Impulse

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Well, this extremely experienced woman of indeterminate age is experiencing the effects of severe exhaustion.”

  Frank got out, removed his bags from the trunk, and was surprised to see what he assumed must be a bellman. Hotels, in his experience, did not usually provide such frills. He handed his bags to the man, who, shirt unbuttoned and worrying a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, accepted Frank’s dollar tip with a grunt and disappeared into the hotel carrying only one of the two bags. Frank walked around to the driver’s side door.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll check with Elizabeth Roulx in the archives. That will take most of the morning. How about you work your charms on your connected people and see if you can get your hands on the police reports.”

  She nodded and then wagged her finger at him, to come closer. “Thank you for a wonderful day. I think your grandchildren are adorable. Do you think they liked me?”

  “They thought you were spectacular. Tooth wanted to know where you got your hair dyed white. He said he’d like to have his dyed that way, too. I think he wants to be a trend setter.”

  “What did you tell him?” she said, grinning.

  “That he’d have to wait until he was older. He pouted for a while. Apparently that’s the answer he gets for everything he wants to do—from skydiving to scuba. Jesse told him he was dumb. That you didn’t have your hair dyed, you just had ‘old hair.’”

  “Experienced hair. Well, I’m flattered, but if I could exchange this mop for his chestnut curls, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Okay, I’ve got to go.” She leaned toward the open window. He hesitated, smiled, and kissed her. She kissed him back.

  “Tomorrow. We’ll meet back here for lunch and swap information.”

  “What time tomorrow? Never mind, call me.” She drove off.

  Frank watched her roll down the ramp and onto the street, picked up his remaining suitcase, walked into the lobby, and checked in. The clerk took his credit card, fussed with the computer keyboard, and frowned. Frank hoped that didn’t mean anything. Clerks have a habit of studying their computer monitors like they’re on the brink of discovering the unified theory of the universe. The clerk raised his eyes, head nodding like a bobble head doll, and assigned him a room. When Frank asked, he assured him that they did indeed have a business center where he could use a computer. Instructions on how to use his key card to access it, the faxes, and the Internet were printed on the inside of the key folder which he handed Frank. There would be a charge of course. He raised his eyebrows slightly when Frank asked for two key cards, but swiped them without asking any questions.

  Rooms in motels and hotels, particularly chains, have a predictable sameness that for travelers on the road for long periods can sometimes cause clinical depression. A hotel can be a Sheraton one year and a Ramada the next as its owner plays franchise checkers, but that fact will go largely unnoticed by his guests, unless they prefer one shampoo choice over another. Frank inspected his room. He found it unremarkable from dozens he’d stayed in before. It had two double beds, a television set on cable with pay per view movies, a small refrigerator, a coffee maker, and a safe. He figured they all might come in handy. He would give Rosemary a shopping list and stock up on goodies. He might save time and a little money eating in once in a while.

  He dug his phone charger out of his bag and plugged it in. He opened the phone. A phone call might just shake something loose. Could they trace a cell phone call? He couldn’t remember. He wrote about that in one of his books, Lying Distance, and at the time, you couldn’t, but time changes things. He unpacked and flopped full length on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

  The phone woke him.

  “You’re in and settled?” Rosemary, sounding a little fresher.

  He cleared his throat and tried to sound wide awake. “I’m good,” he said. The clock read nine-thirty. He hadn’t had dinner and his stomach sent him angry messages about it. “I’m just going out to get a bite to eat. Sorry you can’t join me.”

  “I’m still working on those hot dogs, thank you. I may be at it all night. Next time you decide to invite me to one of your Boy Scout outings, remind me to pack a lunch.”

  He chuckled. “Everybody needs a stadium dog at least once a year. They are a metaphor for life in the twenty-first century. They taste wonderful, you’re sure you can manage any and all on your plate, and five hours later, you have heartburn for decisions made without reflection.”

