‘Mr Travis? I’m Howard Franks, day manager of the nursing home. I gather Nancy’s gone missing.’
Brandon rose from the chair he was sitting in to take Franks’ outstretched hand, but lost his footing on the slippery floor and fell back heavily into the chair. ‘Let me give you a hand there,’ Franks said, automatically sweeping the foyer with his eyes for signs warning that the floor was wet. They were still there, thank God, so no lawsuit to be feared from Travis on this score. He led the overweight man to his office and phoned for coffee.
‘Have you had a long journey, Mr Travis?’
‘I have,’ Brandon answered. ‘I’ve come from Clarksdale, Mississippi, and travelled here by bus. It took two days! Two days of waiting in bus stations with vagrants and riding with trailer trash. Do you think I enjoyed that?
‘I did it for my sister, Mr Franks; did it out of love for her. I don’t have much in my life these days – certainly not money – but I’ve always had Nancy. But now I don’t even have her because you’ve gone and fucking lost her – and, God dammit, you were being paid good money to look after her. I want an explanation, Mr Franks, and I’ll also want recompense for the mental anguish I’m now experiencing. Do I make myself clear?’
Franks got the message loud and clear – after all, it was a money message. ‘There was an incident here this morning, Mr Travis, and it’s possible that in the confusion Nancy might have slipped out of Oaklands unnoticed – but she won’t have gotten far. I feel confident she’ll be back in her own bed by nightfall.’ Brandon looked at him sceptically.
‘There is one thing. It might just be a coincidence, Mr Travis, but this morning your sister was visited by some other relatives: Homer and Ruby Comer. Do you know them?’
‘I know them,’ Brandon said surprised, ‘but unless they came to haunt her, I don’t know what they’d be doing here.’
‘Why do you say that, Mr Travis?’
‘Because they’ve both been dead thirty years, Mr Franks!’
The day manager arranged for a taxi to take Brandon and his small rucksack to a nearby hotel, while he called the police and enquiries were made into the true identities of Homer and Ruby Comer. It would take the police a few days to pinpoint Eugene Chaney III as a person of interest. According to the visitor’s log, a man named E Chaney had previously visited Nancy at the nursing home, but had left no address. It took time for them to equate the name in the register with that of Dr Eugene Chaney III, and it was only after it was established that Chaney himself was missing from his home address – a dead dog in his wake – that the pieces started to fall into place.
If Pennsylvania had a new missing persons’ case to contend with, California had an older one – and this pertained to Eric Gole. After Eric hadn’t returned to school by Monday lunchtime, Mrs Armitage had phoned his guardian. William Strey had been unaware that Eric had even been home for the weekend, and was totally ignorant of any memorial service for his parents. He made calls – to Arthur Annandale and The Reverend Pete – and then called Mrs Armitage back: there had been no memorial service and neither had anyone seen Eric. ‘Do you think he’s run away?’ he asked.
‘IT’S RATHER LOOKING THAT WAY, MR STREY. I THINK I SHOULD CALL THE POLICE.’
Strey always had to strain to understand anything Mrs Armitage said on the phone and misheard her: ‘Who’s the priest,’ he asked. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘NOT PRIEST, MR STREY, POLICE.’
Strey still had to think about the difference between the two words she pronounced, but eventually understood. ‘Of course, Mrs Armitage: a sensible idea. Keep me informed will you, and please give them my details. This is worrying. The boy doesn’t know it, but he’s worth a small fortune. I just hope to God he hasn’t been kidnapped.’ Mrs Armitage shuddered at the thought, and phoned the San Francisco police department even more concerned.
The detective assigned to the case was John Cooper, and his experience told him that Eric had run away rather than been kidnapped – as Strey had suggested. He arranged a meeting of all interested parties to be held at Talbot Academy on the Wednesday evening. In attendance, were Mrs Armitage, William Strey, Arthur Annandale and The Reverend Pete.
‘It’s clear to me that Eric planned his disappearance and planned it carefully,’ he told them. ‘He gave the school three weeks’ notice he’d be away for the weekend, and also concocted a clever reason for his absence – a memorial service for his parents. Straightaway, that gave him a three-day jump on anyone wanting to follow him. The questions we have to answer are two. One: why did he want to run away; and two: where did he plan to go? First, however, can someone please explain to me why a boy with normal hearing was placed in a school for the deaf? This particular aspect of the case puzzles me.’
