THE LAST BOY (43 page)

“No. No. You’ve got to…Ben?” she turned, but he was already gone.

Molly took Danny back into the office.“Now read one of your books. You’ve got plenty of new books.” She slumped down into her chair, stared blankly at the pattern of multicolored helixes intertwining on her screen.

“But I’ll just sit down there, and you can watch me from here. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll just stay really close.”

“The answer is
no!
” said Molly loudly.“And I want you to stop nagging me. I’ve got tons of work to do and I can’t keep getting disturbed.” What was Larry up to? Was he positioning himself so he could get rid of her? In the pinch, when he needed her, she had always come through for him. Why was he doing this?

Hunched over his desk, Danny looked to her like a whipped dog. “Oh, Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. But I’ve got something serious on my mind and…”

He got up and edged close to her, put his arm around her neck. “Can’t I help you?” he offered.

“Honey, if you could just occupy yourself for a couple of minutes so I could think, that would be the biggest help of all.”

Danny slunk off.

Molly sat at her terminal, tried to concentrate on the screen, but her mind was still in turmoil. Her first impulse was to walk right
into Larry's office and confront him, ask him what he
really
was up to. The business was growing, that was true, but where was the money for the new salaries? Was he contemplating growth or protecting himself for the time when he would have to let her go? Marketing and editorial. That's what
she
did.

Molly just couldn’t get a decent night's sleep. She couldn’t get to sleep until late, and she was up early in the morning just after dawn. While Danny slept, she waxed the floors, cleaned windows, took out the recyclables, and emptied the trash. Outside, the sun was already up and a hot, dry wind was blowing, gathering up small vortices of dust.

On her way back from the dumpster, the beefsteak tomatoes in Danny's garden caught her eye. Nearly ripe, they were enormous, not only for the time of year, but double the size of any she had ever seen. As she stepped among the plants to take a closer look, something caught her eye, something dangling from one of the trellised vines. It was a kind of earth-colored pouch, and when she opened it she discovered inside a piece of coarse paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a diagram with arrows and strange markings, what appeared to be geometric contours. Finally, she recognized what it was: a map.

The others!

“Leave him alone!” she cried and in a frenzy she tore it all into little bits and threw them into the air. Watching as the hot wind scattered the pieces across the park, she realized her mistake and regretted it.

Tripoli found the old sheriff in the Hillview Nursing Home on the outskirts of Watertown. It was a long, low complex that looked more like a motel than an old age home.

Denny Holbrow appeared to be in his late nineties. He was a shriveled piece of humanity, little more than a shroud of leathery skin hung on a long frame of bones. Holbrow had severe
emphysema and sat in a chair with an oxygen cannula hooked into his nostrils. When he spoke, he did so in short bursts, needing to pause repeatedly to catch his breath. Tripoli pulled a chair close, facing him. He introduced himself. Asked the man how he was feeling. The old sheriff gave his bony shoulders a heave and stared back at Tripoli with rheumy eyes.

“I understand,”Tripoli went on,“that you were sheriff in 1938.”

The old man suddenly seemed to take interest.“Yeah. Yeah.” His features became animated and his eyes turned bright. “Nineteen thirty-six to 1952. To be exact,” he said.“Right through…the war.”

Tripoli could hear the oxygen hissing from the tube; when the old sheriff spoke, his voice was gravelly. Although his physical condition was poor, his mind was obviously sharp.

“There was a case in October of 1938,” Tripoli prompted, becoming hopeful.“A boy was missing.”

“Matthew Roland,” retorted the old guy, not missing a beat.

Tripoli smiled.“So you remember.”

“Hell, yes!” He sat up at attention.“Damnedest thing!”

“Tell me,” said Tripoli eagerly.

“Boy just disappeared. Into thin air.”

“And?”

“Wasn’t the first time, though.”

“Oh?”Tripoli couldn’t hide his surprise.

“First time was the big news,” he said, shaking his head at the recollection.“I was just a young fella then. Full of piss and vinegar.” Holbrow gave a raspy laugh and, staring out the window, he seemed to drift off into a reverie.

“Go on, please. How old was he? I mean the first time he disappeared?”

The old sheriff turned back. His eyes, Tripoli noticed, were actually a light green, just like his own. “I think Matthew was five. Six? Something…like that.”

“And?”