  “Deep, very deep. Who knew how my life would be enriched when I met the famous author? But if it’s all the same with you, I’ll skip the metaphors for the nonce and say goodnight. See you tomorrow.”

  The hotel did not have a restaurant but it did offer a continental breakfast. Otherwise, guests were on their own, to drive to the mall a half-mile away, or to any of the several eateries in the area, or use the chain restaurant next door. Frank hoped it was still open. The thought of eating out of vending machines did not appeal to him.

  It wasn’t.

  He managed to extract a limp Danish packaged in a cellophane wrapper from a vending machine, made a pot of in-room coffee, and washed it down without cream. He sighed, realizing that with the caffeine and the hours he’d slept since he checked in, the likelihood he’d go to sleep was remote. He took the elevator to the lobby and found the business center.

  The computer beeped to life after he swiped his key card in the slot on its monitor. He stared at the screen and then found a search engine that would take him to the Arizona newspapers. He tried the latest editions of several. None mentioned anything about him or Sandy. The development must have been too recent, he thought, to make the Sunday edition. He’d have to try the next day. He remembered Rosemary’s complete set of print-outs about the missing boys. She said she got them off the Internet. He probed the Arizona Republic web site for an hour, trying to find a way into their archives without any success. How did she do it? He thought about calling her. Half past ten, too late. He’d have to ask her tomorrow.

  Back in his room he spread the reports she’d downloaded on the bed. He arranged them in chronological order and began to read. He concentrated on the pages for two hours, stopping only to visit the vending machines for more drinks and crackers. From time to time he jotted a note, a short sentence constructing a rough outline of the events that afternoon long ago. At midnight, he pulled the papers back into a single pile, folded them, and put them in the shallow safe with his notes.

  Somewhere in the thousands of words he’d read there had to be a clue, something that would steer him in the right direction. He turned on the television, keeping the volume low, and switched to the headline news channel. He noticed that as he grew older, the news seemed to have become repetitive. Politicians postured and pointed fingers. People were shot, robbed, raped, and abused. Folks wrecked their cars or other people’s cars. They did so because they were drunk, too old to be driving, too young to be driving, or just plain stupid. He wished the newscast would run a stupidity index with stories instead of attempting to make them into an investigative exposé. A man nearly killed himself diving off an eighty-foot rock ledge into a lake somewhere. The ledge stood at least twenty feet back from the water’s edge, another ten from water deep enough to dive in. Clearly, a candidate for a Darwin award. Guys like that couldn’t be good for the gene pool.

  The international news included a report from some polling company indicating the popularity of the United States had waned significantly in France. Nothing new there—Freedom Fries, that’s the answer. Frank watched with glazed eyes, feeling sleepy but still hungry.

  The carefully coifed and smiling anchorman reported on the results of the latest government study which showed that one quarter of the United States population suffered from mental illness at some level. Frank snorted. “That,” he said to the TV screen, “is six dollar bullshit. It is the inevitable outcome of a self-absorbed society wallowing in self-diagnosis and excuse making. Fifty years ago….” He stopped in mid-rant. Old age speak
ing. When would he learn that this generation did not care what happened fifty years, thirty years, even ten years ago? History held no meaning for them—that was then, this is now—the mantra for a generation who, Frank believed, would be well advised to learn Chinese.

  The talking head, expression earnest, smile sincere, went on to declare that in Elkhart, Indiana, two boys were nearly killed when some scaffolding they were climbing on collapsed and left them dangling fifty feet in the air. They’d broken into a deserted construction site and saw the rigging as a huge jungle gym. Only the quick thinking of a third boy, who called 9-1-1 on his cell phone, kept the incident from becoming a tragedy. Frank had been eight years old before his family had a telephone at all, and it was a party line at that. But this kid had his own cell phone? What kind of society thinks it needs to equip a nine-year-old with a cell phone? I am getting old, he thought, old and bitter. I need to lighten up. The effects of an afternoon in the sun finally hit him. He stabbed the remote at the television to turn it off and went to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Felix Darnell and Brad Stark met Frank outside the building that housed the school’s archives. Since he hadn’t told anyone except Elizabeth Roulx he intended to do some research, he guessed she must have given them a heads-up. Darnell wore a smile that could have deep-fried a bushel of potatoes. Stark, on the other hand, showed no expression at all. His eyes were on Darnell, not Frank.