Strey and Armitage explained the unusual circumstances that had led to Eric’s initial enrolment and continued presence at Talbot Academy. ‘Do you think he was happy here?’ Cooper asked them, ‘Because I don’t.’ They avoided the detective’s gaze, but admitted that he probably wasn’t.
‘Okay, then,’ Cooper continued. ‘We know that Eric was unhappy. He’d been recently orphaned and then stuck in a school for the deaf, where he appears to have had no close friends. Am I right in thinking this, Mrs Armitage?’ Mrs Armitage nodded. ‘So, he decides to run away and, if I’m honest, I can’t say that I blame the boy. But where does he go? Do any of you know of any friends or relatives Eric might have?’
‘He has a distant uncle in New York,’ Annandale said, ‘but he’s a ne’er-do-well and I’d be surprised if Eric had gone looking for him.’
‘What do you mean by ne’er-do-well, Mr Annandale?’ Cooper asked.
‘A good-for-nothing, an idler,’ Annandale answered.
‘I know what the damn word means! What I want to know is why you describe him this way.’
‘Well, Detective Cooper, he couldn’t come to Eric’s parents’ funeral because he was in prison at the time, and the letter he wrote Eric was just plain strange, ungodly almost.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
Annandale checked his notes. ‘His name’s Jeff Lawrence and the return address on the envelope was the Lyon Mt Correctional Facility.’ Cooper made a note of this.
‘We need to send out a description of Eric. I’ll need a recent photograph, but what are his distinguishing features, things that might help people recognise him?’
‘He’s thirteen but looks nearer ten,’ Strey said. ‘And his hands are unusually wet.’
Cooper paused from taking notes and looked at Strey. ‘Do you honestly believe he’ll be travelling around the country shaking hands with people? Do you think he’s on a book tour or something?’
Strey shrugged. ‘I was just trying to be helpful, Detective Cooper. I don’t think there’s any call for sarcasm.’
‘IT MIGHT BE WORTH MENTIONING THAT HE MAY BE MASQUERADING AS A HEARING-IMPAIRED PERSON,’ Mrs Armitage said.
‘I’ll write down deaf for that,’ Cooper said. ‘No disrespect intended, Mrs Armitage, but if I write down hearing impaired, Joe Public’s going to be looking for some kid with no ears. I’m afraid you always have to cater to the lowest common denominator when you write descriptions like this.’
Despite Cooper’s energy and determination, the investigation into Eric’s disappearance ground to a halt. Although the taxi driver remembered dropping Eric off near Union Square, and ticket clerks in San Francisco and Sacramento remembered selling one-way tickets to a boy matching Eric’s description, the trail petered out in Roseville. The uncle that Annandale had mentioned, told police sent to question him that he hadn’t seen Eric since taking him to a Paul McCartney concert five years ago, and the prison’s visiting log appeared to confirm this.
Seated at his desk that Monday afternoon, Cooper surmised that the boy could be anywhere. That Eric was about to approach Three Top Mountain with another runaway five times his age, never even crossed his mind.
The Fire Towe
r
Doc was about to light another cigarette when he saw Jack and Eric returning. He placed it carefully back in the pack and climbed on to the bus.
‘There was a poster of Eric at the entrance to the services building,’ Jack said. ‘It’s not the greatest of likenesses and the boy’s not happy with it.’
‘It makes me look stupid!’ Eric protested.
‘Jesus!’ Doc said. ‘It’s not for your school yearbook, Eric! Thank God it is a poor likeness. Did anyone take an interest in him?’
‘No. Most people just walk past those things, and his cycle helmet disguises his features. To be on the safe side though, I think we should buy some hair dye – that white-blonde hair of his is too distinctive. I didn’t know he was a runaway, did you?’
‘Not until a few minutes ago,’ Doc said.
They exited the interstate at US 11 and headed east towards the small town of Edinburg. There they left the highway and climbed into the George Washington National Forest. The road wound through dense woodland, its curves tight. They turned off on to a minor road and then on to an even more minor road. The hard surface turned to gravel, the gradients became steeper and the bends sharper.
