BECAUSE NEIL’S ARCHITECTURE OFFICE is located midway between the Register and our favorite local restaurant, the First Avenue Grill, I frequently take a noontime stroll along Dumont’s main street, stopping to meet him so we can enjoy lunch together. On Friday, though, he was booked for a long midday meeting out at Quatro Press, the town’s largest industry, which was founded by my late uncle, Thad’s grandfather, Edwin Quatrain. Because I now sit on Quatro’s board of directors, and because the thriving printing plant seems in continual need of expansion, I had no trouble securing for Neil a contract to assist in these matters on a retainer. Though the work has no glamour, Neil takes satisfaction in doing it well. What’s more, the money is good—a “bread-and-butter account,” he calls it—and the retainer has added considerable security to the iffy period of establishing his practice here.
That Friday, I walked alone to the Grill in my shirtsleeves; it was too hot for a jacket, so I had left my sport coat at the office. I tugged the knot of my tie and unbuttoned my collar, allowing an extra quarter inch of breathing room. Folded under one arm were that day’s front sections of both the Chicago Journal and the New York Times—since I’d be alone at table, I’d use the time to catch up on the Register’s “competition.”
Ducking into the shade of the Grill’s storefront awning and opening the door, I felt a rush of air-conditioning welcome me like a hug. Stepping inside the simple but handsome dining room, I paused to button my collar and adjust my tie.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Manning,” said the hostess. “So nice to see you, as always. Your table’s ready, of course.”
“Thank you, Nancy.” Though I’d eaten here nearly every day (some evenings too) since arriving in Dumont, and though the same woman had always greeted me and seated me, I realized that I knew little about her. I knew, for instance, that her name was Nancy Sanderson, that she owned the Grill, and that she had a special love for food, concocting the daily specials, which were always worth trying. Despite this culinary passion, she had a lean build that made her seem tall, but in fact her always perfect hairdo topped out no higher than my eyes. She was older than I, perhaps in her later fifties. Unlike the rest of the staff (most of them buxom Wisconsin women, all uniformed in crisp whites, like nurses of yore), Nancy dressed smartly, but with little pretense of high fashion; that day, she wore a sensible, summery knee-length green skirt with a matching jacket. I had no idea whether she was a Mrs. or a Miss, as the ring on her finger was of ambiguous design. This lack of basic information was due, no doubt, to her reserved manner. Not that she was stiff or cold—in fact she was highly cordial—but the correctness of her bearing and the formality of her inflections kept personal matters at a distance.
Walking me to my usual corner table between the fireplace and the front window overlooking First Avenue, she said, “You might enjoy today’s special, a mock chicken Caesar, nice and crisp, perfect for such a hot day.”
Sitting, I set my newspapers on the far side of the table and draped the large linen napkin over my lap. “Sounds promising. What’s ‘mock’ about it?”
“I made it with succulent strips of chicken mushrooms, lightly sautéed with wine and shallots, which are then added to the traditional Caesar salad, prepared with freshly coddled egg.” With a gentle smile and a slight bow of her head, she added, “If you’ll forgive my immodesty, it’s quite delicious.”
Timidly, I returned her smile. “Chicken mushrooms?”
“I forgot”—she paused for a quiet laugh (which carried a hint of condescension, I felt)—“you’re not from here, are you, Mr. Manning? You weren’t brought up with the traditions of mushrooming that are part of our local heritage. The wooded countryside does indeed seem to yield a special bounty here, and generations of Dumonters have delighted in the hunt’s pleasant roving.”
Since she’d gotten off track, I asked again, “Chicken mushrooms?”
“That’s their common name, of course. They’re also known as sulphur shelf, or more correctly, Laetiporus sulphureus. Strikingly beautiful, orange-tinted, they grow in overlapping clusters, or ‘shelves,’ along logs or tree trunks. They fruit most abundantly right now, in the deep of summer. I harvested these myself, just this morning. The texture and flavor are remarkably similar to chicken.”
I’d heard the same thing said of rattlesnake, but I assumed Nancy would not appreciate this observation, so I refrained from sharing it. “That sounds wonderful, but I think I’ll take a look at the menu first.”
“Certainly. I’ll send Berta over to take your order in a few minutes. Shall I bring some Lillet while you consider your choice?” She was referring to a pleasant French aperitif stocked at the request of the Register’s retired publisher, Barret Logan, also a Grill regular. Since I’d bought his newspaper and taken over his standing lunch reservation, it seemed appropriate to adopt his “usual” as well.
But the hot weather made me wary of alcohol, so I answered, “Thank you, Nancy, not today. Just iced tea, please.”
As she bobbed her head and slipped away, I made a show of opening my menu for careful perusal, but I knew the offerings so well that I didn’t need to read them—I’d have the steak salad and, depending on what was fresh that day, perhaps some berries for dessert.
Setting the menu aside, I reached for the Chicago Journal, pushed my chair back a few inches, and began reading the folded paper, resting it against the table’s edge. Skimming the headline story—another Cook County ghost-payroll scandal—I was momentarily drawn into the world of big-city politics that had once consumed my interests but now seemed so remote. With a silent chuckle of surprise, I turned the page, realizing that I didn’t miss my old reporting career at all, not even its high profile or busy pace. There were other rewards to enjoy—right here in Dumont—such as the day-to-day pleasures of an ordinary life with Neil, such as the wonders of watching Thad mature into early manhood.