  A pair of sharks, Frank thought, circling an old white whale. Moby Dick, that’s me, Ahab’s nemesis—or maybe Ledezma’s—or maybe I have it backward. Does Ledezma have the harpoon or do I? Hard to say who’s pursuing whom. We are two fencers, thrusting and parrying, each after the same thing but unwilling to help the other get it. Capone and Ness…stop! That’s way too many metaphors for one paragraph. A writer’s curse, he thought. He smiled at his hosts and shook their hands.

  “Dr. Darnell, nice of you to come. Not necessary, of course. I only want to sit for a few hours and read through some of your news clippings, yearbooks, that sort of thing.”

  Darnell maintained his smile, but his words came out cool, sober. “I hope,” he said, “that you understand the seriousness of this project. Scott is known for its academic excellence and the care we provide our students. I would hate to think of what might happen to the school and to the families involved if this were all to be dragged out into the open again.” He reconfigured his face to an appropriate seriousness.

  “The gist of what you are not quite saying is—you don’t want me to write a book about whatever I find, is that right?”

  “Well, of course, the decision to do something like that is entirely yours, and I would not want to give the appearance of influencing it, but—”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll change the name of the school.”

  “Well….” Darnell looked doubtful. Evidently his attorney told him any attempt to stop a book or sue subsequently for damages to the school’s reputation would be a stretch. He should try persuasion instead. “Could you put us, that is, this fictional school, in another state?”

  “I could do that. On the other hand, it might work better if readers were left to guess.” No sense letting the guy off the hook too easily.

  “If you don’t figure this out,” Stark cut in, “what then? I mean, a lot of people have come through here trying to untangle this mystery and none have ever succeeded. These were professional people, real detectives, not….But it doesn’t stop people from trying. We’ve even been on television—unsolved mysteries, cold case files, that sort of thing. So what are your chances?”

  “Listen, would it matter so much if I didn’t? I write fiction. The mystery of the missing boys is a great plot device whether I figure this one out or not. I don’t have to solve it to write about it, and the truth of the matter? I am not very sanguine about sorting this one out, frankly. It’s been twenty-five years and, as you say, better minds than mine have tried and failed. But I am intrigued by its possibilities, and as a mystery junkie, I think, however remotely, it’s possible. So there we are.”

  Darnell’s face collapsed into worry. Stark, on the other hand, looked relieved. Relieved about what, Frank wondered. That the book might not be written after all? Not likely. That the mystery wouldn’t be solved? Why would that be good news to him? He’s their fund raiser and public relations flack, of course. Frank realized he would need to come back to Brad Stark and his peculiar take on solving the mystery—a challenge he had been party to in the first place.

  “How about this: if I write the book and name Scott, I’ll assign fifty percent of the royalties to the school.” Now he had them. Like the Godfather, he’d made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. If they had any ethical sense, they could. But he guessed they had none. He’d put the bloody horse’s head in their bed.

  Darnell cleared his throat. He’d developed a tic in his right eye. “Well, in that case….” His voice trailed off. Stark paled. Frank turned and descended the steps into the basement.

