I clicked on it.
* * * *
The captain was in the next room. I walked in, pulling the headphones off my head and letting them fall around my neck. I said to him, “Okay, do you have any leads? What happened last Saturday and Sunday? What about the police logs?"
Suddenly the captain, like the rest of them, was amused and condescending as he said, “Well, I'm sorry, son, but you know, I can't do that.” Then he smiled at me and folded his arms, as did the other two officers in the room with him. I turned, looked through the open door back at the computer behind me. There was a third officer there already, pulling down menus, looking at where I had been, what I had done.
"I need to know...” I started to explain, but I felt like I'd run headfirst into a stone wall. I had a history with Jake Valari, an understanding and a past that he, despite all his best intentions, could never hope to convey to these men.
"Look, son, we know that to Jake you're a kind of ‘wunderkind'...” A huge grin on the man's face and I understood. Altogether too well. If they could use Jake or me to find Billy Dawber alive and well, then they would. But nothing beyond that, nothing. We were only to give; there would be no reciprocation.
And I knew in my heart that had Billy Dawber been William Dawber, son of a prominent businessman or elected official, they'd be throwing down everything they had before me.
"So help us to do our job,” the man went on, “by telling us what you found."
I cut him off, clean and dry: “I found nothing on the computer.” Then I turned and went out the door.
* * * *
"It's always the same, always the same,” I muttered as I headed out to Jake's car, leaving him to hurry and scramble behind me. “They want me to help. They want me say what I know, even when I don't know a damned thing, but then when I ask for the same back, it's, ‘No, no, no, you're just a kid.’”
Jake looked at me over the roof of his car. I was on the other side, hand on the door handle. I was so mad I was trembling, but strangely, too, I felt like a little kid about ready to break into tears.
Then Jake said, “Let me go talk to him."
I shook my head angrily. There was no way I was going back into that building. I wrenched the door open, muttering, “Just take me to school, Jake."
* * * *
Later that day around noontime, Jake picked me up at school, drove me back to Manamesset, and this time told me what he and the police in Falmouth were looking into so far.
In two of the chat rooms visited by someone at the Wenlows’ house were suspected pedophiles. The police in a nearby town were monitoring both chat rooms. Falmouth police were working closely with these officers.
There was a level-one sex offender living in his grandmother's summer house about half a mile from the Wenlows. He had been picked up and brought in for an interview.
A couple of homeless guys who pick up soda cans along the town roads had told the Manamesset police they might have seen a kid matching Billy's description walking along the canal road. They couldn't agree on whether they had seen him on the preceding Saturday or Sunday afternoon.
A young couple who saw a story about Billy on the local news came into the station to report they saw a similar kid buying a burger near the canal in Bourne. They remembered him because he had to pull loose change out of both pockets to pay for the meal. A guy walking his dogs in the woods off the canal roads called in, saying he saw a kid out there late Saturday afternoon, maybe with a fishing pail and rod, maybe not. Another guy saw a kid who might have been Billy down on a marina in Manamesset, and yelled at him to get away from his boat.
A cheerleader called the police at the urging of her family to tell them Billy was supposed to have called her Saturday night, but that he never did.
Jake had also gotten me copies of the police logs from Saturday afternoon through to Sunday evening: drunk driving arrests, a lost dog, complaints of loud party noise, two house break-ins, a report of a suspicious-looking person talking to people leaving church services. Around ten p.m., they got a call from a motorist reporting a dark car traveling at extremely high speeds without its lights on.
But all in all, it was like Billy Dawber had stepped into a huge black void, and it had swallowed him whole, sealed itself shut, and was now like Billy, just gone.
"Thanks, Jake,” I said. I had my feet up on his desk as I nursed a lukewarm cup of cocoa between my hands. It was only late September, but already it felt like winter was on its way. The Wenlows had complained this morning about “having to put the heat on” in their house.
"Wunderkind, huh?” Jake was holding a cup himself of steaming hot coffee. “Is that what you are, Herbie?"
