SCOUT

by Sanjiv Lingard

  “It’s an elk trail!” shouted the K-9 officer.

  Elks had recently been introduced to the National Forest. Some of the younger elks had migrated along the interstate, scavenging what they could from picnic grounds and waste bins.

  “We’re just following its spoor,” said the officer, his shoulder slumping.

  Molly turned to me.

  “You’re sure about the trail?” she asked.

  The landscape was a featureless plain that stretched to the ends of the earth. To find a trace in this void seemed impossible.

  But I could hear music on the wind. Dissonant. The signature tune of a madman.

  “It’s that music,” I told her.

  “D’you know what it is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe he was listening to it on his iPod?”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that no one had an iPod anymore.

  “Okay, guys,” said Molly, “you can head back. We’ll carry on for a while.”

  The helicopter buzzed in for a close shot.

  “And get that goddamned thing off my tail!” she shouted.

  *

  We walked on, alone.

  The trail led to a narrow farm road. A vehicle had been parked there, something big and heavy, but I could tell no more than that.

  “Where does the road lead?” I asked.

  “The interstate.”

  And so I lost him. There was no cycling on that stretch of the interstate, and in the two days since he passed this way the killer could have reached the other side of the country.

  The tune dropped away, to be replaced by the howling wind.

  Out there, in the blank infinity, was a man who had evaded police for thirty years, and he would be planning his next abduction.

  *

  A cop returned Moyheddin’s bike a few days later, after a Highways Department Caterpillar had inadvertently backed over it.

  “Oh, man!” wailed Moyheddin, as the cop apologetically carried the bent frame into the carport.

  “We didn’t know what you wanted us to do with this,” said the officer.

  “You think it can be fixed?” asked Moyheddin.

  The officer shrugged.

  “I’d start again from scratch, son,” is what he said.

  The return of the bike made the News At Six on the local cable channel. The national media were camped outside Mercy waiting for a first glimpse of the ‘Tragic Bunker Boy’, as they were calling him.

  But for WXRK-TV, and for its star reporter Kathy Tremaine3, I was still part of the story. Two months earlier she had spotted me outside the Franklin home, and the coincidence of being seen again with Molly was enough reason to pursue me. The WXRK-TV Suburban sat outside my house, cameraman at the ready.

  When the cop delivered the bike, the camera zoomed in on the plaster cast on Moy’s broken shoulder, and lingered for close-ups of the bent wheels. It did some good, I suppose, because next day I got a call from Higher Gear on Market Street, offering Moy a brand-new trail bike, gratis. When the cast came off, he proudly stood for a photo outside the store, and you can still see a print of it in the window.

  On the downside of this courtship by the media, Kathy Tremaine dogged my every move.

  Mr Dinkel had come back from Florida expecting to find the bakery in tumult. But when his sister returned the account book, he nodded with approval. The bakery had lost not one hour of productivity, despite my adventure. Sol worked a double shift, baking from early morning and then serving at the counter with his mother. Mrs Fierstein called him ‘Solomon’, which I thought was endearing. It turned out that no one was put off by Sol’s acne, and he was quicker with the ‘schmearing’ than either me or Moyheddin.

  I kept clear of the news crews who bustled in and out of Dinkel’s. Flown in from New York and LA, the media sophisticates were overjoyed to find artisan bread and croissants in a small town where the only other option was The Bean Counter. I avoided answering their questions, as did Mr Dinkel.

  But Kathy wouldn’t give up so easily.

  One time, Mr Dinkel was tipping out the garbage, and he found a WXRK-TV lens in his face. He shooed them off his property, growling as only an eighty-year-old can growl.

  “She’s a good girl, that’s all I’m saying,” he said. “She makes good coffee, which is a dime cheaper than our competitors.”

  He threw up his hands in despair when he came back into the kitchen.

  “I came back from Florida for this?” he said. “If I’d known you were such a celebrity, I would have left you to it. It’s like having Marilyn Monroe working in the shop.”

  Though he grumbled, the business had never done better. Sol’s new bakery lines flew off the shelves. On his first day back, Mr Dinkel closed the shutters an hour later than usual, pushing away the last of the customers, and reckoned up the till. I think I heard a satisfied chuckle.

  “You know, Scout – I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. Florida, I gotta tell you, was full of old people. Like God’s waiting room, except without the back issues of Reader’s Digest. Mrs Dinkel was happy to sit by the pool and play pinochle, but I’ve worked since I was fourteen, and had not a day off, even when I had the shingles. After two days in Florida sitting on my ass, I wanted to shoot myself. You’ve blown Florida out of my system. And you know what? I realise that I like snow!”

  *

  All through the court appearance my hands were trembling and sweat pooled in the small of my back. Shona came to me after speaking to the judge, a broad smile on her face.

  “It’s a ‘no contest’,” she whispered, as the judge took her place.

  The court ruled that I was ‘a fit and proper person to arrange the care of Eileen Mann, aged forty-six; that I understood her medical condition; and that I proved myself an honest and dependable member of society’. Or something like that. I didn’t really hear anything the judge said, because the blood was pounding in my ear.

  Eileen was coming home!

