Bayview Academy was located just off of Skyline Drive in Oakland, a pleasant ten acres that seemed a jumble of eucalyptus trees at first until Artie got a few hundred feet off the drive and saw the main building and the athletic grounds behind it. Beyond the track-and-field area the ground sloped sharply down to the bay and a view of San Francisco on the other side, partially hidden by tendrils of fog.
He had seen the school five years before, when he and Susan had first enrolled Mark there, but the ivy had grown since then. Now the redbrick buildings of Bayview Academy would look right at home in upstate New York or in some small town in Vermont.
Scott Fleming, the headmaster, was cordial enough, affable but careful to maintain a certain reserve as a protective barrier between himself and the parents of his students. He had been about to take his afternoon stroll around the grounds and invited Artie along. He looked in his early sixties, a small and somewhat placid man, thin and wiry. His hair was gray, and with his woolen jacket and thick scarf trailing behind him in the breeze, all Artie could think of was Mr. Chips. He even had a faintly English accent to go with his appearance.
Artie remembered when he’d first met Fleming and the headmaster had filled him in on the history of the academy.
“We were founded in the middle forties, just after the Second World War. Mr. Elias Putnam had his only boy come back badly wounded—he had lost a leg and the use of his right hand—and Putnam became interested in the plight of the crippled while overseeing the rehabilitation of his son.”
“‘Crippled,’” Artie had repeated. He hadn’t been sure he liked the sound of it. He had always considered Mark handicapped, not crippled.
“The students here are crippled, Mr. Banks,” Fleming had said quietly. “We could use the phrase ‘physically disadvantaged’ but I’m afraid that being politically correct wouldn’t help our students at all. They’re crippled. We deliberately use the word and with usage, the word itself is defused. It’s not the word, it’s the baggage that goes along with it. The students are certainly going to hear the word on the outside; better they get used to hearing it at Bayview.”
They were at the back of the building now, looking out over the track and the small baseball field. It was late in the afternoon and turning colder; Artie envied Fleming his thick woolen sweater. He waved at the diamond and the cinder track.
“I can’t imagine those would get much use.”
Fleming raised an eyebrow. “Physical activity is more difficult than it would be with ordinary boys and girls of the same age, but then they’re not competing with ordinary boys and girls—they’re competing with each other.” He wrapped his arms around his chest for warmth. “There’s not much to see beyond this, might as well start back. We can have some coffee in my office if you’d like.”
They detoured through the gymnasium and Artie watched a wheelchair basketball game in progress, then found himself distracted by a muscular sixteen-year-old
climbing a rope to the ceiling, using only his arms.
“He can’t walk,” Fleming offered. “Nerve degeneration in his legs. But he’s an ace gymnast and the star of our wheelchair basketball games—I’ve seen him sink one from the middle of the floor.”
They had started for the exit when Fleming called to a student, his right arm hanging limply at his side, who was picking up towels from the benches. “Collins, I’ll be in my office with Mr. Banks. When you finish, I’d appreciate two containers of coffee from the cafeteria. Tell Mrs. Deveny it’s for me.”
He glanced at Artie. “I’ve cream and sugar in the office, if you use it.”
“Black,” Artie said offhand. Collins had caught his eye and they stared at each other for a second. Sturdy kid, reddish hair, probably looked young for his age—more pretty than handsome, in a homely sort of way. The type of face where all the flaws made for an agreeable whole; the tough Irish kid who looked angelic as an altar boy.
In the office, Fleming relaxed in the black leather chair behind his desk and stared thoughtfully at Artie.
“Over the phone, you said Mark had disappeared. We thought he was sick and you had just forgotten to notify us.”
Artie shook his head. “He vanished two days ago—he never came home from school. I called some of his friends; they said he’d done a few laps in the pool and then a friend had given him a lift home. Apparently he left again shortly afterward. No way he could have left by himself; his chair was still there.”
Fleming nodded. “After you called, I did some checking here. Collins was the student who drove him home; you can talk to him later.”
Artie wasn’t sure how to approach what was on his mind. “I was wondering …” His voice trailed off.
Fleming didn’t help. “Yes, Mr. Banks?” His face was impassive.
“I was wondering if … if Mark has any girlfriends. That sounds funny—I’m his father, I should know. I’m sure he would have brought any home but he never has and I was curious—”
“He’s popular,” Fleming interrupted shortly. “I would say he has his share of female friends. He’s a very outgoing young man.”
