Blunt Darts - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "A gun?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Stephen's mother supposedly died in a car accident. Stephen believed his mother was shot?"

  Kim, crying again, now nodded vigorously. I heard soft footsteps, Valerie's, I thought, approach and recede. I could just hear Val's voice from the kitchen. She said, "They're doing fine, Mrs. Sturdevant."

  I wasn't sure how much more Kim had left.

  "Why did he think that, Kim? Why did he think his mother was shot?"

  "Because," she said, too loudly, nearly a wail. She dropped her voice. "Because he was there."

  She fell silent. Me too. Then, "Kim, at that last lunch, did Stephen say anything about being in danger, or . . ."

  She blew her nose and fixed me again. "You don't understand," she said. "He'd found it. That was what he told me at lunch. The quest was over. He'd found the gun."

  "He'd found it?"

  "Yes. The night before. Every night he'd wait until everyone was asleep. Then he'd search a different place. He thought his father might suspect he was on the quest, so sometimes Stephen would double back and recheck some of the old places. But he finally found it."

  "Did he say what he was going to do with it?"

  "No." She managed a half-smile. "No. He had been on the quest for so long, years, that I don't think he really had figured out what he was going to do. I mean exactly what he was going to do. When he found it."

  She wiped her eyes again.

  "Kim, I think Stephen left on his own. And from what you've told me, I'm sure it was because of finding the gun. Is there anything else you can tell me about Stephen, like where he might go?"

  She shook her head. "He never—"

  She stopped and froze as the big front door clicked and then banged open. "Sal, Kim. I'm home. Hey, Sal, I may be early but—"

  I swiveled around and rose. A bearish, balding guy of forty-five or so came tromping up the stairs to the living room. I caught Kim rubbing furiously on her lips with my handkerchief as he saw us and exploded.

  "Who are you? Kim! What the hell is that stuff doing on your—You're crying!"

  By this time a terrified Mrs. Sturdevant, with Val in her wake, burst into the room.

  "Hal, oh Hal," she cried, "they said it would be all right."

  I remember nearly laughing. Val, Sal, and now Hal. But there was nothing humorous about Hal just then.

  "You're the guy we told to stay away, aren't you?"

  Hal's briefcase, newspaper, and a supermarket bag hit the carpet. A widening pool of milk gurgled out of an unseen carton.

  "Mr. Sturdevant, I'm investigating . . ."

  He swung a rounding left as Sal screamed his name and Val yelled mine. I ducked under it and just pushed him, but hard, with my open hands as his shoulder went over my head. It knocked him off balance, and his momentum was broken by banging into the wall.

  I spoke as quickly as I could. "This is your home, Mr. Sturdevant. I have no desire or reason to hurt you. I will leave immediately if you tell me to."

  Sturdevant came off the wall and hesitated. Sally grabbed his arm. "Please Hal, just tell him to go."

  Hal, his honor saved by her entreaty, glared at me. I noticed for the first time that Kim was gone. I had a vague recollection of a slamming door in there somewhere.

  "Get out! Get out of my house and don't ever come back!"

  I nodded and backed toward the stairs. I motioned to Val to precede me down, which she did. The Sturdevants, Hal leading and Sal in tow, followed us down, maintaining a three-step interval.

  "Get out. Get out. Get out!" The last shout cracked his voice a bit.

  We were outside. Sturdevant slammed the door behind us. We had reached our car when I heard a window open. I turned around in time to see Kim's head and forearms pop out an upper story window.

  "Tel1 Stephen," she sobbed, "tell him that I love him. Tell him . . ." at which point a pair of fatherly hands pinned her elbows, yanked her from the opening, and slammed the window as well.

  A tearful Val spoke as I opened the car door for her. "Somebody else does care for Stephen."

  "Yeah," I said, "for all the good it's done him so far."

  SEVENTEENTH

  -♦-

  I dropped Val off at her place. She apologized for having to rush off to meet her friend, and I assured her that I'd see her for dinner the next night. As I backed out of her driveway, I checked my watch. Three-thirty. A little early for court to be over, I hoped.

