The Boy Detective Fails (20 page)
It is the first touch and so it goes: Billy goes to take her hand suddenly, the thought of her hand so close it is killing them both, but Penny pulls away. His hand touches her wedding ring accidentally, and she pulls her fingers back as if burned.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so jumpy,” she says.
“No, no, I’m sorry. It’s only … your hand is so small sitting there. It looked lonely.”
“Ha, ha,” Penny chortles. “You are trying to seduce me.”
“No,” Billy says with a red face. “I would never …”
“I am sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“No, no, I am sorry.”
The boy detective and Penny sit, side by side, terribly sad and terribly frightened. They cannot go on much longer like this, they are both sure of it. Penny stands, pulling the signal for the bus.
“Good … goodnight, Billy.”
Penny shakes Billy’s hand and hurries off the bus. Billy watches her through the window. He stares down at his empty hand. He stares at it like it has somehow lied to him.
At Shady Glens, the boy detective walks past Mr. Lunt’s room. Within, Professor Von Golum and Mr. Pluto are standing over the old man’s bed, trying to hypnotize him with a gold pocket watch, dangling it back and forth, whispering to him gently.
“You’re getting sleepy, my dear friend, very sleepy … Now tell us the whereabouts of that treasure. Yes, yes, my dear old friend, just get that terrible burden off your chest …”
Billy shakes his head and continues into his room.
Billy lays in bed, smiling, staring up at the ceiling.
“Goodnight, Penny.”
He suddenly must kiss his pillow for some reason. He does, and then, embarrassed, does it again.
“Goodnight, Penny.”
The boy detective begins laughing uncontrollably. He begins jumping on his bed, too happy to ever sleep again. He considers taking a pill to calm down, perhaps an Ativan or Seroquel, but decides he will not. He switches on the light and the snow falls voluminously across the floor. Billy lays there and makes angels with his arms and legs. He feels the soft flakes melting on his face and begins counting until he has reached one million. It is the first night in many months that he does not dream terrible dreams.
After school, a girl with a brown ponytail and blue eye shadow is climbing into a van. The teachers are milling around the parking lot, standing by their cars, smoking, and so they ignore what this particular girl is doing. The girl stops for a moment and looks at the van. It is black and there is dirt all along the fenders and wheels, but it looks all right. A man in black, whose face is mostly hidden by shadows, is driving. He is whistling. He is pointing at the girl and she is smiling. The girl closes the door and the van pulls away. Suddenly, somewhere, someone begins screaming.
The boy detective finds the Mumford children busy at work on a new experiment underneath their front porch. As they wait for the school bus to arrive, Effie Mumford operates a large, portable silver tape player, busily recording the sounds of the morning: the bustling of their movements and the treble of their soft breathing. Gus Mumford is, for some reason, closely watching a compass, the magnetic needle ticking north predictably.
“What is all this?” Billy asks, crawling beneath the wood slats.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Billy?” Effie asks in a whisper.
“Pardon me?”
“Do you believe that after you die, there is some other world or something? Or is it all black?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe. Why do you ask?”
“I have decided I would like to know, either way, which one is real.”
“I see. You may find it harder to prove or disprove than you think.”
“It just seems very unlikely to me that we somehow go someplace else,” the girl continues. “It is very, very hard for me to believe that there is some other world, and yet there just doesn’t seem to be any conclusive evidence on behalf of an argument
against
believing,” Effie Mumford says, still whispering.
“You may be right.”
“What do you imagine happens?”
Billy thinks for a moment and says, “I’m afraid that when you die, you simply cease to exist. Like a candle being blown out. You are gone, completely.”
“And the flame from the candle goes where?”
“Nowhere. It just goes very dark.”
Gus Mumford then asks, with a note:
But what of ghosts?
“Perhaps it is only wishful thinking on our parts,” Billy says. “Perhaps we have only invented this idea to comfort ourselves.”
“Wishful thinking,” Effie says with a sigh. “Yes. But I just do not like the idea that when I die there will be nothing. It seems very anticlimactic. It seems very disappointing.”
“Yes, it does.”
“I would like to believe there is a place of some kind where you meet people who have died—famous people, presidents, scientists, everyone you love—but that does not seem reasonable.”
