Saturday, October 23rd, 2009

 

     Once again, way too much time has passed since I wrote in this journal.  Ever since school started, my journal writing has been hit or miss, with more misses than hits, as evidenced by the last entry, which was made on Labor Day.

 

Papa’s on twenty-four hour duty.  I worked for Gus most of today, and got off at five o’clock.  Kylee and I don’t have a date, because she’s working at Mr. Ochlou’s until he closes at midnight.  Clarice was at the house when I pulled in the driveway at twenty after five.  I did chores and showered, then took the warm crock-pot she handed me as I walked into the kitchen.

 

     “Beef stew for you, your papa, Carl, and anyone else who’s on-duty.  Here’s a bag with French bread and brownies.”  She shook a finger at me. “And don’t you eat all those brownies before you get to the station.”

 

     “I won’t,” I promised with a laugh. 

 

     “When will you be home?” Clarice asked.

 

     “I don’t know. I’ll probably hang around the station for a while after we eat.  I should be back by ten, I guess.”

 

     Clarice nodded.  My Friday and Saturday curfew is midnight. Unless it’s summer vacation, the rest of the week I don’t really have a curfew, because if I’m not at a school function, at the fire station, or working for Gus, I’m expected to be home.

 

“If you go somewhere else, call and let me know.”

 

     “I will.  Can’t think of anywhere else I’ll be, though.  Dylan and Kylee are working. Jake, Dalton, Jenna, and Tyler are in Juneau at a forensics competition, and the youth group activity started at four this afternoon, so that pretty much leaves no one to hang out with.”

 

      “Except for your papa and Carl,” Clarice smiled. “You can hang out with them.”

 

     “Yeah, me and a couple of old guys,” I teased. “Wow, Eagle Harbor offers such excitement to a kid on a Saturday night.”

 

“It offers all the excitement a young man your age needs. Any more excitement, and seventeen-year-old boys find themselves in the kind of trouble they don’t need.”

 

“You say that like you have past experience with a seventeen-year-old boy who got himself into trouble.”

 

Clarice winked at me.  “Carl sometimes gave his father and me reason to worry he’d spend a good deal of his life in a police station...though on the wrong side of the metal bars.”

 

I grinned. “My grandpa’s told me a few stories like that about Papa, too.”

 

“Your papa and Carl are cut from similar cloths, Trevor.”

 

“That’s probably why they’re such good friends.”

 

“Probably. Now get going while that stew’s hot.”

 

It was dark as I drove down our long, country road toward town. Sitka pines lined my path on both the right and left.  What few homes dot the landscape set far back, just like ours does.  Yard lights cast some light toward the road, but not enough to do a guy any good if his vehicle breaks down, which is why Papa always makes me carry a cell phone and an industrial sized flashlight.

 

 The sun sets around four now. By December, we’ll have just six hours of daylight, with the sun not rising until close to nine in the morning, and setting between three and three-fifteen. 

 

The streetlights were on throughout Eagle Harbor, as were the floodlights in the station’s parking lot.  I jumped out of my truck and jogged around to the passenger side.  I opened the door, taking the crock-pot and bag from the seat.  I nudged the door shut with my right elbow.

 

I was trying to determine how I was going to ring the bell beside the back door that leads into the kitchen/dayroom, when the door opened and a hulking figure stepped out.

 

“I thought you were ‘bout due.”

 

“Nah,” I teased Carl. “You just smelled your mother’s cooking.”

 

“That too, my boy. That too.”

 

Carl moved to the side so I could walk past him.  He shut and locked the door, then followed me to the kitchen.  I put the crock-pot on the counter, plugged it in, and laid the bag beside it.  The station was quiet. The TV wasn’t on, and I couldn’t hear people talking, or hear boot heels clicking against the tile floors in the hallways.

 

I took off my letterman’s coat and hung it over the back of a chair. “Where is everybody?”

 

On that night, ‘everybody’ included the two officers who were on duty with Carl, as well as my father and the firefighter on duty with him.

 

“Mueller and Perkins are on patrol,” Carl said, “and your pops and Newholm are on a rescue call to Yusik. They left about fifteen minutes ago. It’ll be a while before they’re back.”

 

I nodded.  The fire department can only reach Yusik Island by air or water.  They go in the department’s rescue boat when the weather allows, and by a helicopter Gus pilots during the coldest part of winter, when ice on the water doesn’t allow for passage. If the victim needs hospital care, he’s transported to the Eagle Harbor Clinic. If the injury or illness is serious, then he’s transported to Bartlett Regional Hospital in Juneau. Either way, a call like that can tie up two paramedics for hours, which is another reason why the department needs volunteers willing to wear beepers and have police scanners in their homes. If another call came in while my father and Aaron Newholm were out, the volunteers on duty this weekend would have responded to it.

 

I pulled bowls from the cabinet. “We might as well eat then.” 

 

“That’s just what I was thinkin’.”

 

Within five minutes, I had stew ladled in two bowls and Carl had the bread sliced.  He grabbed the salt and pepper shakers from the cabinet, along with the butter dish. I got the utensils we needed, put the lid back on the crock-pot, then poured myself a glass of milk while Carl poured a cup of coffee. 

 

Our conversation was limited to what a great cook Clarice was as we ate our first few bites of the thick stew filled with tender slices of beef, potatoes, carrots, and diced onions.

 

Carl wiped stew from his bushy moustache. “Now ya’ know why I never got married.”

 

“Why?”

 

“There’s not another woman on Eagle Harbor who can cook as good as my mom.”

 

“Not even Donna?”

 

“I’m leavin’ Donna for your father.”

 

I laughed. “I doubt he’ll thank you for that.”

 

“I doubt it either, but hey, what’re friends for?”

 

Carl polished off his first slice of bread and reached for a second. He slathered it with butter, then took a bite.  After he’d chewed and swallowed he asked, “So, how’s the book comin’ along?”

 

Boy, was that a loaded question. I considered telling Carl how schizoid Papa was acting about the book.  How one minute he was supportive of me writing it, and how the next minute he’d confess that he wished I wasn’t writing it.  I’m a teenager. I’m mixed up enough. I don’t need my father adding to my confusion. 

 

“Trev?” Carl inquired when I didn’t answer him. “Your book?”

 

     In the split second between when Carl called my name, and when I answered him, I decided not to mention the turmoil my book was causing at home.  Obviously Carl didn’t know anything about it, or he would have never brought the book up in the first place.  I figured if Papa hadn’t mentioned anything to him, I’d better not either.  For as long as I can remember, Papa’s told me that those of us who live on Eagle Harbor know enough about each other as it is. Therefore, things that are said at home are private, and should be kept that way.

 

     “Um...okay.  Good, actually. Or at least my mom thinks so.”

 

     “Your mom?”

 

     “Yeah. She proofreads each chapter for me. I send it to her as an e-mail attachment.”

 

     “Great idea. Writing a book’s a big undertaking. I’m glad Yvette...Mrs. St. Claire, wasn’t teaching when I was in school.”

 

     “Tell me about it.  It’s takin’ up most of my free time. Writing isn’t as easy as people think.  It takes a lot of hard work getting each chapter to read just like you want it to.”

 

     “I suppose. If writin’ a book is anything like writin’ up police reports, I know I don’t want any part of it.”

 

     “I kind of like it,” I was surprised to hear myself confess. “I mean, when a chapter is done and I’ve rewritten it as many times as I can until I’ve finally achieved what my imagination was envisioning, there’s a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that’s pretty awesome.”

 

     “Awesome enough to make you decide to be a writer instead of a doctor?”

 

     “No.” I shook my head. “No way.  But...it is a pretty neat feeling. When I read a chapter and the characters come alive...seem like real people...well, it’s amazing that those words came from inside me.  That without those words and my imagination, the characters wouldn’t seem like someone I might live next door to, or go to school with, or shoot the bull with in Donna’s over eggs and bacon. Does that make sense?”

 

     “I guess it does, because for me the definition of a good book is bein’ able to identify with the characters. Feelin’ like they could be your neighbors, your friends, the guy who owns the drugstore, the woman who manages the bank, and the jerk you went to high school with that you’ve always hated.”

 

     “Exactly.”

 

     “So what’s your book about?”

 

     “The two times Papa encountered Evan Crammer.”

 

     The expression on Carl’s face, along with his tone of voice, told me the plot impressed him. 

 

“Really?”

 

     “Yeah. Only I’m using fictional names for everyone involved in order to protect their privacy.  Papa asked me to, and now I’m glad I did ‘cause it’s given me more liberty to fictionalize and make the book my own.”

 

     “There’s a lot to cover where Crammer is concerned. No wonder you’ve spent so much time on it.”

 

     I nodded and swallowed my last bite of supper.  “I did a lot of research on Crammer, starting with newspaper articles Papa has, and then finding information about him on the Internet.  I also interviewed the DeSotos this summer while we were in L.A., along with Dixie McCall and Doctor Brackett.”

 

Carl had never met Kelly Brackett, but he had met Dixie when she and the DeSotos visited us over Thanksgiving weekend nine years ago.

 

“Doctor Brackett was the head of the paramedic program during the years Papa worked for the L.A. Fire Department. He performed surgery on Papa after Pop’s first encounter with Crammer.”

 

     “I’ve heard your pops mention Brackett.  He has a lot of respect for the man.”

 

     “Yeah, he does.”

 

     “Sounds like you’ve got a good handle on this book. Doing all that research, interviewing everyone like you did, and now havin’ your mom proofread each chapter for you...I’m impressed, Trev.”

 

     “Don’t be. Jenna Van Temple already turned hers in.”

 

     “So? It’s not due until sometime after Christmas, right?”

 

     “April first.”

 

     “That’s over five months away yet. You’ll have it done by then.”

 

     “Probably. At first, I didn’t think I would, but Mom told me I’d eventually find a rhythm to my writing, and to some extent I have.  At least every sentence of every chapter isn’t such a struggle any more.  But now that I’m getting farther into it, I think I’m missing some stuff.”

 

     “Like what?”

 

“The mid--” I stopped myself before I could finish by saying, “The middle of the book.”

 

My mom had noticed it too.  I’ve got a good, solid beginning, but now that I’m working on what I thought was going to be the middle – the part that’s based on Evan Crammer kidnapping Papa and Libby, I’m realizing I need something to connect this portion with the portion that ended in 1978.  A ‘writing bridge’ my mother calls it, while I just call it what it is, the middle.

 

I didn’t say all that to Carl, though, because I suddenly knew opportunity was at hand. Carl might not have the answers that had been nagging me for months now, but asking him was worth a shot.

 

“I’m not sure,” was the response I gave him. “Guess I’ll eventually figure it out.”

 

“Probably so,” Carl agreed as he stood.  He put four brownies on a plate. He sat the plate in the center of the table, then refilled his coffee cup.

 

I changed the subject while we ate our dessert. We talked about our favorite football team, the Seattle Seahawks, and what chances the Seahawks would have this season against Papa’s precious Rams. Even though the Rams had relocated to St. Louis years ago, Papa still has loyalty to the team he used to root for when he lived in L.A.  Regardless of who the Rams might be playing, Carl would generally try to get my father to bet him on the game, simply because it drives him crazy that he can’t convert Papa into a Seahawks fan.

 

Carl shook a finger at me.  “I’m bettin’ your ole’ man on tomorrow night’s ESPN game, and I don’t plan to lose. The Rams are playin’ the Packers.”

 

“You don’t stand a chance.”

 

“What makes you say that? The Packers look good this year.”

