Idyll Fears Read online

  “What color was the car you were in?” Wright asked.

  “Silver.”

  His mother broke in. “He said it was white, before you came.”

  Cody tilted his head. “Where’s my Lego truck?”

  Mrs. Forrand said, “Honey, I’m sure Santa hasn’t forgotten.”

  “Cody, buddy, who was driving the car you were in?” Wright asked.

  “I want the Lego truck!” he yelled.

  Wright looked at me. I gave a half shrug. No one seemed surprised by his outburst. Maybe they’d heard it before? “Did you have a Lego truck before?” I asked.

  “Where is it? Why’d they take it away?” He looked around the room.

  “I think Cody needs food,” his mother said. A menu was produced. Mrs. Forrand leaned against his bed’s railing and held it for him. “What looks good, sweetie?”

  “French fries,” he said.

  “How about something to go with those, huh?” she suggested. Cody pouted. “How about chicken nuggets?”

  “No.” He whipped his head back and forth. My neck hurt just watching. His didn’t, I realized. It couldn’t.

  “Honey, stop.” His mother put her hand against his head. “Macaroni and cheese?”

  Every suggestion was met with, “No,” until they’d exhausted the entrées. Anna said, “I had chicken nuggets today.” I’d forgotten she was present. She sat in a chair, a giant book on her lap. Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

  Cody said, “I want chicken nuggets.”

  Her mother gave Anna a weary smile.

  The food order was placed. Chicken nuggets, French fries, and chocolate milk. With that squared, Wright began again. “Cody, what’s your favorite TV show?”

  “Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.” He answered immediately.

  “He likes the Red Ranger best,” Anna added.

  “Did the person who drove you in the car look like anyone you’ve seen on TV?” Smart. I wouldn’t have thought to ask that.

  Cody said, “It was a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger.”

  “The person looked like a Power Ranger?” Wright asked, his skepticism evident.

  “He’s still loopy,” Mrs. Forrand said. “He kept talking about elves earlier.”

  Great. We’d have to re-interview him, once the drugs were out of his system.

  “I want my Lego truck!” Cody wailed. He beat his hands against his legs.

  “Baby, Christmas isn’t for twelve days.” Mrs. Forrand said. “Remember? We’re going to make cookies for Santa and treats for the reindeers.”

  “Cody, how many people were in the car with you?” Wright asked.

  Cody ignored the question and looked at his sister. “Read me a story,” he said.

  “Cody, buddy, can you tell me who was in the car?” Wright kept his voice even.

  “My leg hurts!” Cody shrieked. Everyone’s head snapped up at this.

  “I thought he couldn’t feel pain,” I said.

  “He can’t,” a balding doctor said. He stepped forward and asked, “Which leg?”

  Cody hesitated. “That one.” He pointed to his right leg.

  “Cody, remember what we said about telling the truth?” the doctor asked. “About how important it is for us to know what’s going on?”

  “Yeeeees.”

  “Does your leg hurt?”

  Cody shook his head. “No.” He kicked his legs. “I’m hungry.”

  The doctor said, “Okay. We’ll go check on your food.” He turned to the nurse and jerked his head toward the door. Man, I needed a nurse.

  “I think he’s done here,” Mr. Forrand said. He rubbed Cody’s arm. “He needs rest.”

  “One more question,” Wright said. “Cody, did you know the person in the car?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Yes.”

  “Who was it?” Wright’s question was fast, urgent. Cody smiled, a weird Mona Lisa smile. Then he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Forrand said, shoulders slumped. “Maybe later, when he’s rested.” He sounded tired. Probably hadn’t slept. I looked at Wright. We withdrew.

  In the hall there was still no cop or guard. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “We know as much as we did before we came here,” Wright said. “I’m not sure what Cody knows and what he doesn’t.”

  “Nice call on the TV thing. Too bad he’s still fuzzy on what’s real.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I just worry . . . what if he forgets details? I wanted to get to him while he still remembered things.”

  “I forgot to ask if he remembered stopping for gas,” I said.

  “Later,” Wright said. “We can’t afford to upset the parents now.”