“It does not,” Billy says in agreement. “So how do you plan to investigate?”
“My plan is to record sounds from various locations around town and then analyze the evidence. I am quite sure that I will be able to find something of a conclusive nature, either way.”
“I see. May I ask why you are making a recording underneath your own front porch?”
Effie Mumford is quiet for a moment, then slowly points to the soft mound where her poor bunny, Mr. Buttons, is buried.
“Of course,” Billy says, nodding.
“Also, Gus said last night he heard footsteps on the porch.”
Gus Mumford blinks, handing Billy a note which reads:
There were definitely footsteps.
“Any results as of yet?” Billy asks.
“No, not from under here. We did discover something strange on the tape we made near the abandoned cave on the other side of those factories.”
“What did you hear?”
Gus Mumford holds up a small note:
A girl’s voice.
Billy squints, reading the short sentence. “A girl’s voice?”
Gus nods and hands him a second note:
It sounded like she was singing a lullaby. It was creepy.
“I can imagine,” Billy says.
“There are some places that just harbor supernatural activity,” Effie Mumford adds. “Very old houses, recent crime scenes, the Bermuda triangle, for instance. We think perhaps it may be caused by magnetism. Gus is using a compass to test that theory.”
Gus Mumford holds out a small compass, the narrow needle ticking back and forth, always leading north. He hands Billy a note which reads:
All is normal here.
“Why this sudden interest in the goings-on of death?” Billy asks, pulling himself to his feet.
The Mumford children are silent and then Effie, looking up, answers with a frown. “A girl from my school, Parker Lane, was kidnapped yesterday.”
“Kidnapped?”
“Someone put her in a van and just disappeared.”
“And you have reason to believe she is already dead?”
“She is the most unlikable person I have ever met. I think for sure someone would have killed her by now.”
“I see.”
“I mean, if she was murdered by someone, you would have a hard time blaming them.”
“Yes, I understand. But still, I hope you find she is alive and returned to safety,” Billy says. “If you discover anything conclusive with your experiment, please let me know.”
“We will,” the girl says and returns to her recording.
At work, at his desk, the boy detective is talking on the phone. He is scribbling Penny’s name over and over again in his salesperson script. Larry peeks over from across the aisle and smiles.
“Yes, it’s exactly that, sir, a miracle,” Billy mumbles. “A miracle of modern living. Hair-replacement surgery can be expensive and dangerous. So why risk it? What we offer you is quality hair replacement without the serious dangers and side effects.”
“Oh no, poor kid. You’ve got a girl on the mind, isn’t that right?” Larry asks.
Billy blushes. Larry pats him on the back.
“The only advice I can offer is this: Maintain an air of mystery. Women love it. Tall, dark, mysterious, that’s me. Keep her guessing is what I always say.”
Billy nods and blushes again. He picks up the telephone to begin his next sales call, but Melinda leans over his cubicle and smiles awkwardly.
“Billy, I need to speak with you for a moment.”
“OK.”
“I’d like to talk to you about your performance here at Mammoth so far.”
“OK.”
“You’ve been here two months now, yes?”
“Yes.”
“We think you’re doing a terrific job, but we’ve decided to transfer you to evenings.”
“Evenings?”
“Yes. The graveyard shift.”
“The graveyard shift,” Billy says with a sigh.
“The truth is that it has always been our most profitable market, the late-night time slot. It’s the time when the infirmed and the grieving generally tend to reminisce, and a voice—a tender voice—can work wonders for their self-esteem. We think you’ve been doing a great job on days and want to give you an opportunity to continue to grow in our organization. The night shift means more responsibility: You’ll be on your own here, no supervision, no one standing over you—just you and your customers, all night. What do you think?”
“What if I say no?”
“This is really less of a request and more of an assignment. I’m only asking because I felt like framing it as a question would you give you the feeling of empowerment, a necessary element in maintaining a terrific sales team.”
“Terrific.”
“Terrific, you’ll start tomorrow night.”
“OK. Great.”
Melinda smiles one more stiff smile before she hurries off, disappearing back into her office. Larry saunters over, frowning, shaking his head.