  Molly agreed to house Moyheddin until he could rent a place of his own, and I spent the evening replacing all of Mom’s clutter in her room. From memory, I returned everything to where it had been – the hairbrush here, the empty aerosol of eau de toilette there. The only thing missing was the layer of grime and dust.

  Out of a perverse curiosity, I turned on the local cable channel for the News At Six.

  ‘New developments in the Doughy Doughy Mill abduction!’ promised the rolling banner. Kathy Tremaine stood before the Doughy Doughy Mill, her voice pretend solemn:

  “As we wait for news of what Daniel Taber can tell us of his kidnapper,” she told us, “here in Vermillion City we have another unexplained mystery. How one girl may have assisted in the discovery of a missing child, Skyler Franklin, and how then, just weeks later, she was instrumental in the rescue of young Daniel. The VCPD has refused to comment on any assistance or otherwise from Miss Lauren Mann. We can only speculate as to any special knowledge she may have, or indeed any clairvoyant skill that she may have employed. Tonight, we speak to one person who knows her abilities better than anyone else.”

  She had a scoop, and its name was Brianna Jordan.

  For some people, their nightmare is a room full of rats. For others, it is being exposed naked at high-school graduation. For me, it was Brianna Jordan appearing on television to stab me in the back.

  Not that anyone could have guessed this was a betrayal, because she smiled all the while, calling me her ‘best friend’. Imagine that! Having ignored me since first grade, suddenly we were best friends!

  “I knew all along that she was special,” said Brianna, her white teeth flashing in the TV light. She was being interviewed in the open-plan living room of her parents’ mid-century home.

  The picture cut to Kathy walking amidst the wasteland of The Pits. The hidden t
raps were visible only as slight depressions in the uniform surface of snow.

  “It is here, on Halloween night, that Lauren Mann first shows the world her unique ability.”

  My blood ran cold. It was as if Kathy Tremaine had engineered a plot to destroy me.

  “I’m trapped at the bottom of a deep hole,” explained Brianna, speaking in the historic present tense demanded by true-life dramas. “I can’t move and I’m cold. My phone is broken, so there’s no way I can expect help until the morning. My brother has set out in the wrong direction, thinking I am on the road. But Lauren follows my trail, and she finds me.”

  In keeping with the fiction of her flawless make-up, Brianna neglected to say that she had drunk a bottle of vodka on the night in question and had stormed out of a party after insulting me.

  Kathy stood on the rim of one of the pits and dramatised the rescue as if Brianna had been marooned on the north face of the Eiger.

  “No one can explain what leads Lauren to this very spot, but we have one friend of hers who is very grateful that she did.”

  Back in the open-plan house, Brianna beamed into the camera.

  “It’s a knack she has. Maybe it’s magic – I don’t know. It’s something she has always been able to do.”

  “Really?” asked Kathy. The camera zoomed in for maximum impact.

  “Oh yes,” said Brianna, looking straight into the lens. “We all know about it. Which is why none of her friends call her Lauren. She’s called ‘Scout’ because she finds things. And that’s what she is – a scout.”

  I believe to this day that Brianna knew exactly what she was doing, and the damage she would cause.

  Chapter 39

  Christmas decorations glittered in the twilight. This was Eileen’s favourite time of year, and when we rode through town her jaw was slack with wonder, face pressed to the window, enthralled by the holiday displays on Main Street.

  “There’s our house, Eileen,” I said. “Look.”

  And she gasped.

  I had trailed ropes of coloured lights along the path, leading to a door festooned with twinkling stars. The porch was outlined in a pulsing kaleidoscope, all of which reflected off the carpet of snow.

  “Rudolph!” she cried.

  In the middle of the lawn was our trusty Christmas ornament – a reindeer with a glowing red nose. He didn’t look so good in the daylight, being almost as old as me and spending most of the year crammed into the crawlspace beneath the house.

  Parked in the road were two TV vans, one from WXRK and one from a national network with its dish pointed into the magenta sky. As Mike drove into the carport, harsh television lights obliterated the Christmas display.

  Eileen was frozen in the back seat.

  “It’s okay, Eileen,” I said, taking her arm. “Let’s go.”

  “Is someone famous?” she asked.

  “No one’s famous,” I replied. Though that wasn’t quite true. After Brianna’s confessional, my face had made a brief appearance on the nation’s TV screens. Luckily my story was filed alongside other quirky stories, such as surfing ducks and dogs that rode skateboards. I hoped it would be a short-lived sensation.

  “They’ve come to welcome you home,” I said, as we hurried into the side door.

  “Eileen!” called out Kathy.

  Mom turned on hearing her name, and looked blankly into the TV lights. I shoved her into the house.

  “Am I famous?” she asked.

  “No, Eileen,” I replied, pulling shut the drapes.

  The living room was, if anything, more magical than the front yard. I had transformed it into a grotto, at the centre of which was a pine tree decorated with glass baubles and traceries of light.

  Eileen knelt down before the tree. She sighed with pleasure, head turned to one side, contemplating the layers of colour, drinking in the cool scent of pine.