  I knew he was right, and that Cody was still recovering, but I wanted to go inside and ask just that one question. Only I knew I wouldn’t stop at one, so I kept my mouth shut.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wright went to find the Canton cop who’d accompanied Cody to the hospital. I paced a strip of flooring outside room 372 until the medical staff exited Cody’s room. “Doctor?” I asked. Two men turned. The balding guy and a guy with a small panda attached to his stethoscope. “Does one of you usually treat Cody Forrand?” The younger one walked away, leaving bald guy to stare at me.

  “I’m Doctor Frazier. I treat Cody,” he said.

  “Chief Lynch. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Mind following me? I’ve got twenty minutes and a lunch I haven’t eaten.” I followed him to a break room. People in scrubs and lab coats sat at small tables, eating or reading. Dr. Frazier grabbed a foil-wrapped tube and a soda from the fridge. He unwrapped the foil to reveal a sub. He sat and took a large bite. I took the opposite chair.

  “How long have you treated Cody?” I asked.

  He chewed. Put a finger in the air. Swallowed and said, “Two years. My colleague saw him in the ER and flagged him for me. I specialize in nervous-system disorders.” He took another hungry bite.

  “Must be one-of-a-kind. I hear his disease is quite rare.”

  He drank from his can. “Used to have another patient with CIPA. Aaron Donner. Same age as Cody. He died. Almost six months ago. They knew each other, were in and out of here, sometimes at the same time.”

  “How did he die?” I asked.

  “Hyperthermia. People with CIPA don’t produce sweat, so they don’t cool down like you or me. They get high fevers that can lead to seizures.”

  “They told me Cody can’t deal with cold.”

  “True. I didn’t see any signs of hypothermia when he came in, though. No damage to his extremities that would indicate he’d been outside long.”

  “You think someone took him?”

  “I’ll leave that to you. He had a sedative in his system, but I didn’t see signs of abuse besides one or two bruises, and those are typical for Cody.”

  “His mother said she and her husband were accused of abuse before his diagnosis.”

  “Not uncommon. Nurses and doctors keep seeing the same kid come into the ER; they start asking questions.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me from when he arrived that might help?”

  He thought about it. “Not really. When we figure out what type of drug he had in his system, we’ll let you know.”

  “Do you think Cody knew who took him?”

  He checked his watch. “I have no idea, but Cody will lie, especially if he thinks it’ll benefit him. You saw what he said about his leg? He’s been pitching that for a few months. Always gets a reaction. When it doesn’t, he’ll come up with something new.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you like him much.”

  “My job is to treat Cody, to keep him alive. Liking patients isn’t in my job description.”

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve taken Cody?” It was a shot in the dark.

  He stood and tossed his can and foil into the trash. “No.” He dusted his hands and straightened his lab coat. “However, I’m not surprised the person didn’t keep
him.”

  Wright stood outside Cody’s room. He unwrapped a piece of gum and folded it into his mouth. “You find the Canton cop?” I asked.

  “In the cafeteria. He’s headed back to his station now. Says he’s needed there. Also says since Cody was taken on our patch, the case is all ours.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said.

  “Yup.” He chewed his gum. “Seems the kid who gathers shopping carts from the parking lot saw Cody near the rides outside the store. Saw him again when he came out fifteen minutes later. When he asked Cody where his parents were, Cody seemed confused. Kid got his manager. Manager phoned the cops.”

  “Why did the cops call the Forrands? Why not call our station?” I asked.

  “Probably wanted to be heroes. They don’t often get the chance.”

  “What about Cody’s clothes?” I asked.

  “Cody was wearing jeans and a blue sweater with a truck on it when they picked him up. And guess what? The cops called an ambo right away. Didn’t interview the manager or the grocery worker. No one else has either.”

  “Guess I know how you’ll be spending your afternoon,” I said.

  “Guess I do.”

  “The hospital gonna get a security guard on this door?” I asked.

  “They said it’s a secure facility. Lots of cameras and key cards.” He looked at Cody’s room. “You think whoever snatched him will try again?”

  “No, but I’d feel better if they watched this room. I’m headed back to . . . hell. We have one car.” Mine had “FAG!” written on the side. “Guess I’ll call for a ride. Did you see a pay phone?”

