“And we’ve seen just about all of them, Indian.”
“Never all. Not even most.”
Blaine nodded. “I think I get the idea.”
Wareagle sipped his tea. “Travel well, my friend.”
Chapter 3
The ivy-colored brick walls of the Reading School rose in the damp mist that had swept in across the countryside. Blaine drove through the front gate and down the tree-lined entry road that took him past a collection of playing fields, or “pitches” as they were called over here, en route to a central building adorned with steeples. He was still not entirely convinced he was doing the right thing, and each slow climb over a speed bump along the drive brought him that much closer to turning back.
He had flown TWA out of Boston Monday night and arrived at Heathrow early Tuesday morning. From there the M-4 brought him straight to the city of Reading, where he had made reservations at its largest hotel, the Ramada Inn. He was not expected at the school until two P.M., which gave him four hours to rest and recharge himself following his uneasy sleep in the first class section of the jet. He soaked in the bathtub, showered, and grabbed a sandwich in the simplest of the Ramada’s restaurants, loitering the additional minutes away inattentively watching news on the television.
He crossed the Reading School’s final speed bump at five minutes to two and asked a group of boys dressed in charcoal gray suits where he could find the residence of housemaster John Neville who was expecting him. The boys’ answer came politely in unison and they pointed to the red brick house nearest at hand. Blaine parked his car and stepped outside. He felt the damp mist assault him instantly, reaching through his clothes and flesh for bones to chill. He noted a large bell tower perched atop the school’s central building as he walked toward the housemaster’s residence. He rang the buzzer and a chorus of heavy barks and snarls came from the inside before the chimes had even ceased.
“Come on now, back up!” he heard a thick voice order, and then the door was opening.
“Mr. Neville?”
“John. You must be McCracken. Henri told me to expect you to be right on time. Please, come in.”
John Neville was as big and thick as his voice, a powerfully built man with bands of muscle swimming through forearms revealed beneath the sleeves of his rolled up rugby shirt. Blaine was impressed by the strength of his grip as they shook hands. Neville closed the door behind them and the dogs, huge German shepherds, growled their suspicion.
Neville tapped one on the snout. “Enough of that, Bodie. You and Doyle go play now.”
“Bodie and Doyle?” Blaine asked.
Neville smiled warmly and the expression gave his face a youthful glow. His complexion was pitted, but there was color in his cheeks and life in his voice.
“I see you recall ‘The Professionals.’ ”
“British detective series from years back. The dogs are named for the heroes. I spent considerable time over here years back.”
“So Henri told me.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Just the barest details. You’re good to do this, Blaine.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’ve got tea ready in the living room.”
They moved from the hall into a spacious den dominated by a fireplace layered with the remains of yesterday’s fire. The radiators were old-fashioned, and to help break the chill a pair of space heaters had been strategically placed. The dogs followed them at every step, nuzzling against Neville for attention as soon as he sat down in the chair adjacent to the one he directed Blaine to. He fussed over Doyle, and Bodie growled from deep in his throat.
“Enough of that!” he scolded. “I won’t tell you again.”
Bodie lay down, whimpering softly.
John Neville handed a cup of tea across to McCracken from a tray. “Got something stronger to mix with that if you want.”
“No, thanks. This will be fine.”
Neville leaned back. A shock of dark hair slid over his forehead and he pushed it back. “You’ll want to hear about the boy.”
“About Matthew.”
“Matt he likes to be called. Good student and a top athlete as well.”
“Soccer?”
Neville shook his head and stroked Doyle’s shoulders. “Rugby’s the thing here. We’re a relatively small school as far as enrollment goes, so we could never hope to compete effectively in either if we tried for both. Rugby’s a tradition at Reading. There are lots of traditions. That bell tower you were admiring outside, seniors love to climb into it and carve their initials on the bell.”
“Kids must really love this place.”
“We do our best. Our situation’s unique in that we’re still actually a private school by definition. In addition to serving as housemaster for the boarders, I run the phys-ed and rugby programs.” Neville hesitated. “Matt’s in class now. I can get him, if you wish.”
“No,” Blaine said abruptly. “I mean, I don’t want to disturb him. I don’t want to … intrude.”
“Do you see this as intruding?”
“I don’t know what to see it as.”
“Would have been much easier for you if you hadn’t come. Not easier for him. He should know you.”
“He doesn’t even know I exist. You didn’t say anything, did you?”
Neville shook his head. “Figured you’d want all that business left up to you. Your timing couldn’t be better, though. There’s a school holiday tomorrow. Perfect opportunity to get acquainted. First meeting ought to be the toughest. After rugby practice this afternoon’d be perfect, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“I don’t mind,” said McCracken.
John Neville had a class of second formers waiting for him in the gym and left McCracken to pass the time before a bay window in the dining room with Bodie on one side of him and Doyle on the other. He watched the boys of Reading School, all dressed neatly in their gray suits, and wondered which one of them was Matthew. Then with the coming of the three o’clock bell the students rapidly exchanged suits for rugby shirts and shorts in the school colors and trudged off to practice fields not far from the school. John Neville returned shortly thereafter with a mesh bag full of rugby balls in hand.
“We’ll drive over,” he told Blaine, loading the bag into the hatchback of the British version of a Ford Escort. Then, eyeing McCracken, he added, “You might not be dressed for the outdoors.”
“I’ll do fine.”
In fact, he did anything but. After the drive, the walk across to the pitch where the third formers were practicing under the guidance of a small man with a mustache soaked his Italian loafers through to his socks. To make the proper impression at the school he had dressed well, in wear totally inappropriate for the damp outdoors. The cold was raw and unsettling, and the mist smelled like dank sweat. Neville had promised to come over and point Matt out as soon as he got his own practice started.
In the meantime Blaine was left again to his thoughts, again trying to distinguish which among the thirty boys performing warm-up exercises before him was Matt. He tried to narrow it down by recalling Lauren’s looks and attempting to superimpose them over the faces of the boys. But it was all to no avail. Strange how he had spent his life in unfamiliar places and had always been able to distinguish between the friendlies and unfriendlies at a glance. Yet here he was now coming up short in pursuit of his own …