“That is the look of a condemned man. You got the graveyard shift, huh?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not so bad. If you don’t mind talking to ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Sure, sure. Half of them are in some morphine-induced haze where you can practically hear the heart monitor beeping in the background.
Beep-beep-beep
. The other half, the widowers and survivors of whatever car crash left them standing, well, all they can think about is ‘How come?’ How come they’re still alive and their other half isn’t. They’re good as dead themselves. All of them trapped in that vast profundity, asking the same question, trying to solve the same great mystery of life and death. Pretty easy sales either way, though, buddy.”
“I don’t think I want to talk to ghosts.”
“Good luck, pal.”
Billy, at his desk, finds an Ativan and carefully places it on his tongue. He swallows and stares at the telephone, hoping it will explode suddenly.
The office is completely empty and dark that following night. It is silent. After the cleaning lady in her powder blue outfit appears and then disappears, there is no one else around. Billy, sitting in his black office chair, wheels himself up and down the aisle. He times himself as he does a lap of all three aisles. His best time? Four minutes, eight seconds. He flosses his teeth with the corner of a piece of paper. He puts his feet up on the desk. He stares at the telephone and then at the clock up on the wall, waiting, waiting, waiting.
At work later that night, the boy detective is speaking to a customer. The customer, apparently, no longer has a face.
“No, sir, I’m not sure exactly how that works, with the bandages. But I’m sure there must be some way to properly attach it.”
The customer is a victim of a horrible automobile accident. “Well, like I said, pal, it’s the loneliness, to be honest, looking like this. That’s what really hurts. The skin graft ain’t nothing next to being stared at and eating in restaurants all alone.
Table for one
, there’s the real brain damage, you know? I can’t tell you the last time I talked to a girl, let alone, well, you know, held her hand, if you know what I mean. I think you do. But now, let me ask you this, buddy, did you say you have a beard to go along with everything?”
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Well, the mustache and the beard together, that’s what I’d like.”
“Would you like it rush-delivered at a minimal cost?”
“No, no rush. I’ve got plenty of time here. All I got is time.”
“If I may have your address then for delivery …”
“It’s the hours sitting in the dark alone like this that get me. If you see what I mean.”
“Yes,” Billy whispers, closing his eyes.
“They said they only give me a 10 percent chance. That’s what I keep thinking over.”
“Pardon me?”
“The doctors. They only give me a 10 percent chance that I’ll make it. That’s what I don’t like. Waiting here alone, trying not to sleep because I’m afraid I won’t ever wake up in the morning. I don’t mind dying, I don’t. I just don’t want to have to go through it alone like this.”
“Please, sir, let me send your order out rush-delivery as a courtesy.”
“If you like.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Do you mind staying on the line for a while, talking? I mean, I’ll buy something else. Maybe a wig, or something for my sister.”
“Yes,” Billy whispers. “I can speak for a few more minutes.”
“I don’t sleep so well.”
Billy nods to himself in agreement. Like a phantom, he has almost disappeared, the man’s faraway voice a single, sad thread keeping Billy attached by the ear to his own body. He lays his head down at his desk. For a moment he is asleep, the phone beside his ear uttering a soft, gentle buzzing.
Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he sees a strange shape looming. It is a figure. In the shadows of the office it moves, creeping from cubicle to cubicle until, near the lobby, Billy hears a door slam. He sets the phone down on his desk, quietly walks down the aisle, past the modern-looking lobby decorated with enormous advertisements for hair-replacement products, and finds the door to the stairwell open. “Hello?” he whispers, terrified. There is no reply. Staring at the partly open door, he notices some fingerprints, black, very small, right along the edge of the doorframe. Small fingerprints.
The fingerprint set.
A shudder runs past his heart and travels throughout his entire body. The fingerprints slowly fade and then disappear completely. He whispers, “Caroline,” though he does not quite know the reason. Dizzy, he grabs a stapler from the receptionist’s desk and raises it over his head. He opens the door and shouts, waiting for the strange figure to leap out. Of course, there is nothing. Or at least we think it is nothing. Holding his breath, Billy hears the soft sound of someone’s breath as they make their way back into the shadows of the office building.