by John Gault
“David,” he heard Torrey’s voice through his distant musings, “do you have anything to say?”
David looked in the direction of the voice and brought the broad black face into proper focus. “No,” he said after a few moments of reflection, “I don’t.”
After the officers split up, with each assigned to a predetermined point to meet and command search teams, David climbed into his Camaro and sped away on a short personal mission. A few minutes later he was leaning over the hole, his sinuses already plugged and his sense of smell almost fully blunted, shining his flashlight down into the blackness. Everything was as he’d left it, he thought. Then, from down there, but from far, far away, came a faint, rustling sound. He listened intently, stretching dangerously over the edge, and he was almost sure he heard it again. Then, nothing, only undisturbed silence.
He was still moving carefully through the woods, back to his car, when he heard the squawking of the police radio. Annie Goring, on double shift, was calling out his personal code. With his arms up to protect his face, he plunged through the remaining fifteen or twenty feet of growth, hopped the wooden fence, and grabbed the receiver through the window. “Yeh, Annie, what is it?”
“David,” she said, “I’m afraid we have another one for you.”
“What?”
“A Miss Oliphant. Late seventies, blind. In a wheelchair. Lady who looks after her came out of St. Bartholomew’s church approximately nine fifty A.M. today. Not in park across street, where left. Not at home . . .”
“Holy shit!” David replied, his button down.
“Watch the language, boy.” It was Torrey’s voice this time.
“Sorry, Beck. What do you want me to do?”
“Come back in here first and calm down this Louise Perssons woman for me and see what you can get out of her. I’ll put somebody else at your search point . . . if I can find somebody.” David had already screeched the Camaro into a U-turn and was halfway back to the station before Torrey had finished talking. “On the way,” he reported. A long-forgotten snatch of poetry was running through his mind, and it just wouldn’t leave him. “By the pricking of our thumbs,” he muttered to himself, “something wicked this way comes.”
Sandy, still in a robe with her curly hair untended, wandered into the kitchen about one thirty on Sunday afternoon; absently she rummaged through cupboard after cupboard, spied a box of Saltine crackers and guessed that maybe they’d do. She ate them at the counter, looking out the window into the hot, empty backyard. For a fleeting moment she worried about where Jamie might be, and then she thought about phoning Allan’s place one more futile time. No, she let inertia decide, I just can’t face the futility of it; I just can’t stand the sound of that ringing telephone again just yet. She shoved the last three uneaten crackers haphazardly back into the waxed paper sleeve, twisted the thing closed—or mostly closed—and returned it to the box, which she left sitting on the counter. She drank two glasses of water and returned wearily to her room.
A few minutes later there was a light knock on her door and she invited, without enthusiasm, Jamie to come in. He just stood in the doorway and asked with what seemed to be genuine concern, if she was sick. “Is there anything I can get you?” he continued.
“I may be getting summer flu or something like that,” she lied—anything to get him away. “And no thanks, I really don’t want anything. But if you like, you can get the chicken breasts out of the freezer, and we can have them for supper.” Then Sandy remembered that she was there in that house to take care of Jamie and not the other way around, so she asked him how he was doing, was there anything he wanted or needed?
“Oh, no, thank you Sandy,” he beamed. “Everything is just great.”
She should have asked where he’d been last night and again this morning, but she just didn’t seem to care. Two more days and she’d be gone, out of this place and away from this weird little boy, whose presence increasingly made her want to get into a steaming hot bath and disinfect herself.
C H A P T E R
21
And then It was the morning of the next to last day of school. Jamie gobbled his scrambled eggs and sausages, and drained off the tumblerful of milk in three or four gulps. Sandy, in the same silk robe she’d worn all of the day before, chewed without either pleasure or interest on a piece of dry toast and let her coffee grow cold in front of her. Jamie guessed she was still sick with the flu, but he had other things to be concerned about.