"No, I'm ‘Death Kid,'” I answered sourly. I frowned. “They gave me that name at my old school, and you know, maybe it fits, Jake.” I looked over at the police logs, knowing I could have waited until the weekend, when most of this information would be printed in the local papers. But I had wanted it now.
I wanted to know now.
"Herbie—” Jake's voice was soft. “—we are still operating on the premise that Billy is a runaway because that has been his past history. We want to find this boy alive."
"Yeah,” I murmured. “I know.” I closed my eyes, saw pictures of jaguars, leaping, running, gliding, and purring along the highway—and along the margins of Billy Dawber's notebook. “I know."
* * * *
Mr. Craig Earnshaw was a tall, balding man who was in fairly good shape for being over forty. He was coach of the girls’ field hockey team, advisor to the math team ... I stopped my thoughts cold. Girls’ field hockey. Well, okay, a pretty good cover. Might be too obvious if he coached a boys’ team.
"Can I help you?” Mr. Earnshaw stood at his desk. He definitely knew he didn't know me, and it was going on four on a Friday afternoon. And although the school still buzzed with activity—after-school clubs, teams, a few kids even hanging out in the halls where they were yelled at by the custodians—this man was cautious. What teacher in this day and age wasn't cautious?
But then again, maybe Mr. Earnshaw had more to be cautious about than the ordinary teacher.
"My name is Herbie Sawyer. I knew—I'm a friend of Billy Dawber's."
I almost tripped up, but I managed to keep a cold, calm expression on my face. Truth is, and though the kids in the cafeteria would never believe it, I had looked a few killers in the eye. Yes, I had.
Of course, I can't rush to judgment. I had no proof, not an iota of evidence, that Mr. Craig Earnshaw was a killer, that he was anything but a math teacher who had never married and drove a Jaguar.
"Oh, you are?” He came around his desk, walked toward me. “Is there any word? Has anyone found out where he went?"
That was odd. The man shouldn't have asked that. He should have asked: Has anyone found out what happened to him? And my next line was supposed to have been: Why? Do you think something happened to him? He's just a runaway.
Now I stood there, looking at this man, not really knowing what to say, but then out came the words, “Billy liked Jaguars, you know."
"Yes. I know,” the man admitted almost sadly. “We only had two tests so far, but he drew a Jaguar on both, underneath his name.” Then he just looked at me, his whole face seemed to drop. The silence between us was almost awkward.
"What happened to him, Mr. Earnshaw?” I asked, following the man as he walked to a filing cabinet. There was nothing there, no answer, no shock, no turn to me to deny or admit or say anything, no confusion at why I was standing there, asking this of him—a grown man, a teacher—such a question. I prepared my question, wishing I could get more of Clint Eastwood or Al Pacino into it, but I failed. I was just Herbert Sawyer, Jr., trying to act tough, trying to trick this man into saying or doing something incriminating. In fact, he did nothing but look sort of miserable standing there.
"Billy ever come to see you after school, you know, for extra help?"
"Extra help?” Why did the man blanch,
as my English teacher might have said, for it seemed the color just bled out of his face. “Why would he need to do that?"
"What happened to him?"
"Well, he ran away, I mean...” Now the man was confused. “Well, are you asking me, or are you telling me something? I admit, I'm kind of ... puzzled."
"Did Billy ask for a ride in your car?"
His frown deepened, and I saw something else on his face—anger, shock?
"Or did you offer him one?"
"What are you implying?” The man immediately moved away from me, toward his desk where the phone connecting to the main office was. “I think you need to leave, young man, right now."
"Did you offer him a ride in your Jag, Mr. Earnshaw?"
"Please, get out now!” The man was nervously reaching for the phone, but before he could dial anything I was out of there.
* * * *
"Why do you do these things?” Jake asked in abject frustration.
"Why do you come and ask me to help you sometimes?"
"Because I am a fool.” Jake reached for a cup on his desk, but this time it wasn't full of coffee. It fizzled and bubbled, some kind of seltzer drink. He looked at me grimly, said, “Headache and a bellyache. Time I saw a doctor. I think I have that acid reflux."
