed to be more sprawling farms and fewer definable towns. I turned north and drove about sixty miles until I got to Covington.
The festival wasn’t just PR. There were any number of events going on when I got there and the town itself seemed to have grown to fit the festival. There was a conspicuous attempt to make the town seem homey: people selling apple fritters on the street. It worked; Covington looked like a happy small town.
I started my search at the toy store; I knew what stuffed animals were for Megan. My gambit this time was a bit more devious, but still vague: I was looking for the two of them because there was a “family matter” that they needed to be made aware of. I’d considered a death in the family, but that sounded dire and would test my acting abilities. If I seemed concerned, but not desperate, as a death would warrant, I’d appear unthreatening.
I also decided to bring out the photos of both of them I’d taken weeks before. Anyone who was close to a family member would have a photo of them, I reasoned. I had it all worked out.
Or so I thought. The Right Stuffing was right in the Woodstock mold, sporting an outsized stuffed bear resembling Teddy Roosevelt. An erudite touch, I thought, considering that that Teddy was the source of all stuffed
bears. I walked past him and entered a world of plushness to outdo all plushness. Every manner of stuffed animal lay before me in what had clearly been a stable at one time. Women and children dressed in the day’s finest casual wear were strolling along the aisles, making oohing and aahing noises as the complexity and size of the animals increased.
I stood near the counter, fondling a child-sized stuffed dolphin, complete with glasses and a collection of books carried in a sling beneath its head. The saleswoman behind the desk caught my eye, anticipating a sale. “Can I help you sir?”
“I’d like to buy this for my niece.”
“Certainly sir!” she cried. I was sure that her enthusiasm for the merchandise had faded years ago, but her enthusiasm for the price tag hadn’t. “Is there anything else you might like?” she added.
I looked pensive; as though there was something I’d considered, but had wondered if it was feasible. I grabbed a manatee with a graduate’s cap and gown and plunked it down on the counter next to the dolphin. “My niece loves sea things. Actually I was wondering if you’d seen her.” I casually brought the photo out from my wallet. “I’m trying to find her and her mother. I think they’re in Cabot and I’ll probably find her there. She and her mother tend to take trips on the spur of the moment, but there’s a family crisis going on, and I need to tell them. I know they came through here. Do you remember seeing them?”
She took the picture in her hand. “Maybe I do. I think the little girl liked bears. She asked if we had any Billy Bears. To be honest we don’t sell anything so commercial.” She’d said it with a conspiratorial air, as though we were discussing pornography.
“I understand. She’s a child and that’s what she likes. Was she here with her mother?”
The woman looked temporarily confused. “There were two women with her, I think.”
“I think that’s her mother’s friend. You didn’t overhear them saying where they were going, did you?”
“No. I think I did hear the little girl say that she wanted a new toy to sleep with in the back seat of the car. But that’s about it.”
“Okay, thanks. She didn’t buy either of these toys, did she? I wouldn’t want to get her something she has.”
“No. They, well they seemed in a hurry and she had to decide quickly. The little girl wanted to look, but one of the ladies with her told her she had to decide quickly. That’s why it stayed in my mind. She ended up taking one of the surfer bears, but I’m not sure she was really happy with it.” She pointed at one of the shelves where several bears were hanging ten on plush surfboards.
“Good,” I told her. At least I’ll be giving her something new when I see her.”
She rang me up and I left, feeling somewhat proud of myself for prying at least something from her, especially after my failure in Boston. I figured the doll store was a long shot, but worth a try. As it was the nearest to The Right Stuffing, I made a point of going there next.
I went through the same routine as I had before, talking about a family crisis, but I didn’t have the same luck. I had already written the store off when I saw the price tags. This wasn’t simply a store that sold dolls; it was a doll specialty shop. I had known a few women and one man who had made a second career out of dolls. Not that they didn’t have a passion for the dolls themselves, but dolls of this kind were like rare coins; they were collectible and could cost a ton of money. One doll was proudly displayed in a glass case and marked at $10,000.
The owner seemed to remember that Megan might have been there, but she wasn’t sure. I somehow doubted that Eileen would have wasted the time when it was unlikely she would buy anything for her daughter.
The craft shop was next. I figured it was possible that Eileen might risk the twenty minutes for a children’s craft class. KinderMountain was a small gingerbread confection with a giant sign on the roof showing a child wearing a king’s crown. I went to the counter and was met, this time, by a man with a ponytail in his late thirties. He seemed all smiles and good natured, the way you’d expect a man who makes his money by pleasing children to be, but something rang false. He seemed like he wanted to be somewhere else.
I showed him the picture and gave my “mild family crisis” story, this time throwing in a mention of the surfer bear. I figured it showed that I’d had contact with Megan if I knew what kind of stuffed toy she’d bought just minutes before coming to the store.
He ignored the photo and looked at the clock. “Do you have a child with you, sir?”
