Mad Season Page 12

  When he called Ruth afterward, needing advice about Bertha, she laughed. “It’s probably another of her visions.”

  “What visions?”

  “Oh, she never says. Just hints at these sinister revelations. They used to be purely religious. Now they have something to do with the murders, with the children. She wants me to send Vic down to Pete.”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad idea, under the circumstances?”

  “Oh, my God!” she shouted. “You too? You think he’d be better off in the city, with that woman?”

  He’d put his foot in that one. “No, no, of course not. Just don’t let her get you down.”

  “Oh, I try to ignore her, she’s a little wacko. She just wants to get you in bed, that’s all.”

  “That’s being wacko?” he said, and waited for the response.

  But after a quick laugh, she changed the subject.

  * * * *

  Vic wanted to go straight home, but before he knew it he was in the back of the Unsworths’ station wagon, driven off like one of the woman’s sheep. Garth sat on the far edge of the seat, staring out the window like Vic wasn’t there at all. It wasn’t Garth’s idea to have him come, he figured it was cooked up by the mothers. He suddenly missed his father, this was something his father would never do. His father never interfered. There’d been times when Vic didn’t like that, but now he thought it the right way.

  But he’d have to get through an afternoon alone. When they arrived, Garth jumped out of the car without a word.

  “Garth,” his mother called, “remember your guest,” but Garth was already in the house. Vic was told it was a party but it turned out to be only Garth and the mother. He didn’t even see Wilder. There were thumps, and loud rock music somewhere upstairs, it could be the older one—Emily said he’d lost his job, he came in stoned or something. He didn’t want to run into that one.

  They spooned up ice cream and there were chocolate chip cookies; he ate three and felt sick to his stomach. When he asked for the bathroom, Garth pointed to a door that turned out to be a pantry and then laughed, he thought it fanny.

  “Piss in the pantry,” Garth said, “and mother will be fu-ri-ous.” So Vic held it, which made him feel sicker. When the mother tried to give him more ice cream he wanted to throw up in the bowl.

  “Garth,” she hissed, “be nice to your guest, we talked about this.” She thought she was speaking softly, but Vic could hear every word. “Now take Vic up to your room and play.”

  Garth scowled, but he said, “Come on,” and what could Vic do but go? It was only four o’clock by the kitchen clock, another whole hour before his mother would come get him and he didn’t know how he’d last that long—either from having to go to the bathroom or from plain misery.

  Garth’s room was twice the size of Vic’s, and every inch was covered with posters of baseball figures. There were yellow curtains with dancing green bears on the windows. Garth saw Vic looking and ripped them down.

  “Mother put ‘em up,” he said and threw them out in the hall. Then he raced around the room tearing up paper and pulling off spreads and throwing books on the floor. “Down, down,” he hollered while Vic looked on, his hands behind his back, his mouth slightly open. He squeezed his knees together, the swelling in his bladder worse.

  When Garth had made a shambles of his own room he moved to Wilder’s. It was a different sort of room, there was no mother’s touch here, just paneled walls and blinds instead of curtains, and plain wood floor and books covering one wall and sports equipment in a corner.

  “Catch,” Garth said, and hurled a softball at Vic. Vic caught it against his belly, it almost released the flood in his bladder. He couldn’t throw it back.

  Garth was amused. “Toilet’s across the hall. You want to go? Don’t be bashful,” he said, like he was all concerned, and Vic said, “No thanks.” Afterward he wanted to take the words back, but he couldn’t. Somehow he’d manage to wait another twenty minutes and then go, at least he knew where it was.

  “Want to do a puzzle?” Garth asked, sounding more pleasant now, and dragged a box out from under Wilder’s bed.

  He dropped on the floor with it and grabbing out some of the pieces, pushed it over in Vic’s direction. The box smelled musty, like it’d been under the bed for a long time. Vic liked puzzles, it was neat to find the right piece, see it fit into another, watch the picture grow. This one seemed to be a moonscape or something, Vic liked that. It was like looking through his telescope.

  He almost forgot his bladder, working on it. Garth liked doing it too, once he added a piece to the part Vic was doing. It made Vic feel good, maybe they could be friends after all.