The old man took a couple of slow breaths, then continued. “Vanished. The boy lived…right in town…with the mother. Nice woman. Mary, I think it was. Yeah. Mary. Died ’bout three years after Matthew disappeared.”

“And the father?”

“Died. When the boy was little. Accident with a tractor or something. I can’t remember so well…anymore.”

“You’re doing great. Really. Please, go on.”

“Well…”The old man started coughing violently. It took him a good minute to clear his chest.

“Sorry,” he apologized hoarsely, when the fit had passed. “Goddamned cigarettes,” he muttered. “Devil's invention.” He coughed and spit a gob of thick phlegm into a handkerchief.“’Scuse me.”

Tripoli nodded.“Relax. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Where were we?”

“The boy, Matthew, disappeared. Age five or six.”

“Yeah,” nodded Holbrow.“The mother, a widow…worked as a waitress…at the diner. Not exactly prosperous. She was frantic. Desperate.”

“It's her only kid,” said Tripoli, filling in with a guess. He already suspected what was coming next.

“That's right. She's at her…wit's end. We, our department and the troopers, we’re sure…the boy's gotta be dead. It's going into deep winter, see? You know what it's like. Here?”

“Fucking cold,” said Tripoli.

“Yeah! Now here's the…crazy part. We’re all sure…Matthew's dead. Not a chance he's alive. But, come summer, boy waltzes right into his…his Mom's diner!”

“Where's he been?”

“No one knows. But there he is. Hell of a nice kid. Like
sunshine. Kid’d walk into a room and the place…well, it’d just light up. I didn’t know him before…”

“But he's changed, right?”‘

“Can say that again. His mother tells me he doesn’t like noise. Doesn’t want to be cooped up…inside. Regular nature boy. Talking to the chipmunks. And rabbits.”The old sheriff started to laugh, but it turned to a cough.

“Mother couldn’t…” he started hacking again.

“Yeah?”

“Handle him.”

“Why?”

“Kept…Can you?” he motioned to a pitcher. Tripoli poured the man a glass of water and watched him as he took deliberate sips. His hands were shaking and Tripoli helped him steady the glass. The old sheriff swallowed.“Hmmm. That's better,” his face creased in a smile showing teeth that were surprisingly even and bright.

“You were saying the mother couldn’t handle him.”

“Kept disappearing.”

“Where?”

“Just going off.”

“Seeing somebody?”

He shrugged.“Who knows? Then he’d come back.”

“And?”

“His teacher even had trouble hanging on to him in school.” The old sheriff looked like he was getting exhausted from the exertion. His features were sagging, and his skin had developed a lifeless blue tinge.

“Take your time,” said Tripoli softly.“I’ve got all day and more if you need it.”

The sheriff rested. Slowly the color returned to his face.

“School?” coaxed Tripoli.

“Yeah. That's where he disappeared from.”

“And in the end?”

“Yup. Again.”

“And?”

“And that's it. I suppose you can read…all about it…in the papers.”

“I will,” said Tripoli, getting to his feet.“By the way, did the kid have a nickname? Like, what did the mother call him?”

“Matty…I mean, Matthew. Before it was Matty. After, he kept insisting that Matthew was his name.”

“No other name? Maybe the kids in school called him something else?”

“None that I know of,” he said, looking up at Tripoli with his watery eyes.

“You’ve been a big help, sir. Believe me.” He took the old man's bony hands in his.

“So, you finally caught up with Matthew, huh?”

“Yeah. It looks that way. The prints certainly match.”Tripoli was reluctant to go on.

“So, he's dead, huh? Well, figured that's why…you’re here. Real shame, huh?”

“Don’t be so unhappy” said Danny, coming up to her as she sat at her desk staring out the window. He brought his head close, pressed his cheek against hers.

“It's nothing, Sweetie,” she murmured. “I’m just in one of my moods.”

Molly had decided that the prudent thing was not to put Larry on the spot. Let it go, she had kept telling herself, trying to focus on her work—though it all now had a bitter taste. In a matter of little more than a day, her perspective had shifted from long term to the immediate, from career advancement to basic survival. When Larry was ready, he would call her in and inform her of the changes he had
made. She wondered who else in the office knew. Had everyone but her been told? Why was he holding off?

“We could grow our own food,” said Danny.