There was a knock on the door and Collins came in clutching a tray in his left hand with two sealed containers of coffee.
“Thank you, Collins. Stand by outside for a bit; I think Mr. Banks would like to talk to you.”
Again, the brief spark of something in Collins’ eyes, and then he was gone.
“You were saying, Mr. Banks?”
“How deep do the relationships go, Mr. Fleming? There’s probably no way I would know—but you might.”
Fleming looked puzzled.
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
He was beating around the bush, Artie thought. But he didn’t have all day and neither did Fleming.
“Sexually,” he said bluntly. “I keep wondering if some girl … woman … might have gotten Mark to run off with her, say, for a week in Palm Springs or maybe Las Vegas.”
Fleming looked amused. “I rather think it would have been a mutual decision, not the young lady’s alone. But frankly, sexual activity isn’t something we monitor, Mr. Banks. On campus, certainly. Off campus, it’s none of our business.” He paused. “You’ve never worked with crippled children, have you? As a counselor or anything like that?”
Artie shook his head.
“Being crippled creates a rapport among the students, Mr. Banks. It’s a very strong one; they feel very
close. You don’t have the usual dating rituals you find in most high schools. Friends aren’t chosen on the basis of beauty or physical prowess. They’re very open with each other, they’re very honest. To be truthful about it, I suspect our students are more sexually active than most. For one thing, to have sex at all usually requires close cooperation between them. The feelings of closeness and cooperation are already there, and I know they have great compassion for each other. I imagine that sexual activity is not far behind.”
“And what do you do when students get pregnant?”
“They usually inform their parents—we don’t have to. Pregnancy is uncommon, but when it happens it may interest you to know they invariably choose to keep the child.”
“Mark—”
Fleming held up his hand.
“That’s about all I can tell you. Mark is a very popular boy, it’s my observation that he’s much in demand. I’m somewhat surprised you aren’t aware of that. I suppose his mother probably is; a lot of fathers seem to be remote from their sons. Too bad, but then I don’t know the circumstances of your family life.”
Artie felt his face color. “I don’t see where—”
“Collins is waiting for you, Mr. Banks. It’s the last day of school and I think he would like to go home.”
It was a dismissal, but that wasn’t what hurt. He’d been accused of being remote when it came to his son, and Fleming was probably right. Only he had blamed it on Mark when he should have been blaming it on himself.
Collins was waiting for him just outside the door. He sized up Artie quickly, then said, “If you want more coffee, the cafeteria’s still open.” Artie followed him down the hallway, then caught himself watching Collins closely. Stocky build and athletic, his right arm useless but not withered. Physical therapy had to be a
good part of their phys ed routine. But the kid walked with the same sort of confidence that Artie had noticed in Mark the last few years. Not cock-of-the-walk, but very confident in who he was.
They took a table in a corner of the almost deserted cafeteria and Artie sipped at his coffee and studied Collins over the edge of his cup.
“You gave Mark a lift home Tuesday night?”
Collins nodded, a faint curiosity in his deep-set eyes as he watched Artie in turn. “We left here at three-thirty and got to your house about ten after four. Traffic on the bridge was pretty light. I helped Mark get in his chair and he rolled up the walk and that was it.”
“Any reason why Mark might have left the house again later? Anybody coming to pick him up?”
Collins shrugged. “He didn’t mention any.”
How the hell did you discuss sex with a seventeen-year-old? Artie wondered.
“Any girlfriends who might have showed up after you left?”
“Was he fucking anybody?” Collins asked coldly. “Is that what you want to know?” There was more than just belligerence in his voice; there was something else as well.
“He’s been missing for two days,” Artie said coldly. “He’s handicapped”—he couldn’t bring himself to use the word crippled—“and I don’t think he could go anyplace by himself. Somebody had to help him.”
Collins took pity on him. “He has a lot of girlfriends,” he said, but once again something was hidden. “If he didn’t … sleep with them, I’d figure he was a fool. And he’s no fool. He might have had a date for later that evening; he acted like it but I didn’t ask. There’s a senior woman who likes him a lot. They’re close.”
“He gets around,” Artie said bitterly, more because he hadn’t really known about it than because of any bias against teenage promiscuity.
“More than I do,” Collins said coolly.
“His mother’s desperate,” Artie said, pleading. “And so am I. Who is she? We’d like to find out if she and Mark went … somewhere.”
