THE LAST BOY (7 page)

Again the land begins to rise, now so steeply that the boy is at times on all fours, clambering like an animal, his sneakers slipping and sliding over layers of dead leaves, his numbed hands clutching at the protruding roots of the ancient trees.

The snow at last has begun to fall. Heavy and wet, it pelts the carpet of leaves blanketing the forest floor, sending up a crackling noise like the sputtering of a campfire. The woods have become ever darker, and the damp cold has settled like a shroud over the small, struggling figure. And yet the child presses on, moving now more by feel than sight through the indifferent forest.

Molly got a handful of quarters in change from Sterling Optical and called the Ithaca Police from the mall. Nothing new. She found the number for Joe and Mildred Oltz in the phone book. They lived on Floral Avenue, just on the other side of the Cayuga Lake inlet.

“I was just trying to call you,” said Mrs. Oltz. “I left a message on your machine. He still hasn’t turned up? Well, Joe and I are just as worried as you are. We’re absolutely—”

“Mrs. Oltz,” Molly cut her short.

“You can call me Mildred.”

“I need to get ahold of Cheryl.”

“Cheryl?”

“I don’t have time to explain. I just need her address and number.”

“Cheryl's address?” she repeated as if stalling for time.

A man's voice grumbled something in the background.

“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Oltz abruptly.“I got it right here. Let me see. Cheryl Goldner.”

The roads were terrible, cars stuck left and right, and Molly had a hard time getting to Cheryl's apartment. The street was dark, and many of the buildings on Stewart Avenue didn’t seem to have numbers. She had to keep walking back and forth on the block until she found the right place. Cheryl's was one of two apartments on the second floor, known by real estate people as low-end student housing.

When she knocked, there was no answer. Molly then heard a floor creak behind the door. Someone was there. She knocked again. Still no answer.

“Cheryl? Cheryl?” she kept repeating as she continued to knock.

“Who is it?” inquired a timid voice from behind the closed door.

“Let me in,” ordered Molly.

Finally the door inched open. Molly shoved it aside and marched right in. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head, her cheeks red with cold. Her eyes were filled with a fierceness that terrified Cheryl.

Molly looked around the room. The place was seedy, student living at its most debased—empty cartons, dirty dishes in the sink, bricks and sagging boards creating a bookshelf that held a lot of science books. A shabby double futon on the floor. Lots of soiled cushions. Cheap wall hangings from India by way of the House of Shalimar on the Ithaca Commons imperfectly covered the cracks in the plaster.

“Look, I know what happened,” said Molly not mincing words. “I know all about the basement.”

“Ooh,” uttered Cheryl. Her jaw was trembling.

“It was stupid and cruel…” Molly let it sink in. The girl seemed
to shrivel into the corner. “But I’m not going to tell anyone if you at least come clean with me.”

“He kept acting up, making all the other kids misbehave.”

“I’m not interested in
why.
I want to know
what
happened and
when.
”

“But it's like I told you.”

“So far you’ve told me nothing.”

“He started carrying on with that Lifsey boy. Stevie. The two of them just kept going at it.”

“So?”

“So I made him stand in the kitchen. We do that.”

“And?”

“He kept being disruptive…”

“So?”

“So…”

“You stuck him in the basement,” said Molly, biting her lip. Danny was so afraid of the dark that not only did she have to leave a night light on in their room, but also the overhead light in the hallway—just in case.“A
dark
basement.”

Cheryl started whimpering.

“Did you let him out?”

“Of course!” she sobbed.“He was kicking the door and crying.”

“Oh, God.” Molly gritted her teeth.

“I didn’t mean to scare him, but I just couldn’t—”

“And then?”

“And then he was finally quiet. He sat down with the other kids and listened to the story.”

“Go on.”

“He was quiet then…very quiet…Then—I don’t know,” Cheryl shivered. She went to the bathroom and pulled a line of toilet paper off the roll and loudly blew her nose. When she turned around, Molly was standing in the doorway, blocking her exit. Her fists were
balled up and she looked as if she could barely control herself, that at one wrong word she’d haul off and smash her in the face.

“What does that mean?”