“It was Thad Quatrain,” said a nearby voice, breathy and secretive.
My head jerked up from the paper. Had I really heard Thad’s name, or had I merely imagined the name popping from my thoughts?
“My God,” said another lowered voice, another woman, barely able to quell her excitement. “You mean they fought? They actually fought?”
“They were rolling on the floor together,” the other assured her, “knocking over furniture. Thad threatened Jason. The whole rehearsal came to a standstill. Denny Diggins could barely maintain order.”
Unfolding the paper and raising it, I turned, peeking around the edge of my makeshift camouflage. At an adjacent table, two middle-aged ladies lunched, their noses inches apart, each of them pinching icy shrimp tails, gnawed to the husk, plucked from a shared shrimp cocktail. I recognized neither woman, neither the source nor the listener, and from the confused and faulty account of Wednesday’s rehearsal, it was apparent that neither of them had been there. This was mere gossip, secondhand at best, embellished and mutated in the retelling.
“Well,” said the listener with a low chortle, “it’s not surprising. The rivalry between those two boys is practically legendary.”
“Everyone knows,” agreed the source, pausing to suck her tail before plunking it onto a saucer already piled high with shrimp debris. Picking a fleck of husk from her lips, she added, “Joyce’s story just confirms it.”
Aha. She had heard something from Joyce Winkler, whom I had met Wednesday night—the costume lady who had juggled her work schedule at the hospital lab in order to do some bonding with her daughter Nicole. The two women at the Grill, I assumed, were other high-schoolers’ moms, and news of the “boy toy” incident was now working its way through the gab circuit. I doubted that Joyce had related the incident with the imprecision of the current recounting, and in fact, I couldn’t really blame her for passing it along—I’d built a successful career as a reporter doing essentially the same thing. The difference, of course, was that my own “gossip” was always in writing, and what’s more, I was fully accountable for the accuracy of my stories.
“The bottom line,” said the source, dabbing her mouth, leaving a smear of liver-colored lipstick on her napkin, “was that Thad actually threatened to kill Jason. Everyone heard it. In my book”—she sat erect, folding the napkin and placing it on the table—“that goes well beyond the bounds of healthy, normal teenage rivalry.”
Even with no breaking news on Friday, it was a busy day at the Register, with the typical rush to lock up Sunday’s extra sections. Adding to this routine tension was a sense of opening-night jitters, absorbed from life with Thad during his year of growing theatrical involvement. As the afternoon wore on, I found myself repeatedly checking my watch, counting down the hours till curtain. I also found myself replaying the troublesome conversation I’d overheard at lunch.
The shrimp woman had a point: though she was fuzzy on the details and circumstances surrounding the “boy toy” incident, perhaps I should have been more alarmed by Thad’s threat. Granted, he was merely paraphrasing a line from a play, its context obvious to all present. And granted, he did this to defuse a volatile situation, sloughing off bigotry with humor. Still, Thad was young, and perhaps he needed to hear—specifically, from me—that death threats, however lamely intended or seemingly justified, should be considered off-limits in the resolution of future disputes.
So when I arrived home from the office, I offered to drive Thad to the theater that evening, even though, some months earlier, I’d bought him a seventeenth-birthday car (an efficient Japanese compact, nothing too flashy, but it was new and it was red, giving him sufficient peer status to get his mind off the “car thing” and the “job thing,” allowing him to focus on school). He could easily have transported himself to and from the theater that night, as he had done all summer, but I knew he’d gladly accept my offer because, oddly, riding in my car together had come to represent the cement of our relationship, our mutual trust.
Earlier, when Thad’s mother had died (traumatizing enough) and he had found himself placed under my guardianship (all the more traumatizing, as he had never even met an openly gay person), he had referred to me, on the day we met, as a “fucking fag.” This, needless to say, had created something of a chasm between us, one that neither of us felt inclined to bridge. Ultimately, it was my car, a big black Bavarian V-8, that broke the ice. Though he didn’t think much of me or of my imagined bedtime proclivities, Thad couldn’t help being impressed by my car, which apparently raised me, in his eyes, just above the threshold of total degeneracy. He let me drive him to lunch one day, and things began to soften—we had our first civil, mature conversation. Later, to his astonishment, I offered to lend him the car for some outing he’d planned with friends, and to my astonishment, he brought it back in one piece, on time, with profuse thanks. To this day, I don’t think twice about handing him the keys. All he has to do is ask.
So when I asked if I could drive him to the theater on opening night, he didn’t think twice before answering, “Sure, Mark, thanks. Curtain’s at eight, but I have a six-thirty call.”
Around six-twenty, we hopped into the car, and I backed out of the driveway onto Prairie Street. Glancing over, I asked, “You have…everything?”
Through a quizzical smile, he asked, “Like what?”
I shrugged. “Script? Costume? Makeup?” He’d brought nothing.
He explained, “The script is memorized. Everything else is at the theater.”
“Just checking.” I reached over and mussed his hair. “Good luck to—” I stopped myself. “Break a leg tonight. You’ll be great, I’m sure. Neil and I are really proud of you. We’ll be counting the minutes till eight—can’t wait.” I turned onto Park Street, heading toward downtown.
