Lindsay squeezed his lips into a straight line and stood. “I think we’re finished here, Mr. Bannister.”
“Just like that?”
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
He did; in fact, I barely made it through before I heard it slam behind me.
Getting into my car, I shook my head and sighed. CJ had warned me, and now I was seeing it first-hand. Not many people wanted to talk about the Kingsley case around here, especially Jerry Lindsay.
Then I wondered what exactly he was hiding behind all that arrogance…and why.
Chapter Thirteen
My mother hated my love of the written word. Most parents would be thrilled to see their kid sitting down with a good book, but nothing seemed to irritate her more. She made a point of letting me know it, too, with her condescending glances, her eye rolling, her cutting remarks. Having a book in my hand meant leaving myself wide open to attacks: sometimes I’d feel anxious just picking one up.
“You know…” she said on one occasion, “Kids who read too much never have any friends.”
I stared at her, bewildered by the comment.
“Seriously.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “People don’t like people who are too smart.”
I didn’t know what to say. I bit my lip and looked at my book.
She shrugged it off. “Have it your way. I’m just saying if you want people to like you, you’re going to have to dummy it down some. You’re scaring them away in droves.”
It was so easy. She could blame the books for almost everything: I was lazy and never got things done because of the books. The books were warping my mind, making me disrespectful. My grades were slipping because I spent too much time with my nose in my books instead of studying.
It just went on and on.
But her cruel words paled when compared to her wicked acts.
Sometimes while reading, I’d suddenly realize the story wasn’t making sense. Then I’d look at the page numbers and find that several had been torn out. It was always toward the end of the book, after I’d already invested a significant amount of time and imagination. Her way of twisting the knife, I suppose. She even did it to my library books. It seemed nothing was sacred.
Other times, I’d leave a book in one spot only to find it missing, several hours later. When I’d ask where it was, she’d act as if she hadn’t a clue. Later, I’d often find them tucked away in a cabinet with the pots and pans, at the bottom of a laundry basket filled with dirty clothes, or in some drawer we hardly ever used. I even found one under the porch once, covered in mud.
Some I never found at all.
But probably, the most evil thing she did was to turn my own books against me.
The Book Game wasn’t a game at alclass="underline" it was a form of punishment. She’d force me to stand in a corner and face the wall, holding two books up to my chest, elbows out.
And remain completely still.
Then she’d sit in her recliner splitting her attention between the television and me. If I moved an inch, she’d add another book to the pile.
I remember standing with sweat tickling my forehead, elbows shaking, while she sat stuffing peanuts in her mouth and laughing—both at me and whatever was on TV.
Her goal was to make me hate those books, but there wasn’t a stack tall enough or heavy enough to make that happen.
Instead, I just ended up hating her more.
Chapter Fourteen
I stopped at The Copper Kettle on Third and Cedar to grab a quick bite, regroup, and recover from Jerry Lindsay. I needed the downtime anyway; I was feeling tired and low on energy. Travel does that to you—finding clues from a kidnapping and murder hidden among your deceased mother’s belongings, even more so.
I pushed a pile of dry mashed potatoes around my plate and returned to my thoughts about Lindsay. The guy was an ass—no question about that. I just wasn’t sure if he was born that way or hiding something. Either way, I hadn’t bought any of it. The houses in the Kingsley neighborhood were practically piled on top of each other. Someone should have seen or heard something. Jean should have, even with her back to the house. By instinct, most mothers are hyperaware of their surroundings, especially when their kids are out of their immediate view. Why wasn’t she?
Despite Lindsay’s arrogant attitude and willfulness, the interview hadn’t been a total loss. He’d given me one critical piece of information—probably the most important—even if he didn’t mean to. Nathan was wearing the Saint Christopher medal the day he disappeared. That told me my mother could have been the last one to see the boy alive, or at the very least, was involved with, or knew, whoever did. For years, she’d been sitting on what was probably the most damning piece of evidence in the case.
What the hell was she doing with it?
My thoughts jumped to Jean Kingsley, a woman as mysterious as the mystery itself. I still didn’t know much about her, but there was one person around who did: her husband and Nathan’s father, Dennis Kingsley.
I called his number three or four times but got his answering machine. Time was at a premium; I had little of it to waste, so I decided to pay him a visit.
CJ wasn’t kidding when she said Kingsley lived up on the hill. A mountaintop was more like it, and to make matters worse, with a long, unpaved road leading to it. I worked my way up, bumping and grinding along every inch, wondering at times if my tires would hold up—and wondering even more if I would.
To my surprise, it was a nice looking place. Nothing huge or extravagant, but clearly he’d put a lot of work into it. Deep clay-colored walls, a terracotta roof, and huge, custom-built doors made of knotty alder. All that and a view of the valley that was nothing short of breathtaking.
I put the giant brass front door knocker to use, giving it three hard raps. A moment later, I saw a large, shadowy figure through the frosted glass.
My immediate impression was that time had not been good to Dennis Kingsley. He looked about fifty pounds heavier and many more than thirty years older. An unkempt, grizzled beard covered his face but couldn’t hide the deep-set creases around the eyes. His expression told me he wasn’t used to company, nor was he happy about having it. I’d figured as much, judging by the visitor-prohibitive location. The man liked being alone.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Kingsley,” I said. “My name’s Patrick Bannister and I work for News World. I left a message on your machine.”
He shook his head and pressed his lips together, an indication the conversation was going south before it ever started. But not if I could help it.
I continued, “I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if I could, about your son’s kidnapping.”
He narrowed his eyes; more creases gathered around them. Then he rested his palm against the door as if preparing to close it.
This town had more cold shoulders than a butcher’s freezer. I was getting used to that but couldn’t afford this one. Think fast, Patrick.
“I spoke to Jerry Lindsay just a short while ago,” I offered quickly, hoping to prevent the inevitable door slam. “He told me to come see you.”
A lie, but desperation knows no boundaries…or morals.
He loosened his hand a little, allowing it to slide a few inches down along the door frame, but then he shook his head, frowned, and said, “I don’t think I want to talk about my—”
“CJ Norris also suggested we speak,” I interrupted. That part was actually true, and he must have liked it better because I saw his face soften a bit.