 

“Yeah, but Papa won’t bet unless he’s sure he’s gonna win.  You know how he hates to part with money.”

 

“I know, but I’ve got him convinced he can’t lose.”

 

I bowed my head to hide my smile from Carl.  He’s never won a bet he’s made with Papa, but that doesn’t keep him from trying again...and vowing that his luck is going to change.    

 

I wiped brownie crumbs from my mouth with a napkin.  I stood, picked up my glass, and walked to the refrigerator. I set the glass on the counter and filled it half way with milk. I pointed to the coffee pot.

 

“Want a refill?”

 

“No,” Carl shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

 

I put the milk away and carried my glass to the table.  I sat back down across from Carl, allowing the lull in conversation to wash over us.

 

The hum of the refrigerator motor was the loudest sound in the station. I knew I’d easily hear the bay door raising, and the paramedic squad backing in when Papa returned.  Because of that, I also knew it was safe to ask Carl the questions that were never buried too deeply in my brain.

 

I did my best to sound nonchalant, while being careful to approach the subject in a round about way. 

 

“Hey, Carl, do you remember when my pops came here for his interview?”

 

Carl chuckled.  “I sure do.”  

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“Nothing.  Just remembering how nervous John was the first time I met him.”

 

“Really?”

 

“You bet. I picked him up at the airport in Juneau.  I think we’d driven ten miles before he gave more than one word answers to my questions.  For a while there I sure thought we – the members of the Police and Fire Commission – were gonna be wastin’ our time by interviewing him, but once my questions zeroed in on his experience as a firefighter and paramedic, I began to change my mind.”

 

“Why was that?”

 

“ ‘Cause it was obvious your pops knew his stuff, and was just as experienced as he’d stated on his resume.  And once he forgot he was trying to make a good first impression, he lost his uneasiness.  His knowledge and self-confidence started to come through clearly.”

 

“So he didn’t have any trouble getting hired?”

 

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. The members of the commission were impressed by his experience, and by the recommendations he brought with him from the Denver and L.A. departments.  He interviewed good, too. He was a little uneasy, but not bad. Once things were underway, his confidence and knowledge came through like had happened during our drive here from Juneau.”

 

“But he did have trouble getting hired?”

 

     “Let’s put it this way.  There was a lot of debate about hirin’ him.  You have to understand that we’d been through four chiefs in a short period of time.  They’d all come from the lower forty-eight, like your pops.  We were leery about bringing someone else to Eagle Harbor who wasn’t native to Alaska, and wasn’t used to the isolation of small town living in this state.  In addition to that, Eagle Harbor’s fire chief has to wear a lot of hats, as you know.  While your pops had a lot of experience training paramedics, he’d never been in charge of an operation as diverse as ours.”

 

     “How’d he end up getting the job then?”

 

     “ ‘Cause I went to bat for him. Gut instinct told me John was the man who should be Eagle Harbor’s fire chief.  The commission members were impressed with his extensive paramedic background; there was never any doubt about that.  It was up to me to convince them he could handle everything else that went with the job.  Like I told them, he sure couldn’t do any worse than the other four guys we’d seen come and go in almost as many years.  They agreed with me on that.  So, we finally put it to a vote, and the next thing you know a moving van arrived, followed by a Land Rover with a baby strapped in a car seat.”

 

     I smiled at the reference to the baby that had been me.

 

     “John stopped here first to get the key to the house.  He told me you’d just turned a year old the week before. You were kickin’ your feet, archin’ your back, and raising a ruckus ‘cause you wanted out of that car seat so bad. Your pops put you down and you toddled across the lot lickety split. Or as lickety split as you could, considering you weren’t too steady on your feet. You seemed to know this was home. You ran right into the bay, pointed at the engine, grinned, and said, “My fire truck,” or as close to it as you could manage.  I didn’t understand a word you’d said, but your pops translated for me.  Later that day, you met my mother, and you’ve had her wrapped around your little finger ever since.”

 

     I laughed. “I’m not sure about that. She knows how to keep me in line.”

 

     “She knows how to keep everyone on Eagle Harbor in line.”

 

     “Yeah,” I agreed, “she sure does.”  I eased into my next question as I attempted to find out just what Carl had knowledge of.  “Did Papa ever say why he wanted to move here from Denver?”

 

“Not right then he didn’t, but after we got to know one another better...started becoming friends, rather than just colleagues, he said he’d been looking for a fresh start, along with a good place to raise you.  The breakup with your mom hit him pretty hard...or at least that’s always been my impression.”

 

“Does he ever say anything about her to you?”

 

“Nah,” Carl shook his head.  “A little now and then, but not much.  It wasn’t until a year after I met your pops that I even knew he and your mom had never been married.  To be honest, my mother and I had assumed he’d come here on the heels of a bad divorce.  To the best of my knowledge, that’s what most everyone still thinks.”

 

I nodded. I’m aware that’s a popular misconception around Eagle Harbor.  Neither Papa nor I deceive people about his past relationship with my mom if they come right out and ask, but since it’s more fun to gossip in a small town than it is to know the truth, few people other than those closest to us know that my parents were never married.

 

I hesitated a second before asking my next question. I didn’t want to tip Carl off that I’d asked it before, and been thwarted by Papa in my attempts to get answers.

 

“Speaking of moving places, has my pops ever told you why he moved from L.A. to Denver?”

 

Carl didn’t answer me right away.  He looked at me like he was trying to figure out what I was fishing for.  Because of that, I suspected he knew more than he told me. 

 

“The Denver Fire Department offered him a good job opportunity.”

 

“Yeah, but it seems kinda weird, doncha’ think?  I mean, I’m pretty sure he was happy living in L.A. He was real close with Roy DeSoto and his family, and Papa’s told me he liked being the department’s paramedic instructor. I think it’s odd that he’d leave all that just for a better job.”

 

Carl laughed. “Trev, a lot of people start over in a new city ‘just for a better job.’  A better job isn’t a bad thing, ya’ know.”

 

“I know, it’s just that Papa and Uncle Roy are good friends, and Papa’s close with Uncle Roy’s whole family, and he had a lot of other friends within the fire department and at Rampart Hospital, so--”

 

“That’s all I know about it, kid.  If you think there’s more to the story than that, you’ll have to ask your father.”

 

I thought there was more to the story than that, but I could tell questioning Carl on it would lead nowhere, so I shifted the subject again.

 

“Would you tell me what you remember about the kidnapping?”

 

“Kidnapping?”

 

“When Crammer came here and took my father.”

 

“For your book?”

 

“Yeah.  I never thought to ask you before. It might be helpful.”

 

“There’s not much to tell, really.  You were the one who discovered your pops was missing, remember?”

 

I nodded.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget how scared I was when I got home from playing with Dylan and Dalton, to find my father gone.  I was eight years old, and he’d never left me home alone. He didn’t go anywhere for even five minutes when I was that age without taking me with him, or leaving me with someone he trusted.  I was just a little kid, but when I couldn’t find Papa in the house or barn, I knew something was drastically wrong.

 

“But from the stand point of police procedure,” I said, “what can you tell me?”

 

I looked around for something to write on.  I didn’t have a notebook or pen with me, much less my tape recorder or laptop.  I grabbed a handful of napkins from the holder, then stood and hurried to the counter.  In one corner, a supply of Bic pens jutted up from a coffee mug.  I plucked out a pen and returned to my chair. 

 

“You’re gonna write down what I say?”

 

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

 

“I don’t, but at least let me get you some paper.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Carl went to his office.  He was back in a few seconds with a dozen sheets of white paper. 

 

“Here ya’ go.”

 

I again said, “Thanks,” and got ready to write. 

 

Though my questions were off the cuff and not well-thought out like they had been when I’d interviewed the DeSotos, Dixie, and Doctor Brackett, each of Carl’s answers led me to another question.  He told me about the initial search for my father, which I have pretty good memories of.  Almost every able-bodied man and woman in Eagle Harbor showed up at our house to comb the National Forest that borders our property.

 

“At first, we thought your pops might have gone hiking and taken a tumble down a hill, or had a heart attack, or gotten a foot caught in one of those illegal traps some of the hunters set, or something like that.  Something that would have prevented him from gettin’ back home. But as time went on, I was afraid there was more to it than that.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Um...just because,” Carl said vaguely.  “That gut instinct of mine, I guess you’d say.  After we’d searched every place I could think of, I called in the FBI.”

 

I scribbled down everything Carl then said regarding how the FBI operates on a missing person’s case. If nothing else, I knew I was getting some valuable information about police procedure for my book.

    

“And then you disappeared,” Carl said, “and it scared the shit outta me.”

 

I defended my infamous trip to Los Angeles by stowing away on one of Gus’s planes with, “I left a note.”

 

“Yeah, you did, ya’ little rascal, but I swear, I didn’t know whether I was gonna strangle you or hug you when I got my hands on you.  You’re just lucky you were all the way in L.A. when Troy Anders called me.”

 

Troy Anders was the Los Angeles police detective who had worked on the Crammer case in 1978, and then again in 2000. He was at the Station 51 paramedic-training center, which had been set up as a command post for the missing Libby Sheridan, when I snuck in the back door looking for Papa.  The name Troy Anders brought forth vague memories of other names that I knew should mean something to me.

 

“Carl, who was...there was this guy Detective Anders called as soon as I showed him the sketch of Crammer that appeared in the L.A. Times back in ‘78. Papa had saved it with all the other newspaper articles he has about the incident.  Anders called a guy named...Quen...Quenton Daily, maybe? He flew to L.A. the next day, I think. Do you know who he was?”

 

“Quinn Daily.  He was the FBI agent who’d been after Crammer for years. They didn’t know Crammer’s name at that time.  They only knew him by the nickname the press had given him years before that. The Kankakee Killer.”

 

“Yeah, I kinda remember, now that you mention it.  And there...there was another name.” I scrunched my face up with concentration as the memories slowly came back.  “Anders was looking for him, and so were you.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yeah...when I first tried to tell you about Crammer, you wouldn’t listen ‘cause you were looking for a guy named...uh...um...Morgan, maybe?”

 

“Morgan?  No, I wasn’t lookin’ for anyone by that name.”

 

“Sure you were. For some reason, he was the one you thought had kidnapped Papa.  Troy Anders thought the same thing when he first found out who I was. I think Anders said the guy’s name was Scott Morgan.”

 

“Monroe,” came a voice from the doorway.

 

I turned to see Mark Mueller enter the kitchen, followed by Josh Perkins.  They headed straight for the crock-pot. 

 

I don’t know Josh very well. He’s a young guy – just four or five years older than me. He moved here from Anchorage when the Fire and Police Commission hired him six months ago. In contrast, Mark’s a native of Eagle Harbor, and has been with the department for as long as I can remember.

 

“Your mom’s been cookin’ again, huh, chief?” Josh commented to Carl as he grabbed a bowl from the cabinet.  “Mind if I have some?”

 

Carl gave a distracted, “No, help yourself,” as Mark approached the table.

 

“It was a guy named Scott Monroe we were looking for when your pops disappeared,” Mark said to me.  “Later, we found out we were like dogs chasing our own tails, since the guy had nothing to do with the kidnapping.”

 

I looked up at Mark.  “Why did you think it was Scott Monroe?”

 

I heard Carl clear his throat, but Mark was oblivious to his signal.  Papa always says Mark likes to hear himself talk.  A lot of the guys around the station think he’s annoying, and overall, I usually find him to be a big windbag, but tonight I was anxious to hear all he had to say for a change.

 

“Guess Monroe had given your pops some trouble back in L.A.” Mark glanced at Carl. “Somethin’ about a shooting while out on a call, wasn’t it, Carl?”