“What do you mean?” she asked, swiveling in her chair so she could see him.

“You know, if you lose your job.”

“Who said anything about—”

“I heard what Ben said. About the new people. I’m sorry.”There were tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“Oh my darling,” she said with tears in her own eyes. She took him into her arms and held him against her breast. “It's not your fault, Angel. Don’t even think that. It's this lousy business world. That's what it is.”

Tripoli spent the remainder of the afternoon at the
Watertown Daily Times
, sifting through their archives.

The first mention of Matthew Roland was on a microfilmed edition of the
Times
dated November 3, 1938.

“Five-Year-Old Missing”—the headlines read. There was a large picture of the boy on the front page: an attractive kid with dark hair slicked down and combed in a sharp part, a big smile on his round face. He was wearing a white shirt and an oversized bow tie. The photo looked like a Christmas picture taken the previous year when the boy would have been four. The resemblance to Daniel was striking: Matthew was Daniel cast in dark details. He had the same large almond eyes and high cheeks, so close that Tripoli couldn’t help but wonder if his mind were playing tricks on him. Maybe there was just a common denominator to five-year-olds.

He read on. The boy had disappeared from the downtown elementary school that cold November morning. His kindergarten teacher, Lydia Munson, was baffled. One minute he was there, she claimed, the next he was gone. She couldn’t recall Matthew leaving
the room at any time, nor did the children as a group leave the classroom. Matthew had simply vanished without explanation or trace.

Through successive editions, Tripoli could follow the progression of the investigation. Matthew's classmates had been questioned, but to no avail. Search parties had been organized, dogs employed, rivers and lakes dragged. The FBI had been called in, and Matthew's name had been entered into their national registry of missing persons.

Much like the hunt for Danny, Tripoli could follow the same trajectory of public concern: first the intense search, then the interest falling off as the days progressed into weeks of fruitless efforts. As the search dwindled, the articles shifted their focus to the poor widow and the toll that her son's loss was exacting. Neighbors were quoted as saying what a nice boy Matthew had been, how friendly and smart, how promising. The quotations all had an eulogistic ring to them, as if everyone was now certain that Matthew was dead.

Tripoli traced the story, moving in chronological order through the papers. Now and then there appeared a brief mention of Matthew or his mother. Mary, Matthew's mother, was repeatedly quoted as saying she remained unwavering in her conviction that her child was still alive. In February, there was mention of a bake sale to raise funds for the mother, who had been briefly hospitalized with a “nervous condition.”Then there was nothing in the papers. Not a single mention of Matthew, or his mother, or the case. Tripoli raced through the spools of microfilm.

Then, suddenly, on June 17, 1939, a huge and jubilant banner headline:

“Missing Boy Returns!”

This time the paper had a photo of a somewhat older, longhaired Matthew, the beaming boy clutched in his mother's arms, the pair surrounded by a crowd of cops and city officials.

“Presumed dead by police after his disappearance seven months
earlier, Matthew Roland, aged six, walked into his mother's diner…”Tripoli raced through the article. The boy, still wearing the clothes he had disappeared in, was apparently in perfect health. But there was still no explanation of where he had been.

Tripoli jumped to the next day's edition. The police questioning Matthew seemed to have elicited no solid information. “Matthew provided no explanation other than to say that he had been living in the woods.”

“The Mystery Widens”—the next issue of the paper announced. The article was full of wild speculation about where the child had been. People were suggesting everything from his having been abducted by Gypsies seen traveling in the Watertown area to his being nursed through the winter by wild animals. Aside from the slightly dated language, the article might easily have described the events surrounding Daniel's return.

Tripoli kept winding through the film, his pulse racing as he hit upon article after article. Interest in Matthew was obviously growing. According to his mother, Matthew had undergone a drastic transformation. “He can read just about anything,” marveled Mrs. Mary Roland. “He can even understand books meant for grownups.” But that was only part of it. He seemed exquisitely tuned in to his surroundings, to people, to animals. But with all that, his mother explained, clearly troubled, he had also become intolerant of any modern contrivances. He couldn’t stand the glare of electric lights. He had pulled out the plug of her new refrigerator because the sound of its motor disturbed him, causing all their food to spoil. He refused to ride in an automobile, eat meat, or drink milk that was in any way processed. Nor would he talk on the phone or permit a radio to play in his presence.