“Actually,” he said with a laugh, “I hope you two are bored tonight. I mean, you’ve already seen the show, at Wednesday’s dress rehearsal. That was a perfect run-through. Hope it’s just as good tonight.”
“It’s different, though,” I insisted, “with a real audience—the collective anticipation, the adrenaline, the mutual feedback.”
He caught my gaze for a moment. His smile was flat-out beautiful. “And that’s what makes the magic.”
We rode in silence for a block or two, passing the park on our right, its waxy foliage still radiant in the hot evening sun. I was thinking about what Thad had said—not only the magic, but Wednesday’s rehearsal. He’d opened the door to the very topic I meant to broach.
“Everything’s okay with you and Jason, right? That spat at dress rehearsal—it won’t affect the performance, will it?”
“Nah,” he said, a bit too blithely, “we have our differences, and I’ll be glad when he’s back at Unity High and I’m back at Central—and I’ll never forgive him for the way he treated you and Neil—but we’ll pull together for the good of the show. Like they say, ‘the play’s the thing.’ ”
I quizzed, “Who said that?”
“Shakespeare. Hamlet.”
“Which act and scene?”
Thad crossed his arms and gave me a get-real stare. “Don’t press your luck, Mark.” After a pause, he added, “So, inform me, which act and scene?”
“Haven’t a clue.” And we shared a laugh. As it waned, I told him, “Not to get ‘heavy,’ Thad, but that whole confrontation is still sort of bothering me. It was all Jason’s fault—I understand that—the kid’s a jerk, period. And believe me, you handled it with great maturity by letting the whole thing fizzle and not escalate. But still, you did make a threat, and taken out of context—”
“Mark,” Thad interrupted me, placing his fingertips on my arm as I drove, “I know. It was dumb. It was not cool. I was mad, and I wasn’t thinking straight. It seemed clever, so it popped out. I’ll apologize to Jason in the green room tonight—in front of everybody.”
My mood instantly lightened. Since we were both so clearly in sync on this issue, I allowed myself to violate the exact principle I meant to preach: “Kill him with kindness, eh?” Har har.
Thad flumped back in his seat, laughing loudly, slapping both knees. I myself indulged in a low chortle as I turned onto First Avenue, the downtown’s main street.
The Dumont Playhouse was located only a few blocks from the Register’s offices. The theater was always touted by the Players Guild as “historic,” and indeed, it was nearly a hundred years old, but the place had something of a checkered past. It was originally built as a vaudeville house, with a wide stage, lofty fly space, and some eight hundred seats—easily the largest auditorium in a small town that was growing fast in the heart of paper-mill country. With the advent of talkies and the death of vaudeville, the playhouse was converted to a movie theater, its stage walled over with a screen. Then, in the seventies, when smaller theaters became the trend, the handsome old theater was chopped down its middle, creating two smaller auditoriums with awkwardly angled rows of seats facing half-screens. Finally, when the first “multiplex” opened on the edge of town, the venerable old playhouse closed its doors, presumably for good.
It had sat empty for a couple of years, beginning to deteriorate, when a struggling community-theater group, the Dumont Players Guild, discovered the lure of historic preservation, purchasing the hulk of a building for a song and securing the troupe’s first permanent home. Half of the screen was removed, exposing the stage in one of the auditoriums, which alone could seat the group’s expected patrons. The other auditorium was used for storage and workspace, the Moorish-themed lobby was spiffed up, and the Dumont Playhouse again opened its doors. The Players soon learned, though, that their new home was no bargain, its upkeep and restoration draining meager coffers all too quickly. But they hung with it, securing private grants and public sympathy as they strove to save the theater—and in doing so, they lent a note of luster and tenacity to the once-fading downtown.
On that Friday night, though the sun would not set for another hour or two, the original ornate marquee outside the playhouse was already ablaze with its chaser lights, announcing the new production that would soon grace the theater’s old stage (or at least half of it). The sight of the bright, frenetic sign, though gaudy and dated, actually brought a lump to my throat, and I sensed that it had the same effect on Thad as he stared at it. Driving past, I placed a hand behind his head and gave his neck a squeeze, a silent good-luck wish, a tactile message that I appreciated the commitment he’d made to help bring the theater to life that night.
Clearing my throat, I asked, “Stage door?”
He nodded.
I pulled around the block to the rear of the theater, where a small parking lot accommodated cast and crew. A number of cars had already arrived, and people were milling about—strange, I thought, given the heat. The stage door was shimmed open, and I could glimpse confused activity within. Thad’s brows furrowed with wonder as I pulled into the lot and parked. Denny Diggins pranced out from backstage, joining the hubbub, fluttering from group to group, asking questions. Both Thad and I got out of the car as Denny approached us. Before he could speak, my reporter’s instincts took over, and I asked, “What’s wrong?”
He threw his hands in the air. “Jason’s not here.”
I glanced at Thad. Thad glanced at his watch. He told Denny, “It’s just six-thirty. He’s not late yet. There’s plenty of time.”
Denny wagged his head, palms pressed to his cheeks. “No,” he explained through a pucker of frustration, “there’s not plenty of time. We don’t know where he is.” Denny dropped one hand from his face, raising the other to hold his forehead, as if staving off a migraine. “I’ve been concerned about his cold, naturally. I spoke to him yesterday, and he said he wasn’t feeling any better. So I told him to get plenty of rest, then tried checking on him this afternoon, but couldn’t reach him. I’ve phoned again and again, but can’t get past his machine. Something’s wrong.”
