Blood Ties (7 page)

“I'll consider myself warned. You be careful,” she said again, and hung up.

The bright November sun and the quiet tree-lined streets brought me to a wood-frame house in the older part of town, yellow with white shutters, neatly trimmed hedge, red leaves spotting a clipped lawn. The door was answered by a short-haired woman about my own age, who didn't look happy when she read my card and I asked for her son.

“What's this about?”

“There's a boy missing, Mrs. Reed. Gary Russell. I'm working for the family. I'd like to ask Morgan a few questions.”

“The police have already been here. Morgan doesn't know anything.”

“I know they have. I won't be long.”

In the end, because another mother's son was missing, she agreed, providing she could stay. Expecting a fifteen-year-old to reveal any secrets with his mother in the room was like expecting snow in July, but I wasn't necessarily looking for secrets. And if I got a sense from Morgan that he had more to say than he'd say in front of his mother, I'd find a way to hear it.

Mrs. Reed called up the stairs to her son. After the second call, “Yeah, awright!” floated from above, and after the third call a tall, broad-shouldered kid appeared at the top of the stairs. He loped down to the landing, where the staircase took a turn he didn't want to bother with; putting his hands on the railing, he swung over, landed a foot in front of me. He slapped his hands against each other as though the cleanliness of the railing hadn't been up to his standards.

“I wish you wouldn't, Morgan,” his mother said, and it was clearly something she'd said before. “That banister is coming loose.”

“Whatever.” Morgan looked me over. He was a tall kid, with huge hands, weight-room muscles on his long arms. Even standing still, he held himself with the ease and unconscious grace of the natural athlete, someone who had always been at home in the world, never doubted he would land on his feet every time.

“Morgan, this is Mr. Smith. He's a detective and he wants to ask you some things about Gary Russell.”

Morgan flashed his mother a look of annoyance, as though my intrusion into his day were her fault. To me, with a lift of the chin, a set of the shoulders, he said, “I talked to Sullivan already.” He added, “I never saw you before,” as though any Warrenstown cop Morgan Reed didn't know was an obvious impostor. At fifteen I'd known every cop in my Brooklyn neighborhood, too; I'd been picked up by most of them.

“I'm private,” I said. “From New York.”

“You mean you're a private eye?”

“That's right.”

He snorted, and I got the feeling that the grown-ups had just proved once again how ridiculous we were. He looked at his mother and then at me; then, maybe deciding the whole thing would be over faster if he went along with it, he said, “Whatever,” crossed in front of me to the living room and dropped onto the sofa. He wore cargo pants, a plaid shirt over a tee, Nikes that he propped up on the coffee table, pointedly ignoring his mother's frown. He picked up a
Sports
Illustrated
, flipped through it without interest while he waited for me to begin.

I took the armchair, resisted the urge to light a cigarette and to put my feet on the table, too, the way I would have if he'd been a man, to show I understood, to level the field.

“Gary Russell left home on Monday,” I said. “I saw him in New York last night and he said he had something important to do. Do you know what he meant?”

“You saw him, how come you didn't ask him?”

“He wouldn't tell me.”

“Well, I got no idea,” he said, turning pages. “I don't know the guy that well.”

“You're on the football team with him, right?”

“Yeah.” He looked up from the magazine, talk of football sparking some interest. “But I mean, he's new here.”

New here. I was getting the idea that that was a problem in Warrenstown. But I'd been new in a lot of places, and it was a problem everywhere.

“He seem to have anything on his mind, anything worrying him last time you saw him?”

“Nope.”

“When was that?”

“What?”

“Last time you saw him.”

I could have sworn Morgan hesitated a fraction of a second before he shrugged, said, “I don't know. Probably practice last Monday.”

“You guys are still practicing? Isn't the season over?”

He looked at me as though I'd asked if he was still breathing. “Practice every afternoon, three o'clock. We got the Hamlin's game this Saturday.” He added, “Coach'll be pissed if Gary doesn't show.”

“Morgan, language,” his mother said, and Morgan rolled his eyes.

Trying to connect, to keep Morgan with me, I went back to football. “Postseason game at Hamlin's?” I asked. “Is that big?”

“Yeah.” Morgan's eyes shone. “Varsity juniors, sophomores, some guys from JV Coach thinks might be ready? We go up to Hamlin's, play the guys at the seniors' camp.”

“There are enough seniors to field a full team?”

“Well, not from
here
,” he said, as though anyone knew that. “Seniors' camp at Hamlin's, it's like . . . like an all-star thing. A bunch of schools, if their teams make the play-offs, they send the seniors to seniors' camp. Then Warrenstown comes up and plays.”

“None of the other schools?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Why not?”

Morgan looked blankly at me, as though that question had never crossed his mind. Well, why should it have? When you're fifteen, the way the world is is the way the world works.

“All-star seniors,” I said. “After a week at camp. You have a chance?”

“You kidding?” A stupid question, obviously, but what could you expect from a grown-up? “Whole thing is to lose by less than last year's team lost by.”

“Which is?”

“This year, twenty-two points.”

“You have a chance?” I repeated.

“Totally. I'm starting quarterback,” he said, as if that explained it all.

“Good luck,” I said. “About Gary: Tell me this—except for now, does he usually show up?”

“You mean, for practice?”

“Practice, games, class. Is he dependable?”

“Yeah, I guess. When I'm looking for somebody to hit with a pass, he's always there,” he added, defining
dependable
in the way that mattered most.

“Thanks, Morgan. One more thing. Who else is he friends with? Is he interested in any girls you know about?”

Another shrug.

“Didn't you tell me he'd asked Tory Wesley out?” Morgan's mother said.

“Oh, Mom!” Morgan flushed deeply, whether with anger or something else, I couldn't tell. “She's a geek. That was before he knew anybody.”