‘Are you sure about this, Bob?’ Doc asked. ‘These roads don’t seem suited for a vehicle this size.’
‘Sure I sure. Jus’ gotta take care, is all. Make us a few three-point turns here an’ there. It’ll be worth it, man. You see if it ain’t.’
Doc looked at the milometer on the bus and then at his watch. They’d travelled only twenty-two miles since leaving the interstate, and it had taken them close to an hour-and-a-half. ‘How much further, is it?’ he asked.
‘’Bout a mile,’ Bob replied. He was right, but it would be another thirty minutes before he drew the bus to a halt and applied the handbrake.
‘How do you know about this fire tower?’ Jack asked him.
‘Stumbled on it. I lived in these parts fo’ a while, an’ me an’ a frien’ used to ride out in the country when we got the chance.’
‘What exactly did you ride out on?’ Doc asked.
‘A motorcycle,’ Bob said, hurriedly climbing out of the bus. Doc stared after him, a look of disbelief on his face.
It was decided that Doc and Nancy would sleep in the bottom bunks of the bus’s two-tier compartments. These beds had the advantage of greater headroom over the three-tier coffin bunks and would, Doc argued, lessen the likelihood of Nancy getting claustrophobia. At Eric’s request, it was agreed that he would sleep in the bunk Susan had written her initials on at the top of one of the three tiers; Jack would sleep two bunks below him and Bob would take the bunk opposite Jack.
Once these arrangements had been settled, Bob took two large pizzas from the fridge and mixed a salad of greens and tomatoes with a dressing of oil and vinegar. Doc excused himself, and used the time to examine the medicines Bob had procured: pills and capsules of all shapes, sizes and colours, small phials of clear liquids and syringes. He read the leaflets carefully; made notes in a pad he carried with him and figured out a regimen he hoped would keep Nancy on an even keel. He then re-joined the group in the larger lounge, closest to the kitchen.
‘Soun’s like a piece o’ work, yo’ wife,’ Bob said. ‘Why you stay with her fo’ so long, man? I’da hightailed it.’
‘The boy,’ Jack answered. ‘Even though the two of us weren’t exactly buddies, I thought maybe one day we would be. You know, father and son going fishing together – that kind of thing.’
‘Did it happen?’
‘No. It never happened because Laura didn’t want it to happen. She went out of her way to keep us distant. There was maybe one time when I thought I was getting through to Conrad and then, out of nowhere, he gets this postcard from his dead hamster.’
‘What you talkin’ ’bout, man? How can a dead hamster write a pos’card?’
‘Because Laura wrote it for him!’
‘You need to explain it from the beginnin’, Jack. I’m lost, an’ I suspec’ ever’one else is, too. You know what he’s talkin’ ’bout, Gene?’ Doc indicated he didn’t.
‘Conrad had this hamster,’ Jack began, ‘and he called it Bingo. He’d had it for about six months when it died, and you might guess that I was the only one in the house when it happened.
‘Laura and Conrad were out of town that weekend, visiting some friend of hers who was supposedly feeling lonely. I didn’t want the hamster smelling up the house and I didn’t want Conrad seeing it dead, either, so I did what anyone would have done. I wrapped it in bubble wrap and put it in the next door’s garbage can.’
‘Why the neighbour’s?’ Doc asked.
‘Because if I’d put it in ours, Conrad would have gone rummaging for it and probably tried to give it the kiss of life. God knows what kind of disease he might have caught.
‘So they get back and I tell them what’s happened, and they both break down in tears as if a person had died! I tell you, if it had been me that had died, they probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid and just got on with their lives. And what’s more, they both looked at me as if I’d killed Bingo!
‘Three weeks later, Conrad gets this postcard and I can still remember it word for word:
Dear Conrad: This is Bingo writing to you. Although
I’m dead now, I wanted you to know that I enjoyed living
with you and your mother. I didn’t like your father though,
and he was the one that killed me. All the best, Bingo.
‘That’s just plain mean,’ Nancy said, who had somehow managed to follow Jack’s story. ‘Accusing you of killing the boy’s pet. That’s awful.’