  I drove down several now-familiar Meade byways until I reached the Kinnington driveway. I swung into the drive and up, parking it in a position that would let me leave quickly, and knocked at the door. Mrs. Page opened it a crack, into which I introduced my foot. We both spoke at the same time.

  "Mrs. Kinnington?"

  "Go away!"

  The door jarred against my foot.

  "You're crazy to come here."

  "I have to see her, Mrs. Page."

  The pressure relaxed.

  "Upstairs," she sighed. "Same room." `

  At the room, I knocked and entered.

  This time I had to pull the strong chair over myself. Otherwise, the scene was unchanged.

  "You have word of Stephen?" she asked.

  "Yes and no. I've received some words that encourage me and other words that I should have heard first from my client. That's you."

  "Mr. Cuddy, I am not used to being addressed—"

  "And I am not used to playing Blind Bozo bumbling in the dark. At least not in unnecessary darkness. Why didn't you tell me what Miss Pitts saw?"

  Her eyes dropped to examine her teacup.

  "It is not the type of thing one discusses."

  "Maybe not at the D.A.R., Mrs. Kinnington, but to the detective who's looking—"

  "That's quite enough!" she snapped, the teacup rattling against its saucer. "You damn, self-righteous bastard! You're my employee, not my employer. You may be a professional, but you're my professional. You'll do what you're told and be satisfied with what you're told or you can resign."

  I stood up. "My resignation will be on your desk in the morning, ma'am," I said. I dropped her original print of Stephen's photo on the table and turned to leave.

  "Mr. Cuddy," she said, her voice wavering, "are you close to him?"

  "Mrs. Kinnington," I said over my shoulder, "I'm closer than I was the last time we had this argument."

  Her voice steadied. "Please sit down again."

  The air seemed a bit freer. I sat. "Why didn't you tell me about Stephen and Blakey?"

  She reseated her teacup in the saucer. "It's so troubling to think that there could be any relationship between them that . . . Stephen has always been so indifferent to the judge. I just assumed that the . . . edge between Stephen and Blakey was a function of Blakey's being my son's . . . oh, henchman."

  "Henchman?"

  "Well, that's just how Blakey has always struck me. As a doer of evil things. I even forbade the judge to allow Blakey to come into the same room with me. Consequently, when Miss Pitts called me, I realized I was in no position to be able to say what there was between Stephen and Blakey."

  "Mrs. Kinnington, I have to assume that Stephen left voluntarily? I remembered my promise to Kim Sturdevant. "But I still need to know what reason he might have had for leaving."

  She clasped her hands in her lap and tried to relax.

  "Mr. Cuddy, I do not know why Stephen would have gone. He did not get along with his father, but I know of no recent incident that could have triggered Stephen's disappearance."

  "Speaking of triggered," I asked, bending my promise to Kim a bit, "did Stephen have a gun?"

  Her throat worked once before the sound came out.

  "A gun?"

  "Yes."

  "Why do you want to know about guns?"

  "Please, Mrs. Kinnington."

  She considered. "My son, that is, Stephen's Uncle Telford, left him a pistol in his, ah, will. Some sort of fancy target pistol. To start him prop
erly. Stephen, almost before he could write, would shoot at targets on the grounds with Beeman, who was the houseman then. But I haven't seen the gun, or Stephen with a weapon of any kind, in years."

  "Well, he has one now," I said as I rose.

  "How do you know that?"

  I ignored her question, substituting one of my own.

  "By the way, was a gun all that Stephen and Telford shared?" '

  She looked at me suspiciously. "Now what do you mean by that?"

  "I have reason to believe that Telford was institutionalized, or nearly so, while he was in the service. Stephen was institutionalized after his mother's death. Could it be that mental illness runs in your family, Mrs. Kinnington?"

  "That's preposterous, and I'll not have you spreading a story like that."

  "I'm not," I said with my hand on the doorknob, "but Stephen and his gun might be."

  "Mr. Cuddy, do you know where Stephen is or not?"

  "No, I don't. But in view of Blakey's involvement and temperament, I'd be afraid to tell you if I did."