 

I could tell Carl wasn’t happy with Mark when he grumbled, “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”  He pointed toward the crock-pot. “Eat supper.  My mother sent plenty.  Just leave enough for John and Aaron.” 

 

Carl stood like he was going to walk me to the door, which was exactly what he did.

 

“Trev, you’d better get goin’.”

 

“I don’t have to leave yet. Clarice isn’t expecting me home until around ten.”

 

“That’s fine, but I’m gonna have a meeting with the guys, so you might as well--”

 

“A meeting?” Josh questioned around a mouthful of stew, which was echoed by Mark’s, “Meeting? What for?”

 

Carl ignored them as he grabbed my coat off the back of my chair. 

 

“Here you go.”

 

I could take a hint. Carl didn’t want me talking to Mark about Scott Monroe, which made me all the more curious about guy. 

 

I grabbed the papers I’d written on, folded them, and stuffed them in my coat pocket.  I slipped the coat on, said goodbye to Mark and Josh, and then headed for the door with Carl glued to my side. 

 

“Thanks for answering my questions.”

 

Carl sounded like he regretted the subject of Evan Crammer...and Scott Monroe, when he said, “You’re welcome.”

 

“See ya’ later.”

 

“Yeah, see ya’ later, Trev.” Carl opened the door and gave me a little nudge out it. “Tell my mom I’ll send the crock-pot home with John.”

 

“Okay.”

 

A second nudge, and I had crossed the threshold to the parking lot.

 

“And tell her thanks for supper.”

 

The door started to close.

 

“I will.”

 

The door closed the rest of the way on Carl’s final instructions of, “Be careful driving home.”

 

Carl couldn’t hear my, “All right,” through the closed door, or see my smile. 

 

I didn’t know what the name Scott Monroe meant, but I suspected if I dug a little deeper, I’d uncover the answers I’d been looking for ever since Papa made reference to the ‘bad times becoming a thing of the past.’

 

 

Sunday, October 31st, 2009

(Halloween)

 

 

When I was a little kid and got caught lying to my father...and I got caught every time I lied to him, Papa would tell me that, in one way or another, the truth always comes out.

 

Because I got punished when I lied, I thought the truth coming out was a bad thing.  It wasn’t until I got older, that I realized the truth coming out was supposed to be a good thing. That the lessons we learn when we get caught lying as children, are supposed to stay with us throughout adulthood, and remind us that being honest and upfront is the best way to conduct our lives.  Or, at least, that’s what I thought until today.  Now I’m confused about just what is and isn’t considered a lie when you’re an adult, and why Papa didn’t take his own words to heart about the truth always coming out. Why didn’t he just tell me the reason he’d move to Denver when I asked?  At first, I was really mad at him for not answering my question honestly, but now I’m mad at myself, because I’ve sure made a mess of things. Most of all, I hate being a writer.  To be good at writing, you have to be willing to go out on a limb sometimes.  Well, I went out on a limb, but I’m not sure if what I got for my efforts is worth the hurt I’ve inflicted on my father.

 

     I was really pumped as I drove home from the station on that Saturday night I’d eaten with Carl. I ran to the house, kicked off my shoes in the laundry room, then flew through the great room where Clarice was watching television.

 

     “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

 

From my father’s office, which is directly off the southeast corner of the great room, I called, “Gotta do some research for my book!”

 

I plopped into Papa’s chair and clicked on the Internet Explorer icon. Clarice appeared in the doorway.

 

“Where’s the crock-pot?”

 

“Carl’ll send it home with Papa.” I shouldered out of my coat and hung over the back of the chair. “Pops and Aaron were on a call to Yusik. They hadn’t gotten back yet when I left.”

 

“Oh.” Clarice glanced up at the fire engine clock.  “It’s not even nine. I’m surprised you didn’t stay at the station a while. Your papa might be back by now.”

 

“I know, but Carl was gonna have a meeting with Mark and Josh, so there wasn’t anything for me to do.” My mind was only half on what Clarice was saying as I went to Google and typed in: Scott Monroe. “Figured I might as well come home and work on my book while I have some free time.”

 

“You’re sure dedicated to that book,” Clarice smiled. “Maybe I won’t be calling you Doctor Gage someday after all.”

 

“You will be,” I confirmed, while concentrating on the hits that came up for the name Scott Monroe. “Once I’ve got this book written, I’m gonna run the other way if Mrs. St. Clair ever suggests I write another one.”

 

“You seem awfully committed to it, considering how much you claim to hate writing.”

 

I shrugged my shoulders. I was too busy skimming the information on the first link I’d opened to make a verbal response.

 

“I’ll leave you to your work.”

 

I mumbled, “Thanks, Clarice,” and paid little attention when she left the room. 

 

I was vaguely aware that Clarice closed the door so the sound of the television wouldn’t interrupt my work, but even then, my eyes didn’t leave the monitor. 

 

An hour and fifteen minutes later, I sunk back into Papa’s chair with defeat.  Evidently, the name Scott Monroe is fairly common.  I felt like I’d been every place the Internet could take me.  I found nine Scott Monroe’s who were doctors, three who were carpenters, a dozen who were high school students and have been mentioned in their local newspapers for scholastic or athletic awards, one who sells old car parts, three who breed and sell German Shepherds, ten who have their own businesses with on-line websites, and one who sells pinwheels of David Cassidy – whoever he is.  There were thirty more links I followed that proved fruitless, too. I was trying to decide what to do next, when the phone rang. Since it was now almost ten-thirty, I was pretty sure it was my father calling to say goodnight.  I picked up the receiver, and discovered I was right when a familiar voice greeted me.

 

“Hey, kiddo.”

 

“Hi, Papa.”

 

“What’re ya’ doin’?”

 

Instinct told me not to say I was looking up information on a mystery man named Scott Monroe.

 

“Nothin’.”

 

Papa chuckled. “Well, you must be doing something.”

 

“Just some homework.”

 

“On a Saturday night?”

 

“Yeah...well, Kylee and Dylan are working, and everyone else has something goin’ on, and you weren’t at the station, and Clarice is watching some chick flick on TV, so my choices are pretty limited right now.”

 

“Sounds that way. Wanna come back to the station for a while?”

 

“Nah, it’s gettin’ late.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

 

“Okay, see ya’ in the morning.  Tell Clarice I said goodnight.”

 

“I will.”

 

“ ‘Night, Trev. Love ya’.”

 

“Love you too, Pops.”

 

I had just hung up the phone, when Clarice opened the door and poked her head in the room.

 

“Was that your papa?”

 

“Yeah. He said to tell you goodnight.”

 

“What happened on Yusik?”

 

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

 

“Must not have been anything serious then.”

 

I grinned. “If it was, you’ll hear about it from one of your sisters tomorrow.”

 

Clarice shook a finger at me. “Trevor Roy, are you accusing my sisters and me of gossip?”

 

“Not accusing. Just stating the facts of life on Eagle Harbor.”

 

“I’d argue that if I had a leg to stand on, but since gossip is the biggest form of entertainment known to Eagle Harbor, I’ll admit defeat and go to bed. Good night.”

 

“ ‘Night, Clarice.”

 

“There’s brownies in the cookie jar if you want a snack before you go to bed.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Clarice closed the door again as she left the room. I heard her muted movements as she made sure all the doors were locked, and then pretty soon I couldn’t hear anything, leading me to conclude she was in her bedroom at the other end of the house.

 

I stared at the wall for a while, then stood and walked to the shelf where Papa keeps a framed picture of himself and Uncle Roy amongst some medical and firefighting text books.  It was taken in the back parking lot of Station 51 in 1974. Papa told me they’d been washing the squad the day it was snapped.  The squad’s door was open, and Uncle Roy was standing on the inside of it, while Papa stood opposite of him on the outside of the vehicle.  They both have one elbow propped up on the door’s frame, and they’re both smiling.  It’s hard to think of my father and Uncle Roy as having been the young men in that picture.  Yeah, I can see resemblance to the men they are today, but yet, it’s like they’re different people to me altogether because of their youth, and because I wasn’t born yet, so I wasn’t a part of the life my father led then. Plus, it’s weird to see my own face in the face of my father at a much younger age.

 

I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my blue jeans and stared at the photograph.  I concentrated so hard on the two faces looking back at me, that I felt like I was willing them to tell me who Scott Monroe was, and what role he’d played in their lives.  I stood there a moment longer, then had an idea. 

 

I went back to my father’s desk and opened his lower right-hand drawer. I dropped to my knees, taking everything out until I came to the manila envelope with the newspaper clippings. I sat on the carpeting, opened the envelope, pulled out the clippings that had to do with Crammer, and then started scanning them for the name Scott Monroe.  When I didn’t spot his name, I looked at the other clippings that had nothing to do with Crammer, but instead, the clippings that dealt with various fires and rescues Papa had been at while working in Los Angeles. There were some clippings from the Denver Post too, but none of them mentioned a Scott Monroe, either.  I put the clippings back in the envelope, and returned everything to the drawer. 

 

I stood up, thinking I’d met with defeat.  I was just getting ready to sign off the Net and go to my room to update my journal, when I had one last idea. Newspapers keep archives going back years and years.  Maybe the Los Angeles Times would have something on Monroe.

 

I went to Google again, typed in Los Angeles Times, and found the paper’s website. The site was easy to navigate. It took me only seconds to find the tab that read, Archives.  I clicked on it, then did a search for Scott Monroe.  I didn’t get any free information for my efforts; not that I really expected to. But if nothing else, it was worth a shot.

 

Once I discovered you don’t get something for nothing in this particular case, I followed the links until I found a form to fill out that requests a clerk at the paper (or more than likely some college intern) do an ‘advanced searched’ as the website referred to it.  I supplied Scott Monroe’s name and took a guess when it came to supplying a range of dates. I didn’t have much to go on, so decided to start with April of 1978, when my father first encountered Evan Crammer. I ended the search with the date of September 30th, 1985.  I knew Papa had moved to Denver sometime during September of that year. Why I thought that range of dates might have significance in regards to Scott Monroe, I’m not sure. All I knew was that after Papa was kidnapped nine years ago, Carl was focusing on a man named Scott Monroe.  When I arrived at Station 51 after stowing away on Gus’s plane, I heard Troy Anders say the name Scott Monroe, which now leads me to believe he was looking for the man in connection to Libby’s disappearance.  

 

I typed: Trevor Gage, in the contact box, and put my Hotmail address in the box that asked for an e-mail address. I read the information about the hourly research rate the paper charged, checked that I agreed to it, then pulled my wallet from my right hip pocket. 

 

When I lived with my mom two summers ago, she gave me a credit card that’s in my name and her name. I offered to mail it back to her when I returned home, but she wouldn’t take it.  Mom said I might need it for an emergency.  I don’t think Papa was too crazy about me having a credit card, but all he said was, “This is between you and your mother. You work it out with her. I expect you to pay her back for anything you charge, even if she says you don’t have to.”

 

Of course, Mom did tell me that I didn’t have to pay her back for anything I buy, but I always have. Mostly I use it when I buy birthday or Christmas gifts over the Net. One time I screwed up and charged a lot of stuff on it like new hockey skates, a new stereo, a cashmere sweater for Kylee, and a CD player for my truck, and didn’t think I was ever going to be able to pay her back for everything. Thanks to a lot of hours at Gus’s and Mr. Ochlou’s, I finally did get Mom paid back.  Papa must have practiced a lot of restraint that time, because he never once told me that my own foolishness had taught me a valuable lesson, though I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted to.