I stepped nearer, telling Denny, “Don’t jump to conclusions. He could be anywhere. He’s probably on his way here right now.” This was truly an unexpected turn of events—not Jason’s questionable whereabouts, but my leaping forward to console Denny Diggins, of all people.
He said, “I hope to God you’re right, Mahk.”
Kwynn Wyman, Thad’s friend, had seen us arrive and walked over to meet us. Hearing the last of our conversation, she said, “Please don’t worry, Mr. Diggins. I’m sure Jason’s fine. But in any event, we’re covered, remember. Thad’s ready to play Ryan tonight if he needs to.”
“And he just may need to,” said Denny, looking to the hot-hued heavens with an expression that asked, Why me?
“I’m ready if you need me,” Thad assured Denny. “All we can do is wait.”
And waiting in the wings, so to speak, was little Tommy Morales—perched on the stairs to the stage door, script in hand, studying the role of Dawson.
Later that evening, a few minutes before eight, Neil and I mingled with the crowd in the theater lobby. Doug Pierce and Barb Bilsten were with us, as planned, and through the bobbing heads I spotted a familiar figure—or rather, her purse.
Glee Savage, the Register’s features editor, was a veteran staffer, having been with the paper since her journalism-school graduation some thirty years earlier. She played to the hilt her role as local fashion maven, bringing a much needed dash of pizazz to the streets of our backwaterish little city. Her manner of dress was unpredictable, verging on zany, but a constant feature of her ensembles was the style of purse she always carried. In a word, the purses were big, nearly two feet square—flat carpetbags—collected in a seemingly endless variety of colors and patterns.
Glimpsing such a purse, imprinted with giant green banana leaves, I knew that Glee was on the premises. Though she had come to enjoy the show, she was also working that night, having assigned herself to review the opening. I told my companions, “Let’s see if Glee wants to join us. I need to ask her something.”
Neil, Pierce, and Barb readily agreed—they would enjoy Glee’s company, but more important, they knew what was on my mind. We’d already discussed my earlier encounter with a flustered Denny Diggins in the parking lot, and we wondered if Glee had any news regarding Jason Thrush. Would he perform as scheduled that evening?
I tried catching Glee’s attention by waving my program over the heads of the crowd, but she didn’t notice, so Barb took charge, emitting a shrill whistle from her teeth. (This involved fingers, lips, and saliva, as well as her teeth—a particularly butch little trick that I have never mastered.) The babble halted momentarily as all heads turned. “Glee!” commanded Barb. “Over here!”
Recognizing us, Glee waved, then moved toward us through the crowd as the hubbub built to its previous level.
“Evening, boss,” she told me, arriving in our midst. We all exchanged pleasantries. She asked, “What’s up?”
“Care to join us inside? We have an extra ticket or two.”
“Sure.” Big smile. Big oily red lips.
“For God’s sake,” said Barb, getting right to the point, “what’s the deal with this Jason creep?” She’d heard about the incident at dress rehearsal, but Jason had been “the creep” for several weeks already, since the announcement that he would be starring on opening night.
Glee’s look of confusion made it apparent she’d heard nothing.
I explained, “When I brought Thad to the theater earlier, there was some concern about Jason Thrush. He’s been ill, I guess, and Denny couldn’t reach him this afternoon. There was talk of a possible cast change.”
“Really?” Glee arched her brows. “Nothing’s been said to me about it. The lobby photo display still has Jason centered on the top row.”
Pierce flipped through his program book to the cast of characters. “Jason Thrush as Ryan,” he confirmed. “No stuffer announcing a change. Hey”—he jerked his head toward the double-doored entrance to the auditorium—“people are starting to go in.”
“Great. Everything must be okay,” I said, unable to mask a tone of mild disappointment that contradicted my words. “We’d better take our seats.”
So the five of us began jostling with the crowd toward the doors to the main aisle. While inching forward, Neil nudged me. “Over there,” he said into my ear. “It’s Mica Thrush—looking trampy as ever.”
I had to laugh, finding Neil’s characterization too charitable. She was all in black again, but tonight’s outfit was even more revealing—a silky little slip of an evening dress with a backless plunge toward dangerous territory. As she walked, her long, straight hair shifted, brushing the top of her butt crack. People were staring, exactly as she wanted, though she pretended not to notice. I didn’t know her age, but she had referred to Jason as her “baby brother,” so I guessed she was twenty or so. Eschewing the obvious topic of her perilously bare ass, I told Neil, “Jason must have made it to the theater. Why else would she be here?”
He shrugged, not caring—Mica Thrush was not worth pondering.
Inside, we found our seats and settled in. Thad had secured a prime location for us, about a third of the way back from the stage, on the aisle. Pierce asked for the outer seat, in case he was called away; I sat next to him, with Neil next to me; Barb and Glee took the inner seats. We chatted quietly, paging through the program, glancing at the ads. The Register had, as usual, taken the back cover; Quatro Press, the inside front. Glee snapped open the top edge of her purse and extracted her steno pad, pen, and a petite flashlight, in case she needed to take notes during the performance. Barb and Neil discussed some lingering details of the next night’s party—everything was under control.
