But the truth was that he’d been far more of a friend to Mitch than Mitch had ever been to him. He and Susan and Mark had been merely grist for Mitch’s psychological mill, a family that provided occasional companionship and amusement but was more important as a family to be watched and studied.
For twenty years Mitch had pretended to be his best friend.
And for twenty years Mitch had lied to him.
The campus of Bayview
Academy was deserted; apparently everybody had left for the holidays. The day had turned sunny and there were few clouds; the view of San Francisco across the bay was dazzling. With a little imagination you could almost believe the claim that when some visitors first saw the city, it struck them as something out of
The Arabian Nights.
Artie felt tired but, for the first time in more than a week, relaxed. Schuler was probably out there looking for him but at least the Hound was dead. And then he suddenly wondered about Schuler. Had Chandler reported to anybody higher up? He must have. And who better than Schuler, who knew everything that happened in the city, who knew where the bodies were buried—literally, where people might hide, the places where people might run to. Lyle had never trusted Schuler and Artie would be a fool if he did.
Schuler was probably as good an actor as Chandler, maybe better. Probably all the Old People were. Acting, the ability to convince the observer that you were somebody else, would have become second nature. Kids were natural actors, but most of them lost the ability as they grew up. The Old People hadn’t. For them the ability to masquerade as somebody else probably meant the difference between life and death. Schuler—
Paranoia. He would never be without it.
But at least he now had time to look up Susan and talk about any possible divorce. What had she chosen for grounds? The situation didn’t make any sense but she wouldn’t be at a loss for answers; he knew that. The immediate thing was to try to find Mark, put some pressure on Headmaster Fleming to tell him more than he had. He was Mark’s father—he had a right to know everything that Fleming knew. Somebody at the school must know where Mark had gone.
Artie called out “Anybody home?” a couple of times, then circled the administration building looking for the caretaker. Nobody. At the rear, the door to the gym hung open, creaking back and forth slightly in the wind. Artie walked in.
The gym was empty. Even if nobody was there, he still had expected to see the equipment, the climbing ropes, the benches, the tumbling apparatus and trampoline, the barbells and exercise machines in the corner, the punching bag, the canvas-covered mats on the floor.
It had been cleaned out. There was nothing but the walls and the bare basketball floor.
The kitchen was as empty as the gymnasium. No pots, no pans, no knife racks, empty china cupboards. Artie opened several of the industrial-sized refrigerators that remained. Some shreds of lettuce in one of the bottom bins, a lone, half-filled plastic jug of spoiled milk, half a stick of butter.
Empty, all of it gone. No silverware, no boxes of cereal, no toasters, no waffle irons, no stainless-steel trays for the steam table.
He wandered into the big dining room. It was cleaned out to the walls. No tables, no chairs, no steam table, no setup for a cafeteria serving line. If he hadn’t had coffee there once, he wouldn’t know the room had ever been used as a dining hall.
The classrooms were just as barren, though the blackboards still remained. On one of them, somebody had chalked
Have a Merry Christmas!
and in another room a small plastic Santa Claus dangled from a window shade. But the teachers’ desks and the one-arm student chairs were gone.
Artie hurried down to the one room he had wanted to visit, the headmaster’s office. The neatly lettered inscription on the door reading HEADMASTER: SCOTT V. FLEMING was all that remained. The inside of the office was vacant. No desk, no lamp, no chairs, no filing cabinets.
Schools closed for the holidays but there were usually caretakers, janitors, somebody around. And the equipment was usually still in place, the tables and chairs still there, the library still had books, the gym still had its equipment, the dining hall its steam table and the kitchen its pots and pans and knives.
Bayview Academy hadn’t closed for the holidays.
It had closed, period.
He walked outside to go back to his car when behind him, a familiar voice said, “What are you doing here?”
Artie turned. Collins.
“I could ask the same of you, Collins.”
The boy studied him, wary.
“You didn’t get the notice?”
“What notice?”
“The school’s closed for good. The notices were sent out a week ago.”
If Susan had gotten one, she would have told him. Christmas deliveries, the mails were slow.
“I haven’t been home the last few days.” But if the school had been due to close, it would have been discussed with the parents months ago to give them time to make other arrangements. He knew from experience there weren’t that many schools for handicapped kids. “Kind of sudden, wasn’t it?”
Collins shrugged. “I thought everybody knew.”
Everybody but himself, Artie thought.
“They cleaned it out in a hurry, didn’t they?”
Another shrug and Collins looked vague. He was an expert at looking vague.
“After the buildings and grounds were sold, I guess they sold the furnishings and equipment.”
They’d had a week to do it, Artie thought. Everything was probably on consignment with an auction warehouse, and in another week or two there would be an ad in some newspaper. Or maybe a trade magazine that covered institutions; they would be the logical buyers.
“Somebody liked the view,” Collins added. “I think they’re going to turn the campus into a resort complex like the Claremont.”
The breeze had started to pick up and Artie buttoned his coat. Collins was wearing a wool sweater and the sudden chill to the air didn’t seem to bother him.
“You haven’t told me what you’re doing here, Collins. School’s out—in more ways than one. Why hang around?”
Collins was staring out at the bay. He didn’t look at Artie and Artie guessed that he didn’t like being asked questions. When he was seventeen he hadn’t liked talking to strangers either.
“Mr. Fleming asked me to drop around every few days, check for vandalism.”
