to be "sent" by Beethoven's Sixth, "so passionate, Markie!"
Now when Sally's blooming classmates got crushes on their history teacher, he thought, 'You're about thirty years too late,' and laughed within at the irony of time.
It was remarkably poignant to watch a girl become a woman.
He sat down on the bed beside her.
"Was he angry?" Mark asked her. "Was there a fight?"
"No, Dad. No way. He was fine."
"He didn't say anything to you—talk about taking a ride, going somewhere—" Mark stopped. He realized that he'd already asked her at least five versions of this same question. He fell silent.
Sally said it: "I'm scared, Daddy."
Mary came in. "Was there anything he wanted? A new computer program? Something he might have decided to go into Des Moines on his own to get?"
"Billy'd never go to Des Moines by himself without telling. And the computer stores're probably closed Sunday."
Mary bowed her head in acknowledgment. Her son wasn't that indifferent to limits.
Mark realized there was something he had to say. Let Sally hear her father's fear, let Mary hear that he could be victim to his feelings. He had to get this out, and he had to do it now. "Last night, he woke me up." He took a deep breath. "He said he'd seen a man in the front yard. I looked, but there wasn't anybody there. I'm sorry to say, I just—"
It came then, the pain, welling up in him like a ball of red fire, bursting in the center of his heart.
"Oh, Christ—obviously, I—" It wasn't pride that stopped him this time, or the reticence of an inward man, it was the sheer horror of his mistake. "He must have been watching all the time—waiting for his chance."
Mary was absolutely silent and completely still. When she spoke her voice was very soft. "If it happened—and that's a very big 'if—it certainly isn't our fault. We can't think that way." She looked at her husband. "We can't, Mark."
"We have to call the police."
"I agree," Mary said. At once what had been a slow decision became a desperate emergency. Both parents went for the phone in their bedroom, followed by their daughter.
There was a short delay while Mary fumbled through the phone book looking for the number. This was a small town; the police could not be reached by jabbing 911.
Outside the lawn mowers had stopped, and lunch was being eaten in the other houses on the block. Soon baseball would hit the airwaves and the men would disappear into their air-conditioned living rooms and dens.
Mary spoke the numerals. Her voice was loud in the noon hush, the digits enunciated with excessive care.
As Mark punched in the numbers a boy's voice sang out high and gay, and for an instant he thought—but no, it was some other child. A clawing, frantic urgency came over him as the phone rang, and when a voice said "Stevensville Police" he could barely manage to reply.
"My name is Mark Neary. I'm calling to report that my son, William, appears to be missing."
His call had been answered by Patrolman Charles Napier, who was on dispatch this Sunday until four. The call didn't surprise him. They got three or four of these a month. If the children were young the cases were always solved within a couple of hours. Older children might be runaways, and runaways sometimes took longer. But they all came home in the end, all of them. Kids got killed, even kidnapped, but not in this sleepy little town. The parents, of course, were always terrified, and Charlie was always gentle with them. "When did you discover William was missing?"
"When we got up this morning. During the night he woke me up. He said he'd seen a man in the front yard. I investigated, but there was nothing wrong. Then this morning he wasn't here anymore."
Charlie Napier had pulled out a missing persons form. He took the bare details of age and description. There would have to be an immediate investigation of this case, because a minor was involved. In adult missing person cases the department waited twenty-four hours before starting a
Now when Sally's blooming classmates got crushes on their history teacher, he thought, 'You're about thirty years too late,' and laughed within at the irony of time.
It was remarkably poignant to watch a girl become a woman.
He sat down on the bed beside her.
"Was he angry?" Mark asked her. "Was there a fight?"
"No, Dad. No way. He was fine."
"He didn't say anything to you—talk about taking a ride, going somewhere—" Mark stopped. He realized that he'd already asked her at least five versions of this same question. He fell silent.
Sally said it: "I'm scared, Daddy."
Mary came in. "Was there anything he wanted? A new computer program? Something he might have decided to go into Des Moines on his own to get?"
"Billy'd never go to Des Moines by himself without telling. And the computer stores're probably closed Sunday."
Mary bowed her head in acknowledgment. Her son wasn't that indifferent to limits.
Mark realized there was something he had to say. Let Sally hear her father's fear, let Mary hear that he could be victim to his feelings. He had to get this out, and he had to do it now. "Last night, he woke me up." He took a deep breath. "He said he'd seen a man in the front yard. I looked, but there wasn't anybody there. I'm sorry to say, I just—"
It came then, the pain, welling up in him like a ball of red fire, bursting in the center of his heart.
"Oh, Christ—obviously, I—" It wasn't pride that stopped him this time, or the reticence of an inward man, it was the sheer horror of his mistake. "He must have been watching all the time—waiting for his chance."
Mary was absolutely silent and completely still. When she spoke her voice was very soft. "If it happened—and that's a very big 'if—it certainly isn't our fault. We can't think that way." She looked at her husband. "We can't, Mark."
"We have to call the police."
"I agree," Mary said. At once what had been a slow decision became a desperate emergency. Both parents went for the phone in their bedroom, followed by their daughter.
There was a short delay while Mary fumbled through the phone book looking for the number. This was a small town; the police could not be reached by jabbing 911.
Outside the lawn mowers had stopped, and lunch was being eaten in the other houses on the block. Soon baseball would hit the airwaves and the men would disappear into their air-conditioned living rooms and dens.
Mary spoke the numerals. Her voice was loud in the noon hush, the digits enunciated with excessive care.
As Mark punched in the numbers a boy's voice sang out high and gay, and for an instant he thought—but no, it was some other child. A clawing, frantic urgency came over him as the phone rang, and when a voice said "Stevensville Police" he could barely manage to reply.
"My name is Mark Neary. I'm calling to report that my son, William, appears to be missing."
His call had been answered by Patrolman Charles Napier, who was on dispatch this Sunday until four. The call didn't surprise him. They got three or four of these a month. If the children were young the cases were always solved within a couple of hours. Older children might be runaways, and runaways sometimes took longer. But they all came home in the end, all of them. Kids got killed, even kidnapped, but not in this sleepy little town. The parents, of course, were always terrified, and Charlie was always gentle with them. "When did you discover William was missing?"
"When we got up this morning. During the night he woke me up. He said he'd seen a man in the front yard. I investigated, but there was nothing wrong. Then this morning he wasn't here anymore."
Charlie Napier had pulled out a missing persons form. He took the bare details of age and description. There would have to be an immediate investigation of this case, because a minor was involved. In adult missing person cases the department waited twenty-four hours before starting a
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