by John Saul
“No, you don’t understand—”
Tom put a gentle finger to her lips, silencing her objections. “His father died barely two years ago, and you’ve been seeing me for almost six months. He’s got to be thinking I’m trying to replace his father. You’ve got to give him some slack.”
Suddenly this morning’s fight came flooding back to her, and she realized Tom was right. Ryan had tried to act like an adult when he agreed to go to dinner, but he hadn’t really wanted to.
“You’ve got to give him some time, Teri. He has to deal with things on his own timetable, not yours.”
Teri looked beseechingly into his eyes. “Then where could he be?”
Tom shrugged. “It’s Friday night. He and a couple of friends could have gone out for pizza and a movie.”
“He promised he’d be home,” she insisted, shaking her head. “He left school a few minutes after four—he should be here by now.”
Tom squeezed her hand reassuringly. “You can’t make him be what you want him to be. Somewhere along the line he just decided he didn’t want to go out to dinner with me. And that’s okay. You can’t freak out every time he’s an hour late, or you’ll go insane by the time he’s off to college.” He kissed her cheek, then stood up, drawing her to her feet. “C’mon. Let’s go have a nice dinner, and you can have a chat with him when we get home. And just a chat,” he added with mock severity. “Not a tirade. Okay?”
Teri shook her head. “I just don’t think I can go. I’ll be worried every minute and—”
“Sorry, not going is not an option,” Tom interrupted. “If you stay home, you’d miss a terrific meal, and you’ll just sit here ruining your manicure.”
Teri tried to scowl, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “But I won’t be able to enjoy the meal, or you, or anything else,” she sighed.
“You’ll enjoy it more than you’ll enjoy just sitting here. So maybe you won’t be scintillating. Who cares? Just leave him a note and have him call you on your cell when he gets home. And I promise if he’s not home by the time we get back, I’ll not only help you track him down, but do half the worrying, too. Okay?”
He was right—of course he was right. And if it hadn’t been for the dinner date—a date Ryan hadn’t really wanted to go on at all—she wouldn’t even be worried. Probably all that had happened was that he’d changed his mind about having dinner with them, and hadn’t called because he didn’t want to let himself get talked back into it. She took the phone back to the kitchen and scribbled a note to Ryan, leaving it on the refrigerator where he couldn’t miss it. Then she checked her cell phone for messages one last time, made sure it had enough charge and dropped it into her purse.
“Okay,” she sighed as she returned to the living room. “I guess I’m ready.” But as she slid into the car a minute later, she knew she wasn’t ready at all. Despite Tom’s words about enjoying the evening, she was certain that all she would do would be to worry about Ryan.
Something, she just knew, had happened to him.
She couldn’t explain it, but she knew.
She knew, the way a mother always knows.
Caleb Stark filled his mop bucket with hot, soapy water from the big sink in the custodial closet, then pulled the rolling bucket behind him down the long hallway that ran the entire length of the second floor of Dickinson High.
There was new graffiti on some of the lockers in the west wing, and someone had spilled something slimy down the stairs from the second-floor landing. The goo was important—Caleb remembered that clearly—anything on the floor had to be cleaned up, especially if someone could slip and fall on it. Then, if he had time, he could work on cleaning the graffiti off the lockers.
But even before going after the slimy stuff, he had to tend to all the things he was supposed to do every day, because if he didn’t tend to them in the same order every day, he’d lose track, and some things might not get done. And if that happened, his counselor might decide he wasn’t smart enough to live on his own after all, and send him back to the halfway house.
And then his mother would be disappointed, and she might cry, and Caleb hated it when his mother cried.
Telling himself not to forget about the slimy stuff, Caleb pushed his cart down the corridor, found the big, wooden doorstop, and opened the boys’ bathroom door. It was while he was sticking the doorstop under the heavy door to prop it open that he saw the dark red footprint on the linoleum. At first Caleb thought it might be some kind of mud, or maybe even paint from the art classroom down the hall, but as he followed the tracks farther into the restroom, he saw that the stuff wasn’t mud or paint at all.