  * * *

  As I pulled out of the Kinnington driveway, my mind was working on the most direct route to the Mass Pike. As I skirted Meade Center, I went past a large public building on my right. There was a sign just beneath the flagpole. I hit my brakes and eased to the curb. From what Val and Mrs. Kinnington had told me of Stephen's reading habits, he must have out-distanced the contents of his school's library years ago. It was a longshot, but I was pretty much down to longshots right then.

  The public library was itself a restored quasi-mansion, red brick with four white columns. There was a meticulous expanse of lawn and a semicircular parking lot. Inside, the librarian was a pleasant change of pace from most Meade residents I'd met. She was polite.

  I identified myself and explained that Ms. DeMarco and I were looking into Stephen's disappearance. Since I was out here speaking with Mrs. Kinnington anyway, I thought I'd stop by and check Stephen's library borrowings. I wasn't sure if Ms. DeMarco had done so yet.

  Her middle-age face grew concerned. "You know, I wondered whether someone was still looking into that. Such a poor, unfortunate family. First Telford, then Diane—they were the judge's brother and wife, you know—and now Stephen. The whole town is whispering about it, but nobody really knows anything yet. You make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back." She walked back into an inner office behind the counter. She came back with a tray of perhaps a hundred old-style computer cards and set it on the counter.

  "By the way," she said extending her hand, "I'm Madeline Moore." I shook her hand and she gave it a little extra squeeze a la Valerie—but in a friendly rather than sensual way.

  "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Moore."

  She looked down and flipped through a few cards. "You know, I nearly cursed the idea of a computer system for borrowers. Imagine, a computer in Meade! But I must say it is more efficient once you get the hang of it. Here."

  She slid the tray gently toward me. "Stephen read all these books?" I asked.

  "Oh, my, he's read many more than these. These are just the ones he took out since January. He'd also spend every afternoon after school here in the reading room, literally devouring the books and magazines. I never saw the like of him, poor boy."

  I began to flip through the cards the way she had. Almost all were novels or historical works. Two I came upon dealt with camping. I was about to ask her if I could see those when a photocopier began hiccupping behind me. It was one of those open-topped machines for use with books. I hadn't noticed it when I came in.

  "Did you see Stephen photocopying any maps recently?" I asked.

  "Maps? No-o-o, but now that you mention it, I did see him photocopying something that was in an issue of New England Outdoors. In fact, it wasn't too long before he disappeared. I never would have thought about it if you hadn't asked me. You see, many of the ah . . . young boys try to copy certain, well, advertisements for, ah, women's clothes, and I never thought Stephen was that type, but when I came close to him as he was copying something, he became secretive, so I wondered if I was wrong about him. But I watched him put the magazine back, and I checked on it and was relieved. I just never thought about it after that."

  "D0 you remember what issue it was?"

  "I think so," she said as she came out from behind the desk and walked over to some periodical racks. "It was," she said, thumbing through the magazines, "this one."

  Just as she handed it to me, her phone began ringing. She left me to answer it and I sat down in a stuffed leather chair.

  I opened to the table of contents. Five lead articles, six departments on camping subspecialities. I skimmed the articles. The third one was about the great number of abandoned, tower-style ranger stations and the dangers in using them as shelters. The article mentioned that there were thirty-seven such stations north of New Jersey and it named several. Four were spread widely over the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts. One page of the article was a map showing the stations. I looked up. The copying machine took dimes.

  As I left the machine, I waved to my helpful friend, who gave me a can't-you-stay-till-I-get-off-the-phone? look. I couldn't.

  As soon as I left the library, I began looking for a pay telephone. I found one outside a superette market on Meade's main drag and dialed Valerie's number. No answer, indicating that she had left to meet her friend in Boston. I hung up and tried the Kinningtons. The judge answered. I hung up and drummed my fingers on the little metal counter that's too narrow to write on and too slanted to rest coins on. I dialed directory assistance and got the Sturdevants' number. I called hoping for Kim and raised old Hal instead. I hung up on him, too.

