Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “No one ever suggested those two kids were involved with that.”

  “That’s part of the problem. There were no witnesses. Jimmy’s too damaged, and Alvin has blocked everything out. It looks like they got away with it.”

  “Go on.”

  “But it wasn’t the only thing they did. There were other things, small fires, thefts. Sooner or later, they’re in trouble. Redmore’s parents clamp down on him and ship him off to boarding school. But Southern’s not from money. His mother connects him with Father Blaise and his Youth Club. Father Blaise sees the kid has promise. He gets him into drama and other things, and first thing you know the little bastard has a scholarship to university and a ticket to success. A happy ending for everyone but Jimmy.”

  “A lot of speculation, Camilla.”

  “But it’s all falling together, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Here’s another idea. What if Nicholas and Will touched base again, ran into each other somewhere, Dalhousie maybe. Nicholas comes for a visit for Thanksgiving. His mother’s out west, and he’s finishing up at Dal. So is Redmore.”

  “That’s really far-fetched.”

  “What’s far-fetched about it? Two guys from the same town, who were friends as children, and I read your silence before as a ‘yes’ to that, these guys reconnect at university and one visits the other. Big deal. Hardly the X-Files.”

  Deveau cleared his throat. He hadn’t managed a single chuckle during this phone call.

  “Are you with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, let’s say during this visit, Jimmy Ferguson is waiting to see Honey. Maybe he sees these two guys together, and maybe some memory is triggered. Maybe Southern gets nervous that Jimmy will tell people what he did. Or maybe Redmore does, and they decide to create a distraction. Or maybe, once a bully always a bully, and the bully found an opportunity to pull a really vile trick on a former victim.”

  “Go on.”

  “Only it goes really wrong, and the father dies. Maybe that’s what created the tension between Redmore and Southern. The stakes are way up. But neither one can let the cat out of the bag, because they’re both guilty of something the public won’t take lightly.”

  “Career limiting,” he said. “In a big way.”

  “No kidding. Does it answer a lot of questions so far?”

  “I hate to admit it.”

  “A lot of things are starting to crystallize. Try this for a theory: Southern was in Sydney the day Jimmy disappeared. So was Redmore. So was Honey.”

  “I’ll call Sydney and see if someone can review those old files. No guarantee we’ll find anything useful.”

  “Right. Why don’t you check this out? I suggest that you ask Honey yourself.”

  “Do you think she was part of it?”

  “I find it hard to believe. I liked her. Even if she didn’t like me much. But a woman was driving the car, both times. Mrs. Redmore must be in her early sixties. We know she held Jimmy responsible. Maybe she could have been driving the car that killed Greg Hornyk in Sydney. Somehow I can’t see her rolling out of the Buick and sprinting away from Gadzooks. That would have to be a younger woman. Honey fits the physical profile.”

  “But you said Honey knew Jimmy wasn’t to blame.”

  “True. Even so, she’s close to her brother. Maybe he could weather accusations of childhood bullying, but his career wouldn’t survive framing an innocent kid for an incident that led to the death of his father.”

  “I’m sorry, Camilla. I can believe those guys were involved, but I’ve met Honey, and it just doesn’t ring true to me.”

  “Yeah well, maybe I haven’t figured all the angles yet. But I’m getting there. Anyway, this whole topic upsets her. That’s good. You should be able to get her flustered. My guess is she’ll let something slip.”

  “She didn’t let things slip when you talked to her.”

  “I didn’t ask her the right questions. You have the background now,” I said.

  “No, you’re the one who believes this. You should talk to her. Make the accusation to her face. I don’t want to jeopardize the case if it comes down to that. Not that I believe it will.”

  “She won’t talk to me, but you’re the police. You can easily ask her if Southern was there on the Thanksgiving when Jimmy was accused. Ask her in person. Face to face. See what happens. While you’re at it, you should interview Father Blaise. They might let you in to theICUnow. He knew both these kids. I believe he saw Southern on Canada Day. If you can get in, you can find out where and we can see how it fits in with what we know so far.”