It was blood.
And a boy was lying in the middle of the bathroom floor, with a big puddle of blood around his head, which had oozed along the grout joints between the tiles.
“Holy Jesus,” he whispered softly, his mind suddenly spinning as he tried to remember what he was supposed to do if something like this ever happened.
He stepped a little closer, trying to get a better look at the boy’s face, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize him even if it was someone he knew because his face was all covered with blood.
And he looked dead, too.
But as Caleb stood staring at the boy, still trying to remember what he was supposed to do, the boy suddenly took a ragged breath and moaned.
Either the slight movement or the sound made something click in Caleb’s mind, and he suddenly knew what to do. “If you’re ever hurt, or really sick, find a phone,” his counselor had explained to him when he was moving into his own little apartment. “Then dial 911, and tell them where you are. And someone will come to help you.” The counselor’s words echoing in the depths of his memory, Caleb dropped his mop and hurried from the bathroom to the faculty lounge, where he knew there was a telephone. He spoke very clearly, and told them exactly where the boy was, in the restroom on the second floor of the main building of Dickinson High.
Then he went back to the restroom to see if he could help the boy, and maybe five minutes later, a bunch of people started arriving, just like his counselor had told him would happen.
Someone was kneeling at the boy’s side, and police were milling about in the hallway. Caleb watched from the doorway, nervously twisting at his forelock. “Is he going to be all right?” he asked as two men wearing some kind of jumpsuits brought in a stretcher and lifted the boy onto it.
“Hope so,” one of the paramedics said, handing Caleb the boy’s bloody backpack. “Here. Find out who he is and get in touch with his parents.”
Caleb, uncertain what he was supposed to do, started to open the backpack, but even before he could look inside it one of the school’s security guards took it away from him. “Tell you what, Caleb,” the guard told him. “Why don’t I do that, and you can go call the principal and tell him he better come over here.” He handed Caleb a card with a telephone number on it, and steered him out the door.
Caleb, grateful for the simpler task of just calling the principal, started toward the faculty lounge for the second time, and as he passed the slimy stuff on the stairs, reminded himself to make sure he cleaned it up before he went home.
The graffiti, though, was going to have to wait for another night.
CHAPTER 6
BROTHER FRANCIS NERVOUSLY wended his way through the Boston traffic as Father Sebastian gazed silently out the side window.
“Kip’s parents live in Newton,” Brother Francis offered, more to break the silence than anything else. “It’s a little bit west of the city, but not very far.”
Father Sebastian finally turned toward him and smiled slightly, and Francis could see why the students—at least the girls—liked him so much. There was something in his face that was both gentle and intense, giving anyone who talked to him the feeling that he was not only listening to them intently, but empathized with whatever they were saying. Combined with his olive complexion, deep dark eyes, and thick, coal-black hair, he struck most people as b
eing someone who could as easily have been a doctor as a priest. Or even a movie star, though he seemed so completely unaware of his effect on people that Brother Francis was sure he’d never even thought of such a thing.
“Not a problem,” Father Sebastian said. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to this any more than you are. Any idea what the Adamsons are like?”
Brother Francis pulled off the turnpike, found Centre Street, and started south. “I haven’t actually met them, but I took a look at Kip’s file before we left.”
“So did I,” Father Sebastian sighed. “And it didn’t tell me as much about the parents as it did about Kip. On the other hand, there wasn’t anything negative about the family, so it seems to me that our main job is to find out if they’ve heard anything from him without getting them too upset.”
“It’s their son,” Brother Francis said, turning left on Beacon Street. “He’s missing—they’re bound to be upset.” He turned right onto Greenlawn Avenue and started looking for the address. “Here it is,” he said, pulling the car to a stop in front of an utterly nondescript middle-class home, which told him no more about Kip’s family than the file had. He switched off the engine.