At three minutes past eight (I checked my watch), the houselights started their slow fade, and the audience instinctively hushed itself. We knew we were moments away from raising the curtain on a brand-new play, a world premiere. Sure, it was a local effort, and chances were Denny Diggins’s original script would never be staged again, but still, there was a palpable excitement—the hint of great things to come, the magic, as Thad had called it. And the room grew darker.
But when the houselights reached half-power, they paused.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began a disembodied but familiar voice (Denny’s, over a loudspeaker), “the Dumont Players Guild wishes to announce the following cast changes: in tonight’s performance, the role of Ryan will be played by Thad Quatrain”—Neil and I discreetly grabbed each other’s fingertips in a proud, congratulatory gesture—“and the role of Dawson will be played by Thomas Morales. Thank you.”
Predictably, a murmur swept through the crowd as the lights continued their fade to black. Some, surely, were disappointed by the announcement—those who had come to see Jason. Others—like us—were delighted, having preferred to see Thad in the starring role all along. But most were simply surprised and curious: What had happened?
Just before the houselights winked out, I noticed someone stand in the packed auditorium and begin walking up the aisle toward the lobby. There was no mistaking the lean figure, the sultry swagger, the black satin—it was Mica Thrush, heading out of the theater.
The crowd again hushed itself as the room went completely dark. Then, with an audible hum, the stage lights came on, full power, and the scene was set. Teen Play had begun. After a few lines of opening dialogue from minor characters, Ryan made his entrance, and to my surprise (Thad’s too, I’m sure), the audience erupted with applause, as if cheering the hero, the understudy who was called upon to save the show. I knew, of course, that Thad was thoroughly rehearsed in the role—he would have played Ryan the next night anyway—but this distinction was lost on the crowd as they clapped their approbation and support. Without breaking character, Thad and everyone else onstage momentarily froze in a tableau, waiting for the applause to wane, then continued with their dialogue. I had never heard Thad in better voice. And I had not before seen him in the role of Ryan, which he acted with confidence and authority. If the last-minute casting change threw him at all, it was not the least bit evident.
I quickly dismissed the real-world issues and actions and problems that had led to that moment, allowing myself to slip into the new world being created behind the proscenium. As theater folk would say, I “suspended my disbelief” and bought into the whole fabrication, forgetting that it was Thad up there. As minutes passed, the plot began to twist and thicken. I wondered, really caring, What next?
Pierce, squirming in his seat next to me, broke my theatrical spell as he reached inside his jacket and unclipped the pager from his belt. The gizmo had apparently alerted him with a vibrating signal, and he now strained to see its readout in the dim light of the auditorium. Adding to this distraction, Glee passed her penlight down the row to him, rousing Barb’s and Neil’s curiosity. Heads in the row behind us turned as well, wondering what we were looking at. At last Pierce managed to position the pager at a legible angle under the narrow beam of light. Nudging my knee with his, he offered me a look at the readout—he was needed at the Thrush residence, the home of the missing actor. Rising from his seat, he headed for the lobby.
Turning to give Neil’s arm a squeeze of apology, I rose, following the sheriff out of the theater.
In the lobby, Pierce told me, “It’s police business. You stay, Mark. Thad would want you here.”
“I know,” I conceded, nodding, “but I’ve got an uneasy feeling that whatever’s happening at the Thrushes’ might spell trouble for Thad. Please, Doug—I feel I need to be there.”
He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts, but was too rushed to argue. “All right,” he said, exhaling. “But you won’t get in on your own. Ride with me.”
The Thrush residence was located in a pricey development of larger homes near the edge of town—a rolling-knolls subdivision peppered with old oaks and the sort of shake-shingled mini-mansions that Neil often derides as “big dumb houses.” Some looked like storybook castles, others like Mediterranean villas. A particularly ungainly specimen resembled the Alamo—with a front-loading three-car garage. There were several examples of Disney-French, one of which, at the end of a cul-de-sac, was meant to pass for a cozy countryside stable, but it was just too damn big. The intended ambience was further contradicted by an assembly of police vehicles, hastily parked at jumbled angles, flashers flashing. I had never known exactly where Jason Thrush lived, but clearly, we’d arrived.
It was past eight-thirty, and dusk was slipping toward night. I got out of the car and waited for Pierce to finish on the radio. The conversation was sufficient to tell me what we’d find inside, but not a word was said that explained how it had happened. A sheriff’s deputy came out of the house and jogged down the sidewalk to meet us as Pierce got out of the car.
Pierce quickly introduced us—the man in uniform was Jim Johnson, the first officer to arrive on the scene.
“Who called it in?” Pierce asked him.
“The sister. She’s a weird one—named Mica.”
“Who else is home?”
“Just the father.” Johnson didn’t need to mention the dozen cops, the crew of evidence technicians—or the coroner.
“Let’s have a look,” said Pierce, and the three of us walked up to the house.
Though the exterior resembled a stable, the inside leaned, shall we say, toward the opulent—nothing says “welcome home” quite so eloquently as that touch of Versailles. Louis-this, Louis-that, everywhere. Chandeliers, gold hardware, tasseled curtains, the works. Though our mission was grim, I couldn’t suppress a wry smile, wondering how Neil would react to this place.
There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Pierce asked Johnson, “Where?”
“Upstairs. Bedroom.” And he led us up the curved staircase.