  “Camilla?”

  “What?”

  “There’s so many holes in your story, I don’t know where to start counting.”

  “I’ll be busy filling in those holes. While you’re talking to people, you might fill in some of them yourself.”

  “I know you believe you’re on to something, but I have to tell you, as a police officer I can’t go out on that limb. This is pure conjecture. I’m sorry.”

  “Ray, you’re here to look for Jimmy. You can’t take a chance. You have to follow up.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t really have a choice.”

  “You just put the finger on your reporter friend, and now this is a complete about-face. I’m not going to badger Honey, and I am not going to harass a frail old man in intensive care. Try to get used to the idea.”

  “Sure. I’ll get used to it. And, Ray?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  I may have slammed the phone down. Mrs. Parnell raised her eyebrow and her glass of Harvey’s in a sympathetic salute.

  “Sometimes, Ms. MacPhee, discretion is the better part of valour.”

  “Yeah, well, discretion is not my best thing. And it’s too late for that now. What am I going to do? We’re really out of time.”

  “You can’t blame Sergeant Deveau. He doesn’t know you well.”

  “And he won’t be getting to know me any better.”

  “Let us be strategic. Who can talk to Honey?”

  “I need to think about that.”

  “Have a look at this while you’re thinking. I found a bit more background on our Mr. Southern. Mostly the theatrical stuff. Do you notice anything?” Mrs. Parnell shot a little jet of smoke in my direction.

  I said, “Just a write-up mentioning some of the activities this Southern person was involved in.” I stared at the article. It appeared to list every activity Nicholas Southern had ever taken part in. As far as I could tell they were all innocuous. “I’m surprised they don’t list sleeping seven hours a night and flossing his teeth as achievements. Are these people paid by the syllable? What are you driving at, Mrs. P.?”

  “I thought you might find the theatrical history illuminating.”

  “You’re kidding, right? And am I supposed to be really impressed that he once drove a tour bus for a summer job?”

  “Examine it closely, Ms. MacPhee.”

  I took my time, but after two rereads, I wasn’t wiser. “Out with it,” I said.

  “Look at those performances.Some Like It Hot. Victor Victoria. La Cage aux Folles. What was different about them?”

  “Sorry,” I said, “I’m not getting this. Oh. Shit. How could I miss that?”

  “Precisely, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “Men dressed as women.”

  The last piece of the puzzle. “Father Blaise said he really got into his roles. Shone on the stage.”

  • • •

  Dogs are not allowed at Bluesfest. So it took a certain amount of ingenuity to get in with Gussie. I already had the sunglasses. Gussie did a great seeing eye dog routine. I thought the white cane would come in handy anyway.

  Youth night at Bluesfest was something new. The Matthew Good Band was supposed to pull in younger crowds. A quick glance told me the tactic had worked. It was like another species. I looked around at the surging mass and saw
ten thousand reasons why I was not a youth. Body surfing was only one of them.

  Lots of the youth had cellphones. I hoped they were having better luck with them than I was. Deveau didn’t answer his. Mombourquette didn’t answer his. Alvin didn’t answer his. Mrs. Parnell didn’t answer hers. I blamed the goddam walkietalkies. I didn’t have one of those.

  P. J. didn’t answer his phone either. I hoped he wasn’t in the slammer.

  I kept leaving messages as Gussie and I wove our way through the crowds. Gussie sniffed jean legs and pulled here and there. “Find Jimmy, Gussie,” I said. Not that Gussie understood a word, but if Jimmy was near, Gussie would know.

  I looked around desperately for Platoons A, B and D. No luck.

  Like any band worth its salt, the Matthew Good Band wasn’t going to start on time. It was already dark when the tuning up on stage started. Dark enough to make the search through the crowd tricky. Even with my sunglasses off, half the crowd would have had the same basic description as Jimmy.

  Mombourquette was the first to answer his phone.

  “I guess you feel like a dope,” he said, “dating a crazed killer, and let’s not forget trashing Stan’s Buick.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Lennie, but it’s not P. J.”

