by Ritter, Todd
Kat’s first impression was that it looked like everything in the room had been drained of color. The bedspread. The curtains. The toys littering the floor. All of it had been rendered gray by the dust. Moving deeper into the room, she passed a dresser cloaked in it. She swiped a finger across its top, revealing a streak of its original color—a shade of blue that stood out even more against the unrelenting dust.
There were cobwebs, too. Strung from the bed to the nightstand. Clinging to the radiator. Large strands of them swooped from the ceiling like crepe paper that had been hung for a party and never taken down.
“How long do you think it’s been since someone was in here?” Kat asked.
“Probably 1969.” Eric tried the light switch by the door. It did nothing. The bulbs had all died long ago. “Right before they buried the key.”
Looking around, Kat thought it was more like the moment Charlie disappeared. The room had the aura of something suddenly abandoned, as if Charlie ran out of the room one night and no one had entered since. No organizing possessions. No clearing out. And certainly no tidying up. She could easily see the disarray of daily life present in the room, even though the boy who had inhabited it was no longer alive.
Kat walked to a desk pushed against the wall. Scattered over its surface were uncapped pens and worn-down pencils that had been used to mark nearby pieces of paper. She picked one up using her thumb and forefinger, trying to shake away the dust and cobwebs. Through the layer of gray that remained, she saw hand-drawn pictures of stars, a rocket, and, of course, the moon.
A fair amount of space-related paraphernalia could be found scattered around the room. A papier-mâché planet dangled from fishing line over the desk. On the dresser was a series of model rockets, arranged by height, and sitting next to the window was a small telescope perched on a tripod.
Eric was nearby, examining the nightstand. There was another model rocket there, along with a lamp and a framed photograph. He began to wipe away the decades of dust that obscured the photo.
Kat moved to the window and did the same, swiping it in a circular motion until there was a clear oval of glass. The view it offered was a nice one. She saw a patch of the front yard, followed by the street itself. On the other side sat the Santangelo household, lights ablaze in almost every window. Kat knew not much had changed on the cul-de-sac since 1969. What she was looking at now was pretty much exactly what Charlie Olmstead would have seen back then. She imagined the space-crazed kid spending hours peering through his telescope, watching the sky, the street, the neighbors.
She examined the telescope. The lens cap was on it, blocking the blanket of dust that covered everything else in the room, including the telescope’s eyepiece. Kat blew on it a few times, each breath sending up tiny puffs of dust. When the eyepiece was relatively clean, she bent down and squinted through it.
The first thing she saw was Lee Santangelo. The telescope was aimed directly at his bedroom window, giving Kat an up-close view of his blank face. The glow from the nearby television colored his skin a pale blue. The only things that moved were his eyes, which darted back and forth, following the action onscreen.
Kat adjusted the telescope until more of the room came into focus. She saw Lee’s easy chair, the television, and a corner of the railed bed nearby. Peering inside the Santangelo house, she wondered if the stars in the sky were the only things Charlie had gazed at through his telescope. From the looks of it, he also did some spying on his neighbors.
On the other side of the room, Eric gasped. “Kat, look at this.”
Still holding the freshly cleaned photograph, he turned the frame until Kat could see the picture inside. It was of a cluster of schoolkids sitting on the floor and looking up in admiration at a man speaking in front of them. The man was Lee Santangelo in all his former glory—young, virile, handsome. He seemed to be smiling down at a boy in the front row. That boy was Charlie Olmstead.
“The photo is signed.” Eric pointed to the inscription before reading it. “Always look to the sky. Your friend, Lee.”
Kat looked through the telescope again, inching it slightly lower until she could see into the room beneath Lee’s bedroom. It was the odd museum devoted to his life and career, lit brightly like the rest of the house. Kat focused the telescope, zeroing in on the photographs covering the wall. She stopped at one in particular, one that she had completely bypassed earlier that day without giving it a second thought.
“I can’t believe I didn’t piece it together.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pictures,” Kat said. “In Lee’s house. They told us everything we needed to know.”
She was out of the bedroom within seconds. A minute later, she was out of the house itself and crossing the street. Eric caught up with her as she stepped into the Santangelos’ yard, marching up the grass to the front door.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” he said.
Kat grabbed the large brass knocker and used it to pound on the door. “You will in a minute.”
Becky Santangelo answered the door in a satin nightgown and matching robe. Like the yellow chiffon number she had entertained them in that morning, it was both young and inappropriate for a woman her age. Making the outfit more ridiculous were the slippers she wore. Colored a light shade of purple, they had kitten heels and small tufts of white at the toes.
“You again.” Becky didn’t even try to sound happy to be seeing them. “Have you come here to interrogate me one more time?”
“I want to see the pictures,” Kat said. “Of your husband.”
“After your behavior this morning, I think your intrusion—”
Kat cut her off. “I don’t give a damn what you think.”
She pushed on the door, forcing Becky to step aside. Once inside the house, she made a beeline for the trophy room she had just seen through the telescope. All the pictures on the wall stopped her fierce momentum. There were so many of them, depicting so many different eras. She circled the room a moment, getting her bearings, before finding the patch of wall she was looking for.