  “That’s good,” he said, pointing to Garth’s half of the puzzle, “that’s a good job,” and Garth grunted.

  What was missing now was the sky, the hardest part because it was all pale lavender-blue, you had to keep trying this piece and that one. There was an envelope under the puzzle, there were probably more pieces inside and he opened it.

  And sneezed. He was glad the sneeze was out because Garth looked away and covered his mouth. It gave Vic a chance to close the envelope, stick it back under the puzzle bits. And when he stuck it back he saw something else that had nothing to do with any puzzle either. He couldn’t think though, why it looked familiar. He was all flustered then, said he’d use the bathroom now, he didn’t care. He needed to be alone.

  He saw his face in the bathroom mirror, pale and bluish like the sky he’d been putting together, his eyes were dark holes. He couldn’t believe what he’d seen in that envelope. And that other thing. In Wilder’s room, under Wilder’s bed. He remembered how late Emily came in that night of the murder, how she said Wilder waited outside in his car, she was all thrilled with that, that he didn’t want to leave her.

  But there was another reason, he bet.

  He took his piss, he’d almost forgot why he came in! It went on and on, he felt he was in a dream, or a trance. When it finally stopped he zipped up and washed his hands and looked in the mirror again.

  You have to see Mr. Hanna, he told himself, not Mother, she’ll get upset. You have to see Mr. Hanna straight off.

  And then felt a sharp stab in his left temple. Wilder was Emily’s boyfriend, they were all lovey-dovey. But he had to do what he had to do. He’d make Mr. Hanna promise not to tell who told. Hanna seemed a determined kind of guy, maybe even more than his mother. He’d find the murderer, even if it was his own father. You had to be that kind. You had to be tough. He balled his fists.

  He was itching to go now, he didn’t want to be in this house anymore. What if Wilder came home and discovered they were doing the puzzle?

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said to Garth, standing in the doorway of Wilder’s room. It was a quarter to five anyway, his mother would be here, she’d be prompt, she had the cows. He might even help her, after he called Mr. Hanna.

  “I’m sick of it anyway,” Garth said and took his foot and jumbled up the puzzle.

  “Aren’t you going to put it back in the box? Won’t Wilder be mad?”

  “Nah, he lets me,” but Garth put it back in the box and left the box on the floor.

  Vic didn’t help, he didn’t want to see that envelope again, smell it. He started downstairs, he felt better there, he’d be ready the second his mother came. As he went down the hall, a door opened and rock music shrieked out. It was the older brother, he figured, but thinner, taller than Wilder, tall like a flagpole. The brother brushed past Vic like he didn’t exist, peered into Wilder’s room and bellowed.

  “Get the shit out of here,” he screamed, “you hear me, stay in your own goddamn room. What you doing in Wilder’s room anyhow?”

  And there was a scuffle and a lot of whining and then a shriek from Garth. Vic felt almost sorry for Garth. He stood on one foot at the top of the stairs.

  “I hate you, hate you, Kurt. You leave me alone, you hear? Wilder lets me play in here, he lets me play with hi
s puzzle, he’s not like you, he’s a real brother. You’re not, you’re just a half-brother. A half—”

  Vic flattened himself against the railing as Mrs. Unsworth dashed upstairs. She screeched at the top of her lungs and then things went quiet. Garth thumped into the bathroom. Mrs. Unsworth looked at Vic, her eyes were bright. “I’m sorry, I wanted this to be nice for you. I promised your mother. I want you and Garth to be friends.”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  It wasn’t Garth’s fault, Garth didn’t know about the envelope or he wouldn’t have opened the puzzle box. It wasn’t Garth’s fault. He had a sudden rush of warmth for Garth.

  Then he heard a car door shut and the front doorbell ring and Mrs. Unsworth smeared her eyes with her sleeve and said, “Heavens, time flies. It’s your mom,” and ran down the steps.

  When his mother appeared in the doorway Vic was composed. He’d come to another decision: he’d tell Emily first, yes, Emily had to know, it might save her from—from what he couldn’t say, really. From something dark in his mind, was all.