  “Listen, we didn’t have enough to hold him. But we’ll get him.”

  “Get this. It’s not P. J. I never really believed it. The person you want is Nicholas Southern.”

  “What? The politician? Are you fucking nuts?”

  “It may sound crazy, but hear me out. This guy’s whole political platform is built on each person taking responsibility for his own actions. He’s always howling about the need for law and order and let’s lock up those bad guys forever. Now it turns out he was a kid in trouble with the law. If word gets out he’s not squeaky clean, the media will take him down. Think piranhas.”

  “Even supposing that’s true, no way the guy’s juvenile records will get out to the press. So if you think we’re going to hassle a would-be politician who’s in the news every friggin’ day, you’d better think again. Next you’ll be telling me here’s three good reasons to arrest the Pope. I haven’t forgotten your boyfriend, Camilla.”

  “I didn’t tell you to arrest P. J.”

  “You know what, Camilla? You cause everything bad to happen.”

  “Where’s Deveau? I need to talk to him.”

  “I don’t know where he is. Get off my phone.”

  Deveau still didn’t answer his own cellphone.

  P. J. did pick up on my third attempt. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he wasn’t interested in my theory. Or anything I had to say. There’s something about a dial tone that speaks volumes.

  I settled for joining the milling throng, craning my neck to check for Jimmy Ferguson among the thousands of excited young people jockeying for position near the Main Stage.

  Suddenly Gussie yanked so hard on the leash that I fell to my knees. I struggled, but found myself dragged away from the Main Stage. Gussie began to lope away from the crowd with me attempting to get control. Gussie’s lope grew to a gallop, and we tore up the hill towards the Acoustic stage. Gussie was obviously aiming towards a figure running ahead, dodging and tripping.

  Another person streaked along after the first. Neither one wore the red baseball cap designating Platoon A, B or D. I knew the first runner was Jimmy. I was just as certain that the second figure was Nicholas Southern.

  Up the hill the huge swooping sail of the Acoustic tent dominated the view. There was nothing and no one near it. A bus with images of a band was parked off to the side, probably packed with sound gear. Maybe there would be musicians or roads near it. Maybe there’d be help there. On any other night, the hill would have been packed with people, but tonight, they were all clustered by the Main Stage. The security people would be working that area, keeping the kids from leaping onto the stage, keeping control. No sign of them in this area.

  I ran like hell to reach Jimmy. Gussie helped. I shrieked Jimmy’s name. But by this time the band had launched into its opening number and the crowd was screaming louder.

  I gasped raggedly as we tore up the hill, tripping on rocks, divots, paper cups. Racing to head off the killer. Far ahead Jimmy Ferguson tripped and turned a terrified white face behind him.

  My hands shook as I pulled out the cellphone and dialled 911. The dispatcher knew who Jimmy Ferguson was.

  “There are police on site. Send them to the Acoustic tent.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “The Acoustic tent,” I screamed.

  “You’ll have to speak louder.”

  Gussie yanked hard, and I fell flat on my face. I dropped the cellphone and the cane as I clung to Gussie’s lead.

  Jimmy had vanished. So had Nicholas Southern. There was nowhere they could be but in the Acoustic tent. Gussie pulled, I followed. Up onto the stage.

  I yelled a message meant for two sets of ears. Even this far from the Main Stage, the band was clear and loud.

  “Nicholas, leave Jimmy alone. You can’t kill us all.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” came the voice behind me.

  I froze but managed to say,” But why?”

  “Because I have something important to do. I am going to make a difference in politics. I am going to the top. And I am not going to let you little pissants stop me. You’re in my way, and you’re not important. Hello, Jimmy.”

  I whipped around, expecting Jimmy but seeing only the empty stage. The sky exploded. A sharp blow to the back of the head will do that. I don’t remember falling off the stage, but I must have hit the wooden stage stairs head on.

  Hard to say how long I was out. When I staggered to my feet, the stage was empty. Blood seeped into my eyes. No sign of Jimmy. Gussie was gone too. I pushed my way up onto the stage. The floor and sides were painted dead black, so I clattered around in the dark, tripping over the onstage cable covers.