Artie didn’t believe him. Collins was there because
he
was there.
“What does he care? It’s been sold.”
Another faint shrug. “I dunno, maybe the final papers haven’t been signed yet.”
When he’d seen the gymnasium door standing open, Artie had guessed that the school had closed for the holidays but had hoped that Fleming would still be there. When he hadn’t seen anybody around, he’d thought of breaking into Fleming’s office and going through the filing cabinets to see what records they kept on Mark. Maybe something in them would have given him a clue.
Now there was nothing at all. Except Collins, who had been something more than just a friend to Mark. Had Mark confided in Collins? And if so, what had he told him? Had he talked to Collins about running away, about the girl he was presumably running away with?
Hell, he must have. Kids didn’t talk to their parents, they talked to each other, and a lot of what they thought they knew about the world they got from other kids as ignorant as themselves. He had, and so had everybody else he’d ever known. It took a lifetime to figure things out as they really were.
He’d expected Collins to turn and walk away but the boy had jammed his left fist in the pocket of his sweater and was staring out at San Francisco across the bay. He was, Artie suddenly realized, waiting.
“What’s your father do, Collins?”
“Nothing fancy, Mr. Banks.” Collins started to walk back to the gymnasium. Artie didn’t move. If Collins was really cutting him off, he’d chase after the little bastard and find out what he knew about Mark if he had to beat him bloody.
A dozen steps away, Collins stopped and waited for him to catch up.
They walked into the gymnasium together. Collins pulled the door closed after him. It was still cold—there was no heat in the empty building—but at least they were out of the wind.
Collins sat on the floor with his back to the wall. He pulled his legs up, gripped his right hand with his left, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Artie sat a few feet away.
“Your father, Collins.”
“I told you, nothing fancy—we’re not rich. He’s in construction.” He hesitated, as if he were trying to remember. “Dry wall, I think.”
Artie stared at him.
“Like the character in
Roseanne
.”
“The old TV show? I never watched it.”
“You’re putting me on, right, Collins?” He didn’t try to keep the menace out of his voice.
Collins managed to look both surprised and hurt. “I told you it was nothing fancy, that we weren’t rich.”
Artie turned away. “Right. Sorry, Collins.”
It was time for Collins to get up and split, saying he had to be back home. Collins didn’t move.
“Where is he, Collins?”
Collins picked at his shoelaces.
“Where’s who?”
“Mark.”
Collins shrugged. “I wouldn’t tell you if I knew. I wouldn’t rat on Mark.”
Collins knew all right. He was lying. Artie pulled the automatic out of his pocket and placed it on the floor in front of him, out of Collins’ reach or where his feet might kick it away.
“Mark is my son,” Artie said quietly. “I will do absolutely anything to find out where he is. Do you understand, Collins? We’re all alone; nobody saw me drive up. I don’t think anybody will see me drive away.”
Collins didn’t look impressed.
“Then I couldn’t tell you anything, could I?”
Artie kicked the gun across the floor and held his head in his hands.
“Okay, Collins, beat it.”
Collins didn’t move.
Collins was a lock and there had to be a key, Artie thought. Did he know where Mark had gone? Yes. Was Collins going to tell him? No. Why? Because Mark had told him not to tell anybody. But there was a key and Collins was waiting for him to use it.
Then he had the answer. All Collins really needed was an excuse.
“You love Mark, don’t you, Collins?”
Collins nodded, mute.
“I don’t care what happened,” Artie said.
“I told you. Not much.” Collins looked like he wanted to cry.
“Collins.” Artie hesitated. “I can’t tell you everything that’s been going on but I can tell you one thing. I don’t give a damn if Mark has chased off for a week’s fling. More power to him—I had my own when I was his age.”
He thought momentarily about Mary and wondered if his brief affair constituted a fling and if it had been anything like that for Mark. He doubted it; Mark seemed much more pragmatic about sex than he had ever been.
“I want to find Mark,” Artie continued, “because his life’s in danger.”
Collins looked worried. “Medication?”
Artie shook his head. “No.”
Collins said quietly, “Look me in the eyes and tell me his life’s in danger.”
Kid stuff, Artie thought with surprise; Collins was older than that. Then he looked into Collins’ eyes and changed his mind. The boy’s eyes were a steady gray, his face expressionless, and Artie had the uncomfortable feeling that Collins could tell a lie from the truth at a glance. For a moment all Artie could think about was Cathy and James and Andy and Chandler’s face just before Charlie Allen had shot him. There was a chance, maybe only a small chance, that another Hound for the Old People would come after him and by extension Susan and Mark. He wasn’t out of it; he’d probably never be out of it. But he desperately wanted them out of it. At the very least he owed it to them to tell them what they faced. There were no innocent bystanders, Chandler had made that pretty clear.
Artie said, “His life’s in danger, Collins.”
Collins stared at him a moment longer, then glanced away.
“Mark went up to Willow. To meet his mother.”
“When?”
“This morning. A friend drove him up.”
Nobody had answered when he’d called; communications had broken down somewhere up there. Mark’s weeklong fling was over, but Artie had the oppressive feeling that Mark was driving into danger and Susan was probably up to her neck in it.
He stood up.
“Thanks, Collins.”
What he had told Collins was the truth and it had been the key that had released Collins from whatever promise he’d given Mark. The thing that bothered Artie was the small expression of satisfaction on Collins’ face just before the boy had turned away.