  “That’s quite a tree,” said Mike, standing awkwardly at the edge of the room.

  “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps I should leave you to it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “No. We’re fine. Thanks for the ride.”

  We were speaking nonsense to each other. Though I’d hugged his naked body, we had spoken very little since that night at the mill. I hadn’t told him why I’d been mad at him, letting my pain fester in silence.

  Eileen saved us from ourselves.

  Mike was turning to leave, when Eileen leapt to her feet and cried –

  “Don’t go!”

  Mike shuffled on the doorstep.

  “You must stay for dinner,” said Eileen.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that,” he said.

  “I insist. I’m cooking!” she promised.

  *

  As with many of Eileen’s promises, it was up to me to make it happen. I bustled about the kitchen, frying chicken and bell peppers to make fajitas whilst Mike played DJ for Eileen. It was inevitable that he found my mom’s favourite CD - ‘Come on Eileen’ by Dexys Midnight Runners.

  I didn’t need to see through the wall to know that Mom would be dancing on her toes, punching the air each time her name was mentioned in the chorus.

  Good-time music from the ’80s was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mike came to tell me that there was a cop on the porch.

  “He says that if we make a brief appearance, the TV crews’ll pack up for the day. It’s Christmas Eve, and they want to get home.”

  “Screw ‘em,” I said, turning the sliced chicken in the hot oil.

  “I think the neighbours are complaining.”

  So we took a photocall out on the porch, Eileen standing between us, her face lit up with a smile as if she were attending a Hollywood premiere. For a moment, Kevin Rowland and the Dexys were drowned out by yelling journalists.

  “Scout!” shouted Kathy. “How did you really find the boy?”

  “Do you have second sight?” called the guy from the network.

  I smiled and tried not to think of them suffering a fiery death.

  The cop nodded us back inside, before herding the journalists away. True to their word, the TV vans packed up and drove off. I guess even parasites like Kathy Tremaine have families to spend the holiday with.

  I scraped off the worst of the burnt chicken, and we sat around the table for a Yuletide feast. Eileen gazed at us as we ate, hardly touching her food. When Mike left to fetch more soda, Eileen tracked him with her eyes.

  “He’s got a great ass,” she muttered.

  “So you said.”

  “He your boyfriend?”

  I denied it.

  “Well, he should be.”

  “Perhaps you should eat up,” I said, sliding over towards her. “You lost weight in the hospital.”

  When Mike came back I was forcing a large chunk of tortilla into Eileen’s mouth.

  *

  Dinner over, and after I had refused his offer to wash the dishes, Mike was no longer under an obligation to stay. And yet he seemed reluctant to leave, until I pretty much escorted him to the side door.

  He took a peek into the front yard.

  “They’re gone,” he said.

  “Good. At least it’ll be quiet.”

  We’re gonna have to do the whole Christmas routine, I thought. That’ll be a hug and a peck on the cheek at the very least. I wasn’t sure that I could stand the agony.

  “You’re letting the cold in,” I said.

  “Just wait there,” he said, and closed the door after him. I could hear him rummaging around in the Prius.

  Perhaps I should lock him out and put an end to it?

  But Mike was back, sliding through the door, a silver-wrapped present in his hand.

  “Mike – thanks,” I said, taking the box and puttin
g it on the side. “I didn’t get you anything, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry,” said Mike, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve a present. I made a big mistake.”

  I let the silence stretch. I wasn’t going to make it any easier for him.

  “Moyheddin told me that you followed me to O’Casey’s.”

  “That’s indiscreet of him,” I said. “So, what of it?”

  “And that you saw me with Brianna.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s your life. What I can’t accept is that you lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “What about that night you phoned me when I was in the bath?“

  “So you were in the bath!”

  “Yes, I admit it – I was in the bath. That’s a white lie. But you promised me that you had given the red card to that bitch.”

  “You know all about soccer now?”

  “I’ve done some research.”

  “Fact is I did show her the red card. I told her that I never wanted to see her again – and she screamed and shouted and burst into tears. If the Academy’d seen it she would’ve been nominated for an Oscar. Far as I was concerned, it was over.

  “But it’s not as easy as that. I’d just got off the bus and she called me from O’Casey’s – said she was in trouble. She sounded drunk, and you know what trouble she gets into when she’s drunk. I made the mistake of thinking I could sort it out, and the next thing I know it was like old times. I didn’t plan it. I’m a guy – which means I’m an idiot because I don’t always think with my brain.”

  “Don’t say any more.”

  “Please, Scout, listen–”

  “I’ve been listening all my life and I don’t want to listen anymore!” I shouted. “Get out!”

  “Okay, I’m going. But I meant what I said at the mill. You are special. You think I’d have had the guts to jump into that pool if it wasn’t for you? I’m not a hero – I did it because you were there. All that stuff about the New Year swim – that was bullshit. I’ve never swum in the lakes. I hate the cold. I did it for you.”

  “A macho thing, then?”

  “No. You inspired me. That’s never happened with anyone else – not with Bree, or any other girl. I’ve always been a coward – taken the easy way. I admit it. Even if you never want to see me again, you’ve changed me. You showed me how to be brave.”