 

 I entered my credit card number and expiration date, read the form again to make sure I had everything filled in, and hit ‘send.’  I signed into Hotmail, sent my mom a message that told her I’d used the credit card and would pay her back for the charges, sent that message, and then signed off the Internet and shut the computer down.

 

I grabbed my jacket from the chair and went to the kitchen. I ate a brownie, washing it down with half a glass of milk.  I flipped the light on above the sink like we always do before going to bed, then shut off the overhead light as I passed the wall switch.  I took the stairs two at a time to my room. I updated my journal, getting as far as when Carl nudged me out of the station.  I was too tired to keep going, so ended the entry there. I saved it to my hard drive and a disk, then grabbed my pajama bottoms and a t-shirt from a dresser drawer. I jogged across the hall to the bathroom to brush my teeth and change my clothes. I read a few pages of the latest Dean Koontz novel after climbing in bed. I fell asleep with the light on, and didn’t wake up until eight, when the smell of bacon cooking drifted up the stairs.

 

Papa got home at eight-thirty.  We ate breakfast with Clarice, then I hurried through chores. While I was in the barn, Clarice left to go home and get ready for church. Papa was cleaning up the kitchen when I entered the house.

 

“Goin’ to church with me?” I asked.

 

“Nah, you go ahead. We had two calls in the middle of the night, plus a false alarm.  When Carl and I find that Tucker kid, I swear we’re gonna strangle him.”

 

“He’s at it again, huh?”

 

“We haven’t proven it’s him making the calls yet, but give us time and we will.  That bone head has half a brain, just like his old man.”

 

I have only vague memories of Tucker T. Tucker the Third.  He was three years ahead of me in grade school, but I never went to high school with him, because by the time I was a freshman, a judge had sentenced him to an all-boys reform school in Anchorage. Carl grew up with his father, Tucker T. Tucker Junior, and said the guy was nothing but trouble.  Tuck Junior is the only volunteer Papa’s ever had that he’s kicked out of the fire department. Considering his name, and his son’s, it’s pretty obvious the Tucker family’s mental deficiencies go back several generations. Or so Papa always says.

 

“Anyway, I’m beat. I think I’ll lay down a while, then ride Omaha.  Maybe take the dogs for a hike, too.”  Papa glanced out the window. “Doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain.  It’ll be a nice day to be outdoors.”

 

It was a classic fall day, no doubt about it.  The leaves were bright gold and orange, and the air was sharp enough to make your nose cold, but not so sharp that you needed to wear four layers of clothes.

 

I acknowledged Papa’s plans with an, “Okay. Have fun.”

 

“I plan to. How ‘bout you? You working after church?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll take clothes with me and change at Gus’s. I should be back around three. Gus wants me to help him load some cargo, but there’s nothing else that needs to be done. I’ve got homework to do, so--”

 

Papa turned around from where he’d been putting the orange juice carton in the refrigerator.

 

“I thought you were doing your homework when I called last night.”

 

“I...I was.  I did. I have some left to finish though.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Well then, yeah. Be home as soon as you’re done at Gus’s so you can finish it.  I’ll do the chores this evening.”

 

“All right.  Is it okay if I pick up Kylee on my way home?  We can do our homework together.”

 

“That’s fine,” Papa agreed.

 

Kylee and I do homework together on weekends when we’ve both had to work.  It gives us a way to see one another, even if our privacy is limited because we’re in full view of our families at either her kitchen table, or mine. I asked Papa once if I could take her up to my room to do homework, but he’d said, “No,” before I could finish my sentence. I argued with him about that decision, but since we still do our homework at the kitchen table, it’s pretty obvious I lost.

 

“Kylee’s welcome to stay for supper. I’ll order pizza for us.”

 

“Thanks. I’ll ask her if she can eat here when I see her at church.”

 

Papa pulled his glasses out of a pocket of his uniform shirt and put them on, then sat down at the table to read the Sunday paper he’d bought in Eagle Harbor. 

 

“Sounds good,” he said, as he scanned the headlines.

 

I ran up to my room, grabbed a pair of khaki’s from my closet along with a navy blue button-down shirt, then hurried to the bathroom. I showered, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and blow-dried my hair.  I ran back to my room, and stuffed jeans and a red L.A. Fire Department sweatshirt Uncle Roy had given me into my duffle bag.  I slipped on my letterman’s coat and bent to put on my black tennis shoes, which is as close to dress shoes as I’m willing to wear unless I’m attending a wedding or a funeral.      

 

I flew through the kitchen with a, “See ya’ later, Pops!”

 

“Hey, come back here!” Papa called from where he was seated reading the sports section. “I packed a lunch for you. It’s on the counter.”

 

I backpedaled and grabbed the insulated lunch bag from the counter.

 

“Thanks.”

 

I heard his, “You’re welcome,” followed by, “Be careful!” as I raced out the door.

 

I sat with Kylee, Jake, and some of our other friends in a back pew. After service ended, she got permission from her mom to study at my house.

 

“My pops invited Kylee to stay for supper too,” I said to Mrs. Bonnette.

 

“That was nice of him. Sure, she can stay.” Mrs. Bonnette looked at Kylee. “Be home by nine-thirty, and with all your homework done.”

 

“I will be.”

 

I promised Kylee I’d pick her up as soon as I was done working. She left with her family for home, while I headed to the airport.

 

It was three-thirty when I pulled into my driveway with Kylee seated next to me. Carl’s maroon Expedition was parked outside the garage portion of our barn.  He and my father were playing basketball on the concrete court Papa poured when I was eleven. It was forty degrees, but Pops and Carl were in their shirtsleeves. Their coats were piled on top of one another to the side of the basketball court.  Papa spun and faked Carl out, dribbling around him and driving to the basket for a lay-up.  His shot was worth two points, and he bragged about it the whole while Carl was taking the ball out of bounds and dribbling toward the basket on the other end of the court.

 

I grabbed my duffle bag out of my truck, while Kylee grabbed her backpack, then bent to pet the dogs, who had run to greet us.  Papa didn’t take his eyes off Carl when he called, “Hey, kids!”

 

“Hi, Chief,” Kylee said as she straightened, followed by my, “Hey, Pops.”

 

Carl made the mistake of looking at us when he said hi. His concentration lapsed just long enough for Papa to steal the ball.  He raced toward the other end of the court, went for a lay up again, and earned himself two more points.

 

“Come on, ya’ big lug,” Papa panted with exertion while slapping Carl’s stomach with the back of one hand, “you’re makin’ it too easy today.”

 

Carl was panting even harder than Papa, but then, he outweighs my father by one hundred and twenty-five pounds.

 

“That’s ‘cause I’m takin’ pity on you, Gage.”

 

“What for?”

 

“ ‘Cause you’re gonna lose our bet.”

 

The basketball bounced on the concrete again as Carl took it down court with Papa guarding him. Carl had lost a Monday Night football bet he’d made with my father just one week earlier, so why he went ahead and made one for that Sunday evening’s game on ESPN, is beyond me. Papa heckled Carl about his bad luck where bets are concerned, until Carl responded with,

 

“Oh yeah, you scrawny son of a bit...” Carl must have remembered Kylee and I were standing there, because he let his sentence trail off. He drove into Papa, elbowing him in the ribs and sending him flying. Pops landed on his butt, laughing.  Carl let him lay there a few seconds, then reached a hand down and pulled Pops to his feet. 

 

I rolled my eyes at Kylee, embarrassed to have her see my father acting like a teenager.  She didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, which I guess is normal.  A kid is always more sensitive to his parents’ behavior than anyone else is.

 

“We’re goin’ in the house,” I said to Papa. “We need to get our homework started.”

 

“Okay,” came the reply I barely heard above Carl’s shout of, “Hey, that was illegal!” when Papa stole the ball away from him before Carl had full possession of it. 
 

The outside floodlights by the basketball court and barn came on as we walked to the house, the darkness that was already setting in had triggered the lights’ automatic sensors.

 

I hung my coat and Kylee’s in the laundry room closet.  We kicked our shoes off, then entered the kitchen. While Kylee opened her backpack and spread her books and folders out on the table I said, “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to a soda if you want one.”

 

“Thanks. You want one, too?”

 

“Sure. A Mountain Dew would be great.”

 

I tossed my duffle bag onto the stairs as I ran by them on the way to Papa’s office.  I reached across his desk for the mouse and dialed into the Net. Rather than waiting for the connection to go through, I charged upstairs, threw the duffle bag on my bed, grabbed my schoolwork from my desk, and charged down again. With my books and folders under my left arm, I ran into Papa’s office again.  Papa has his Homepage set at Eagle Harbor’s website. I clicked on ‘Favorites’, then clicked on Hotmail. 

 

“Trev!” Kylee called from the kitchen. “Where are you?”

 

“In my father’s office! Just a minute! I’ll be right out.”

 

I had two messages. One was from Libby, and one was from my mother.  I didn’t take the time to open either of them.  I was hoping there’d be something from the newspaper, but since there wasn’t, I signed out of Hotmail, then exited the Net.

 

Kylee was sitting at the table drinking a Coke, when I jogged into the kitchen. She had a Mountain Dew setting in front of the chair next to her. I put my schoolwork down and sat beside her.

 

“What were you doing?”

 

“Checking my messages.  I’m waiting for something for my book.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m not sure, actually.”

 

Kylee gave me a funny look. “How can you not be sure what you’re waiting for?”

 

“ ‘Cause it might not be anything.”

 

“How can it not be anything if you’re waiting for it?”

 

Women. They just don’t get it sometimes.

 

“What I mean is, I’m not sure if it’s anything.  I’ve got kind of a...lead, I’d guess you’d say.  Only I’m not sure if it’s really a lead, or just a red herring.”

 

Kylee laughed. “You’re taking this book writing way too seriously.”

 

I cocked an eyebrow at her. Kylee takes her schoolwork seriously, and like me, gets good grades.

 

“And you’re not?”

 

“I suppose I am. But I’m not writing anything I have to do research for. I’m writing what I know, just like that book I bought on how to write fiction said to do.”

 

I couldn’t argue with Kylee on that one. I haven’t read any of her book yet, but she says it’s a teenage romance set in a small town in Alaska. I sure hope there’s nothing in there that’ll embarrass me. Kylee said she changed all the names, so I don’t have anything to worry about.  Yeah, right. Like Mrs. St. Claire isn’t going to know who’s who in a romance novel written by one of her students that’s set in a small Alaskan town called Doves Harbor.

 

“Maybe I should have done like you and stuck with what I know.” I thought of all the work I’d put into my book, and of how much writing I had left to do before it would be finished.  Kylee’s book, on the other hand, is about three quarters of the way completed.  “But it’s too late now. I’m too far along to change my plot. If I do, I’ll never have it finished by April.”

 

“What exactly is the plot?”

 

I hadn’t told Kylee much about my book, because of Papa asking that it remain private. I thought about it a second, and decided it wouldn’t hurt anything to give her an overview.

 

“Remember when my father was kidnapped?”

 

“Sure. Everyone in the whole town was combing the National Forest looking for him.  My papa was one of the first to join a search party.”

 

“Well, that’s only part of the story. See, my pops first ran into Evan Crammer back in 1978, when he was living in Los Angeles. You’ve heard me talk about my Uncle Roy – Papa’s best friend. Best friend other than Carl, that is.”

 

Kylee nodded her head.

 

“Crammer tried to kidnap Roy’s daughter, Jennifer, and it was Papa who--”

 

I heard someone coming in the back door.  I threw my books open.  In a stage whisper I urged, “Open your books.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Open your books!”