Still chewing, he got up from the table, found a couple of textbooks he’d brought home the previous Friday and left unopened, and plunged out the back door, letting it slam. When he got to the sidewalk he slowed his pace and strolled toward the school the way he always did, head down, arms swinging lightly at his sides. As he passed Christina’s house, he sneaked a little glance. There was a black car in the driveway that he thought belonged to Dr. Gooderham, but there was nobody around outside and all the shades were drawn. Jamie thought about Christina’s naked body, lying there in the clearing in the moonlight, but he couldn’t hold the image in focus. It just drifted away from him and, try as he could to recapture the sensations of that wonderful Saturday night, he just couldn’t do it. Then he saw Allan, staring up at him with those dead eyes, and that stayed a little longer, making him smile. And Miss Oliphant, that was good too.
He turned the corner and stopped. He had already determined the spot where he was unlikely to be seen from the street. If he crouched behind the big maple, he had a clear view of Abergail’s house. If she did what she always did on school mornings, in a few minutes she’d come walking her bike along the side. Then in front of the house she’d wave one last time to Miss Livingstone, who’d be standing in the living room window, and ride away. When she came around the corner, the one where he was lying in wait for her, she’d be out of Miss Livingstone’s sight. Jamie reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a bent, crumpled, dry old cigarette, the last of a pack he’d pilfered from Tom’s drawer nearly six months before. Jamie had decided then to try smoking, but that hadn’t much appealed to him. He lit the cigarette, choked out a few strangled coughs, and then puffed away amateurishly. Just a precaution, that’s all. With all the people missing, maybe even a twelve-year-old kid might be questioned if he were caught sneaking around; and the cigarette, sure as heck, would explain the sneaking.
There she is! Funny, she didn’t wave this time. Oh, Miss Livingstone is not at the window.
Here she comes. Get ready. Get set. Go!
“Abergail!”
She half-leaped, half-fell, landing hard on the boulevard as the bike skidded and spun down the sidewalk to a stop almost at Jamie’s feet. If Abergail was stunned by her fall, she didn’t show it, and she was halfway back to her feet by the time Jamie had the bicycle upright and was throwing his leg over the saddle.
“I’ll kill you, you little bastard!” she gasped, fighting to retrieve the breath that had been knocked out of her by the shock of the fall. Ah, Jamie thought, just the way we planned it. He peddled away slowly enough to give her time to catch that lost breath and take off after him. He checked the rearview mirrors on this most wonderful of bicycles and adjusted his speed to keep her at a close, constant distance behind him. At the next corner he turned left, away from the route to school; and, after about thirty feet, he stopped to make sure she was still coming. He let her come closer, close enough so that he could see the fury in her little green eyes and hear the angry panting. Then he took off again, toward the old highway and what lay just a few hundred feet to the right on the other side. A huge gravel truck was approaching from the opposite direction as he wheeled out. If the driver sees us, Jamie instantly realized, he might remember and there might be trouble. So he increased his speed, putting more distance than he really liked between himself and Abergail; as the truck passed, he gave the driver a big wave and a big smile, all natural and nice, and the driver returned it, plus a little honk on the horn. Then, beautifully, the road was empty.
>
He slowed again. Then, when he saw the break in the fence, he wheeled left over the gravel and grass and through the low brush to the gap. About ten feet into the woods he stopped and dismounted, leaning the bike against a tree. He unhooked the gleaming chrome bicycle pump, hefted it, and waited for Abergail to come crashing in.
Which she did, her eyes wild and her fists bunched.
He stepped from behind the tree and swung the pump as hard as he could at her face. It caught her nose right at the bridge, making a crack he could both hear and feel. Blood gushed from the mangled nose, and her eyes went wild and began to roll back in her head. She swayed, reached out blindly for support that was not there, and dropped heavily to the ground. Jamie stepped forward, the pump raised. After a few seconds, after he was sure that she would not be getting up for a while, he lowered the pump and smiled.