Collins stood up; he wasn’t about to be a snitch. “I’m sorry. I’ve told you everything I can. Mark can take care of himself. I wouldn’t worry about him.”
He was halfway across the cafeteria when he suddenly stopped and came back. He reached in his left pocket, took out Mark’s earring, and put it on the table.
“We were wrestling in the gym earlier that day and this fell off. I found it on the mat the next morning. If Mark doesn’t come back, then I guess you should have it.”
Artie took the small piece of stone and what looked like worked silver, wrapped it carefully in a napkin, and dropped it in his shirt pocket. He glanced up at Collins to thank him for it, then realized with sudden shock that it wasn’t a bad case of hero worship Collins had for Mark; it was something else.
“Mark didn’t drop this—he gave it to you, didn’t he?”
For a moment Collins looked like he was going to deny it, then shrugged, his face suddenly drawn. Whatever memory he had obviously hurt. “It was a consolation prize,” he said quietly. “He said we would always be friends.”
Collins got a few feet away, then turned back once again.
“Mark is still my best friend, Mr. Banks. He was generous with me—I’ve no complaint.”
Artie stared after him, not quite sure what he should think. He didn’t know what, if anything, had happened between Mark and Collins, but Collins had called Mark generous and the earring had been an heirloom. Mark hadn’t given it away lightly. Artie felt like he had when he’d walked in on Mark that one morning.
Mark was way past puberty and besides, it wasn’t any of his business.
It was eight in the evening. Artie sat alone in his car, the lights and radio off, the engine silent. He had put on two sweaters and the heaviest jacket he had and he was still cold. The Avenues in San Francisco were on rolling dunes west of the hills and nearest the ocean so they caught the brunt of the fog and the winds off the Pacific. When it was sunny in the Mission and the Castro, you could usually count on the Avenues being fogged in and chilly.
Tonight the fog had rolled in late in the afternoon and now blanketed the entire city. But he would bet the Avenues were still colder and clammier than the rest of the town. He shivered and hunkered down lower in his seat, watching the pink stuccoed house a few doors up at the corner of Ulloa and Thirtieth. It was a two-story affair with a huge garage beneath and surrounded by stubby little palm trees and rows of potted cactus plants on the front steps. Big house: Lyle Pace couldn’t be doing too badly.
All Artie knew about stakeouts was what he’d seen in the movies, but they never let you know how the characters kept from feeling foolish—or guilty. He was going to spy on one of his friends and, once again, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Something out of the ordinary, something that didn’t jibe with their character as he knew it. That was vague as hell, but presumably he would know what he was looking for when he saw it.
Or would he? His black mood was back in force and he reached for the key to start the engine. Enough of this bullshit.
But Larry Shea lying gray and torn in the morgue hadn’t been bullshit, and neither had Hall, crumpled on the steps of the museum, his heart pumping his life’s blood over the concrete. And it hadn’t been
bullshit when he’d stood on the railing of his porch about to plunge to the sidewalk three stories below.
He folded his arms and settled back in his seat, once more concentrating on the house on the corner. He’d been there half an hour now but nobody had come or gone and there were no lights on. Lyle obviously wasn’t home, though Artie doubted he was out of town. He was manager of the Market Street Copeland’s, and sporting goods were a popular item for Christmas. Maybe he had taken Anya, his live-in girlfriend, out to the movies or a holiday dinner.
Lyle Pace, one of the last members to join the Club. Artie had never gotten to know him well—a few months after Lyle had drifted into the coffee shop, Artie had enlisted. Lyle had followed a little later, but their paths had never crossed in ’Nam. After Lyle was discharged he’d enrolled in State and picked up a degree in psychology. Jenny Morrison, who’d dated him briefly back then, said he had never been more than a C student.
Lyle had been planning to work for the City but it hadn’t panned out—like most things in his life. At State he’d been on the wrestling team and at one time had hopes of going to the Olympics, but he never even made the qualifying rounds. He’d had a three-year failed marriage, and then he’d drifted away from everybody. He’d surfaced again two years ago and showed up at a meeting—who’d brought him? Jenny?—and everybody had been glad to see him, but they knew they were dealing with damaged goods and had kept their distance. Artie had felt guilty about that. He should have extended himself more.
Lyle wasn’t the star athlete he had once been. Now he was thicker in the middle, with a faint sag to the shoulders. Not especially handsome as a kid, a lot less so now. Broken nose, bushy black eyebrows, eyes that were too small and too bright, a face badly used by time. On the other hand, he had a way with women.