“Knew any other girls?” I asked.

“Knew anybody,” Morgan said, and what that meant was clear: before he knew the guys, knew who was cool and not cool, knew whom you could ask out, whom you'd better avoid.

I had Tory's name already, from my sister. I added
Wesley
to it, asked Morgan, “What about friends?”

“I don't know.”

I gave Morgan a long look. He went back to his magazine. I checked the list I'd gotten from Helen. “His mother said Randy Macpherson.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said, uncaring. “Randy's a senior, he's a starter, but him and Gary hang out. Receivers, I guess they got stuff to say to each other.”

“Randy's at camp this week?”

“Yeah.”

I looked at the list again. “How about Paul Niebuhr?”

“Oh, shit!” Morgan shook his head and laughed.

His mother said, “Please watch your mouth.”

“That kid is a total freak,” Morgan said, not responding to his mother's words, as though she were not in the room. “Nobody hangs out with him. Just the other freaks.”

“He's not a friend of Gary's? I heard they skateboarded together.”

Morgan's look was pitying: How could anyone be so dumb? “Football players don't skateboard,” he explained. “Coach Ryder says it's a dumb way to get hurt. You get hurt, Coach says, it better be because some SOB was between you and the hole.”

“Oh, Morgan,” his mother objected, but Morgan was untouchable, because he was quoting his coach.

“Okay,” I said. “Anything else about Gary you can think of?”

Morgan shook his head.

“Thanks. You do think of anything else, here's my card.”

He took it, read it, laughed again. “Private investigator. Too fucking much.”

“Morgan!” said his mother.

“Sorry,” Morgan dismissed her. He stood. “Later,” he said, and that clearly dismissed me, too. He grabbed the handrail, took the stairs two at a time. I heard a door open upstairs, and slam.

I asked Mrs. Reed if she knew where Tory Wesley lived, and she told me. “But I think they're away.” I thanked her and left her to her house and her son. From the car, I called the Wesleys' number, got a machine, left a message. I called the police again, but Detective Sullivan still wasn't available. I called Lydia and got her voice mail. I called my sister. She answered on the first ring, as though she'd been sitting by the phone.

“It's Bill,” I said. “Have you heard anything?”

“No.” Her voice when she answered had been quick and anxious; now in that one word it grew dull again.

“Scott hasn't called?”

“Nobody. Have you found out anything?”

“Tory's last name,” I said. “Wesley, does that sound right?”

“I suppose so.” She spoke as though I was sidetracking and she was weary with it. “Is that all?”

“For now. I'm talking to Gary's friends; I'll call you later.”

We hung up, glad, I thought, to be rid of each other.

I called Paul Niebuhr's house. Maybe freaks answered the phone for private investigators.

Paul didn't, but his mother did. I told her who I was and what I wanted.

“I'm sorry,” she said, sounding genuinely so. “Paul's away.”

“Can I reach him?”

“No, he's gone camping.”

“Camping? Where?”

“Bear Mountain.”

“Do you know what campground?”

“Paul doesn't go to a campground,” she corrected me gently. “He has places deep in the woods where he goes. He's trying to get away from the stress of modern life.”

Aren't we all, I thought. But this was a teenage kid: “Does he carry a cell phone?”

“Of course, but he probably won't answer it. He doesn't like to be dependent on modern technology.”

I couldn't blame him. Though I'd bet he hadn't left the Polarfleece and ripstop nylon behind.

“Can I have the number?”

“Why did you want to talk to him?” his mother asked me.

“A friend of his seems to have run away from home. I'm working for the family. I thought Paul might be able to help me find him.”

“Who would that be?”

“Gary Russell.”

“Gary—oh, the new boy up the street. He's younger than Paul. He hasn't been over since school started.”

“They're not friends?”

“Well, of course I try to give my children space. I don't quiz them on their friends. But I haven't seen Gary lately.”

Of course. “His number?” I asked again.

“Well—yes, all right. I don't like to tell my children who they can and can't talk to. That's too much like censorship, isn't it?” She gave me the number; I wrote it down.

“Thanks,” I said. “If you hear from him, will you ask him to give me a call? When do you expect him back?”

“He'll be back on Sunday. School starts Monday.”

I called Paul Niebuhr's cell phone. He didn't answer. I left a voice mail, wondering if checking his messages was too twenty-first century for a kid trying to get away from the stress of modern life.

Well, there you are, Smith, I thought, sitting in the car on the peaceful suburban street. Zero for however many that was. I started the car, headed to the Wesleys', a few blocks over. If no one was home, I could leave my card; then I'd try the high school. The football coach, the assistant coaches, teachers, someone might be around who could give me some idea about Gary, who he really was, what was important to him.

The Wesleys' house was in the area where Warrenstown started to get fancy, where the yards began to spread and the houses were set far enough back from the street that driveways curved in front of them. The Wesleys' place had a Spanish feel, red clay tiles on the roof, heavy chocolate-colored window frames, wide front door. I parked in the drive behind a RAV4, walked up, and rang the bell. Nothing happened. Well, Morgan Reed's mother had said they were away. I rang again, took out a card, looked for a place to leave it. The mailbox was down by the street; the door had no mail slot. I went to wedge the card into a mullion in the sidelight by the door. My hand stopped halfway up as I got a look through the glass.

The place was a disaster. From the sidelight I was looking into a vestibule; if the inner door had been closed I couldn't have seen anything, but it stood wide, and I saw enough. Glass from smashed pictures sprinkled the stairs, glittering in the hallway lights still burning now, in full daylight. Broken furniture, maybe from the rooms upstairs, littered the landing. I looked left and right through the sidelight, then came back down off the porch and walked through the shrubs to the windows beside it.