By the time Jamie’d dragged her to the hole, and laid her face downward over it, dripping blood into the soil below, Abergail had begun to stir a little, and to make little mewing noises. He stretched out beside her and, gripping her by the hair, turned her face toward his, so that their eyes were mere inches apart. He gave her his best Jamie smile this time and was quite pleased at the reaction, the hate and terror that were in her eyes.
“Well Cruel Buhl,” he said pleasantly, “don’t you look nice today.”
“Rotten disgusting filthy little bastard,” she choked out, “lousy pervert.” She spit in his face, a great pinkish bloody blob of it that struck him just below his left eye and ran down his cheek. Jamie did nothing more than wipe away at it with his free hand, examine it curiously, then rub it into her hair.
She tried to pull away, but he was having none of that.
He twisted his left hand more tightly in her hair, and slowly forced her head back to the point where the pain would block out any other thoughts, prevent any other movement.
“Oh no, Abergail,” he said, his tone unchanged, his voice still a little boy’s. “You don’t want to leave. I have a real treat in store for you, something you’ll remember for a long, long time.” Then he turned his head away and shouted down into the hole, “Hi, it’s Jamie. It’s time for food.”
Mrs. Lynde was not in the least curious about why Jamie had arrived in the classroom half an hour late. She didn’t even bother to ask where he’d been. Out of a class of twenty-seven, there were eleven students—twelve now—that had showed up, and neither she nor they could find any good reason for being in school. Freddy and Christina were still missing, and a lot of frightened parents had kept their kids at home. She didn’t blame them a bit. It had been funny, walking to the school that morning. How silent the streets had been, how few children about; the town just seemed to be closing itself up.
After a few minutes she left her own musings and observed her few students, studying each face and trying to figure what was going through the brains behind them. Pretty much what was going through her own, she guessed: fear, uncertainty, confusion. Except for Jamie Benjamin. Didn’t he know what had happened? Hadn’t anybody told him? Didn’t he listen to the radio? Just what in the hell was going on in his head that was so goddamned amusing?
“Mrs. Benjamin?”
“Uh, no,” Sandy said. “She’s . . . they’re away. I’m the baby-sitter.” Like most people, Sandy didn’t know how to talk with policemen, or, as in this case, policewomen. And it was the first time in her life that one had actually come to the door. For a few seconds Sandy just stood there, arms hanging at her sides, terrible visions flitting in and out of her mind. Was it Allan? No, or the policewoman wouldn’t have asked if she were Mrs. Benjamin, would she? Oh God, it must be Jamie!
“Is he all right?” she managed.
The woman looked confused and, Sandy noticed for the first time, very, very tired. Her uniform was wrinkled, and the short blond curls as messy as her own hair. There were spreading sweat stains under each armpit, and the hazel eyes seemed to be moving in and out of focus.
“I beg your pardon, Miss . . . Miss . . .”
“O’Reilly. Sandra O’Reilly.” Then, “Jamie? Is he all right?”
Somehow, Helen McLachlan worked up a weary little smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I just left him at the school. Yes, he’s okay.”
“Then what . . . ?” It had to be Allan! Oh, my God!
“Two children—from Jamie’s class, as a matter of fact—disappeared on Saturday night. And yesterday morning, an old woman named Oliphant also disappeared. And . . .”
As Helen talked, Sandy was motioning her into the house, into the cool of the darkened living room, and they both sat.
“I can’t take long, Mis O’Reilly,” Helen said, taking in as much of the room as she could. “We’re doing a house-to-house search of the whole town, and I’d just like to take a quick look around and be on my way.” She opened her notebook and checked something. “I’ve got thirty-four more on my list.”
“You look awfully tired,” Sandy said, fully recovered now from her near faint. “Can I get you some coffee or something?”
Helen shook her head unhappily. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t got time for that. But thank you. And yeh, I am pretty beat. Been at this nonstop since early Sunday morning, like about two A.M. Oh well, like the man said, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”
“Gilbert and Sullivan,” Sandy muttered.
“I beg your pardon,” Helen said.