“One minute he was there. I thought he was there. And then—”

“Come on. You’re punishing this boy—and then suddenly you forget him?”

“The early parents started arriving. There were a lot of kids there! Too many! You don’t know what it's like working at that place. And I was alone. I wasn’t supposed to be alone. And everything's happening at once. One of the little girls wet her pants, and then another kid fell down and cut his knees and was
bleeding.
And the parents are coming and two other little boys are hitting each other with shovels and…” she shook her head as the tears ran free. “I’m so sorry,” she said.“Terribly sorry.”

“What good is sorry?” said Molly. “I gotta find my boy. And I hope to God he's alive—for your sake, too.” She started to leave, then turned abruptly.“Could a kid reach the lock?”

“What lock?”

“On the front door.”

“No way,” said Cheryl.

“What about standing on a chair?”

“He couldn’t have done it without my seeing him.”

“Sounds to me like you weren’t exactly on top of things.” Somehow Danny got out. He didn’t walk through walls.

“I know I was careful with the door. I’m sure.”

“Did you ever go to it and find it open?”

“’Course not. I’d have noticed
that!
Every time I went to the door I had to unlock it.”

“Could someone open it from the outside?”

“Not without a key.”

Molly went to the apartment door.“I’ll be back,” she said, turning.“Don’t plan on leaving town or anything.”

Molly started down the stairs.

Cheryl was already at the top of the landing, leaning over the railing. “You aren’t going to tell, are you?” she called down plaintively.

“Has Pellegrino called in?” she asked when Officer Sisler picked up the line. Molly was back downtown, standing at an outside phone on the west end of the Commons, her feet and coat soaked.

“Huh?”

“This is Molly,” she said, trying to suppress her shivering.

It took him a beat.“Yeah. Right.”

“He promised he would keep me posted.”

“He's out on patrol. He’d let us know if he had something. And we’d get you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not home.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find you. And you’ve got an answering machine, right?”

She hung up, crossed Cayuga Street, and went up to the
Ithaca Journal.

The main entrance to the two-story brick building was closed; but when Molly went down the side alley, she found the rear door leading to the printing plant unlocked. The big presses were open and a couple of the pressmen were cleaning the machines. The thick, cloying smell of ink and paper was oppressive.

“Where's the office?” she asked one of the workers. He wore a baseball cap that said NAPA AUTO PARTS, and one side of his shirt was stained with red ink. He looked as if he had been shot.“You know, the one with the reporters.”

“Up those stairs at the end, but…Hey, lady, you can’t go up there!”

The editorial office smelled of smoke. There must have been a dozen computer terminals, but only a couple of people. The room
was absolutely silent except for the click of keys.

“Excuse me,” said Molly, leaning over a young guy with a pony tail who was squinting at a terminal.

He started with a comical grimace, then looked up.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but my boy's missing,” she said. “Missing from the daycare on State Street.” She took out the picture of Danny and handed it to him.“I want you to put this in the paper. On the front page.”

“Hmmm,” was all he said. He looked confused. He stared at the picture and then Molly.

“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

“I do the sports,” he said. “Wait a second.”

He got up and walked to a young, blond woman who was typing at another terminal in the rear.“Have you seen Wally?” he asked her.

“I thought he was over at the city desk.” Her fingers continued to fly over the keyboard as she spoke.

“Naw.”

“Maybe he went to the men's room. You try him there?”

After a brief absence, during which Molly thought she was going to kill the placid young blonde who kept obliviously typing at her terminal, the sportswriter returned. “Wally's the city editor and—oh, wait, there he is!”

A pudgy-faced man with a bald dome and reddish-hued goatee came down the hall toward them. He had a cup of coffee and a Danish balanced in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other. They intercepted him at the door to his office.

“What's up?” he asked. Molly quickly took his measure. He looked like a decent guy to her. But who the hell knows, she thought.

“This is Wally Schuman,” the sports guy said by way of introduction.“This is—”

She shoved the picture at him. “My boy's been kidnapped. You’ve got to put his picture in the paper. Fast.”