“God willing,” Sebastian said, “we’ll find out where Kip is.”
“God willing,” Francis echoed.
Together they got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and Father Sebastian pressed the bell. A middle-aged man, wearing a white polyester shirt and a slightly stained tie, which was loosened at the neck, opened the door. He stared at them blankly for a moment, but as he took in their clerical garb his eyes clouded and his expression soured.
“Mr. Adamson?” Father Sebastian asked, though he was already certain they were talking to Kip’s father.
Gordy Adamson nodded curtly, held the screen door open for the men to enter, and called out to his wife. “Anne! A couple of priests are here! The brat must be in trouble again!”
Anne Adamson emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel, her forehead furrowing. “Kip?” she said. “What’s he done? He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“I’m Father Sebastian, and this is Brother Francis,” Father Sebastian began.
“Please sit down,” Mrs. Adamson said, ushering them farther into the living room. As the two men lowered themselves to the edge of the living room sofa, she fluttered nervously next to a wing chair, then settled onto its arm.
Her husband remained standing, leaning against the wall, his arms drawn tight across his chest, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as if he was already certain his son had committed some kind of offense whose repercussions were about to come down on his own head.
“Is Kip all right?” Anne asked again.
“We have no reason to think he’s not,” Father Sebastian said a little too quickly.
“If you didn’t think something was wrong, you wouldn’t be here,” Gordy Adamson announced, not moving even a fraction of an inch from his post by the kitchen door. “So why don’t we just cut to what he’s done, all right? It’s not like we haven’t heard it all before.”
Father Sebastian took a deep breath, and started over again. “Kip appears to have left campus without permission this morning. We were hoping that he’d come here, or that at least you’ve heard from him.”
“Goddammit,” Gordy spat.
“Gordy!” Anne shot her husband a warning glance, then turned back to the two clerics. “We haven’t heard from him.”
“Aren’t you people supposed to keep an eye on him?” Gordy demanded, his anger focusing on Brother Francis. “Isn’t that why we sent him to St. Isaac’s? To make sure things like this didn’t happen?”
“I’ve been working pretty closely with Kip the last eight months,” Father Sebastian replied as Brother Francis shrank back from Gordy Adamson’s anger. “He’s been doing very well—good grades and an attitude that’s been improving. Aside from the usual mischief all our kids get into now and then, he hasn’t been any trouble worth more than a quick confession and a couple of Hail Marys for penance.” His cavalier reference to the confessional had the intended effect; Gordy Adamson’s arms finally dropped to his sides and he moved closer to his wife. “Frankly, it’s a mystery to me why he left,” Father Sebastian finished.
“We sent him to St. Isaac’s because you have a reputation for dealing with kids like that—what do you call it? ‘At risk,’ whatever the hell that means. So how could he just walk out?”
“St. Isaac’s isn’t a prison, Mr. Adamson,” Father Sebastian said. “The students aren’t prisoners, and we’re not guards. I’m a psychologist, and I treat all our students—especially the so-called ‘at risk’ group—with a great deal of respect. The school has found that for the most part our students rise to our expectations, and I’m happy to be able to tell you that Kip has done exactly that, right up to this point. Which is why his disappearance is such a mystery.”
“Something must have set him off,” Anne Adamson said, her fingers twisting a corner of her apron. “It’s what always happens. Everything seems fine, then something sets him off. It’s like he just goes crazy.” She seemed about to burst into tears, and Brother Francis reached out and took one of her hands in his own.
“I’m sure nothing like that happened at all,” he began. He was about to say more, but fell silent as Father Sebastian shot him a warning glance.
“Perhaps there was something,” Father Sebastian said. “But if there was, we don’t know what it might have been. It’s much more likely that Kip has just gone off to sort out his feelings.”
“Sort out his feelings?” Gordy shot back, his voice edged with contempt. “What kind of psychobabble is that? You lose a kid you should be watching like a hawk and you say he went away to sort out his feelings?”
