“Where’s your stupid little notebook?” she asks.
“I told you, I write in it after you leave.”
“Since when?”
“I just do.”
“Where is it right now?”
“I think it fell under the bed. Might be stuck between the bed and the wall.”
“Move aside, I’ll find it for you.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
“Better find it fast or you’ll forget what to write,” she says, deciding to drop it, at least for now. She has to go.
As she turns to leave, he says, “Wait.”
She stops. “What?”
“The boy,” he says. “What’s up with the boy?”
She is confused for a moment, unsure which boy he’s referring to. His stepson, or the one who’s caused them so much trouble lately. She decides on an answer that covers all the bases.
“Everything’s under control,” the woman says. “We’re doing our best to sort things out.”
“Maybe,” the man says, allowing a naive sliver of hope to creep into his voice, “it’s a good thing, what happened. I mean, it might mean things will change.” He smiles at her with those gray teeth. “I could use a change.”
“No,” she says. “It doesn’t mean that at all.”
Ten
He was always on my mind. It was true all through this period, but even now, after all this time, that’s still the case. Almost like a low-pitched hum, no matter what you’re doing, that’s always there in the background.
I thought about what he was like, the things we did together. Moments. Mental snapshots. Some of the memories were pleasant, some less so. Some of them were like signposts along a journey.
When Scott was eight, the school called because he’d been in a fight with another boy. Donna couldn’t get away from work, but I was between jobs, so I headed over. I found him sitting on a bench in the office, staring down into his lap, his legs just barely long enough to touch the floor with the tips of his sneakers. He was swinging his feet back and forth.
“Hey,” I said, and he looked up. His eyes were red, but he was not crying at that moment. I sat down beside him, our thighs touching, and he leaned into me.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said.
“Start from the beginning.”
“Mickey Farnsworth threw a rock at a car and I told the teacher. She told me she was busy and I guess she forgot to do anything about it and at recess Mickey said I was a tattletale and started beating me up and we got into a fight and now we’re both in trouble.”
“Where’s Mickey?” I asked.
“His mom came and got him. She called me a tattletale, too.”
That really pissed me off, but I had to let it go. The thing was, Scott had some history here. Of tattling. He didn’t like to see others getting away with things, but seeing that justice was done often had a way of backfiring for him.
Welcome to the world.
“It’s wrong to throw rocks at cars, right?” he asked.
“It is.”
“And you and Mom say it’s wrong to do nothing when people break the law. Isn’t it against the law to throw rocks at cars?”
“It is.”
“So why am I being suspended?”
I put my arm around him and patted his shoulder. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make me a hypocrite. I gave it my best shot.
“Sometimes doing the right thing hurts.” I paused. “Sometimes, doing the right thing is not always worth doing. It’s hard to be right all the time. It’s not an easy way to live your life.”
“Don’t you always do what’s right?” Scott asked, turning his head to look at me.
“I’ll always try to where you’re concerned,” I said.
He rested his head against my chest. “The principal wants to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“And you have to take me home.”
“Okay.”
“Am I going to be punished?”
“You have been already,” I said. “For the wrong things, for the wrong reasons.”
“I don’t understand, Dad.”
“Me, neither,” I said. “Me, neither.”
As I went in search of the Skilling residence, I gave more thought to what I was doing, and why I was doing it. I needed to know Claire Sanders was okay. I needed to know, having been dragged unwittingly into this mess, whether my actions had put her at risk. If they had, I’d have to see what I could do about it. I didn’t like to see kids in trouble.
Yeah, but you don’t mind scaring the shit out of them when it suits you.
I was confident I’d find her. I couldn’t recall, offhand, how many times I’d been hired to track down missing kids — easily twenty — and only once had I failed. And that was because the kid — a twelve-year-old boy — came home on his own before I could find him.
When I finally did find Claire — at a boyfriend’s place, a kids’ hostel in L.A., some beach down in Florida — what would the plan be then? Drag her back to Griffon?
Hardly.
But I’d tell her that people back home were worried about her. I’d recommend that she call her folks. I’d give her shit for getting me involved.
That’d be it for me.
Sean Skilling would lead me to Hanna, and Hanna would lead me to Claire. One way or another.
I found the Skilling residence about half a mile away, on Dancey. It had been dusk when I’d arrived at the Rodomskis’, but by the time I got to the Skillings’ night had descended completely. I drove slowly down the street, looking for numbers, marveling at how many people don’t make them easy to spot. If they didn’t want to do it for the fire department, you’d think they’d at least do it for the pizza delivery guy.
The house was even numbered, so it had to be on the left, and I figured I was only a couple of doors away when I saw a car’s headlights come on in a driveway just ahead. It had been backed in, so the lights intercepted my path. I glanced over as I passed by, blinded briefly. Brass numbers were affixed to a large decorative stone set by the curb. This was the place.
It wasn’t a car after all, but a pickup. A black Ford Ranger. Once I had the headlight glare out of my eyes, I was able to spot a young man in a ball cap behind the wheel.
I pulled over to the opposite curb as the truck roared onto the street, accelerating so quickly it fishtailed, and tore off in the direction I’d come from. I executed a fast three-point turn and hit the gas. The pickup had disappeared beyond the bend, so I thought it was unlikely he’d noticed me turning around to come after him.
A left turn, then a right, and we were on Danbury. I had a hunch where he might be going.
Four minutes later, it proved right. The Ranger crossed the street and wheeled into the parking lot behind Patchett’s. I pulled over to the shoulder so I could get a look at him as he got out of the truck and walked briskly into the bar. While he wasn’t running, there was a sense of urgency in his stride, and he moved like an athlete. He was six feet, hundred and eighty pounds, with dirty blond hair falling out from beneath a cap branded with two broad horizontal stripes across the front. A Bills cap. He wouldn’t be the only one in Patchett’s wearing one of those.
Once he’d disappeared inside, I put the Honda in park, leaving it behind a couple of Harley-Davidsons with raised handlebars, crossed the street and entered the bar. Patchett’s was like a thousand other bars. Dim lighting, loud music, railings and chairs and tables made of heavy oak, the smell of beer and sweat and human longing hanging in the air. There were about a hundred people in here, some standing at the bar, others at the tables working on ribs and wings and potato skins along with their pitchers of beer, about a dozen hanging out around the pool table.