God Save the Child

Healy’s face was stiff and the bones showed. He said, “Two days, two goddamned days looking at that place, looking at that goddamned bridle path sign, listening to motorcycles going by on Route One. Two days. And we stood there with our thumb in our butt. For crissake, Spenser, you were there, you saw people riding into that path; why the hell didn’t you put it together? You’re supposed to be a goddamned hot shot.”

“I’m not a big intellect like you state dicks. I was overextended raking the manure.”

Healy took the map of the woods he’d been looking at and began to wad it into a ball, packing it in his thin freckled hands the way we used to make snowballs when I was a kid. The radio in Trask’s car crackled, and the dispatcher said something I couldn’t understand. Trask responded.

“This is Trask.”

Again the radio in its crackly mechanical voice. And Trask. “Roger, out.” Jiminy, just like in the movies. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Ten Four’?” I said.

Trask turned his big red face at me. “Look, you screwed this thing up, and you feel like a horse’s ass now. Don’t take it out on me.” He looked at Healy. “Did you get that on the radio?” Healy nodded. I said, “What was it?”

“The Bartletts got a phone call from the kidnappers telling them where to get the kid.” He put the car in gear and backed out of the parking lot. I followed. Maybe they’ll give him back, I thought. Maybe.

7

The call had come perhaps ten minutes after the money had been picked up. The little slick-haired cop had recorded it, and he played it back for Trask and Healy and me. Roger Bartlett said, “Hello.” There was a brief scrap of music and a voice said, “Howdy all you kidnapping freaks,” in the affected southern drawl that is required of everyone who is under thirty and cool. “This is your old buddy the kidnapper speaking, and we gotta big treat for you all out there in kidnap land. The big prizewinners in our pay-the-ransom contest are Mr. and Mrs. Roger Bartlett of Smithfield.” The music came up again and then faded, and several male voices sang a jingle:

Behind a school in old Smithfield
First prize your ransom it did yield,
So in that direction you should be steering,
From us no longer you’ll be hearing.

Then the music came up and faded out with some giggles behind it. Roger Bartlett said to us, “He’s gotta be behind one of the schools. There’s six: the four elementary, the junior high, the high school...” Trask said, “What about Our Lady’s?” And Bartlett said, “Right, the Catholic school,” and Healy said, “How about kindergartens? How many private kindergartens in town?”

Trask looked at Bartlett; Bartlett shook his head. Trask shrugged and said, “Hell, I don’t know.”

Healy said, “Okay, Trask, run it down; get your people checking behind and around all the schools in town. And don’t miss anything like a dog school or a driving school. These are odd people.”

Trask went out to his car and got on the radio. Bartlett went with him. I said to Healy, “What in Christ have we got here?”

Healy shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything like this anywhere. Do you realize the trouble they went to, to rig up that tape recording?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and it’s not just to conceal voices. There’s something else going on. Something personal in this thing. The ransom note, this call — there’s something wrong.”

Margery Bartlett came in with Earl Maguire. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Is something wrong? Have you found Kevin?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Ma’am,” Healy said. “Spenser was talking about something else. Chief Trask is directing the search for Kevin now. I’m sure there will be good news soon.”

But Healy didn’t believe it and I knew he didn’t and he knew I knew. He looked very steadily at me after he’d said it. I looked away. Maguire said, “Sit down, Marge, no sense tiring yourself.” She sat at the kitchen table. Maguire sat opposite her Healy looked out the back door at Trask. I leaned against the counter The big Lab that I’d seen my first visit wandered into the kitchen and lapped water noisily from his dish.

Marge Bartlett said, “Punkin, you naughty dog, don’t be so noisy.” Punkin? The dog was big enough to pull a beer wagon. He stopped drinking and flopped down on his side in the middle of the floor. No one said anything. The dog heaved a big sigh, and his stomach rolled.

Marge Bartlett said again, “Punkin! You should be ashamed.” He paid her no attention. “I apologize for my dog,” she said. “But dogs are good. They don’t demand much of you; they just love you for what you are. Just accept you. I’m doing a sculpture of Punkin in clay. I want to capture that trusting and undemanding quality.”

I saw Healy’s shoulders straighten, heard Trask’s car door slam, and Trask pushed into the kitchen with Roger Bartlett.