“Nothing, I . . .” She could feel her face getting red. What a stupid thing to say at a time like this! “I just . . . uh . . . remembered something. Anyway, come on, I’ll show you the house. But I don’t think it’ll help you much. Jamie . . . uh, Jamie didn’t have much to do with the kids in his class.”
“So we discovered,” Helen said, rising from the leather chair. “Well, okay, let’s get it over with. It’s just something we have to do, that’s all.”
Ten minutes later, Sandy was saying good-bye to the exhausted policewoman at the front door and wishing her luck, hoping that everything would turn out all right. She had thought about bringing up the business of Allan, how she hadn’t seen him since Friday night, but she just felt so silly and unsure she let it lie. This officer and the whole department had so much on their hands that it seemed terribly silly to lay something else on them. What if she did tell them and then, an hour or so later Allan came driving up as if nothing was wrong? No, she’d try his apartment a few more times first and then, if she hadn’t heard from him by tomorrow, she’d call the police. At one point she’d actually wondered if he had actually disappeared, been kidnapped or abducted or whatever the right word was, like the two kids and the old woman, but she just couldn’t make it jibe. Allan was a big, powerful young man who had survived, with his fists and his wits, one of the toughest high schools in Toledo, Ohio. He was no kid, no old lady.
After Helen had gone, crossing the lawn to the house next door, Sandy experienced a flicker of fear that froze her belly for a few seconds. Jamie? No, don’t be ridiculous? How could a twelve-year-old boy be responsible? But Jamie did know all the missing people, Miss Oliphant and the two children, and . . . Allan. But he didn’t know the old minister, did he? So? So, nothing. Leave the kid alone, for Godsakes.
She checked the kitchen clock. A few minutes past noon. In twenty-four more hours, Tom and Barbara Benjamin would be driving in from Madison and she’d be free.
Once again, David blessed his father’s foresight. If the house had been two more minutes from the station, David was certain, he would never have made it in time. As it was, he had to make a decision whether he’d walk to the house or crawl on his hands and knees or just keel over in the front seat of the car, there in the driveway, and pass out.
He chose the first option, chuckling giddily to himself about how he couldn’t disgrace the uniform—a uniform that at that very minute was dirty and sweaty and wrinkled almost beyond redemption. Besides, he longed for the air-conditioned bedroom, the cool sheets, a nice shower and a couple of glasses of milk to soothe the
burning in his stomach. And he wanted to call Margaret one more time to see how she was doing. God, Friday night had been so long ago. He also hoped that this time Abergail would be at school, so that she would not answer the phone in that cold, too mature voice of hers, and say that her aunt was “resting,” and that if he had any messages, she would pass them along. Unless, of course, it was police business.
No, it wasn’t, he’d said. Fine, the child had replied, then I will ask her to call you when she feels better.
The phone rang a dozen times, and David, despite himself, closed his eyes and began to doze. He didn’t hear the receiver being picked up, but when it was dropped, striking something hard and probably wooden, he snapped momentarily back to attention. “Margaret? Margaret, is that you?”
“Hello. Hello.” The voice was flat and soft and weak, like it was coming from a long way off, not physically, but emotionally. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Margaret, it’s David. David Bentley. Are you all right?”
“Oh. David. Yes, I’m fine, David,” she continued serenely and tonelessly. “Just a little tired, that’s all. I’ve been sleeping.” He waited, the receiver growing heavier and heavier in his hand.
Finally he said, “Is there anything I can do, Margaret, anything I can bring you? Have you seen the doctor again—since Saturday morning, I mean? What does he say?”
After another silence, she replied, “The doctor? Oh yes, he gave me some pills. They make me want to sleep. Guess I’d better get up now, though. Uh, what time is it, David.”
He checked his watch. “About three-fifteen,” he said.
“Oh, then Abergail will be home soon. I’ll just have another little nap and then I’ll get up and make her something nice for supper. She’s been awfully good, David.”