The first photograph she zeroed in on was a copy of the one Eric found in his brother’s room. The plaque affixed to the bottom of the frame indicated it was taken at Perry Hollow Elementary School in 1969.
The photo next to it showed a similar scene. In it, Lee stood outside a stone church, shaking hands with an elderly woman as a group of kids looked on. The plaque on the photo said ST. PAUL’S METHODIST CHURCH, 1972. The church’s name also appeared in the photo, on a sign to the right of Lee Santangelo. Beneath the name, in small white letters, was its location—Centralia, Pennsylvania.
“Centralia?” Eric said. “Isn’t that where two of the boys vanished?”
Kat nodded grimly. “It sure is.”
“What boys?” It was Becky Santangelo, standing in the doorway with a look of pure fear on her face. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Six boys went missing in the late sixties and early seventies,” Kat said. “And we think your husband could have had something to do with it.”
Behind her, Eric said, “We’ve got another hit.”
He was staring at a photo a few feet away—another image of Lee in front of a room of kids. Only these boys weren’t as admiring. Some of them looked pretty rough as they sat in what seemed to be a large lodge. In the background of the photo was a window, revealing trees and the rooftops of log cabins. Etched onto the accompanying plaque were the words CAMP CRESCENT, 1971.
Kat edged closer to the photo, peering at the faces of the boys in the audience. In the second row was a boy of about twelve with hard eyes and a sharp smirk.
Dwight Halsey.
“Holy crap,” Kat said, tapping the picture. “He’s in the photo! He and Lee most likely met.”
“I don’t understand why that would be considered suspicious,” Becky said. “My husband traveled all over Pennsylvania. It was part of his job.”
“Do you kn
ow if he was ever in a town called Fairmount?”
“Probably. He’s most likely set foot in every town in the state.”
“Mrs. Santangelo,” Kat said, “we know someone else was with your husband the night Charlie vanished.”
Becky’s chin rose in defiance. “That’s just a vicious lie.”
“I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” Kat said. “We’re talking about six boys who disappeared during Apollo moon missions. You’re husband, a rejected astronaut, had contact with at least two of them.”
“That doesn’t mean Lee killed them.”
“No,” Kat replied, “but it makes him our prime suspect. So unless there was someone else here with him, someone who could provide a decent alibi, I’m going to have to arrest your husband for the abduction of Charlie Olmstead.”
Becky glanced at the large oil painting of Lee in uniform. From the intense way she looked at it, she appeared to be seeking the image’s guidance. Holding the collar of her robe tight against her throat, she stared at it, fighting off tears.
“I can’t tell you,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
Kat marched past her and into the hallway. “Then I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”
Becky made a desperate grasp for her sleeve. Kat shook it off and headed toward the stairs, climbing them with purpose. She stayed that way—head high, back straight—as she moved down the hall. Then it was into Lee Santangelo’s bedroom.
He was still in his giant chair, his face a blank canvas being painted by the colors of the television. Lee didn’t look at Kat when she stood in front of him, nor did she expect him to, not even when she pulled out the handcuffs.
“Beck,” he chirped. “Beck.”
When his wife reached the room, breathless and bug-eyed with worry, Kat slapped one of the cuffs around Lee’s wrist.
“Lee Santangelo, you have the right to remain silent.”
Becky gasped. “What are you doing?”
“I told you,” Kat said, cuffing Lee’s other wrist. “I’m arresting him.”
“This is madness.” Becky ran to her husband, examining his shackled wrists. “He’s a sick man. You can’t take him to jail. He could die in there.”
Kat understood that. Which is why she didn’t actually plan to throw Lee Santangelo in jail. Her intention was to scare the truth out of his wife. It worked.
“I can prove he didn’t hurt those boys,” she said.
“How?”
“With evidence. I have evidence he didn’t touch them.”
“Then show me.”
“I have to find it first,” Becky replied. “But I will. I promise. Just please take those god-awful handcuffs off him.”
Kat relented. If Lee had been in better health, she would have had second thoughts about unlocking the cuffs and letting them fall away from his wrists. But she knew he and Becky weren’t flight risks. Even if he did have something to do with those missing boys, justice could wait one more day. Late evidence was better than no evidence.
“You have twenty-four hours,” she told Becky. “If I don’t see proof by this time tomorrow, I won’t hesitate to drag your husband to jail.”
TWENTY-ONE
For the second night in a row, Eric slept uneasily. He seemed to spend hours precariously balanced on the precipice between sleep and wakefulness. When he did manage to drift off, the nightmares crept in. He had one about Lee Santangelo, looking like he did forty years ago, standing over the bed, ready to grab him. Another one starred Charlie—or at least the ghost of him, Eric couldn’t tell—roaming around his bedroom, kicking up plumes of dust.
The only good dream of the night featured Kat. It was a re-creation of their kiss by Charlie’s unlocked door; only this time both of them were naked. When the bedroom door inevitably swung open, they fell not onto the floor but into a warm, white light so sensual it woke him up.
