God Save the Child

7

The call had come perhaps ten minutes after the money had been picked up. The little slick-haired cop had recorded it, and he played it back for Trask and Healy and me. Roger Bartlett said, “Hello.” There was a brief scrap of music and a voice said, “Howdy all you kidnapping freaks,” in the affected southern drawl that is required of everyone who is under thirty and cool. “This is your old buddy the kidnapper speaking, and we gotta big treat for you all out there in kidnap land. The big prizewinners in our pay-the-ransom contest are Mr. and Mrs. Roger Bartlett of Smithfield.” The music came up again and then faded, and several male voices sang a jingle:

Then the music came up and faded out with some giggles behind it. Roger Bartlett said to us, “He’s gotta be behind one of the schools. There’s six: the four elementary, the junior high, the high school...” Trask said, “What about Our Lady’s?” And Bartlett said, “Right, the Catholic school,” and Healy said, “How about kindergartens? How many private kindergartens in town?”

Trask looked at Bartlett; Bartlett shook his head. Trask shrugged and said, “Hell, I don’t know.”

Healy said, “Okay, Trask, run it down; get your people checking behind and around all the schools in town. And don’t miss anything like a dog school or a driving school. These are odd people.”

Trask went out to his car and got on the radio. Bartlett went with him. I said to Healy, “What in Christ have we got here?”

Healy shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything like this anywhere. Do you realize the trouble they went to, to rig up that tape recording?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and it’s not just to conceal voices. There’s something else going on. Something personal in this thing. The ransom note, this call — there’s something wrong.”

Margery Bartlett came in with Earl Maguire. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Is something wrong? Have you found Kevin?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Ma’am,” Healy said. “Spenser was talking about something else. Chief Trask is directing the search for Kevin now. I’m sure there will be good news soon.”

But Healy didn’t believe it and I knew he didn’t and he knew I knew. He looked very steadily at me after he’d said it. I looked away. Maguire said, “Sit down, Marge, no sense tiring yourself.” She sat at the kitchen table. Maguire sat opposite her Healy looked out the back door at Trask. I leaned against the counter The big Lab that I’d seen my first visit wandered into the kitchen and lapped water noisily from his dish.

Marge Bartlett said, “Punkin, you naughty dog, don’t be so noisy.” Punkin? The dog was big enough to pull a beer wagon. He stopped drinking and flopped down on his side in the middle of the floor. No one said anything. The dog heaved a big sigh, and his stomach rolled.

Marge Bartlett said again, “Punkin! You should be ashamed.” He paid her no attention. “I apologize for my dog,” she said. “But dogs are good. They don’t demand much of you; they just love you for what you are. Just accept you. I’m doing a sculpture of Punkin in clay. I want to capture that trusting and undemanding quality.”

I saw Healy’s shoulders straighten, heard Trask’s car door slam, and Trask pushed into the kitchen with Roger Bartlett.

Trask said to Healy, “Junior high school, come on.” Healy went. I went after them. Trask already had the car in gear as I jumped into the backseat. He spun gravel out of the driveway, and the siren was whoop-whooping by the time he was in third gear.

It was maybe three minutes to the junior high school. Trask wrenched the cruiser into the big semicircular driveway in front of it with a screech of rubber and brakes and spun off that and onto the hot-top parking surface to the left of the school and on around behind it. He loved the noise and the siren. I bet he’d been dying to do that since the case began. There were maybe two dozen cars parked against the back of the two-story brick building. Most of them were small cars, suitable for junior high school teachers. On the end of the second row of cars was an old Cadillac hearse. The back door was open, and a group of kids stood around it, held back by two prowl car cops in short sleeves and sunglasses. The patrol car, blue light still turning, was parked beside the hearse. In the school windows most of the other kids were leaning out and some were yelling. The teachers were not having much luck with them. Most weren’t trying but craned out the windows with the kids.

Trask jammed on the brakes and was out of the car while it was still lurching. He left the door open behind him and strode to the hearse. Healy got out, closed his door, and followed. I sat in the backseat a minute and looked at the hearse. I felt a little sick. I didn’t want to look inside. I wanted to go home. There was a case of Amstel beer home in the refrigerator I wanted to go home and drink it. I got out of the car and followed Healy.

Inside the hearse was a coffin made of scrap plywood. The plywood wasn’t new, and the carpentry was not professional. It was padlocked. One of the prowl car cops got a tire iron, and Trask, squatting in the hearse, pried the hasp off. Healy lifted the lid. I bit down hard on my back teeth. A life-sized rag doll dummy sat bolt upright in the coffin and leered at us with its red Raggedy Andy lips. Still squatting, Trask started back with a yelp, lost his balance, and sat down awkwardly on the floor of the hearse. Healy never moved. The dummy flopped over sideways, and I could see a rusty spring attached to its back. I realized that my right hand was on the gun butt under my shirt. I took it away and rubbed it on my pants leg. The crowd was absolutely still. I said, “Trick or treat.”

Healy said, “Get that thing out of there.”

The two patrolmen lifted it out of the hearse and set it on the ground. Healy and I squatted down beside it.

“Shirt and pants stuffed with newspaper,” Healy said. “Head seems to be made out of a pillowcase stuffed with cotton batting. Features drawn on with Magic Marker. Spring looks like it came from an easy chair.”

He stood up. “Trask,” he said, “keep people away from this area. I’ll have some technicians come down and assist your people on the fingerprints and all.”

Trask nodded. “Okay,” he snapped to the crowd, “back it up. We’ve got to get lab specialists right on this.” He spoke to the two prowlies. “Move ’em back, men. We’ll seal this area off.”

I wondered if he rode a white stallion in the Memorial Day parade.

Behind the school was an athletic field ringed with high evergreen woods. Healy walked out toward the trees; I walked along with him. He paused on the pitcher’s mound and picked up some clay and rolled it in his right hand. He looked down at the pitching rubber. And then at home plate. He took his hat off and wiped his forearm across his forehead. He put his hat back on tipped low forward, shading his eyes, and looked out toward center field and the trees beyond it. He put his hands in his back pockets and rocked silently on the mound, his back toward home plate, staring out at the trees behind center field.

“Ever play ball, Spenser?”

“Some.”

“I was a pitcher All-State at Winthrop High School. Had a tryout with the Phillies. Coulda signed but the war was on. When I got out of the army, I was married, had two kids already. Had to get a steady job. Went with the state cops instead.”

I didn’t say anything. Healy continued to look at center field, his head tipped back a little to see out under the brim of his hat.

“Almost thirty years.”

I didn’t answer. He wasn’t really talking to me, anyway.

“Got any kids, Spenser?”

“Nope.”

“I got five. The little one is fifteen now; only one left at home. Plays for St. John’s. He’s a pitcher.”

Healy stopped talking. The wind moved the pine branches in the woods. The trees had a strong smell in the September heat. Some starlings hopped about the infield near second base, pecking at the grass. Behind us the police radio squawked.

“Sonova goddamned bitch!” he said.

I nodded. “Me too,” I said.