‘Exactly!’ Jack said. ‘She had no way of knowing.’
‘So, you did kill it? I thought you said you didn’.’ Bob said.
‘Only indirectly,’ Jack replied.
‘Jeez!’
‘Don’t you start, Doc. Hell, you just killed a dog, for God’s sakes!’
‘Mercy killing,’ Doc said quickly, when he saw that all eyes had moved to him. ‘So, what happened, Jack?’ The eyes, as Doc had hoped, returned to Jack.
‘You don’t know what it was like living in that house. No one does. When it was just Laura and me, it was pretty much level-pegging. But then Conrad comes along and the pecking order changes: first Laura, then Conrad, then me. And then Laura buys a cat and the pecking order changes again: first, Laura, then Conrad, then Perseus and then me. That was bad enough, but then Conrad got Bingo and I slipped another rung down the ladder, and I was damned if I was going to play second fiddle to a hamster!
‘The weekend they were away, I opened the door to Bingo’s cage and then the front door of the house. I figured he’d shuffle his fat ass out of the house and find himself a new home somewhere else. But he didn’t. Instead he toddled off into the kitchen and climbed into the clothes dryer where I’d just put a pair of sneakers I’d washed – probably mistook it for a larger version of the wheel he had in his cage. Believe me, I had no idea he was in there, and any noise he might have made was drowned by the tumbling of the sneakers.’
‘This ain’t gonna end well, is it?’ Bob smiled.
‘No,’ Jack said. ‘My sneakers got completely messed up. I had to throw them away.’
‘I think Bob was referring to the hamster,’ Doc said.
‘Do we have to do this, Jack?’ Eric asked. The meal had ended and Jack was applying black dye to Eric’s hair.
‘You’re a man on the run, Eric, and we have to take precautions. If someone recognised you and stopped you from finding Susan, how would you feel then? Now keep still and keep your eyes closed.’
‘But what if it stays this colour?’
‘It won’t. Your hair will grow back its normal shade. You’ve got good hair, too: thick and strong. I might borrow it sometime.’
Eric smiled. ‘You say silly things, Jack. You can’t borrow someone else’s hair.’
Jack took a towel and wrapped it around Eric’s head. They went to the loung
e and sat next to each other on one of the couches.
‘Did you like being a weatherman, Jack?’ Eric asked.
‘I like weather, but I didn’t enjoy being a weatherman. Weathermen are always made out to be clowns.’
‘Clowns scare me,’ Eric said. ‘I’m going to be a postman when I grow up.’
‘Why a postman?’
‘Because I’d bring people happiness every day: birthday cards and Christmas cards, letters from friends and presents.’
Eric had seemingly no concept of the rest of the mail he’d be delivering, Jack thought: utility bills, traffic fines, court summonses, tax demands, divorce papers and unwanted junk mail. ‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll become a postman, too. I’ve nothing else planned. Maybe we could become postmen together.’
Eric smiled.
‘Keep an eye on Nancy, will you, Jack? If she wakes up, tell her I’ve gone for a walk with Bob. I’ll be back soon.’
Doc and Bob left the bus and climbed the metal stairs of the fire tower. The views had long since disappeared, but the distant lights and stars above made the ascent worthwhile.
‘Pity we didn’ get here while it was light, Gene – views is special. You cain’t see nothin’ now, but the Shenandoah Valley’s down there, an’ also the seven bends o’ the North Fork River. You can see the Appalachians an’ the Blue Ridge Mountains, too.’
‘Maybe we’ll get a chance in the morning,’ Doc said. ‘How’s Marsha, by the way? She okay with you being here?’
‘She fine ’bout it. Next time you visit though, she gonna sit you down an’ give you lessons on telephone manners. Ev’dently, yo’s ain’t up to much.’
Doc smiled. ‘Did you tell her what we were doing?’
‘Kept it vague, man. Tol’ her we was jus’ helpin’ out an ol’ friend. No need fo’ her to worry.’
The common denominator in Doc and Bob’s early friendship had been Nancy, but Nancy was now an insoluble puzzle and the conversation turned to her. ‘Still looks good, don’t she?’ Bob said. ‘Hard to b’lieve, she ain’t right.’
Last Bus to Coffeeville Page 29