“Perhaps I put it badly,” Father Sebastian said evenly. “The point is that he’s gone off before, hasn’t he? And he always came back home?”
When Gordy Adamson only glowered at the priest, his wife spoke. “He’s right, Gordy.” She tried to put her hand over his, but he pulled it away.
“We sent him to your damn school so he wouldn’t run away anymore,” Gordy said, his voice grating. “If you’re just going to let him take off, what’s the point? Maybe we shoulda kept him home. He coulda run away from here and it wouldn’t cost us a dime!”
“Gordy, please—” Anne begged.
Gordy Adamson’s expression darkened and he moved slightly away from his wife. “I’m just sayin’—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Adamson,” Father Sebastian cut in quickly. “Actually, he’s got a point. But the odds are Kip will be back by morning.”
“And if he’s not?” Gordy challenged.
“Then we’ll talk about it in the morning,” Father Sebastian calmly replied. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in dealing with kids over the last few years, it’s never to borrow trouble. And so far, there’s no evidence Kip is in any trouble.”
“But isn’t there anything we can do?” Anne fretted. “It seems like there must be something!”
Father Sebastian smiled at her. “Actually, there is. You can make a list of anyone Kip might have gotten in touch with, and start calling. I’m talking about all his friends from before he came to St. Isaac’s—everyone that you can think of. And give us a copy of the list so we can follow up, too.”
“And maybe we should call the police,” Gordy said, his tone as challenging as the look in his eyes.
“We certainly can,” Father Sebastian said, refusing to rise to Adamson’s bait. “On the other hand, given that Kip has no criminal record, the police aren’t likely to do anything at all for at least twenty-four hours, but if you want to spend most of the night answering questions, I’ll be happy to get the ball rolling.”
Brother Francis watched as Gordy Adamson visibly deflated.
Ten minutes later, the list of Kip’s friends and their phone numbers in hand, the two clerics left.
“Well, we didn’t learn much
there,” Brother Francis sighed as he started the car.
“Actually, we did,” Father Sebastian replied. “We learned that Gordy Adamson is a thoroughgoing son-of-a-bitch, and that wherever Kip goes, it won’t be home.”
As he started back toward Boston, Brother Francis decided that he liked Father Sebastian.
He liked him a lot.
CHAPTER 7
TERI MCINTYRE’S KNEES THREATENED to buckle when she saw Ryan’s battered face, ashen beneath the swelling and bruising. Tom gripped her arm to steady her as she moved to her son’s bedside. All around him was the machinery of the hospital, but blessedly he didn’t seem to be attached to more than two of them—one an I.V. drip, the other monitoring his vital signs.
“Oh darling, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, leaning close, not wanting to wake him if he was sleeping, but wanting to be sure he heard if he was awake. Ryan opened his eyes and gazed at her for a moment. Then his eyes shifted to Tom Kelly, and Teri thought she saw them narrow for a split second before he let them fall closed again.
Tom brought over a chair, and Teri sank into it, taking hold of her son’s limp hand. “Who did this?” she asked gently. “Someone from school?”
Ryan opened his eyes again and looked at her, his swollen lips attempting a grim smile.
“Don’t try to talk,” Teri told him. “Just nod or shake your head if it doesn’t hurt too much. Have the police talked with you?”
Ryan nodded.
“Do they know who did this?”
Ryan shook his head.
“Well, we’ll find them,” Teri assured him. “They won’t get away with this.” Her voice began to rise. “We’ll send—”
She felt Tom’s hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and took a deep breath.
Once again Ryan’s eyes opened, and now he tried to form a word with his battered mouth. Teri poured a glass of water from the plastic pitcher on his nightstand, took the wrapper off a fresh straw, and held it to his lips as he sucked weakly. Still, the little water he managed seemed to help. “Just—just forget it,” he whispered.