His eyes snapping open, Eric tried to ignore his obvious arousal. He and Kat hadn’t discussed the real, live lip-lock after leaving the Santangelo residence. There had been more pressing matters to deal with. But alone in the dark quiet of the bedroom, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it all meant. More important to a man who hadn’t had sex since before leaving Brooklyn, he wondered when—or even if—it would happen again.
It wasn’t unusual for his mind to race like this. It happened quite often when he was working on one of his Mitch Gracey books. In the thick of the writing process, he’d often lie in bed as his thoughts pulled him further away from sleep instead of the other way around. That night, the only difference was that Eric had no book to work on. Mitch Gracey’s voice had been silent for months.
Instead, he thought of Charlie. And Mr. Stewart. And the terrified look on Becky Santangelo’s face as Kat slapped cuffs around her husband’s wrists. After about a half hour of this, his mind grew hazy, ready to surrender to sleep—and possibly more bad dreams—once again.
Then he heard the noise.
The sound made him sit up, ears straining to identify it. It wasn’t like the one he heard the night before, when Glenn Stewart’s shovel striking the ground had cut through the hum of the rain. This noise was sharper, louder.
When he heard it again, Eric still couldn’t tell what it was. But he could definitely identify where it was coming from—downstairs.
Someone else was in the house.
Eric slid out of bed slowly, careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t want to alert the intruder to his presence. Crossing the room on tiptoes, he paused at the bedroom door. It was already closed, but Eric locked it for good measure. Better to be safe than sorry.
He pressed his ear to the door and listened. The noise downstairs had started again. This time Eric recognized it.
Footsteps.
Coming closer.
Approaching the staircase.
Eric remained motionless at the door, hoping whoever was downstairs would think the house was empty and go away. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to breathe. He gulped for air and held his breath.
The footsteps below changed their tone, growing lighter, less forceful.
And closer.
The intruder was ascending the stairs in a slow and unsteady progression. There were lengthy pauses between each step, signaling uncertainty about the climb. When Eric heard the telltale creak of the fifth step, he knew the intruder was halfway to the top.
He surveyed the bedroom, looking for something he could use to defend himself. His options were slim—a duffel bag, a pair of sneakers, a coffee mug he had forgotten to take to the kitchen that morning. The heaviest item in the room, he realized, was his laptop.
Eric crept to the desk and picked it up. He held it sideways, the way someone would use a book to squash a spider. He felt stupid sneaking back to the door with the laptop held in front of him. If Mitch Gracey were real, alive and standing in the room with him, he would have rolled his eyes with contempt.
But Eric didn’t care. Nor did he care that he was about to use a very expensive computer as a weapon. The fact that he had written nothing of value on it in the past month eclipsed all second thoughts.
Reaching the door again, Eric unlocked it. The intruder had reached the top of the stairs and was making his way down the hall. Every tentative footstep echoed off the walls, slicing through the silence of the house.
Hand poised at the doorknob, Eric waited. On the other side of the door, he heard breathing. Heavy. Labored. Definitely a man.
Eric didn’t know who the man was or what he wanted. But he knew what had to be done.
He needed to fight.
Yanking the door open, he raised the laptop over his head and rushed into the hallway, prepared to strike. When he saw the intruder, all thoughts of fighting back ceased.
The man in the hallway wasn’t a threat. Hell, he could barely stand. Using the wall to prop himself up, he gazed at Eric through heavy lids. The stench of alcohol swirled around him. Cutting through it w
ere even more unsavory smells—sweat, piss, the alarming whiff of decay.
“Dad?” Eric said. “What are you doing here?”
His father was too drunk to answer. Staggeringly drunk, in fact. If the smell didn’t tip Eric off, the way his father could barely stand did. When he started to slide down the wall like a string of spaghetti not fully cooked, Eric grabbed him by the arms and guided him to his mother’s old room.
Once there, Eric helped his father collapse onto the bed. Watching his father’s unwashed head loll back and forth on the white pillowcase caused a twinge of guilt. His mother wouldn’t have wanted this. She wouldn’t have let Ken back into the house, let alone the bedroom they had once shared. If anything, she would have made him sleep on the back porch.
But it was too late for that. His father was in the bed, no doubt stinking up the sheets, and Eric was exhausted. On his way out of the room, he heard Ken stir in bed. Turning around, he saw that his father was sitting up and—shocking for his condition—almost lucid.
“Eric,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
His father had done so many shitty things in his life that he hoped this wasn’t an umbrella apology. If he was finally saying sorry, Eric wanted specifics.
“For Charlie,” his dad said.
“Why would you be sorry about that?”
His father didn’t answer the question. He fell back onto the bed, eyes closed and arms splayed. But he wasn’t asleep. Not quite. Just before drifting off, he murmured five words.
“Don’t try to find him.”
FRIDAY
TWENTY-TWO
Nick spent the night in a Super 8 motel ten minutes outside of Fairmount. Tony did, too, although in a room bought and paid for by the state police. Nick’s had been put on his already-overwhelmed Visa card. Good thing for him the room was cheap. Something more expensive—a Days Inn, perhaps—would have put him over his credit limit. At least he got free coffee out of the deal. Tony brought it from the lobby to his room at 6:00 A.M.