Read Online The Exiled by Christopher Charles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Charles
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baseboards. Raney held this space up against a mental image of the Wilkins home. If he were going to hide something, he would hide it here, in the back room of an innocuous business, the disorder acting as camouflage.
He started at the desk. On one side sat a column of crisp-looking local newspapers, on the other a pile of crumpled invoices stamped PAID and UNPAID . Some dated back a decade, some were as recent as last week. The oldest and newest shared the same paper, the same watermark, the same bright ink. Raney slipped a small camera from his pocket, photographed every page.
The center of the desk was buried under a mound of unopened envelopes, crafts-related catalogs, expired coupons, dated flyers, glossy postcard advertisements. At the bottom of the heap he found what he hoped was pay dirt: a sleek laptop, recent model, plugged in and fully charged. He balanced it atop the newspapers, opened the screen, switched it on. A moment to boot, followed by a flashing demand for a password. He tried Mavis, mavis, Mavisartsandcrafts, MAVISARTSANDCRAFTS. Bay would have to call on the county techs.
He spent hours sorting through piles of paper, discovered a hoarding so random he felt certain it was a mask for something more deliberate. He found what she was concealing behind the bottom shelf of the bookcase—a single drawer built into the woodwork, blocked from view by a mismatched lineup of encyclopedias. He cleared the books away, pulled the drawer from the wall. Inside were two long, neat rows of envelopes, arranged chronologically and dating back to 1962. The address on the first was written in a child’s scrawl, the address on the last in an adult-male hand. Hundreds of letters, carefully preserved, the envelopes cut open with scissors, the recipient’s address always the same—Mavis Wilkins, c/o Mavis Arts and Crafts—the return address changing over the years, though usually attached to an institution: a home for children, a juvie center, a psychiatric ward, two different prisons, all in Massachusetts. The name of the sender was likewise always the same: Kurt Adler. The oldest letter came from an orphanage in Salem, the most recent from an apartment in Jamaica Plain, Boston. The orphanage letter was written in green crayon on a piece of orange construction paper:
DEAR mommy,
Thank you for writing me. I saw where you live on a map. It is far, but I don’t know why my letter can go there and I can’t. Here is a drawing for you. It is a turtle ship—a space ship that looks like a turtle when it is in its shell. Some day I will learn how to build one. Ms. Fox helped me write this letter. Her name is spelled like the animal.
LOVE kurt.
The k came out like an h : LOVE hurt . The spaceship was more snail than turtle.
The final letter, written in May of 1996, was hardly longer than the first:
Mother,
Happy to hear you are doing well. We don’t see many black bears in Boston. Maybe Jack is right—maybe you should carry a gun on your walks.
To answer your question—I’ve been clean for a year and plan to stay that way. My employer would not keep me on otherwise. I’m sorry to be vague about my work, but I promise I am doing very well—better than I could have hoped. You were right to push me to get my GED. I have a home here now and it will stay my home. Know that I am in good hands.
Kurt
Mavis had a son. A son who predated Jack. A son she kept buried in a hidden drawer in a rat’s nest of an office. In 1996 this son either died or opened an e-mail account. Raney hoped for e-mail. He sat in the wooden swivel chair behind Mavis’s desk, called Bay.
“I need a background check on a guy named Kurt Adler. Chances are he’s in Boston, if he’s still alive.”
“Who is he?”
“Mavis’s son.”
“You’re big on slinging surprises, Raney? Mavis never had a kid. It was something she always regretted.”
“The regret part rings true. Adler will be about forty-five. And he’ll have a record.”
“You
He started at the desk. On one side sat a column of crisp-looking local newspapers, on the other a pile of crumpled invoices stamped PAID and UNPAID . Some dated back a decade, some were as recent as last week. The oldest and newest shared the same paper, the same watermark, the same bright ink. Raney slipped a small camera from his pocket, photographed every page.
The center of the desk was buried under a mound of unopened envelopes, crafts-related catalogs, expired coupons, dated flyers, glossy postcard advertisements. At the bottom of the heap he found what he hoped was pay dirt: a sleek laptop, recent model, plugged in and fully charged. He balanced it atop the newspapers, opened the screen, switched it on. A moment to boot, followed by a flashing demand for a password. He tried Mavis, mavis, Mavisartsandcrafts, MAVISARTSANDCRAFTS. Bay would have to call on the county techs.
He spent hours sorting through piles of paper, discovered a hoarding so random he felt certain it was a mask for something more deliberate. He found what she was concealing behind the bottom shelf of the bookcase—a single drawer built into the woodwork, blocked from view by a mismatched lineup of encyclopedias. He cleared the books away, pulled the drawer from the wall. Inside were two long, neat rows of envelopes, arranged chronologically and dating back to 1962. The address on the first was written in a child’s scrawl, the address on the last in an adult-male hand. Hundreds of letters, carefully preserved, the envelopes cut open with scissors, the recipient’s address always the same—Mavis Wilkins, c/o Mavis Arts and Crafts—the return address changing over the years, though usually attached to an institution: a home for children, a juvie center, a psychiatric ward, two different prisons, all in Massachusetts. The name of the sender was likewise always the same: Kurt Adler. The oldest letter came from an orphanage in Salem, the most recent from an apartment in Jamaica Plain, Boston. The orphanage letter was written in green crayon on a piece of orange construction paper:
DEAR mommy,
Thank you for writing me. I saw where you live on a map. It is far, but I don’t know why my letter can go there and I can’t. Here is a drawing for you. It is a turtle ship—a space ship that looks like a turtle when it is in its shell. Some day I will learn how to build one. Ms. Fox helped me write this letter. Her name is spelled like the animal.
LOVE kurt.
The k came out like an h : LOVE hurt . The spaceship was more snail than turtle.
The final letter, written in May of 1996, was hardly longer than the first:
Mother,
Happy to hear you are doing well. We don’t see many black bears in Boston. Maybe Jack is right—maybe you should carry a gun on your walks.
To answer your question—I’ve been clean for a year and plan to stay that way. My employer would not keep me on otherwise. I’m sorry to be vague about my work, but I promise I am doing very well—better than I could have hoped. You were right to push me to get my GED. I have a home here now and it will stay my home. Know that I am in good hands.
Kurt
Mavis had a son. A son who predated Jack. A son she kept buried in a hidden drawer in a rat’s nest of an office. In 1996 this son either died or opened an e-mail account. Raney hoped for e-mail. He sat in the wooden swivel chair behind Mavis’s desk, called Bay.
“I need a background check on a guy named Kurt Adler. Chances are he’s in Boston, if he’s still alive.”
“Who is he?”
“Mavis’s son.”
“You’re big on slinging surprises, Raney? Mavis never had a kid. It was something she always regretted.”
“The regret part rings true. Adler will be about forty-five. And he’ll have a record.”
“You
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