"You watch too much TV.” I leaned on his desk toward him. “The guy was plainly nervous, Jake."
"Look, a man owning a car, which just happens to be the kind of car a missing kid likes."
"Loved,” I corrected. “Billy loved Jags. Plus the guy is a bachelor, never married, just teaches. He has all this money his parents left him and he still teaches? Not normal, Jake, just not normal.” I sat back in the chair, figuring at that moment I had cracked the whole case, and if the police just went in, talked to this teacher, put a little pressure on him, the guy would spill.
"You—” Jake now came forward in his chair. “—have absolutely no evidence, nothing. If you had anything, if people saw Billy talking to this man after school, or in his classroom alone before school, or out by his car, or anything, anything at all—"
"Just a matter of time, Jake.” Then I got a sudden sensation. It was disgust at myself, at what I was saying, thinking, suspecting, believing. I must have gone from my normal coloring to white in two seconds, and Jake saw it too.
"You just now realized, right, what you are concluding?"
"Yeah."
"Don't take it any further. Don't even try, Herbie, please. You're smarter than this."
"But, Jake, you didn't see how the guy reacted when I—"
"No further,” Jake demanded.
I sat back in the seat, feeling sicker than I had in a long time. “Billy is probably just ... chilling at some friend's house somewhere. Yeah, probably."
* * * *
I carry things around in my head I shouldn't. Memories of other people missing, or hurt, or worse, and the deep dead void they had fallen into—and most often because they quite, amazingly so, trusted the wrong person.
Trusted the wrong person.
So I stood there in the light rain, early Monday, staring at the teachers’ parking lot. Administrators, guidance personnel, and department chairs had their own parking spaces, so the Jag was unmistakable. It was up near the school gym, between the gold SUV the principal drove and the nondescript minivan the attendance officer owned. But this was a different Jag. It wasn't the black one Billy had stood and admired about two weeks ago. This was one was dark green.
Mr. Earnshaw? How many Jaguars did the guy own?
* * * *
"I don't know, three or four.” The kid shrugged. Captain of the math team, he had to know something. “Why?"
"Why would a teacher have three or four Jaguars?"
"He has money. Everybody knows that. And why are you asking?” Now the kid, a good six inches and forty pounds my superior, turned to face me, a scowl on his face.
I had nothing to say, but my mind was doing handsprings. Why did a guy who could afford those kind of wheels need to, or even want to teach?
The possible answers to those questions turned my stomach.
So I said to the kid, “No reason.” Then I added, “But thanks,” and quickly went to class.
* * * *
I stood outside Mr. Earnshaw's house a long time, leaning on the fence across the street. I had bought an ice cream bar, unwrapped it, ate it slowly, just staring at the house. It was a large Cape Cod farmhouse, all restored and modernized. Its huge wraparound porch on three sides was rimmed with hanging plants. Brick walks. Ancient white picket metal fence. Oversized barn out back.
That intrigued me. It was big enough to garage three to four vehicles.
Well, I had nothing to fear, right? I wasn't a cop, just a kid. I didn't need a warrant to look through a window. The worst anyone could accuse me of was trespassing, give me a warning, tell me to get off the property. I jumped over the fence, strolled around back, found a window in the barn that I wiped clean with my hand, and took a look inside.
It was a clean, spacious area with two cars in it; both were Jaguars. One was the dark green model I'd seen in the school parking lot earlier today. The other had a canvas over part of it and looked as though it might have been in disrepair, or possibly Mr. Earnshaw was restoring it. Anyhow, it wasn't black; it was a pale cream color. There was no black Jag in the barn.
Could he have sold it? Given it away? Removed it for some other reason?
There was noise behind me, a slammed door, footsteps.
"What—who are you?” Then he recognized me. “You're the kid from school on Friday. What are you doing here?"
I turned and faced him. I don't know why I felt so fearless, but I did. “How many Jags do you own, Mr. Earnshaw?” I said.