 

Kylee looked at me like I was nuts, but she did what I said. When Papa came in the kitchen to get sodas for himself and Carl, Kylee and I had our heads bent over our calculus book.

 

I glanced up at my father and did my best to give him a distracted smile. He hadn’t put his coat on. Sweat ran freely down his face, and blood trickled down his right arm from where he’d scraped his elbow when he fell. 

 

Papa asked, “When are you guys gonna want supper?”

 

I glanced up at the clock. It was five minutes to four.  I looked at Kylee. “About six?”

 

Kylee nodded. “We should be done by then.”

 

“Okay.  Carl’s gonna help me shore up those two weak timbers in the barn until I have time to replace them, then we’re gonna do chores.  I’ll order the pizzas around five or so.”

 

“That’ll be great.”

 

Papa left with two Cokes in his hand and went back outside.

 

As soon as the door shut, Kylee asked, “What was that all about?”

 

“What?”

 

“How come you quit telling me about that Crammer guy, and pretended like we’d been doing homework?”

 

“Papa gets weird when that subject’s brought up.”

 

“Crammer?”

 

“Crammer. The years he lived in Los Angeles.  The reason why he moved to Denver from L.A.  He just gets weird about all of it. Or at least he does when I mention it.”

 

“Weird how?”

 

“Just...weird. He doesn’t like to talk about it. It’s like he’s...hiding something.”

 

 

“What?”

 

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have checked my e-mail as soon as we walked in the door.”

 

“And this all has something to do with your book?”

 

“Yeah, only I’m not sure how.”

 

“Trev, if this book is upsetting your father so much, why are you writing it?”

 

I snorted. “Good question.  It didn’t start out upsetting him.” I was forced to correct myself when I recalled Papa’s initial reaction to my plot.  “Well, I guess it did kinda start out upsetting him, but after he’d thought about it for a while, he said I could write it.”

 

“And now he’s changed his mind?”

 

“More or less.”

 

“Has he asked you to stop writing it?”

 

“No. He’s only told me that he wishes I wasn’t.”

 

“What are you gonna do?”

 

I shrugged. “Keep writing.  I already told you that I’m too far along to change the plot now. Besides, I’m so close to finding some things out that have been bugging me since June, that I’m not gonna quit.”

 

“Even if whatever it is you find out hurts your father?”

 

“It won’t,” I said with false confidence. “Besides, I’m the author. I have the right to know whatever it is I need to know in order to end up with the best book I can.”

 

“Yeah, but long after the book is written, you’ll still be your father’s son.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means that even authors can cross the line sometimes.”

 

“It’s only fiction, Kylee,” I defended myself.  “I mean, yeah, my book is based on real events, but I’ve fictionalized a lot of it. Papa doesn’t have the right to be upset about any of it.”

 

“If that book is about events in his life he’d rather keep private, then yes, I think he does.”

 

“There’s nothing in the book he should be ashamed of. Nothing at all.  He’s a hero, Ky.  My father’s a hero for what he did both times he encountered Evan Crammer. He kept Jennifer safe the first time, and then Libby the second.”

 

“I know that, but every person has some event in his life he’s ashamed of, Trev.  Even fathers.”

 

“I guess,” I reluctantly agreed, thinking about how ashamed I still was over how I’d treated Papa two years earlier when I insisted on moving to New York and living with my mother.  “But Papa has nothing to be ashamed of where Crammer is concerned.”

 

“Maybe it doesn’t concern Crammer then.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Maybe whatever it is that he wants to keep private doesn’t concern Crammer.”

 

I hadn’t thought of that possibility, because I’d been so focused on Scott Monroe tying into Evan Crammer in some way.

 

“You could be right, I guess. I might be way off base anyway.  My lead might take me no where.”

 

“And if it doesn’t?”

 

“If it doesn’t what?”

 

“Take you no where.”

 

“Then I’ll use what I find out in my book if it’ll make the story better.”

 

“Even if whatever you find out hurts your father?”

 

I rolled my eyes.  Sometimes women are way too sensitive for their own good...and everyone else’s.

 

“Kylee, I need a middle.”

 

“A what?”

 

“For my story. The middle. I’ve got a great beginning...or at least my mom thinks so, and the end is shaping up to be pretty good, too. But I’m totally missing a middle part, and I have a feeling that the information I’m waiting for might tie everything together.”

 

“I just hope you don’t find yourself regretting whatever it is you’re so anxious to discover.”

 

Kylee has a flair for the dramatic and enjoys making ominous endings to serious conversations, as though her words can predict what’s to come.

 

     I did what any guy in my position would have done.  I denied the possible truth to Kylee’s words.

 

“I’m not gonna regret anything,” I said, then changed the subject.  “Come on, let’s get to work so we’re finished when it’s time to eat.”

 

Kylee started to speak, then just as quickly closed her mouth.  I could tell she had more to say, but I kept my head bent over my books and acted like I was concentrating. Pretty soon she sighed, and then bent over her books, too. 

 

It was a good thing we both got diligent when we did, because just when we were finishing the last bit of our homework at five-fifteen, a vehicle pulled in the driveway. Because it was dark out, I stood and went to the back door so I could see who it was. 

 

I recognized the Ford mini-van Dylan and Dalton share that they bought used in Juneau last summer.  A mini-van seemed like a weird choice for a couple of teenagers, but they wanted something that was big enough to haul their friends around in. Since Carl is really strict about enforcing seat belt laws, it’s proven to be a smart choice, despite the fact that I always hassle them about driving a ‘soccer mom car.’

 

The twins stumbled through the door, having been pushed from behind by Jake Shipman. Jenna Van Temple, Amanda Schmidt, and Kylee’s best friend, Stephanie Marquette, were with them. Jenna dates Jake, and Amanda dates Dylan. She used to date Dalton, but they broke up right after school started, and the next thing you know she and Dylan were going out. Dalton doesn’t seem to mind, but then he was the one who initiated the break up so he could date Stephanie. Reading this paragraph a second time makes me realize where Kylee got her ideas for that teenage romance novel she’s writing.

 

Kylee and I gathered up our books and papers. I carried everything to Papa’s office and piled it on his desk so none of our stuff got misplaced.  Everyone was laughing and talking at once when I got back to the kitchen. 

 

I asked Dylan, “What are you guys up to?”    

 

“Not much. Just came over to see what you were doin’.”

 

“We just finished our homework.”

 

Before our conversation could continue, Papa and Carl came into the house. Everyone got a good laugh out of the multiple, “Hi, Chief’s,” that were spoken.  Since Carl’s the chief of police, most of the kids in town refer to him in the same manner they refer to my father, as “Chief,” though Jake and Stephanie called Carl by his first name, since Carl’s a cousin of Jake’s father and Stephanie’s mother, which makes him a second cousin to Jake and Steph, or a cousin once removed, or something like that.

 

Papa didn’t mind my friends invading our house, but then, he never does.  I have a feeling he’d rather chaperone us, than leave the job up to another parent. He’s never said that though, and he’s always cool about staying out of the way, so I don’t mind.

 

Pops asked the same question I just had. “What’s everybody up to?”

 

This time it was Dalton who answered. 

 

“Not much. Just came by to see what Trev was doin’.”

 

“I’m gonna order pizzas. You guys wanna stick around and eat with us?”

 

I couldn’t differentiate the various voices that called,

 

“Sure!”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“You bet!”   

 

“I’m in!”

 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

 

“Sure, Chief Gage. Thanks.”

 

Papa picked up the phone and dialed Mr. Ochlou’s number by heart.  He ordered six large pizzas with a variety of toppings - everything from just plain cheese, ‘cause he knows that’s what Kylee likes best, to a cheese, sausage, and mushroom pizza, two cheese and sausage pizzas, a cheese with pepperoni, and then a pizza covered with onions, sausage, peppers, and tomatoes.

 

As soon as Pops hung up the phone the guys pulled out their wallets, and the girls started digging through their purses. Papa shook his head when money was thrust at him.

 

“Nope. It’s on me tonight.”

 

Everyone thanked Papa again, then he went upstairs to wash his hands and scraped arm, and put on a clean shirt. Carl went to the bathroom that’s across the hall from Clarice’s bedroom in order to wash up too.

 

My friends and I hung out in the kitchen while Pops and Carl went to town to pick up supper.  They got back at six-thirty, their arms filled with warm boxes. The tangy smell of sausage and pepperoni drifted into the house before they walked through the back door.

 

Kylee and I got paper plates and napkins from a cabinet. Papa asked Dalton and Dylan to take soda out of the fridge and set the cans on one section of the counter. He and Carl spread the pizza boxes out on another section, then opened the lids.  Papa stood back and said, “Help yourselves, gang.”

 

After my friends and I had filled our plates, we sat at the table. Carl and Papa filled their plates and headed for the great room. I heard the TV come on, and in seconds, determined that Papa had flipped the channel to ESPN. Our kitchen and great room flow together like one huge room, so I could see Papa settle into his recliner, and Carl settle his bulk into the recliner that sat adjacent to it with an end-table in-between.  The Rams/Packers game had started about ten minutes earlier.  I didn’t pay much attention to Papa’s and Carl’s bickering, bantering, and occasional shouts over a play on the field, because conversation in the kitchen about school, classmates, teachers, and things going on around town, never stopped.  Still, I was aware of Carl and Papa having a good time, just like my friends and I were having a good time.

 

We all had a second helping of pizza, including Pops and Carl. Actually, Carl came back for a third helping too. When we kids gave him a hard time over it, he patted his stomach and said, “Got a lot here to fill up.”

 

We laughed, though Carl’s not really fat. He’s just...well, huge is the best way to describe him. When I was little, I used to think he looked like Hagrid, the groundskeeper at Hogwarts School in the Harry Potter books - six foot four, bushy black hair and eyebrows, both of which are now graying a bit, massive hands, giant feet, and a chest twice as wide as my father’s. If you bump into Carl, believe me, you know it.  It’s like bumping into a brick wall. Carl’s only a few years younger than Papa, but man, is he solid. It’s not that Papa isn’t solid too...for an old guy - you just don’t notice it as much because he’s thin.  Well, you don’t notice it unless you’re his teenager, who still gets grabbed by the upper arm in a vice-like grip once in a while and told to, “Put a cork in that smart aleck mouth” or to, “Shape up and fly right.” 

 

Carl went back to the great room, while I ran upstairs to get a deck of cards from the game closet.  Carl’s always said that if the Baptists had settled Eagle Harbor, rather than the Catholics and Methodists, none of us would have ever learned how to pass a long winter Alaskan night with games like Sheepshead, Pinochle, Gin, and Crazy Eights.  I asked Papa one time what Carl meant by that, since Papa’s maternal grandparents had been Baptist.  He told me Baptists equate card playing with gambling, and since the Baptist Church frowns on gambling, they also frown on card games of any kind.

 

“My Grandma Hamilton didn’t even like it when she saw me and your Aunt Reah playing Old Maid,” Papa had told me with a laugh.  “Don’t get me wrong, she was a terrific grandma, but she took her religion seriously.  A little too seriously sometimes, as your Grandpa Chad would say each time Grandma Hamilton took our Old Maid deck away from us.”

 

My friends and I didn’t play Old Maid, but we didn’t gamble either.  We sat around the table drinking soda, eating Oreo cookies, and playing Pinochle - a game I learned at the age of five as a result of hanging around the fire station. Papa and Carl stayed in the great room watching the football game. I leaned back in my chair and snagged the portable receiver out of its cradle when the phone rang.