The upstairs hall was abuzz with hushed activity. Officers sidled into and out of a brightly lit room that I assumed to be Jason’s. Mica was on the far side of the hall, standing speechless next to a seated man who held his head in his hands. I assumed this to be her father, but he seemed far too old.
Pierce stepped to the bedroom door. “Could we have some room, please?” he quietly asked everyone, who filed out to the hall.
I followed Pierce inside. We were not alone. Dr. Vernon Formhals, the county coroner, was present—as was the body of Jason Thrush.
The death of someone young, who has yet to hit his prime, is always a startling event. More than merely mourn the tragedy, we grieve at the loss of potential—the victim represents promises unfulfilled and a life unlived. What’s more, such death seems such a waste, and in Jason’s case, this sense of forfeited opportunities was amplified by a perfect physique on the verge of manhood, lost. How easily I forgot my disdain for the living person, which had been home to a mean and arrogant spirit. That spirit had now flown, leaving only its handsome hull.
Jason lay prone on his bed, one leg dropped over the edge, his foot to the floor. He was dressed for a summer day in knit shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. The bed was neatly made, its pillows unrumpled. He looked as if he had just lain down for a nap. Or had he collapsed there? His face was turned toward us, eyes gently closed, like the frozen portrait of a beautiful sleeping child—but the image was spoiled by a sizable gob of mucus that hung like molten, greenish rubber from his sagging mouth.
“God,” I said, stepping close to stare into his blank visage, “what happened?”
Dr. Formhals answered, “No idea.”
Pierce asked him, “Natural causes?”
“Can’t tell yet.” Stretching a fresh pair of white latex gloves over his massive black hands, Formhals explained the obvious need for an autopsy, the various tests they could run, the expected timetable for obtaining results.
As the coroner spoke, I remained at the bedside, crouching to study the body, weighing the mixture of attraction and revulsion I felt. There was no indication of trauma or struggle; Jason simply lay there, dead. Sniffing, I concluded that he could not have been there more than a few hours, as there was no foul hint of decay. Nor had his bowels discharged, perhaps due to the position of his body. In fact, the predominant smell at close range was sweet and flowery—the same “cheap perfume” noted by Kwynn Wyman at Wednesday night’s rehearsal. He’d laid it on thick again. Inhaling the fruity scent, I was struck by a vague sensory memory, not from Wednesday, but from long ago. The fragrance was familiar. Had I known someone else who once wore it?
Rising (my knees cracked), I turned to ask the coroner, “Can you estimate the time of death, Vernon?”
He stepped next to me at the bedside. “This is preliminary, of course.” He draped his palm over the thickest part of the boy’s upper thigh, telling us, “The body is still slightly warm.” He poked the leg with his index finger. “The skin still blanches when touched.” Then, using both gloved hands, he gently lifted Jason’s head and moved it about, observing, “The first signs of rigor are evident in the neck and jaw.” Allowing Jason’s head to rest again, Formhals paused to pat it, smoothing a still-lustrous lock of hair above an unhearing ear. Turning to us, he continued, “The room had been closed and air-conditioned, a steady seventy-two. The boy probably died between three and four hours ago.”
Pierce checked his watch. “Nine now. That would put it between five and six.”
Formhals nodded. “Close enough.”
I told them, “That explains where Jason was at six-thirty. But Denny Diggins said he’d been trying to phone him all afternoon and could never get past the answering machine.”
As Pierce made note of this, I glanced around the room, taking my first real look at it (since entering, I’d been focused, naturally, on the body). Jason’s second-floor bedroom was spacious and well furnished, not Frenchy like the rest of the house, but looking like a typical “guy’s room”—well, a typical rich guy’s room. There was a bed, desk, dresser, and a few side chairs, all of matched dark hardwood. The curtains, bedspread, and a large upholstered chair and ottoman shared the same handsome plaid fabric, very nubby, correctly masculine. The thick beige carpeting was perfectly clean, surely wool. There were lots of framed pictures, two (maybe three) wall mirrors, and an abundance of stuff—sports gear, trophies, stereo, television, computer, and on the desk, a telephone, the oversize sort of office phone with extra buttons. In spite of Jason’s many possessions, his bedroom had an anonymous, sanitized feeling, like a hotel room.
I didn’t see an answering machine, so I reasoned that Denny’s calls must have been picked up by voice mail. But why hadn’t Jason answered in the first place? Was he there in the bedroom, sick and dying? Or was he simply somewhere else? I realized there was a lot to sort out, and so did Pierce—his face wrinkled in a perplexed scowl as he stood near the bed scratching notes.
“My son was all I had, you know.”
We turned as the decrepit-looking man entered the bedroom from the hall, grasping the doorjamb. He wore a conservative business suit and white dress shirt, but no tie or shoes. Pierce crossed the room to assist him to a chair. “My condolences, Mr. Thrush. I’m so sorry.”
“You still have me, Daddy,” said Mica, appearing in the doorway, still in her Dracula drag. “Don’t forget about me.” Her expression, as usual, was flat and plastic, as if she wore a mask. She said the words through hard-edged black lips, without apparent emotion. Her tone carried nothing to convince us that she meant to console her father or mourn her brother. If anything, she sounded mildly amused—and terribly bored.