  He greeted his mother, he was glad to see her. When she nodded, he turned back.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Unsworth,” he said, “for a nice afternoon.”

  * * * *

  But Emily didn’t get home till after Vic’s bedtime that night and though he tried to stay awake he couldn’t. He woke up with his mother’s shaking him for chores. Then he couldn’t get Emily alone except for a few minutes at the breakfast table and he decided it wasn’t a good time to tell her, just before school when she was cramming for some quiz. So he left a note that he wanted to talk to her. She’d find it after school. In the meantime, he’d call Mr. Hanna, “cover all bases” like he’d heard his father say. But when he went up to his mother’s bedroom to call the number, a gravelly voice said Mr. Hanna wasn’t in, and Vic didn’t want to leave such an important message with somebody else. It was even more important than he’d thought at first—that other thing, all dusty and beat up he found under the bed by the envelope.

  He remembered now, where he’d seen it before. And he shuddered.

  So he decided he’d call from school. There was a pay phone there, he jingled the change in his pocket, he had a quarter and two dimes. He’d phone during recess, old Ronsard would have to let him, that’s all. If she gave him a hard time he’d say it was information for the police, none other business.

  He went to say good-bye to his mother, but she was on the phone. He waved at her and walked out to the school bus stop. He was a few minutes early but that was all right, he had lots to think about. Besides, his map of Australia was due today, he held it against his chest in its stiff folder. He was the only kid on this part of the road for the elementary, they had to make a special stop. The woman bus driver was usually in a bad mood in spring because the road was unpaved on this stretch, and the bus had to lurch in and out of the muddy ruts the town truck couldn’t seem to straighten out.

  But real spring was coming, he could smell May in the air— something about the grass. It was good to smell it, and he jumped up, twisted his body about, kicked his heels together. He’d seen a character do that on TV. He did it twice more and giggled. When he landed the third time, a tan car was coming up slowly; looked like two people in it, maybe looking for the Mauleys’ farm that was being sold—by that developer, his mom said.

  Yeah, he could smell spring, and he didn’t even mind going to school. He looked forward to it, actually, looked forward to seeing Garth Unsworth. He’d walk up to him and say, “That puzzle was a tough one, I have a couple hard ones at my house. Maybe we can work them together some time.” And Garth would say, “Why not? Maybe Sunday?”

  He picked up a handful of pebbles and tossed them into the road. The car was stopped now, a man got out, he walked into the field—to take a leak probably. Vic smiled, he looked the other way, where the bus was coming from. He thought he saw it, a fat yellow blob, like a duck, waddling down the muddy road, stopping far up, maybe half a mile for Mike Gold. He squinted, cupped his hands over his eyes. He was in no hurry—or was he? Well, he’d be there soon enough, recess’d come, and he’d call. Would Mr. Hanna pick him up? Yep, that would be best, he didn’t want to risk the information over the phone. Anyone could listen in. They’d go down to the station together, he’d face Wilder across the desk, fold his hands on his knees, and then.…

  “Hey, young fellow, know anything about that farm? Hear it’s for sale. How about that one up there? Dairy?” It was a deep voice, though the man was only medium height.

  “Not that one,” Vic said, “that’s my place. That’s where I live. Other one up the road past Larocques’, that’s Manleys’.” He pointed. “My mother wants it farmed, not developed. You a farmer?”

  The man laughed. He didn’t look like a farmer. He didn’t look like a tourist either. He looked kind of flaky. Except for the eyes, tiny bits of glassy light inside the puffy lids. And Vic didn’t care for the way he squinted, like he’d peer into Vic’s bones. He wished the bus would hurry up. It was getting bigger now, not a duck anymore, but a goose, a fat yellow goose. He took a step toward it.

  And was pulled back. The hand crushed over his mouth: “Easy, boy.” He heard a woman’s voice calling out, muffled, like she had a scarf over her mouth. The car zoomed up beside them, the rear door opened, he was shoved in the back, the man beside him.

  “Go,” the man said, and the woman driver skidded about, roared back down the road. Couldn’t see where the car turned, the cloth over Vic’s face, he fought for breath, pounded his fists in flesh; then was stuck, held down by the man. “Easy, boy,” the man kept growling. “Easy. Easy.”

