Blaze

Sterling considered all this and decided that there were two kidnappers, after all. At least two. Rackley had to be in on it with him, a guy as dumb as Blaisdell sure hadn’t pulled this thing off alone.

He picked up the phone, made a call. A few minutes later he got a callback that surprised him. George Thomas “Rasp” Rackley had died the previous year. He had been found knifed in the area of a known crap-game on the Portland docks.

Shit. Someone else, then?

Someone running the big lug the way Rackley no doubt once had?

Just about had to be, didn’t there?

By seven that night, a statewide all-points — what would become known as a BOLO a few years later — was out on Clayton Blaisdell, Jr.

By that time Jerry Green of Gorham had discovered his Mustang had been stolen. The car was on State Police hot-sheets forty minutes or so later.

Around that same time, Westbrook PD gave Sterling the number of a woman named Georgia Kingsbury. Ms. Kingsbury had been reading the evening paper when her son looked over her shoulder, pointed to the police sketch, and asked, “Why is that man from the laundrymat in the paper? And how come that doesn’t show the hole in his head?”

Mrs. Kingsbury told Sterling: “I took one look and said oh my God.”

At 7:40, Sterling and Granger arrived at the Kingsbury home. They showed mother and son a copy of Clayton Blaisdell, Jr.’s mug shot. The copy was blurry, but the Kingsburys’ identification was still immediate and positive. Sterling guessed that once you saw Blaisdell, you remembered him. That this hulk was the last person Norma Gerard had seen in her lifelong home made Sterling sick with anger.

“He smiled at me,” the Kingsbury boy said.

“That’s nice, son,” Sterling said, and ruffled his hair.

The boy flinched away. “Your hand is cold,” he said.

In the car Granger said, “You think it’s odd that the big boss would send a guy like that shopping for the kid? A guy so easy to remember?”

When Sterling considered, he did think it a little odd, but Blaisdell’s shopping spree suggested something else, as well. It was optimistic, and so he preferred to concentrate on that. All that baby stuff suggested they meant to keep the kid alive, at least for awhile.

Granger was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

So Sterling said, “Who knows why these mopes do anything? Come on, let’s go.”

The all-but-positive ID of Blaisdell as one of the kidnappers went out to state and local law enforcement agencies at 8:05 PM. At 8:20, Sterling received a call from State Trooper Paul Hanscom, at the Portland barracks. Hanscom reported that a 1970 Mustang had been stolen from the same mall where Georgia Kingsbury had seen Blaisdell, and at approximately the same time. He wanted to know if the FBI would like that added to the APB. Sterling said the FBI would like that very much.

Now Sterling decided that he knew the answer to Agent Granger’s question. It was really simple. The brains of the operation was brighter than Blaisdell — bright enough to hang back, especially with the added excuse of a baby to take care of — but not that bright.

And now it was really just a matter of waiting for the net to tighten. And hoping —

But Albert Sterling decided he could do more than just hope. At 10:15 that evening, he went down the hall to the men’s and checked the stalls and urinals. The place was empty. That didn’t surprise him. This was just a small office, really just a provincial bump on the FBI’s ass. Also, it was getting late.

He went into one of the stalls, dropped to his knees, and folded his hands just as he had as a child. “God, this is Albert. If that baby is still alive, watch over him, would you? And if I get near the man who murdered Norma Gerard, please let him do something that will give me cause to kill the sonofabitch. Thank you. I pray in the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ.”

And because the men’s room was still empty, he threw in a Hail Mary for good measure.

Chapter 17

THE BABY WOKE HIM UP at quarter to four in the morning, and a bottle didn’t comfort him. When the crying continued, Blaze began to be a little scared. He put a hand on Joe’s forehead. The skin felt cool, but the screams he was producing were frightening in their intensity. Blaze was afraid he’d bust a blood vessel, or something.

He put Joe on the changing table. He took off his diapers and didn’t see how they could be the problem, either. They were dewy but not pooey. Blaze powdered the kid’s bottom and put on fresh didies. The screams continued. Blaze began to feel desperate as well as frightened.

Blaze hoisted the shrieking infant onto his shoulder. He began to walk him in large circles around the kitchen. “Hushabye,” he said. “You’re all right. You’re okay. You’re rockin’. Go to sleep. Hushabye-hushaboo, zippity-doo. Shhh, baby, shhh. You’ll wake up a bear sleepin in the snow and he’ll want to eat us. Shhhhhhh.”