The Thrush patriarch glanced briefly at his daughter, as if staring straight through her into the hallway, as if she didn’t exist. Then he turned back to us. Ignoring both the sheriff and the coroner, choosing me, he fixed me in his gaze. Though we’d never met, he explained, “Jason would have followed me in the business, my business, the business I founded and nurtured. But now”—he dropped his head backward and laughed at the ceiling—“now it seems the mantle will be passed to Mica.”
“Not yet, Daddy,” she told him, watching me instead of her father. “There’s so much left for you to accomplish.” She didn’t mean a word of it, making no attempt to disguise her insincerity.
“May I ask you a few questions, Mr. Thrush?” said Pierce, readying a fresh page of his notebook.
That was my cue—I extracted my own notepad from a jacket pocket and uncapped my Montblanc, hungry for a few facts. I soon learned that Jason’s father was Burton Thrush, age fifty-six. He claimed a history of ill health, which explained why he appeared far older than his years, forcing me to wonder if his son’s unexpected death would simply be too much for him. His wife had died some years ago; Jason and Mica were their only children. He confirmed that Jason was seventeen, Mica twenty-one.
While Pierce conversed with Thrush, I watched Mica saunter through the room. She brushed within a hair’s breadth of Coroner Formhals, pausing to trace her sharp, black fingernail over his strong, black chin and down his throat. She smiled faintly as his eyes widened. He stepped back, giving her a clear path to the bed.
She stood there, beading baby brother with a stare, as if he were holding his breath and they were playing a game. When he didn’t move, she began to appear impatient. With hands on hips, she leaned over the bed. As her hair fell forward, her bare back and most of her ass were exposed squarely to Formhals, who gaped in astonishment for a moment before turning away to fidget with something in his medical bag.
Mica leaned closer over her brother, then smiled. She tried blowing in his ear. Getting no response, she proceeded to tickle him, first his neck, then his armpits, then down his sides, groping under his hips.
Burton Thrush, engrossed in grief, didn’t even notice.
Pierce had a busy night ahead of him and would not be returning to the theater, so he asked a deputy to drive me back.
Walking through the quiet lobby, I peeked through the doors into the auditorium. I’d been gone for about an hour, and Thad was now onstage with Tommy Morales, playing Ryan and Dawson. Having attended the dress rehearsal, I recognized the scene from act two—I’d missed most of the performance. I recalled that there would be a brief scene shift near the end of the show, when I could slip in without disturbing anyone.
Waiting with the door cracked open, I listened to the dialogue. Thad and Tommy were acting up a storm, not dropping a cue, with the packed audience dead quiet, hanging on every word. The scene soon ended with a momentary blackout. As the audience responded with a polite round of applause (nothing effusive yet, as the play’s climax still lay ahead), the houselights came on dimly, signaling a pause while the stage was reset. Opening the door, I returned to my seat.
Neil, Barb, and Glee turned toward me, leaning in their seats, a silent plea for information. But the houselights had already begun to fade, so I replied with an apologetic shrug, raising a finger to my lips. My news would have to wait, which came as something of a relief. For the moment, I was glad to shoo from my mind the recent encounter with Jason’s corpse—and his dysfunctional family—replacing that disturbing reality with a few minutes of theatrical distraction.
Unfortunately, I was soon reminded that the last scene of Teen Play bore a striking resemblance to the scenario that had just been played out at the Thrush residence. The action resumed onstage:
The rivalry that has been developing between the two main characters, Ryan and Dawson, now climaxes in murder. It is the night when the play within the play is scheduled to open, and Dawson kills Ryan, stepping into the leading role.
Thad and Tommy gave a chilling, realistic performance of the dramatic ending, and the audience reacted as intended, momentarily horrified by the ruthless bludgeoning they witnessed. But I was all the more stunned—not that the staged gore bore any physical similarity to Jason Thrush’s demise, but the circumstances were staggeringly alike. Surely, I feared, as soon as the news broke that Jason had died that night, everyone who had seen the play would make the same connection, wondering if art had imitated life—or vice versa.
Suddenly the room was dark, and the audience burst into applause. I wasn’t even conscious of the play’s final moments, but it had ended, and the crowd loved it. I felt Neil hug my shoulder; Barb leaned over him to give me a thumbs-up; Glee scribbled notes with a wide, happy grin. Thad, it seemed, was a triumph. During curtain call, when it was finally his turn to walk downstage for a bow, cheers rang from the crowd, and within moments, we were all on our feet. Thad dutifully waved Denny Diggins to the stage to share the applause, and I had to admit that our pompous fledgling playwright had delivered on his promise. Joining the others, I clapped all the louder.
After several curtain calls, my arms ached and my palms stung. At last the applause faded, and the actors left the stage as the houselights came on.
“Mark,” Glee told me, stretching to shake my hand, “it was mah-velous, wasn’t it?” We all laughed our agreement. “I’ll scamper right over to the office to write my review—there’s just enough time to make the morning edition.”
I then realized that I myself had a deadline to meet. As the only newsman on the scene when Jason’s body was discovered, I’d need to “switch hats” tonight, stepping out of my publisher’s role and back into that of reporter. Duty called. It was a page-one story—and to think that only yesterday I’d been bemoaning the lack of local news.
“Actually,” I told Glee, “I need to take care of something back at the paper as well. I’ll give you a ride.” The Register’s offices were only a few blocks away, and I assumed Glee had walked to the theater, as her apartment was also downtown.