 

I answered the phone the way Clarice had taught me to years ago, because of the amount of business-related calls Papa gets at home.

 

“Chief Gage’s residence. Trevor speaking.”

 

“Hey there, young man. Sounds like you’re having a party.”

 

I smiled. “Hi, Uncle Roy. Not really a party. Some friends came over and we got pizza.”

 

“Sounds like fun.  Is your father there?”

 

“Yeah, hold on a sec.”

 

I held up the receiver and shouted to be heard over everyone’s voices and the TV set.

 

“Pops! It’s for you! Uncle Roy!”

 

I met Papa halfway with the receiver, passing it off to him. He practically had to shout to be heard.

 

“Hey, Roy!

 

“No, I’m not hosting the entire senior class, though I guess it kinda sounds like it,” he chuckled in response to whatever comment Uncle Roy made. “Some of Trev’s friends stopped by, and Carl’s here watching football with me.”

 

“Hi Roy!” Carl shouted.

 

Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne have been here to visit us three times in the last nine years, so Carl knows them.

 

“Carl says hi,” Papa said into the phone.  He looked at Carl, “Roy says hi back.”

 

I listened long enough to determine Uncle Roy hadn’t called for any important reason – like someone had been hurt in an accident, or died, or anything like that.  Papa started shooting the bull with him, so I returned my attention to the card game.

 

Jake was sitting at my left elbow, and commented,  “I didn’t know you had an uncle. I thought you told me once that your mom’s an only child, and your pops’ sister isn’t married.”

 

“Uncle Roy isn’t my real uncle. He’s my father’s best friend...other than Carl.  They were paramedics together in Los Angeles before anyone even knew what paramedics were.”

 

“You mean like they were the first ones to do that job?”

 

“Yeah. The very first, along with ten other guys who worked out of different stations.”

 

Jake was impressed. “Awesome.”  He’s set on a career with a fire department. He’s going to attend the technical college in Juneau next year to study Fire Science and take EMT courses.

 

“So your pops and this Roy guy have been friends a long time, huh?”

 

“Almost forty years.”

 

“Forty years! Geez, I can’t imagine having a friend forty years. That’s like a lifetime.”

 

“Yeah, it is,” I agreed.

 

Though I’ve had the same friends since I started kindergarten at Eagle Harbor Elementary, I know I’ll lose contact with some of them after I leave for college, and then go beyond that to medical school.  I guess Jake was thinking the same thing about himself. As much as he’d like to work for my pops, he knows our fire department doesn’t employee many full time people, and the turnover rate has been so low since Papa became chief it’s almost non-existent.  Because of that, Jake’s decided he wants to see more of the world than just Alaska, and would like to get hired by a big city fire department somewhere in the lower forty-eight.  He’s talked a lot to Papa about his years working for the L.A. Fire Department. Jake seems to have his sights set on getting a job there if he can, and Papa promised to help him by contacting a guy he used to work with out of Station 8, who’s now the department’s assistant chief.

 

Dalton questioned from the other end of the table, “What about forty years?”

 

“That’s how long Gage’s pops has been best friends with that Roy guy he’s talking to on the phone.”

 

Everyone reacted the same way Jake initially had. At first they couldn’t believe it, and then they thought it was cool. When you’re seventeen, it’s hard to picture anything lasting forty years.

 

“They’re still that tight, huh?” Dylan asked. “Even though Mr. DeSoto lives so far away?”

 

“Yeah,” I nodded. “They’re still that tight.”

 

We went back to playing cards, but my mind wasn’t on the game. Instead, I looked around the table at my friends, and then looked into the great room at Carl, Papa, and the phone in Papa’s right hand. Suddenly, it felt good to be surrounded by all that was familiar. It made me realize how important friendships are, and what significance they have throughout our lives.  Until then, I never gave it a thought that my father drew from his friendships, the same thing I draw from mine. 

 

Someone who will talk to me on the phone whenever I call, even if he’s busy, tired, or watching a football game with another friend.

 

Someone I can trust, like Dylan, Dalton, and Jake, who would never reveal anything I’ve ever told them in confidence, anymore than I’d reveal things they’ve told me.

 

Someone I can share good news with, and know without a doubt that friend won’t be jealous, but instead, will be happy for me. 

 

Someone I can share the bad times with, and know without a doubt that friend will stick by me through thick and thin.

 

Someone who will pick me up when I’ve stumbled, but will never kick me when I’m down.

 

Someone who will tell me I’m a good person when I do the right thing, and someone who will tell me I’m a jerk when I screw up, but will still be my friend anyway.

 

It was kind of weird to think that the same things I look to my friends for; are the things that my father looks to his friends for. That Sunday night was the first time I’d made that connection, which just goes to show it takes until you’re seventeen to begin to see your father as a human being, and not some omnipotent being who was put on this earth to do nothing but meet the needs of his child.

 

 Pops talked to Uncle Roy for a few minutes, then promised he’d call him back the next day when he could talk without having to shout.

 

At nine, we quit playing cards, since Kylee had to be home by nine-thirty. Some of the other kids mentioned curfew, too, so everyone stood and got ready to leave.  We cleaned up the kitchen, which didn’t take long.  Dylan threw the paper plates and balled up napkins into the garbage, while Dalton gathered the empty soda cans and put them in the recycling bin. The girls wrapped the leftover pizza in foil and put it in the fridge, then I put the soda that hadn’t been opened back into the fridge, too.  Jake shut the empty pizza boxes and stacked them into one pile.

 

“Chief Gage, you want me ta’ carry these out to the garbage cans when we leave?”

 

Papa stood and came into the kitchen. The football game had just ended, and once again, Carl was pulling out his wallet in order to pay off a bet gone sour.

 

“Sure, Jake. Thanks.”

 

“No problem.”

 

Kylee wiped off the table and countertops, leaving the kitchen in the spic and span condition Clarice likes it.

 

My friends grabbed their coats from the back of their chairs and put them on. 

 

Dylan asked, “Want us to take Kylee home, Trev? We gotta go by her place to drop Steph off.”

 

I looked at Kylee. She nodded. “That’s fine. Seems silly for you to drive back into town as long as they’ve gotta go that way.”

 

I told Dylan thanks, then went to get Kylee’s books and folders from Papa’s office. She followed me. We exchanged a couple of goodnight kisses, as the noise from the kitchen receded a little because of our distance from it.

 

When we got back to the kitchen, my friends followed Kylee and me to the laundry room. Kylee slipped her books into her backpack, then put her shoes on while I got her coat from the closet and flipped on the outside lights.  Pops and Carl called goodbye. Everyone called goodbye in return, along with telling Papa thank you one last time for supper.

 

 I stood out on the deck in my socks with my hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans, and my arms pressed against my sides. It was cold without a coat on.  I called goodbye as everyone piled into the mini-van, and Jake ran for the garage with the pizza boxes.

 

“See you guys tomorrow.”

 

“See ya’ tomorrow, Trev!”

 

“See ya’ in school, Trev!”

 

“See ya’!”

 

“Bye, Trevor!”

 

This last was called by Kylee, and was the nicest goodbye of all.

 

Dylan started the van and pulled it up by the garage just as Jake came out of the service door. He shut the door behind him, gave me a wave, and climbed in the vehicle.

 

 Dylan gave the horn three long blasts as the mini-van passed by the house.  I waved, then went back in the house. As I stepped into the laundry room, I heard Papa say from the kitchen, “As much as it pains me to take your hard-earned cash, hand it over, fat boy.”

 

“Judging by that shit-ass grin on your face, it must not pain you that much.”

 

“It doesn’t.”

 

“Gage, you’re a smug asshole, ya’ know that?”

 

Papa laughed.  “If that’s the best you can do in the insult department, you’re no match for half the guys I’ve worked with over the years.”

 

Carl was shouldering into his coat when I walked in the kitchen.

 

“Lost again, huh, Carl?”

 

“You’re as bad as your ole’ man.”

 

“What? You think I’m a smug asshole, too?”

 

Papa laughed again. Usually he’d scold me for swearing, which I don’t do often, and try never to do around him, but tonight he saw the humor in it.

 

“Get outta here, Mjtko. You’re teachin’ my kid bad habits.”

 

“I’m goin’. I’m goin’. Hey, thanks for the pizza.”

 

“ ‘Welcome.”

 

“See ya’ tomorrow at Donna’s.”

 

Papa was scheduled off the next day, but judging by what Carl had said, I knew he and Pops were going to meet for lunch at the diner.

 

“Yeah. See ya’ then.”

 

As he walked out of the door, Carl said, “ ‘Night, Trev.”

 

“ ‘Night!”

 

After Carl’s vehicle started, Papa shut off the porch lights and locked the back door.  I was in the kitchen putting my books and folders in my backpack when he entered. He walked over, put an arm around my shoulders, gave me a sideways hug, and kissed the top of my head.

 

“You’ve picked good friends, Trevor.  They’re all nice kids.  I’m proud of you.”

 

Sometimes Papa totally puzzles me. This was one of those times.  I’m not sure why me having good friends is something for him to be proud of, but I went along with it.

 

“Thanks. Your friends are okay, too,” I teased. “I’m proud of you, Pops.”

 

Papa chuckled, “Smart aleck,” then gave me a light knock in the head with his palm before releasing me.  We watched the sports highlights on ESPN until I went to bed at ten.  I don’t know how late Papa stayed up watching TV.  I was so tired, that I fell asleep about a minute after my head hit the pillow, and I didn’t wake up until my alarm went off at six.

 

The early part of the week was uneventful, except for the usual stuff like school, working for Gus, a hockey game against Juneau High School on Tuesday afternoon that we won, and fire department league bowling on Wednesday night with Papa.

 

I checked my e-mails whenever I got a chance. Every day that passed without hearing from anyone at the Los Angeles Times, led me to believe I’d encountered a dead end where Scott Monroe was concerned. If I couldn’t find information about him on the Internet, and if the Times didn’t have information on him, then I was screwed, because there was no way Papa was going to tell me about him.  Based on how tight-lipped Carl had been, I knew Monroe was important to my story in some way, but I also knew that if Carl wouldn’t spill his guts about Monroe, then Papa sure wasn’t going to.

 

I had just about given up hope of having a middle section for my book, and was getting myself all worked up over the thought of flunking out of Senior English, when a message with attachments finally came through from a clerk at the Times on Friday.

 

Papa was working a double shift. His deputy fire chief, Phil Marceau, wanted Saturday off. It was his father’s eightieth birthday, and Phil’s sister was a hosting a party. Therefore, Papa was working his own twenty-four rotation on Friday, and then was working Phil’s on Saturday. I’d gone to Gus’s after school and worked until six-thirty. When I left the airport, I went to Donna’s Dinner and ordered carryout suppers for Papa and me. I jogged across Main Street to the fire station carrying the brown paper bag Donna handed me, leaving my truck parked in her small lot.

 

Pops and I ate in his office so he could catch up on my day without the station’s TV blaring in the background.  I stuck around until eight-thirty, then said goodnight to Papa, retrieved my truck, and drove down the street to Ochlou’s Pizza Parlor.  Both Kylee and Dylan were working. I shot the bull with them until Mr. Ochlou barked, “Gage, I don’t pay my help to stand around and yap to you. Order something ta’ eat, or get out. Which will it be?”

 

You have to love that Mr. Ochlou. The guy’s got all the charm of a rattlesnake.

 

I backpedaled for the door. “I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

 

I was home by nine-fifteen.  Clarice’s Explorer was in our driveway, and lights were on in the kitchen and great room. I had called her from Gus’s so she knew not to expect me for supper.