  “It’s 1997. You need to get a mobile, Chief.” He pointed. “Down the hall.”

  I found the phone. Told dispatch I needed someone to pick me up. Darryl said, “Uh, Chief, I don’t know how to tell you this, but, um, someone spray-painted your car.”

  “I know. Send someone for me. I’ll meet them outside Emergency.”

  The lobby was busier than when we’d arrived. More kids holding their arms or bleeding. A few were bald. Cancer kids. I looked away.

  When my ride arrived, Dix was at the wheel. “How was Cody?” he asked.

  “He’d been given a sedative. Otherwise, he looked good.”

  “Did he tell you who took him?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Say how he got there?”

  “By car, but he didn’t provide details.”

  “Hey, Chief, about cars. Your car—”

  “Got tagged. I saw it.”

  “Oh.” He blushed so that his face nearly matched his hair. “I, we’re looking into who did it.”

  “How’s that going?” I asked.

  “No one saw anything.”

  I turned on the radio. The weatherman said we’d get two more inches by ten o’clock. I groaned. “My driveway.”

  Dix picked up on my complaint. “You need your drive cleared? My cousin, Dave, has a plow. I’ll call him when I get in. He can clear your drive in two minutes.” He seemed delighted to solve this problem.

  “Thanks.” Now that my car had “FAG!” on its door I couldn’t park it on the street.

  “So, I saw that Ellen DeGeneres was named Entertainer of the Year,” he said.

  Ellen DeGeneres. The tiny blond actress. She’d announced she was gay this spring. Oh, God. Dix was trying to talk gay with me. And he was choosing lesbians as his topic. “Dix, I don’t care about Ellen DeGeneres. I care about sports. You want to talk about sports?”

  We managed to stay on hockey and basketball for the rest of the ride home.

  Inside the station, the men looked at me, and then away, fast. Their paperwork became fascinating. It was worse than the day after I came out. Okay, maybe not. A close second. Finnegan, bless his hide, said, “Saw your car. I’m on it. You’re gonna have to talk to her ladyship about getting it repaired.” Finnegan had a box full of nicknames for Mrs. Dunsmore. So did I. I couldn’t repeat mine in polite company.

  “Hey, I’ve got Cody’s clothing description. Let’s check it against the tips,” I said.

  “Any other leads?” he asked.

  “He had a sedative in his system, so we didn’t get much from him. The car that took him might’ve been silver or white. Wright is scoping out the grocery parking lot. No one interviewed the kid who saw Cody or the manager who called the cops.”

  Finnegan whistled. “Glad I don’t live in Canton.”

  “I’m going to drop by Suds.” No. Dix had told me they’d had a burst pipe. Hell. “Scratch that. I guess I’m going to see Lady Du.”

  “She’s out today. You’ll have to call her at home,” he said.

  I imagined her home. It probably had Catholic artifacts: a painting of Jesus, a photo of the Pope, and maybe a saint card. One of those cross-stitch things about happy homes. Bookcase full of cookbooks so she could keep one step ahead of the bake sale ladies. And cats. If ever a person was a cat lady, it was Mrs. Dunsmore. Her information was in the Rolodex I’d inherited from my predecessor, Chief Stoughton. Her card read Grace Dunsmore. Address and telephone neatly typed on a card yellowed with age. She probably made it herself back in the 1960s.

  She answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Dunsmore, it’s Thomas Lynch. I’m sorry to disturb you at home.”

  “Thomas,” she said, trying it on for size. “How can I help you, Chief?”

  “My car was vandalized in the parking lot.”

  “I heard.” I should’ve known. She heard everything.

  “Where do I take it to get it fixed?”

  “Jerry has our contract. I taught him years ago at CCC. He was not an apt pupil.”

  “Do I need to fill out twelve forms?” She’d probably say yes. Maybe give me a hint as to where the forms lived. No offer to help fill them out, though. She had her limits.

  “You’re the police chief. Tell him to fix it.” She coughed. “And tell those boys they better find who defaced your vehicle. Next thing you know, we’ll have drug addicts asking us to open the evidence storeroom so they can get high.”