“Whoa,” said Wally, parking his coffee and Danish on the water cooler. He took a long look at Danny's photo, then stared at the mother. She looked like a drowned rat, but a good-looking one with a pretty, open face. High, broad cheeks. Something of a mildly prominent, almost aristocratic nose. Definitely a townie, he pegged her. Working class. And maybe not working. Intelligent. Scared. “How do you know he's kidnapped?”

Molly tried to fill him in, her explanation emerging in disjointed bits and pieces.“…It was already being locked. I mean when I got there. To Kute Kids. Like he vanished in thin air! Which is why you’ve got to…” Even to her own ears it sounded jumbled and ridiculous.

“You want a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t have time. I mean thanks, but I just want you to promise to get his picture in the next paper. That's all.”

“Look, it's already,” he checked his watch,“past 9:30. The morning paper's been locked in.”

“Oh, yeah?” she said half-defiantly, “Supposing half the fucking town burned down or there was an earthquake. You don’t think you could manage to sneak that in?”As Molly spoke, her voice sounded far away to her, and she noticed it was strained and high pitched.

Schuman was careful not to smile. He had a couple of kids—not that young—and considering what had happened in the past in Tompkins county, he knew it was no joking matter. “It's only been a few hours so far, right?”

“I know my boy,” she said.“I know him like a book. He's always dying to get home. I’m the only one in the world he's got,” she said touching her chest. “He's always been afraid of losing me. When I sent him off to daycare in the beginning, he wouldn’t even let me go. I always have to promise to be there on time. And today…” she
started choking up, though she swore she wouldn’t any more in front of people,“…today I was late!”

The two men exchanged looks. The woman who had been sitting in the back had left her terminal and migrated towards them.

“Put it in,” she said.

All three turned to her.

“Just put it in,” she repeated as Molly looked on with new respect. “We can fit it in. Move that story on the tax hike to page two. Or put it on hold if you don’t have the space. There's no urgency with it, right?”

Schuman hesitated. Rubbed his chin.

“Oh, please,” pleaded Molly. “
Please
.”

“Yeah, why not,” agreed the city editor. “We’ll do it as missing, not kidnapped,” he explained to Molly.“It's just a little early and you really don’t know. And we’ve got to touch bases with the police. Debbie?” he turned and nodded to the woman.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said.

“You know,” said Schuman, “television is a lot faster than we are.”

“Damn! I never thought of that,” said Molly slapping her own forehead.“I’ve been so confused and—Hey, how do I get them?” she asked.

“The main stations are up in Syracuse. Let me get on the horn and see if I can rattle a few cages.”

Fifteen minutes later, Molly was back home. There were a half-dozen messages on her machine—the parents she had talked to checking to see if Danny had turned up. Some sounded genuinely worried. Others seemed motivated more out of curiosity than concern. Nothing from the police. The trailer suddenly felt cold and empty. Molly turned up the furnace, but it seemed too weak to drive out the chill. She thought about Danny out in the cold without a jacket.

Still dressed in her coat, she moved over to the front window and pressed her face against the cold glass. In the neighboring trailers, the light of television screens flickered and shadows danced. The snow had stopped. She could make out the line of hemlock along the drive into the park, their branches bowed under the load of snow. The lower limbs were almost touching the ground and looked ready to snap.

The night seemed so dark, so cold, so vast. Molly tried not to imagine a little boy lost. Next door, outside the Dolphs’ trailer, a beefy, thick-necked black dog tied to a chain was barking, standing on its hind legs and yanking its line taut.

Deep. Icy. Saturday. Sunday. Fishing. The words kept circling in Molly's mind, as if recorded on a continuous loop of tape…

“Are we going fishing like you promised?” Danny had asked in the morning, holding Molly in the hallway of Kute Kids when she tried to leave. Mrs. Oltz was waiting there to take him.

“If I promised, then I promised. Right?” she said, hectically.

“Yeah, but when?”

“Saturday. If I don’t have to work.”

“But…?”

“Then Sunday. But Sweetheart, I’ve really
got
to get…” Mrs. Oltz stood looking on impatiently. God, how Molly hated leaving him.

“And I want to go to the lake. Not that
baby
reservoir.”