 

The dogs ran to greet me. I bent to pet them, then they trailed along behind me to the barn.

 

By ten, all the animals were fed and the barn was secured for the night. I got my backpack from my truck, and slung it over my shoulder. A thick, cold rain had started, so I ran for the deck and used my key to enter the locked house.  I kicked off my shoes, then hung my coat up.  I opened the door that led from the laundry room into the kitchen, calling hello to Clarice so I wouldn’t scare her. I figured she knew I’d come home, but I wasn’t sure. Sometimes when the television is on, we don’t hear a vehicle pull in the driveway.

 

Clarice shut the TV off. She came into the kitchen and talked to me for a few minutes, asking the typical questions like, “How was school?” and “What did Gus have you do today?”

 

I grinned.  “He let me take a new plane up and test it out.”

 

“Ah. So that explains the big smile that makes you look so much like your papa.”

 

     “If you say so.”

 

     “I do. And even if I didn’t say it, the resemblance would still exist.” Clarice picked up a hardcover novel from the counter.  “I’m going to my room and start on this new book.  Did you lock the back door?”

 

     “Uh huh,” came my muffled answer, because I was rummaging around in the fridge for a snack.

 

     “Do you work tomorrow?”

 

     “No. Not at all this weekend.” I backed out of the refrigerator with an apple in my right hand. “Gus doesn’t have much going on, so he said I could take the weekend off.”

 

     “The entire weekend?”

 

     “Yeah. I’m gonna miss the money I would have earned, but I can sure use the free time to work on my book and do some studying. I’ve got a history test on Monday, a calculus test on Wednesday, and my editorial for the newspaper is due first thing Tuesday morning.”

 

     “Sounds like you won’t be getting into trouble this weekend.”

 

     “Probably not. I’ll be lucky if I get to leave the house at all before the party on Sunday.”

 

      Clarice didn’t need me to explain what I meant. She knew that Dylan and Dalton are hosting a Halloween party/barn dance for our senior class that’s scheduled to start at six. Their mom tried to talk them into having it on Saturday, since none of us would have to get up and go to school the next morning, but they told her it’s not the same having a Halloween party on any other day but Halloween, so she finally relented as long as it starts early and everyone knows it ends at ten.

 

     Clarice said goodnight to me and headed for her bedroom.  I looked through the mail she’d left on the counter while I ate my apple, but didn’t see anything for me.  I’ve already been accepted to Anchorage University as a science major taking pre-med courses, so college catalogs have finally stopped arriving.

 

     I turned the light on over the kitchen sink, tossed my apple into the garbage can, flipped the overhead light off as I passed by the switch, then walked through the great room. I dropped my backpack by the stairs before continuing on to Papa’s office. My fingers found the light switch, and I flicked it on. I sat in Papa’s chair, made the connection to the Internet, and went right to my Hotmail account.  I had five messages.  I opened my In-box and scanned the addresses. Four were familiar. There was one message from Kylee, one from Libby, and two from Jake.  My heart raced when I saw the address on the fifth message.

 

     Darian Sinclair@L.A. Times

      

     I opened the message, not sure if Darian was male or female, though I assumed female. It didn’t make any difference to me if Darian was a golden retriever, as long as she, he, or it, had the answers I was looking for.

 

     The message read:

 

     Dear Mr. Gage,

 

     Attached to this correspondence is the information you requested on Scott Monroe. Our archives contained articles written in July of 1985, and again in July of 2000.  If you’d like to do another search, please return to our on-line archives and make your request.

 

     Sincerely,

 

     Darian Sinclair

     Research Department

          

 

     My request had ended with the date of September 30^th, 1985, so I was grateful to Darian Sinclair for his or her thoroughness when it came to locating an article dated July of 2000. Though I was eager to open the attachments, I sent a “thank you” back to Darian first.

 

     There were two attachments. One was titled, S. Monroe, July 1985.  The other, S. Monroe, July 2000.

 

     “July of 2000,” I mumbled. “The same month and year that Crammer kidnapped Papa. It’s gotta be more than a coincidence.”

 

     I opened the first attachment - the one dated July 1985, downloaded it to Word, and began to read. When I got to the end of the article, I sank back into the softness of my father’s leather chair with shock. 

 

Now I knew why Chris DeSoto couldn’t walk. 

 

Now I knew just what type of accident he’d had during his paramedic training.

 

But more importantly, now I knew that not only had my father been Chris’s instructor, but he’d also been with Chris the night Scott Monroe shot him.

 

Bits of conversations came back to me as I sat there.

 

Chris’s - “It was just an accident. Okay?”

 

Aunt Joanne’s -      “The reason Chris is in the wheelchair...that wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one’s.  It was an accident, nothing more.”

 

Jennifer’s -   “Therefore, just remember that what your father did for Libby and for me supersedes anything else. Anything at all.”

 

And finally, the words my father said to Uncle Roy:

 

“It’s none of his business. He doesn’t...there’s no reason he needs to know. Not now. Not ever.”

 

I absorbed it all – the newspaper article I’d just read about the shooting that permanently disabled Chris, and the words I was recalling. I felt like a detective who’d finally uncovered the clues needed for a logical conclusion to the mystery he’d been trying to solve. It was a cross between elation, and surprise. Elation because I was on another one of those ‘writer’s highs’ as a result of this victory, and then surprise, because I’d discovered things that had never crossed my mind.

 

I silently numbered each conclusion I’d drawn.

 

Number One:  My father was Chris’s paramedic instructor.

 

Number Two:  He was with Chris the night Chris was shot.

 

Number Three: In some way, my father was at fault for Chris losing the use of his legs, or at least in someone’s eyes he had been. Based on how insistent Chris, Aunt Joanne, and Jennifer had been that no one was at fault for anything, an educated guess told me it was Uncle Roy who had held Papa responsible.

 

Number Four:  Papa moved to Denver in an attempt to flee the guilt he felt.

 

Number Five:  My father lost contact with Roy DeSoto, not because of distance or lack of time, but because Uncle Roy blamed him for Chris’s injury.

 

I wondered what I was right or wrong about.  For reasons I can’t explain, my instincts told me I was right about a lot of it, if not all of it.

 

I opened the second attachment. This article, written in mid July of 2000, had information about Monroe’s murder, and said that F.B.I. agent, Quinn Daily, suspected Evan Crammer had murdered Scott Monroe as a way to throw investigators off-track when it came to the John Gage and Olivia Sheridan abductions.  There was other interesting information in the article about Monroe and his mental health problems, and how Monroe had been tied to my father through the 1985 shooting of Chris DeSoto.

 

I sat back in the chair again, a cross between stunned and awe-struck. Granted, I’d been looking for a middle section for my novel, but I’d never expected to uncover anything of this magnitude.  It was like being seventeen and striking gold in a place your father had forbid you to prospect. You had so much you wanted to share with him, but at the same time, you wondered how long you could hide the gold before he somehow discovered what you’d done.

 

     It was going on eleven o’clock, but I was too excited to sleep. I saved the information Darien Sinclair had sent me on Scott Monroe, then printed it out.  While the printer was doing its thing, I quickly answered the e-mails from Jake, Libby, and Kylee. Jake is the editor of the school paper’s sports section. Both of his e-mails pertained to questions regarding a series of articles he’s doing on past alumni who were local sports heroes during their years at Eagle Harbor High.

 

     “Geez, he must think I’m some kind of a full time writer or something,” I grumbled, while taking the time to think Jake’s questions through, then answer them as best I could, so the article he had due on Tuesday would pass Mrs. St. Clair’s inspection the first time through.

 

     Libby’s e-mail was full of college news. She’s in her sophomore year now, and has returned to living in the dorm. As hard as it’s going to be to leave Eagle Harbor, reading Libby’s e-mail made me excited about the future, and made me realize that at this time next year, I’ll be living on my own for the first time.

 

     I answered Lib’s e-mail by catching her up on what’s been going on in my life, though I didn’t mention my book other than to say, “The book’s coming along fine,” in response to her question about it.  There was a lot I could have told her, given the information I’d just received, but I had enough common sense to realize that sharing it with her – if I shared it with her at all - would only come after I’d given it a lot of thought.  I don’t want her to think less of my father, and since she doesn’t know the circumstances surrounding Chris’s injury, nor seem curious about how he lost the use of his legs beyond what she’s been told over the years, it might be best to leave it that way.

 

     It was easy to answer Kylee’s e-mail. All it said was, “I love you.”  I responded with, “I love you back,” and then signed out of Hotmail. Believe me, I know better than not to respond to one of Kylee’s e-mails as soon as I open it.  If too much time passes between when she sends something like an ‘I love you’ message, and when I say it back to her, I’m in big trouble.

 

     I reached over and grabbed the papers from the printer’s tray.  I scanned them, and saw that everything was there.  

 

I shut the computer down, then stood, shut off the overhead light, and exited the room.  I shut off the living room lamp, leaving the entire downstairs in darkness other than the dim light on over the kitchen sink, and the light on in Clarice’s room. If she was still up, that is.  From the great room, you can’t see her room.  The house was quiet though, so I knew if Clarice wasn’t sleeping, she was in her bedroom reading.

 

     I grabbed my backpack and ran up the stairs. I entered my room, flipped on the light, and shut the door.  I tossed my backpack on the bed, then turned on my computer. So many possibilities were running through my head, that I was ready to start typing before the computer had fully powered up. Boy, something that had seemed so difficult in August, now seemed easy.  For the first time since I’d started my book, I typed without conscious thought. Or so it seemed.  As my mother said would happen, the characters took over and told the story.  Suddenly, I had the bridge I’d been looking for in order to mesh the beginning of my book with what would eventually be the end of it.  A friendship that went deep, and yet was torn apart by tragedy to the extreme that one man relocated to a city where he knew no one, and started a new life.

 

     Yes, to some degree the latter was supposition on my part, but then, all along the book had been a fictional account of a real life happening. Therefore, it wasn’t necessary to conduct interviews again that would prove to be a waste of time for all concerned. I already knew I wasn’t going to get answers to any questions I asked about Scott Monroe, so why bother going through the motions?

 

     I finally saved my work to my hard drive and a disk at four on Saturday morning.  My brain was too clouded with exhaustion to keep going, though the desire still burned inside me.  Now I knew how a real writer felt. 

 

     I flexed my fists a few times, while arching my back. My wrists hurt from all that typing, and my shoulders and back were sore from sitting for so long. 

 

     I shoved my backpack off my bed, and climbed between the covers without removing my jeans or shirt, and without shutting off the light. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, but even in sleep, my mind didn’t shut off.  My dreams were filled with images of Evan Crammer, Scott Monroe, Jennifer when she wore a pony tail, Chris when he could still walk, and my father and Roy DeSoto as young men.   

 

     If Clarice hadn’t been in the house, I would have turned back over when I woke up at seven-thirty and slept a few more hours. But since she was there, I knew I’d better make an appearance in the kitchen or she’d think I was sick.  I didn’t want to explain why I was up most of the night, so climbed out of bed, made a trip to the bathroom, then went back to my room and put on clean clothes.  My room was a mess between the unmade bed, my notes sprawled on my computer desk, and my backpack and clothes on the floor.  I shut the door so Clarice wouldn’t spot any of it.  Papa had made it clear years ago that Clarice wasn’t to pick up after me...or him, either.  I knew just as soon as I had a little more energy, it wouldn’t take me long to get my room back in decent shape.

 

     Clarice had French toast piled on a plate for me when I entered the kitchen.  Between that, melted butter, warm maple syrup, and a cold glass of milk, I finally started to awake up. 