  I didn’t comment. My mind traveled a different path. “There’s no front-facing camera at our station. I usually park out back. There’s a camera there.” I couldn’t remember why. Some ancient tale of a hit-and-run. “I parked out front today.”

  She got it. “You think whoever did it knew about the cameras. Chief, it’s not just people at the station who know. Fire Department knows. DPW knows.”

  Sure, but how many of them had been at the station today?

  Jerry’s repair shop was known as Carl’s Cars. It sat on the eastern edge of town, bordered by high chain-link fencing. Signs warned me not to trespass and to beware of dog. The lot was full of cars in various states of wreckage. Nearby was an ambulance with no bumpers. The office was in a building the size of my tool shed. Grease-stained papers were stacked atop a waist-high divider. Behind it stood a guy in denim overalls, smoking. He said, “You need a tow? All my guys are out right now.”

  “My car needs work.”

  He exhaled a stream of smoke. “You look outside? We got lots of cars need work. Not enough damn people to fix ’em. Goddamn cousin ran off with a skank he met at a bar. I’m down a man. Now I got Phil calling, telling me he fell off his fucking roof, trying to clear icicles.”

  “The driver’s side got tagged,” I said. “Orange spray paint.”

  He stubbed his cigarette out. “Your car?” He looked at my uniform. “Bet it was a dare. High school kids. What did they write? Pig? Donut lover?”

  “When do you think you can fix it?” I asked.

  “Without Phil and that rat, Ronnie? I’m a full week behind, I tell ya, and this snow’s not helping.”

  “A week?” No way I was driving my car for a week.

  “That’s how far behind I am. Can’t do better than two weeks, maybe three.”

  “I’m the chief of police.”

  “Yup,” he said.

  “I can’t take
it to another garage because yours is contracted to service our vehicles.”

  “True. Unless you want to pay out of pocket.”

  “When do we negotiate that contract? Yearly?” He’d never get our business again.

  He grinned. “Hardly. Try every four.”

  “I’m gonna have a chat with Dunsmore,” I muttered.

  “Mrs. Dunsmore?” He straightened reflectively. Swallowed. “Oh, hell, man. Don’t bring her into this. Let me take a look.” He followed me outside. Walked to the driver’s side and surveyed the damage. FAG! The letters seemed to glow.

  “Huh,” he said.

  “You’ll fix it by Friday?” I wanted a guarantee.

  He bent to look at the letters. Tapped the F. “I’ll have to redo the seal.”

  “Skip the seal. Get the graffiti off. You can do the seal later.”

  He took his eyes off the door. Looked me over. All six feet four inches. “Must’ve been one hell of a dare,” he said.

  I couldn’t be without a ride, and we didn’t have a spare patrol car. He led me to the loaner, a battered wood-paneled station wagon. “You kidding me?” I asked. The car was half my age.

  “It’s this one or the ambulance, and that’s not legal, cuz of the bumpers.”

  “Fine.” I popped the back. Retrieved everything from my car and put it in the roomy rear of the station wagon.

  “Heat’s a little iffy,” he warned.

  He wasn’t kidding. Lukewarm air coughed on and off. The shocks on the wagon were shot. I felt every pebble as I drove. Across from me, a big SUV rolled past a stop sign and struck a mailbox half buried in snow. The mailbox teetered on its post before falling. The driver sped by like nothing happened. I cut the wheel and followed. License plate started 853. Why did I know that? 853. Shit! My prank caller. I fumbled my notepad and flipped the page. This was his car. Oh man. Maybe today wasn’t a waste.

  Getting him to stop was a problem. My car had no siren. I honked my horn. Stuck my head out my window. The driver checked his rearview and accelerated. I sped up and held the horn. He tapped his brakes. I waved my arm and kept honking. He slowed and pulled to the right. Hopped out of his car.

  “What the fuck, dude?” he yelled.

  When I got out of my car, he reassessed the situation. I gave him a good look at my badge. “Sir, license and registration.” He paused. “Now.” As he fumbled with the glove-compartment latch, I peered in the car.