  The Scott Academy archives were located in the lower level of the Upper School girl’s dormitory. Elizabeth Roulx met him in the small space that served as a work area. Darnell excused himself, claiming the press of business. He left Stark to oversee Frank’s studies. The room, or more properly, the basement, smelled of damp and old paper. A small gray steel desk, the sort you see in government offices, sat in one corner. Frank pulled up a chair and arranged his legal pad with handful of pencils neatly in its center. Stark settled in a chair across the desk from Frank. Elizabeth Roulx took Frank’s itemized list from him and went to search for the items he’d requested. Stark spent the next hour interrupting all Frank’s efforts to read. Finally, in exasperation, Frank asked him to leave. Stark looked genuinely startled and started to protest. Elizabeth Roulx, who witnessed it all, assured him she’d be happy to stay with Frank. Stark’s face reddened with embarrassment or anger, Frank couldn’t be sure which, and he huffed out.

  He thanked her and she winked. “They want something from you, you know.”

  “Well, I did make them an offer, but if its real money they’re after, they may have to wait.”

  He turned his attention to a small stack of clippings. They were the same stories Rosemary had pulled from the Internet, except for the pictures. He studied the grainy likenesses, four boys, three age twelve, one age eleven. He wondered about their parents, how they must have felt in that awful moment when the realization their sons were gone for good finally hit them. How they must have felt then, and perhaps even now, knowing there would be no body, no closure—ever. He knew something about that. Without a body, you just never know. Somewhere, some mother or father may still be harboring hopes that…what were their names?…That Teddy or Ned or Tom or Bobby would come walking through the door—knowing it wouldn’t happen but hoping anyway. He pushed away a vision of Sandy Smith. She wouldn’t be coming through his door either.

  “Are the parents of any of these boys still around?”

  “The father of one is. Aaron Sands teaches music in the middle school.”

  “Mrs. Sands?”

  “She couldn’t take it, apparently. She left him. I think she lives in Towson. I don’t think she remarried and so she should be easy to find. I will tell you now, Aaron will not discuss this—period.”

  “Anyone else on the faculty then still here?”

  “Marvin Parker. His wife left him that year. Nobody knows why. I don’t think there is any connection, but you never know. There were rumors about an affair, but no facts. And to answer your question, no, we don’t have her address. He might know where his wife went, though, if you need to speak to her.”

  “I doubt it. I’d like to talk to him and to Sands, though. Can that be arranged?”

  She said she’d try, and Frank returned to his clippings. He found nothing new or interesting in them and turned to the yearbook. Scott produced an impressive annual, paid for in large part by businesses owned by the students’ parents. He leafed through its
pages. Each class had a group picture. Young men—boys in blue-gray woolen dress uniforms and those awful choker collars he remembered—picture day. They were seated or standing in neat rows on bleachers set up for the occasion. He read the names of the sixth grade students, Robert Sands, Thomas Richardson, and Edward Sparks. The fourth boy he found on the previous page with the fifth graders, Theodore Krantz—Bobby, Tommy, Ned, and Ted. He picked up the next year’s book. Same pictures, same bleachers, same smiles. But new boys with different names had taken their places.

  Frank thought about his brother. How the yearbook put together the year after he died must have looked—short one smiling face. No mention of his death. No indication he’d ever existed. He resisted the temptation to find his yearbook and look for Jack. Enough was enough. He opened the first book again and studied the fifth and sixth grades, flipping the pages back and forth, reading names, studying faces. It took him three tries with the sixth grade picture before he found it. Bradford Stark with a brooding, familiar face stood at one end of the third tier.

  “Stark never told me he knew these boys.”

  Elizabeth looked up from her papers. “Stark? Yes, I guess he must have. I never really thought about it, but yes, his father taught here for a while and he would have known the boys. I gather there was a pack of them—all campus kids. You should talk to Stark.”

  A pack of them. Frank had run in a pack when he was their age. George and Kim and Mike were his pack. And Jack.

  “Yes, I will. I wonder what else he would rather I didn’t know.” Frank leafed through the remainder of the book. He set it aside and then pulled it back. Another picture had caught his eye as the book fell shut. Senior pictures. Dexter Light.

  “My, my, now there’s an irony.”

  “How’s that?”