Anya was exotic, a statuesque brunette ten years Lyle’s junior with an executive position at Bank of America. What the hell had Lyle used for bait?
He’d picked Lyle for his first stakeout not because he knew so much about him but because he knew so little. He’d gotten over his paranoia about Charlie and Mitch—almost—and that hadn’t left a whole lot of possibilities. Lyle had been first on the list of those who remained.
Artie scrunched around in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, then froze at a sudden tapping on the passenger-side window. He glanced over, thought Shit!, and rolled down the glass.
“Recognized your car from down the street,” Lyle said cheerfully. “What the hell you sitting out here for?”
Artie fought his sense of shock, suddenly feeling like he was back in ’Nam and had stumbled into an ambush. Then once again the sense of unreality hit him and he felt faintly ashamed. He had never really tried to be Lyle’s friend and now here he was compounding his guilt by spying on him.
“Waiting for you, Lyle. I just got here, you weren’t home, and I thought I’d give you a few minutes to show up—glad I did.”
“I was taking Fritzi for a walk.” The rottweiler had put her paws on the edge of the window and was giving him a wait-and-see look, probably hoping he would be good for a biscuit or two. “Come on in. Anya’s visiting relatives in San Jose so we’ve got the house to ourselves.”
Artie climbed out and locked the car.
Everything was perfectly normal.
Why had he thought it would be otherwise?
The kitchen was clean and open, the dinnerware in the glass-front cupboards a pleasant delft blue pattern, no dishes in the sink, the linoleum floor freshly waxed,
floral curtains over the windows. A woman’s touch, Artie thought; a little too frilly for Lyle.
Lyle filled the dog’s water bowl, then put on a pot of coffee. “You want to see the house?”
Lyle might not be the huge success in life he had wanted to be, but he was obviously far from down and out. If he wanted to show off or brag a little, he had the right.
“Sure, Lyle—sorry I haven’t dropped in before.”
“Really, Artie?”
The tour was cursory—nobody ever showed you their bedroom or the john. You usually saw only the rooms that were deliberately on display: the office, the library, the living room, the rec room if they had one. Lyle’s office didn’t amount to much, but the den in the basement was impressive. A bookcase full of CDs, a component music system that must have cost a fortune, a big-screen TV. Managing Copeland’s obviously paid well, though Anya’s salary undoubtedly helped.
Artie ran his hand over one of the shelves of CDs. “You must have spent a mint on these.”
Lyle shrugged. “We all spend more than we should on our hobbies, right? And if you think that’s something, you should see Mary’s—she could set up her own store. Big on books, too, mostly poetry—didn’t expect that, either.”
Artie was surprised.
“You must be the first one in the Club that Mary ever invited over.”
“Who said anything about being invited? I went over to see Jenny when Mary wasn’t home.”
Artie floundered for a moment. “You and Jenny—”
“—were a number before Mary cut in, remember? When I came back to town, I thought I’d look her up and try and fan the embers when the wicked witch was away. I never believed that lesbian shit. I thought she might at least be a switch hitter. When Jenny opened the door, I just walked in. Jenny wouldn’t have any of
it—she and Mary were for real—but I got a good look at the house. Nice decor if you care for turn-of-the-century.”
He turned and switched on the light in a workout room just off the den. The room was small but laid out for efficiency. A NordicTrack machine and then several free-weight setups. A workout bench with two metal uprights holding a bar that was loaded with at least two and a quarter for bench presses. Lyle might have seemed like he was out of shape, but if he actually lifted those weights it was obvious he wasn’t.
They returned to the kitchen and Lyle poured out two cups of coffee, then teetered back in a kitchen chair, looking at Artie with an expression that was vaguely unfriendly.
“Why did you come to see me, Artie? I mean, all of a sudden like? I’ve been going to meetings almost a year this time around and you’re the first member who’s dropped over. I thought for sure Larry or Charlie might, but they never did. You guys are friendly enough at meetings, but otherwise it’s like I don’t exist. You’ve got me pegged as a loser, right? And you decided to keep your distance because you were afraid it might be catching.”
He’d never liked Lyle, Artie remembered, and now he knew why.
“You disappeared for eight years, Lyle. I don’t remember you saying good-bye to anybody.”
Lyle shrugged. “Okay, you’ve got a point. I should have.”
It was difficult to keep it casual, not to take offense.