"Why are you asking me that?” he demanded, his face turning a sudden brilliant red. The sun was coming down behind him, the direction of the sea, and suddenly it was cold. “And what business is it...” He took a couple steps toward me and for a moment I realized that even if he was forty or forty-five, he was still much bigger than me and in quite decent shape. I wondered whether I could outrun him to street. But then he said, “Get out of here. Get out off my property now before I call the police."
* * * *
"Damn it, Herbie, you trespassed on the man's property.” Jake sank down into his chair behind his desk, with literally, his hands on his head. “I should have known better, damn it, damn it.” He raised just his eyes to look at me.
"You came to me,” I said.
He refused to answer to that, said instead, “There is nothing which indicates that this man, this teacher, with a very good reputation, did anything wrong, Herbie. Nothing."
"He's nervous."
"Well, sometimes people do get nervous, especially around you,” he retorted.
I refused to answer to that, said, “Billy loved Jags. The guy has two in his barn, and at least one, the black one, is missing. Jake, come on!” I leaned over the desk. “It's something you need to check out."
Jake took his hands off his head, raised it, looked at me.
"It's a no-brainer,” I insisted. “Look, the guy is a bachelor, never been married, never even had a girlfriend. That's what everybody says. Like he's a loner, a quiet guy, and the guy is freaking rich."
"I'll talk to him—” Jake said.Then he paused, his forehead wrinkled as he stared at me. “—because he is Billy's teacher, but I don't see it going anywhere. You're drawing conclusions where there is no—not one—shred of tangible evidence that this man had anything to do with Billy's disappearance."
"Maybe he took Billy for a ride in his black Jag. Maybe Billy and the black Jag are somewhere in the same place."
Jake just shook his head, but I knew Jake Valari. I knew the wheels were spinning in his head, the same way they were spinning in mine. “Maybe the black Jag has been sent to a repair shop. Maybe the black Jag—"
"Has been stolen?” I offered.
"You don't think he would have reported a sto
len Jaguar?"
I shook my head. “I don't think it's stolen. I think he knows right where it is, Jake."
* * * *
"Billy came to my house two weeks ago, said he needed help on some math work and I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I didn't see students at my home. Just not safe in this day and age.” The man looked fearfully from Jake to me. “What he really wanted was to talk about cars, not math. He wanted me...” A look at me, then back to Jake. “Really, Sergeant, does this boy have to be here? I've done nothing wrong."
"I told you, Mr. Earnshaw ... Craig,” Jake said gently, perhaps too gently. “It would be better if you spoke to me first. And this is just an interview, nothing formal, just a chat. Herbie stays."
The man was clearly flustered, and yet I knew the look on his face. He felt backed into a corner. He was both upset and irritated, but the irritation was overshadowed by something else. This man clearly knew something, and just as Jake had intimated, it would be better to tell Jake before Jake spoke to the Falmouth P.D.
"Of course, if you want to wait, have your lawyer present?"
"I've done nothing wrong!” Craig Earnshaw blurted out. “Really, Detective, Billy...” He paused, swallowed, started again. “Billy wanted me to drive with him when he took his driver's ed training, you know, for practice.” He paused, as though Jake and I needed time to digest that. “He said that the people ... who were his foster family were too busy to do that."
"What did you say?” Jake asked.
"I told Billy no, sorry, but no. I couldn't afford to be seen driving around town with a sixteen-year-old boy who ... who is no relation to me. Can you imagine what that would do to my career? And that would be the least of it. I just said sorry, no. But Billy was persistent; he asked for a ride.” The man ran a hand over his face, and I could see him shudder.
"Craig—” Jake moved his chair, leaned closer to the man. “—did you do anything to this boy?"
"No.” It looked like the man wanted to cry. “God help me, I didn't. I made him leave. I made him promise not to come back, and that if he needed help with his schoolwork, to see me after school, at school.” He looked at me. “I am so sorry your friend is missing. But I had nothing to do with it. I was just his teacher.” Back to Jake.
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