"By the way, was a gun all that Stephen and Telford shared?" '
She looked at me suspiciously. "Now what do you mean by that?"
"I have reason to believe that Telford was institutionalized, or nearly so, while he was in the service. Stephen was institutionalized after his mother's death. Could it be that mental illness runs in your family, Mrs. Kinnington?"
"That's preposterous, and I'll not have you spreading a story like that."
"I'm not," I said with my hand on the doorknob, "but Stephen and his gun might be."
"Mr. Cuddy, do you know where Stephen is or not?"
"No, I don't. But in view of Blakey's involvement and temperament, I'd be afraid to tell you if I did."
As I pulled out of the Kinnington driveway, my mind was working on the most direct route to the Mass Pike. As I skirted Meade Center, I went past a large public building on my right. There was a sign just beneath the flagpole. I hit my brakes and eased to the curb. From what Val and Mrs. Kinnington had told me of Stephen's reading habits, he must have out-distanced the contents of his school's library years ago. It was a longshot, but I was pretty much down to longshots right then.
The public library was itself a restored quasi-mansion, red brick with four white columns. There was a meticulous expanse of lawn and a semicircular parking lot. Inside, the librarian was a pleasant change of pace from most Meade residents I'd met. She was polite.
I identified myself and explained that Ms. DeMarco and I were looking into Stephen's disappearance. Since I was out here speaking with Mrs. Kinnington anyway, I thought I'd stop by and check Stephen's library borrowings. I wasn't sure if Ms. DeMarco had done so yet.
Her middle-age face grew concerned. "You know, I wondered whether someone was still looking into that. Such a poor, unfortunate family. First Telford, then Diane-they were the judge's brother and wife, you know-and now Stephen. The whole town is whispering about it, but nobody really knows anything yet. You make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back." She walked back into an inner office behind the counter. She came back with a tray of perhaps a hundred old-style computer cards and set it on the counter.
"By the way," she said extending her hand, "I'm Madeline Moore." I shook her hand and she gave it a little extra squeeze a la Valerie-but in a friendly rather than sensual way.
"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Moore."
She looked down and flipped through a few cards. "You know, I nearly cursed the idea of a computer system for borrowers. Imagine, a computer in Meade! But I must say it is more efficient once you get the hang of it. Here."
She slid the tray gently toward me. "Stephen read all these books?" I asked.
"Oh, my, he's read many more than these. These are just the ones he took out since January. He'd also spend every afternoon after school here in the reading room, literally devouring the books and magazines. I never saw the like of him, poor boy."
I began to flip through the cards the way she had. Almost all were novels or historical works. Two I came upon dealt with camping. I was about to ask her if I could see those when a photocopier began hiccupping behind me. It was one of those open-topped machines for use with books. I hadn't noticed it when I came in.
"Did you see Stephen photocopying any maps recently?" I asked.
"Maps? No-o-o, but now that you mention it, I did see him photocopying something that was in an issue of New England Outdoors. In fact, it wasn't too long before he disappeared. I never would have thought about it if you hadn't asked me. You see, many of the ah… young boys try to copy certain, well, advertisements for, ah, women's clothes, and I never thought Stephen was that type, but when I came close to him as he was copying something, he became secretive, so I wondered if I was wrong about him. But I watched him put the magazine back, and I checked on it and was relieved. I just never thought about it after that."
"D0 you remember what issue it was?"
"I think so," she said as she came out from behind the desk and walked over to some periodical racks. "It was," she said, thumbing through the magazines, "this one."
Just as she handed it to me, her phone began ringing. She left me to answer it and I sat down in a stuffed leather chair.
I opened to the table of contents. Five lead articles, six departments on camping subspecialities. I skimmed the articles. The third one was about the great number of abandoned, tower-style ranger stations and the dangers in using them as shelters. The article mentioned that there were thirty-seven such stations north of New Jersey and it named several. Four were spread widely over the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts. One page of the article was a map showing the stations. I looked up. The copying machine took dimes.
As I left the machine, I waved to my helpful friend, who gave me a can't-you-stay-till-I-get-off-the-phone? look. I couldn't.
As soon as I left the library, I began looking for a pay telephone. I found one outside a superette market on Meade's main drag and dialed Valerie's number. No answer, indicating that she had left to meet her friend in Boston. I hung up and tried the Kinningtons. The judge answered. I hung up and drummed my fingers on the little metal counter that's too narrow to write on and too slanted to rest coins on. I dialed directory assistance and got the Sturdevants' number. I called hoping for Kim and raised old Hal instead. I hung up on him, too.
I jackknifed open the telephone booth door and went back to my car. I took out the New England Outdoors page I'd photocopied and studied the small-scale map on it. I had a rough idea where the Willow Wood sanatorium was, but none of the ranger stations was very close to it. The two farthest stations were at least sixty-five miles away from each other and probably not easily accessible by car. Which meant a day or two of scouting them out, assuming Stephen would be in the last one I'd check. Assuming that he was in any of the stations. Assuming that this was the article he had copied. Assuming that Ms. Moore was right about which issue he'd had.
The alternative was to try to find out if there was any faster way to trace him to one of the stations. Valerie still seemed the best bet for that, and I could call her later tonight or earlier tomorrow than I could either Mrs. Kinnington or Kim. I folded up the map and drove impatiently homeward against the rushhour flow.
EIGHTEENTH
– ¦ I picked up a bucket of chicken at the Kentucky Fried on Brighton Avenue in Allston, once again bemoaning the passing of the franchise that had been diagonally across from my apartment on Charles Street. I wrestled the rental into a parallel parking space with six inches to spare front and back.
The red light on my telephone tape machine was lit, but I decided it could wait until after dinner. I washed the chicken down with two Molson Golden Ales and settled into an easy chair with one of Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels. I had read four pages when a telephone in the novel began ringing. Memory jogged, I put the book down, walked to my telephone machine, and replayed the short message. I replayed it several times. The muffled voice on the other end said only the same one word each time: "Remember."
The chicken parts in my stomach made an effort to reassemble themselves. I had another Molson's to calm them down.
I tried Val's number every half hour up to and including 11:30. I know, because I could recall seeing Johnny Carson's monologue but drew a blank on his guests. I stretched stiffly in the easy chair. The clock on the mantel said 4:15. I went to bed, resetting my clock radio for 6:15. I awakened to Deep Purple's classic "Smoke on the Water" on WCOZ (whose motto is "Kick-ass rock and roll"). I splashed some water in my face and called Valerie.
It rang four times before I got a sleepy "Hullo."