“No. I don’t. I’m trying to find my niece, actually.”
“Oh. I had wondered because we’re about to start our late morning class. We’re teaching bottle cap art. It’s a specialty”. He pointed to an example on the wall; a bottle cap rendition of Billy Bear.
I laughed, trying to seem calm. “I might be interested in buying that.”
“Why?”
I shoved the photo in his face again and this time he showed more interest. “The little girl in this photo loves Billy Bear. In fact I’m wondering if she was here.”
He flicked absently at his pony tail and studied the picture. “Yes, I believe that is her. She was very enthusiastic. She made the bottle cap art you’re looking at with the help of her mother and her mother’s friend.”
“I’m actually hoping to find her and her mother.” I repeated my family crisis story.
He gave it some thought. “I don’t remember anything about where they were going.”
“I’d just be happy to know they were here. Then I could pretty much assume that they were on their way to Cabot. She had the surfer bear with her?”
“Yes. As I remember it was very ugly. My wife and I tried to sell her mother a kit we have here. Much better results, but she seemed to like the toy. It was a bear on a surfboard as I remember. You’re right, sir. “
Bingo. “I thought so. Well I won’t take up any more of your time except I would like to buy the bear.”
He showed some resistance to selling it, claiming that it had brought in lots of customers for their crafts classes, but eventually he let it go for $30. “I hope the little girl comes back,” he told me. “She is very talented.”
And she’s good for business, I added in my head. While I waited, he rolled up Megan’s artwork and tied it. I made a point of watching the beginning of the class, just so I’d seem unhurried and calm. As I casually made my way out of the store, something tweaked my brain. It was a man’s face and I could swear that I’d seen it in the previous two places I’d been. It was the blue baseball cap that had set me off.
I fought the urge to turn around and look him dead in the eye. I finally gave in just as I got to my car, turning around quickly and scanning the street; no blue baseball cap and no one else that looked like him. I sat in my car for a moment, drinking out of a Gatorade bottle I’d bought and waiting to see if he showed up.
It was beginning to get dark when I finally pulled out of the parking space and drove out of town. Like most of these small towns, McDonald’s was out on a route outside of the town proper, along with most of the other fast food places. As the darkness descended I started to feel more paranoid and a bit more stupid about the whole trip. What was I going to do in a McDonald’s that served hundreds of customers a day? No one would remember Megan and Eileen and no one would have time to talk to me during the dinnertime rush.
It turned out that I was more right than I had thought. The young woman I asked first looked at me blankly, her eyes straying to the customers as they trickled in. The manager was almost visibly hostile, giving me only a minute of his time and rushing off to oversee his staff. I decided that I wouldn’t be eating at McDonald’s that night.
My next stop would be in Vermont, so I decided that I’d just drive for as long as I could until I found a motel; I’d eat when I was ready. I’d consulted a map earlier and I headed east, hoping to pick up a northbound route somewhere in New Hampshire. The road I was on would take me to a major east-west route if I drove for another hour
and forty-five minutes.
As I passed the homey lights of houses I started to feel lonely and hopeless. I guess the initial rush of the chase had worn off and I was remembering that I was on a fool’s errand, searching for people I’d most likely never find and not really knowing where I was going in the first place. The moon came up and lit my way, making things a little cheerier, but the families I passed, barbecuing or playing ball in their yards, forced me to come to terms with the fact that I no longer had a stable life, a family, or a set of good friends.
There was almost no traffic on the road which is probably what made me aware of how strange it was that one set of headlights seemed to be shining in the rear-view mirror for at least forty minutes. I drove on for about thirty more miles before I had convinced myself that it was the same car. I started to panic, speeding up for a moment before I realized that it would only let whoever was following me know I had seen them.
I forced myself to calm down and think. If Benoit had stolen that postcard, then it stood to reason that some of his friends might know where I was headed. Now it seemed that I might be all alone on a country road with someone following me.
I decided that the best thing for me was to find a restaurant of some kind and stop there to see if the car behind me got off the road. If things got bad, I could always call the police and tell them that I thought that the car was following me. I might look like an idiot, but at least whoever was following me might be scared away.
I drove with my hands tight on the wheel, wondering if I should simply turn off on some road to see if I was followed. Part of me wanted to just get it over with and face whatever was out there.
About twenty minutes passed before I hit a town. It wasn’t much of one, being about four blocks long, but I knew it might be an hour before I got to another one. I passed a homey town square with a gazebo before I saw my destination off to the right. On the other side of the square, opposite from the road I was on, there was a diner. I caught a right at the end of the square and worked my way back. My pursuer passed the square and missed the last turn toward the diner, moving onward. I watched as carefully as I could in the rear view mirror while I drove slowly; he made a clear bobble as his car slowed for a second, then moved on, seemingly on his way out of town.
The Railroad Page 29