  I jackknifed open the telephone booth door and went back to my car. I took out the New England Outdoors page I'd photocopied and studied the small-scale map on it. I had a rough idea where the Willow Wood sanatorium was, but none of the ranger stations was very close to it. The two farthest stations were at least sixty-five miles away from each other and probably not easily accessible by car. Which meant a day or two of scouting them out, assuming Stephen would be in the last one I'd check. Assuming that he was in any of the stations. Assuming that this was the article he had copied. Assuming that Ms. Moore was right about which issue he'd had.

  The alternative was to try to find out if there was any faster way to trace him to one of the stations. Valerie still seemed the best bet for that, and I could call her later tonight or earlier tomorrow than I could either Mrs. Kinnington or Kim. I folded up the map and drove impatiently homeward against the rushhour flow.

  EIGHTEENTH

  -♦-

  I picked up a bucket of chicken at the Kentucky Fried on Brighton Avenue in Allston, once again bemoaning the passing of the franchise that had been diagonally across from my apartment on Charles Street. I wrestled the rental into a parallel parking space with six inches to spare front and back.

  The red light on my telephone tape machine was lit, but I decided it could wait until after dinner. I washed the chicken down with two Molson Golden Ales and settled into an easy chair with one of Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels. I had read four pages when a telephone in the novel began ringing. Memory jogged, I put the book down, walked to my telephone machine, and replayed the short message. I replayed it several times. The muffled voice on the other end said

  only the same one word each time: "Remember."

  The chicken parts in my stomach made an effort to reassemble themselves. I had another Molson's to calm them down.

  I tried Val's number every half hour up to and including 11:30. I know, because I could recall seeing Johnny Carson's monologue but drew a blank on his guests. I stretched stiffly in the easy chair. The clock on the mantel said 4:15. I went to bed, resetting my clock radio for 6:15. I awakened to Deep Purple's classic "Smoke on the Water" on WCOZ (whose motto is "Kick-ass rock and roll"). I splashed some water in my face and called Valerie.

  It rang four times before I got a sleepy "Hullo." />
  "Val, it's John Cuddy."

  "Oh, hi, John. I must have over-hey, it's only six-thirty!"

  "Yeah, I'm sorry, but I might be on to something."

  "Oh, really?" she said, in my mind's eye sitting up in bed and pushing her hair back. "What is it?"

  "Remember when we were on the beach, with those guys playing football?"

  "Hmph. I'1l never forget it."

  "I asked you about what transportation Stephen might use, and you said you couldn't think of any."

  "Right."

  "How about the Berkshires?"

  "The Berkshires? The mountains or the region in general?"

  "Either. Whatever. Did Stephen ever talk with you about the Berkshires?"

  She paused. "No, not that I can think of. Why the Berkshires?"

  "Well, a couple of things. Someone saw him looking at a magazine with an article on them. He also spent time in a mental institution out there, so he might know a little more about that area and therefore head that way."

  "Stephen was so interested in so many things, but I can't think of anything—Wait a minute! He did do a social studies paper once about how . . . oh, what was it? Meat, that's right, meat! He had written it for another teacher, but was proud of it so he wanted me to see it. It involved how meat went from somewhere in Boston all over the state by truck. I'm pretty sure part of it dealt with the Berkshires."

  "Kind of thin. But I think I know where to start."

  "Oh, John, will you still be able to come for dinner tonight?"

  "It depends."

  "On what?"

  I debated a lie. "I'll be there," I said.

  "Terrific. Seven o'clock?"

  "You bet."

  She giggled. "See you then."

  "Bye-bye."

  I hung up and checked the clock. This would be the busy time down at the meat exchange and I wanted to get there when the boys had a little time to talk, so I did a long-for-me six miles to run off the chicken and the Molsons, trying not to think about the voice on the tape, which I knew but could never prove was Blakey's. I had breakfast and decided on a T-shirt and Levis for the trip to the market.

  The meat exchange is nestled in a noisy bunch of hangarlike buildings just off the Southeast Expressway on the southern outskirts of Boston. It was nearly 10:00 by my watch, which meant that the man I wanted to see had been on the job for five hours already. I parked the rental and walked into the biggest of the structures. I was struck by the cool, nearly overpowering atmosphere of fresh but dead animal meat. I turned two interior comers before I saw Al raising his cleaver.