“It’s kind of hard to pick up where you left off.”
“Mea culpa, Artie.” Lyle got up to fill his cup and gestured with the pot. “You want some more? Drink enough, you’ll have to sleep in the bathtub tonight.”
Artie shook his head. “One will do me.”
“So why did you come over, Artie? And don’t tell me it was because you were in the neighborhood.”
If Lyle was Lyle, then he had a right to be pissed. If he was … something else, then they were fencing. In either case, he was going to have to fake it. He wanted out of there, badly, but there was no way he could up and leave. Not right then.
There was a box of dog biscuits on the table and he shook one out for Fritzi to cover his nervousness. She was very dainty in taking it from his hand, her hindquarters wriggling as she tried to wag her docked tail, and Artie remembered the three dogs in Schuler’s office and how friendly they’d been. It took an effort not to shiver.
“When you first joined the Club, I wasn’t around long enough to really get to know you. When you came back, it was difficult to start all over again. Most of us are married and have families, and it’s natural to stick with old friends. It’s not so easy to make new ones when you get older, Lyle. So none of us volunteered. I felt bad about that, and since this is the Christmas season, I thought I’d drop by. Once here, I came down with cold feet and sat out in the car. I was afraid if you were home and I rang the bell, you’d tell me to get lost. You would have had every right to.”
He meant it all. Every word of it. And he hoped, desperately, that Lyle believed him.
Lyle softened slightly. “Apology accepted, Artie. But to be honest, I don’t know what the hell we’ve got in common to talk about.”
“Larry …” Artie let his voice trail off, but there was no reaction on Lyle’s part. He changed the subject. “It was something óf a shock meeting Schuler again. He dredged up old times, at least for me. I imagine he did the same for you.”
Lyle relaxed even more. “A real prick. He told me about the time he busted you guys. He busted me once and kept me in a jail for a week, said he didn’t like my attitude.”
And that was it for a good forty-five minutes, until
Artie yawned and said if he were going to sleep in the bathtub, he’d better get started. It had been all old times, nothing about Larry’s murder or Mark’s disappearance. And toward the end, the nostalgic mood had worn rather thin.
Once outside in his car, Artie realized his shirt was sticking to him—he had sweated up a storm. Fritzi had even refused to come over when he offered her a third biscuit, probably because he smelled bad. But one minor mystery had been solved. Nobody had written Lyle off because he had failed at some time in the past. The reason was simpler than that: They didn’t like him because he wasn’t very likable.
Artie chose an indirect route on the way home, one nobody could have expected him to take to get from the Avenues to Noe and Twentieth. He was paranoid, he realized, but Jesus, who could blame him? The only time Lyle had struck him as real was when he’d let his hurt feelings surface at the very beginning.
And there had been all the other things that hadn’t rung true, the little things. Lyle’s workout room. What was Lyle now? Middle to late forties, like the rest of them? He looked like a schlump, but he was bench-. pressing two and a quarter and the schedule pasted on the wall wasn’t for casual workouts. He was stronger than he looked. But why the hell did he keep it hidden? At his age and in that shape, you’d think he’d be wearing tailored shirts and Italian suits to show it off.
Jesus, Mitch was right. The only thing he had to fear was paranoia itself. Anything he’d wanted to know about Lyle, he could probably have asked and Lyle would have told him. So Lyle was vain about his build and doing his damnedest to recapture the days when he’d yearned for the Olympics. What else was new?
But something had stuck in his mind.
Something about Mary Robards.
Mary was reclusive; nobody had ever been invited to her house. Ever. But Lyle had stormed his way in. He’d
seen the inside of the house and commented on her extensive collection of CDs, enough to stock a store. Lyle had been right when he’d mentioned that everybody spent too much on their hobbies. They seldom kept quiet about them, though; hobbies were what you talked about when the conversation was on life support.
Mary had never mentioned her passion for music, and he never would have guessed her interest in poetry. But it was hardly strange for a lawyer to love the language.
Things started to swim into focus then and Artie felt like he’d just fallen into a pond of ice water. They couldn’t sing, he’d told Hall when they had been discussing the Old People. They had no music … . And Hall had said they had little in the way of language.
There was an element of pathos about it, Artie thought. The descendants of the Old People probably loved the symphony; they probably went to the opera as often as they could, as well as to plays and poetry readings and probably art shows.
And if they collected anything at all, it was probably CDs and paintings.
And maybe chapbooks of poetry.