  I tried to control my breathing and listen. I thought I heard whimpering, ragged breathing nearby.

  Jimmy? Should I call his name? If he answered would that alert Nicholas Southern?

  We are each responsible for our own actions. Fair enough, Nicholas, but which actions? If I drew attention to Jimmy, would that draw Southern to him too?

  There has to be a plan. Think, think.

  I wasn’t sure of the shape at the back of the stage area. I felt my way around, trying not to miss anything. My head swam. Silver dots danced in my eyes. Cover the area. Left to right and back. Doesn’t matter if you go over some ground again.

  Right to left. Left to right.

  Wipe blood off face with sleeve.

  Right to left. Left to right.

  Why not a scrap of light?

  Slowly, painfully, I crept until finally, I felt the warm, trembling body. Heard the terror in the sob.

  “It’s okay, Jimmy,” I whispered. “We’re going to be all right. This time it will be all right.”

  I only wished I believed it.

  Gussie licked my hand. From somewhere to my left, I heard the roar of an engine.

  Police? No.

  A truck? A fire truck maybe?

  I knew what it had to be. My heart sank. Nicholas was back. With the bus.

  The floor shuddered as the bus hit the supports of the tent. I wasn’t sure how stable those tent posts were. Jimmy shook.

  “Come on, guys, we’re getting out of here,” I yelled.

  The next slam of the truck must have caused the structure to sag. I heard the high whine of the bus. What, in reverse? Then a loud pop as the cable anchoring the structure snapped. The heavy vinyl sail sagged. The metal studs groaned. More snapping from outside, and then the whoosh as the vinyl tent roof sank slowly to the stage. I fought for breath.

  The bus rammed the side again and again. Was he crazy? Did he think no one would see him knocking down the Acoustic tent with a frigging bus?

  It appeared that he did.

  What difference did i
t make? We were dead anyway.

  My keys dug into my leg as the heavy canvas and supports pressed our bodies down. We were trapped. What good were keys with no door and no way out? It was almost funny.

  Wait. Think.

  I felt until I found the Swiss Army knife. Struggled to find the right blade. Not the corkscrew. Not the goddam stupid little scissors. The knife blade. Struggled to open it. Pushed with all my might to cut through the vinyl without breaking the blade.

  Outside, the slow crush of the bus continued. Back and forth. Southern had nothing to lose at this stage and everything to gain by wiping out Jimmy and me. Finally, I managed to work a medium sized split in the canvas. A speck of light appeared. I sliced, pushed, forced the hole larger.

  The bus hit again with a thunderous crash. The rest of the supports were going.

  “Get through, Jimmy,” I yelled. “Push. Get through.”

  We tumbled through and out onto the hillside. I had Jimmy by the collar. I’d be goddamed if I’d let him get away again. A yelp told me I had Gussie’s tail.

  We rolled.

  No one heard. But someone saw. The bus rumbled toward us, down the hill. Zigging. Zagging.

  Somewhere through the racket and the pain in my head I heard voices. People. Banging. Shouting. People reached out.

  “Jimmy! Jimmy.”

  “Oh, shit, are they dead?”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

  I heard the crackle of walkie-talkies, voices, loud voices. Someone lifted me.

  “Help Jimmy,” I said, staggering around.

  I heard Deveau’s voice. “Jimmy’s okay.”

  “And Gussie?”

  “Gussie too.”

  “Good.”

  “How about you? Gonna make it?”

  “Yes. Where’s Nicholas Southern?”

  “Where he should be.”

  I thought I knew what he meant by that, but I can’t say it bothered me.

  In the background, unbelievably, the music played on.

  Thirty-Two

  Jimmy’s EEGs and neurological tests show some damage, probably caused by a lack of medication and the immense stress of his ten days on the loose. We can only assume he suffered several seizures. Only time will tell the long term impact. The phrase the doctors use is cautious optimism. Who knows how much help he’ll need to get over his ordeal, but his family will make sure he gets it.