  Vic thought he’d drown, this minute, in his fear.

  Chapter Nine

  When the telephone call came that afternoon, the one about Vic, after they all realized that he never got to school, was nowhere, Ruth went into shock, she could hardly breathe. “Say that again,” she shouted, “repeat that, please!” and Chief Fallon went into his refrain: “Nothing for certain. Seen getting into a tan car—bus driver never thought to mention until—well, that’s all we know. Want you to stay by the phone, in case. Call if you hear anything. Sorry, that’s all we can tell you for now.”

  And at nine that night, when Ruth was slumped over the kitchen table by the coffee pot, by the phone, her daughters hovering about, telling her to go to bed when she couldn’t, she couldn’t! a second call from the chief. “Our fat man, Smith—well, uh, if he is our man—just spotted in a convenience store, outside Detroit, could of traded in that Honda, you know. And trade again. But, well, we’ll contact all the used-car lots we can locate in, uh, Michigan. Though there’s always the private, uh, what, ma’am? Oh, well, Detroit storekeeper read our advisory. Kidnapper—if he was, uh, paid barn money for gas and cigarettes. That’s what’s suspicious here. You can thank your son, uh, Vic, for telling us about the barn, you know.”

  Vic’s name triggered the panic again, the giddiness, the sickness in the belly, like overwhelming PMS, though menstruating was never so bad, was it? She might die, the feeling was there, and her Vic in limbo. But she had to keep on till they found him.

  She sensed he knew more—nothing conclusive maybe, just some bit of information. She pressed him. “He’s all right? They’ve been feeding him? They haven’t hurt him?”

  But he couldn’t tell her that, and she knew it. He couldn’t even say it was that man—Smith, she remembered now, Smith, who had Vic. The “jobs,” as Fallon called them, could be unrelated, and if so, she’d be the first to know, a ransom call—she knew about ransom calls only from the movies and TV. The chief sounded pleased with the word: “Ransom call,” he repeated it. Kidnappings didn’t happen very often in Vermont, almost never, he said, like that fact made it easier to bear, put it in the realm of make-believe, denial. She’d wake up tomorrow and Vic would be home, patching up his telescope, complaining about barn chores.

  What the other information was, she didn’t know,
but it didn’t pertain directly to Vic, was probably conjecture. Policemen were like doctors, they wouldn’t say their hunches, in case they were proved wrong, she supposed.

  She was exhausted now, could hardly hold the receiver up to her ear, her body was separate from her mind, but she clung to it like it would bring Vic back to her. “When you know more,” she said, “I’ll be here, I’ll have a phone put in the barn.”

  “I’ll call you,” he said. “Wait, here’s Colm, just walked in my door. Wants a word—”

  And then Colm’s voice, far away, like a shell held up to the ear. “Hang on,” he said. “Are the girls there? Are you okay?”

  She murmured yes, though she wasn’t, she wasn’t okay at all.

  “I’m going to Michigan,” he said, “Detroit. I want to be on hand when we connect with that guy.” Under his own jurisdiction, he added, “Fallon wouldn’t authorize the trip.”

  “That’s dangerous!” she cried, “on your own?” But then, hardly hearing her voice, “Thank you.” Then, “I want to come!”

  “You’ve got to stay home,” he said. “It’s your job now, you know that. We don’t know this guy has Vic. It could be somebody else, anybody. You have to stay by the phone, Ruth. The police will have a man nearby.”

  He was right, of course. She had to stay by the phone. She held her hand down on the receiver for a long moment after they hung up. To keep Vic’s name on her lips, her baby, Vic....

  Why? she said aloud, though the phone was dead, why would they take Vic? Who? She gave a shout. She was alone now in the kitchen, the girls upstairs, she’d lied to Colm. The word echoed. Vic.

  It could be anyone, yes, she thought. Even Pete. Pete?

  She dialed at once, too hysterical to be nervous. “Pete,” she shrieked when the woman answered down in New York, “I want Pete!”

  When the woman said he wasn’t there, he was off at a four-day sales conference, could she take a message, Ruth couldn’t think what to say, she just hung up.