“Hold on,” Neil interrupted. “We’ve got to see Thad first. He’ll be expecting us backstage. Look”—he pointed to a side door near the front of the theater—“others are herding back there already.”
He was right. We had to congratulate Thad—I felt bad enough that I’d missed most of the performance. Glee and I could spare a few minutes before rushing to our computers. Besides, if we needed more time, I was in a position to fudge our deadline. After all, presses now rolled at my command. “Thanks for the reminder,” I told Neil, giving him a hug. “First things first.”
While most of the audience was now jostling toward the lobby, a smaller pack of well-wishers bucked the tide, moving toward the stage. Our party of four, Thad’s cheering section, joined this latter group, filing through a narrow door that led to the wings. Amidst the happy chatter that surrounded us, Neil asked me, “What happened? You’re obviously itching to write a story. And where’s Doug?”
I leaned to whisper a few words to him.
“Oh, no.” He looked at me with dismay, fingers to lips.
I wasn’t sure if he was simply upset by the news of Jason’s untimely demise or if he already grasped its implications. In any event, I’d dashed his high spirits—but he’d asked a direct question, and there was no point in dodging it. Saying nothing more, I found his hand at my side and gave his wrist a squeeze of reassurance as we moved closer to the commotion backstage.
Parents and friends were caught up with the young cast in a giddy, congratulatory swirl. Denny Diggins darted about, accepting the adulation of any who would offer it. Moms tittered, dads blustered, kids yapped and laughed. And through the crowd I spotted Thad’s head bobbing, looking for us. “There,” I told our group, pointing to him. I waved. Barb whistled.
His head snapped in our direction. Beaming, he worked his way toward us through the friendly mayhem. “Hey!” he called. “What’d you think?” He didn’t need to ask—he knew very well that he’d led the cast to a smash opening—but he needed to hear it from us, and we gladly obliged.
Neil met him first. Big hug. “What a night! You did it, Thad.”
Barb’s turn. “Thataboy, hot stuff!” She gave him a kiss, then playfully boxed his ears. “I hope that Leonardo wimp has some backup plans—‘career alternatives,’ as they say.” She laughed wildly.
“Thanks, Barb!” Then Thad noticed Glee. “Hi, Miss Savage.” Aware of her mission that night, he sheepishly asked, “Well?”
Big, obvious wink. “You’ll have to wait till morning, I’m afraid.” Leaning close, she gripped his upper arm, the sleeve smeared with makeup and stage blood. “But I have a hunch you’ll get a rave notice.”
“He’d better,” I told her with a laugh. As I spread my arms, Thad stepped into my embrace and I told him, “You have no idea how proud you’ve made us.” I patted his sweaty back, mussed his already tangled hair.
“Thanks, Mark.” Then he backed off a few inches. “But did you like it?” He smiled, waiting for my routine compliments. “The play, I mean.”
After an awkward hesitation (the few seconds felt like minutes of agony), I confessed, “I’m really sorry, Thad, but I missed most of the show. Sheriff Pierce and I were called away. But I promise, I’ll be here start-to-finish tomorrow night, no matter what.”
To my profound relief, he didn’t seem to mind. “That’s okay”—he cuffed my shoulder—“you and the sheriff, you’re busy, important guys.” As an afterthought, he asked with idle curiosity, “Where is Sheriff Pierce? What happened?”
“Yeah,” said Barb, elbowing Glee with a sisterly nod, affirming that they were waiting for answers, and now. “What the hell’s up with that disappearing act?”
I glanced at Neil. “Thad,” I said quietly, focusing on the boy, “something awful has happened. Jason Thrush was found dead in his bedroom this evening.”
“Huh?” murmured Thad, Glee, and Barb. “What?” “My God.”
Kwynn Wyman had just emerged from the crowd, all smiles, stepping forward to tell Thad something, but he didn’t notice. He asked me, “How did he die?”
“We don’t know. The sheriff and the coroner are still there with Mr. Thrush, and—”
“What?” said Kwynn, startled by our somber tone. “Mr. Thrush died?”
“No,” Thad answered, turning to her. “It’s unbelievable, but it was Jason.”
Her mouth trembled. Then she blurted, “Jason’s dead?”
Her words were loud enough to catch the attention of those around us, who instantly dropped their own conversations, turning to listen to ours. I explained to Kwynn, “Jason’s sister found him in his bedroom tonight after the play started. We don’t know how he died. There were no signs of—”
But there was no point in continuing. Word was out, spreading fast, and the jubilant opening-night clamor was quickly transformed to a chorus of gasps and shrieks. Denny Diggins rushed forward, his face drained of color, demanding to know what had happened. Tommy Morales tagged behind him with a blank look of alarm, trying to hear what was said. Other cast members gathered around, stricken by the news that one of their own had died so tragically and so young. Then, as if on cue, the whole cavernous space fell silent, except for the sobs.
After a few moments of this instinctive, respectful lull, Nicole Winkler, the pretty one, said through an anguished cry, “I can’t believe he’s dead! I’ll never believe that Jason’s gone…not really gone.”
“Holy shit!” someone said. “It’s just like the play.”
Someone else: “Yeah. Jason died on opening night.”
Another: “Unreal. How could it happen—”
Bitterly, through her tears, Nicole reminded everyone, “Thad threatened Jason. And now Jason’s dead.”