 

     “I’ll be gone most of the day,” Clarice said while we ate. “I’m helping Meghan get ready for the Halloween party she’s having this afternoon.”

 

     Meghan is one of Clarice’s nieces. She’s got three little kids, and was having a costume party for them and their friends.

 

     “Cool,” I agreed, looking forward to having the house to myself for the day. “I’ll be hangin’ around here. I’ve got my homework to do.”

 

     “I won’t be back until after supper. There’s a spaghetti casserole in the refrigerator if you want to take that to your papa tonight.”

 

     “Okay. Or I might get us a pizza from Ochlou’s so I can talk to Kylee while it cooks.”

 

     “You do whatever you want. Just be home by curfew.”

 

     “I will be.”

 

     I helped Clarice clear the table, then went outside to do chores.  I was just finishing up as she walked out the back door.  I waved to her, watching as she got in her vehicle. She was gone a minute later. 

 

     I took the dogs for a hike through the Sitka pines that form a quarter mile barrier between our house and the road. It wasn’t a long hike, but it seemed to satisfy their need to be with me, and it eased some of my guilt about not devoting much time to them since the school year had started. 

 

     It was ten when I got back in the house.  I trudged upstairs, stripped to my boxers, and crawled into bed. When I woke up at twelve-thirty, I felt human again. I made my bed and picked up my room.  I grabbed clean clothes from my dresser drawers, and scooped up all the dirty clothes that littered the floor.

 

     I walked across the hall to the bathroom. I put my dirty clothes in the hamper, then stood under a hot shower for the next ten minutes. After my shower, I dressed and went to the kitchen. I opened a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. While the soup heated on the stove, I made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I turned on the kitchen TV, surfed channels until I found an old episode of the Three Stooges, and ate my lunch.  After I’d put my dishes in the dishwasher, I shut the TV off, went back to my room and did homework. By five, I’d done the sample problems Mr. Thain had given us in preparation of the calculus test, done the sheet of problems he’d given those of us who wanted extra credit, re-read a chapter in my history book on the invasion of Normandy in preparation of that test, and wrote my editorial for the newspaper.  I was feeling pretty good by the time I left the house to have supper with Papa.  It was nice to have my homework out of the way, and know that all I had left to do was the final revisions on my editorial. 

 

     It was dark when I trotted down the stairs at five-thirty. I turned a lamp on in the great room for Clarice, and left the kitchen light on.  I also turned the porch lights on that shine from each side of the back door. 

 

     I went to Mr. Ochlou’s and ordered a large pizza with cheese, sausage, and mushrooms.  He didn’t complain too much about me talking to Kylee and Dylan since I was buying something.

 

     I promised Kylee I’d pick her up at five-thirty the next evening for the twins’ party, then left with my pizza.  Papa let me in when I rang the station’s bell.  The cops on duty were out on patrol, and the other firefighter on duty, Ben Jolliet, was sitting in front of the TV eating a chicken dinner he’d bought from Donna’s.  Papa offered him some pizza, but Ben said he had plenty to eat, so I carried the box to Papa’s office.

 

     My father followed me after grabbing napkins, paper plates, and sodas from the kitchen.  Like we had the night before, we talked in his office while we ate. 

 

     I didn’t say a word about Scott Monroe, or my late night, when Papa asked me what I’d done that day.  He already knew Gus didn’t need me to work this weekend.

 

     “The usual stuff,” I said between bites of pizza. “Chores, took the dogs for a hike, ‘n did homework. How about you?”

 

     “Usual stuff here, too. Paperwork, a meeting, and taught a class for the volunteers wanting to become EMT’s.”

 

     Papa holds a lot of classes.  The members of his fire department are considered to be the best trained in Alaska.

      

     I hung around the station a while after we finished eating, then told Papa good night and headed home. Clarice was at the house when I got there. I fed the dogs, cats, and horses, then secured the barn. 

 

     Clarice had a plate of cupcakes setting in the center of the table when I walked into the kitchen.  They were chocolate with orange and brown sprinkles on top of white frosting, and encased in pumpkin orange cupcake paper.

 

     “From the party?” I asked, as I sat down.

 

Clarice carried two glasses of milk to table. “Uh huh.”

 

     “Was it fun?”

 

     “I don’t know how much fun it was for Meghan, considering she had fifteen children in her house under the age of nine, but the kids sure had a good time.”

 

     “I bet.”

 

Like my father had, Clarice asked me what I’d done that day.  I gave her the same answer I’d given him, leaving out any mention of Monroe, my book, or the nap I’d taken.

 

After we’d finished our snack, Clarice settled into Papa’s recliner to watch My Fair Lady on Movie Classics. I told her goodnight, then went to my room and did the final revisions on my editorial before working on my book.

 

Once again, the characters quickly took over my story. I knew I was going to have some good stuff to send my mom just as soon as I had time to revise it.  I wrote until I finished the chapter, then went to bed.  I was tired, and was looking forward to nine hours of sleep.     

 

This morning started like last Sunday morning had.  Papa came home about eight-thirty, and we ate a big breakfast with Clarice.  He decided not to go to church for the second week in a row, so I jokingly gave him a hard time about that.

 

“Pastor Tom will be paying you a visit.”

 

“I know, I know. I’m off next weekend. I’ll go to church with you then.”

 

“What am I supposed to tell Pastor when he asks me where you are?”

 

Papa grinned. “Tell him I’m at home praying for his soul.”

 

“I’ll do that,” I teased.

 

“Go right ahead,” he responded, and I could tell he didn’t care what I said to Pastor Tom regarding his whereabouts.

 

While I was doing chores, Clarice left for home. I knew I’d see her in church later. After chores, I showered, got dressed, and left the house.  Just like he had been last Sunday, Papa was reading the paper at the kitchen table when I said goodbye and walked out the door.

 

I sat in a back pew with Kylee and some friends again. When service ended and Pastor Tom greeted me as I exited the church, he asked, “So, Trevor, where’s your father this Sunday?”

 

“He said to tell you he’s home praying for your soul.”

 

That remark made Pastor Tom throw back his head and laugh.

 

“Guess your old man needs a visit from me, doesn’t he?”

 

“Yep, I think so.”

 

Pastor Tom is cool, and even Papa doesn’t mind it when he sees his Jeep Cherokee pull in our driveway.

 

I followed Kylee to her family’s Blazer. She pulled out a dry cleaning bag that had two hangers sticking from it.

 

“Here’s your costume.”

 

Kylee and I are dressing as pirates for the Halloween party. Her mom made us costumes that match, except for the fact that I’m wearing black pants, and Kylee’s wearing a black skirt.

 

“You’ve got the bandana for your head and the eye patch, right?”

 

“Yep. Clarice picked ‘em up for me at Wal-Mart when she was in Juneau last week.”

 

Kylee smiled. “We’re gonna look great.”

 

“Yep,” I agreed, though I really don’t care one way or another what I’m dressed as for a Halloween party. Actually, I’d rather not have to wear a costume at all, but I knew better than to say that, and had gone along with Kylee’s idea of matching pirate costumes right from the start since Papa told me I’d regret it if I said anything less than, “Yes, dear.”  Not that I call Kylee ‘dear’ but I understood what Papa meant. 

 

By the time I was ready to walk to my truck, Kylee’s folks and little brother were standing next to us. I thanked Mrs. Bonnette for making my costume, and when she asked if I’d arrive a few minutes early when I picked up Kylee so she could take pictures of us, I promised I would.

 

I got home at twelve-thirty. Heavy, dark clouds hung low in the sky, and a cold wind was blowing the fallen leaves around, making for a perfect Halloween.  Since we live outside of town, and on such a rural road, no kids come by to trick-or-treat.  Papa always makes sure there’re bags of candy at the station, though, and all the kids in Eagle Harbor know to stop there as they make their rounds.

 

It wasn’t raining, so I expected to see Papa outside somewhere.  When I didn’t spot him, I walked into the garage, and then on into the barn. He wasn’t around, though I knew he’d been outside, since the horses had been let out of their stalls and were prancing around the corral.

 

The dogs followed me to the deck.  I stepped inside, bent and took my shoes off, and hung up my coat.  I sniffed, hoping I’d smell lunch cooking. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t the kind of day a guy wanted a cold sandwich, but instead, wanted something warm and filling – like Clarice’s spaghetti casserole along with some garlic bread. I was surprised Papa hadn’t put the casserole in the oven to warm, but at the same time, I didn’t find that too odd, because we often warm our meals in the microwave.  I just assumed he wasn’t hungry, considering the big breakfast we’d had.

 

The house was quiet when I stepped into the kitchen. No TV on. No stereo playing some obnoxious CD called The Sounds of the 70s. And I couldn’t hear Pops talking on the phone in his office.  I was just about to yell for him, when he yelled for me, and not in a happy tone of voice, either.

 

“Trevor! Trevor, get in here now!”

 

The first thoughts that ran through my head were, Shit. What have I done?

 

It’s probably not a good thing to say...or think, the word ‘shit’ when you’ve just gotten home from church, but boy, did Pops sound pissed at me.

 

“Trevor!” he called again.

 

I hurried through the great room and cautiously poked my head around the doorway of his office.  “Ye...yeah?”

 

“Come here.”

 

I voiced my trepidation with a, “Wh...what?”

 

“What nothing. I said, come here.”

 

Papa was standing behind his desk, glaring at me.  I slowly walked toward him. I had no idea what he was so upset about until I got behind the desk, too, and caught sight of the computer screen.

 

“What’s this?”

 

Oh shit, I thought again, no longer caring that it was Sunday and I’d just gotten home from church. I knew I was a dead man.  I’d forgotten to delete the Scott Monroe file from Word after I’d printed it.

 

“Uh...something...something I was re...uh researching for my book.”

 

Papa took a deep breath. The kind a parent takes while he counts to ten and fights against the urge to strangle his kid. When my father finally spoke, he asked in a tight, controlled voice, “Where’d you get this stuff?”

 

“I...I ordered it from the Los Angeles Times. From their...it was in their archives.”

 

Papa’s eyes narrowed. “You had no business sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Trevor.”

 

The best defense is a good offense, or so I’ve always heard, so I gave it a shot.

 

“Well you had no business sticking your nose into my files.”

 

That was the wrong response if there ever was one. Papa’s face darkened with fury, and his jaw clenched.

 

“First of all, young man, this is my computer, not yours!  And second of all, when those files concern me, then yeah, I do have the right to stick my nose wherever I want to.  Besides, you didn’t make it too difficult.  When I entered Word, your file was the first one that showed up.”

 

He had me there.  As soon as he’d clicked on ‘File’ on the toolbar, the last four files that had been opened would immediately show up.  Obviously, S. Monroe would be the first on the list, and would have no doubt drawn my father’s attention.

 

“Look, Papa, I...I’m sorry, but I needed a middle part for my book, and this stuff about Monroe is gonna work great in order to bridge the beginning with the en--”

 

     “Sorry isn’t good enough.”

 

     “But I didn’t do anything wrong!”

 

     “If that’s true, then why didn’t you just ask me about Monroe?”

 

     “Because I knew you’d never tell me. Whenever I tried to get a straight answer about why you moved to Denver, you wouldn’t give me one.” I stuck my chin out with defiance. “So now I know the answer.”

 

     “You think so, huh?”

 

     “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, ya’ know,” I bragged. “You were with Chris the night he got shot. You were his instructor. Uncle Roy blamed you, didn’t he?”

 

     And that’s when I regretted my big mouth. I can’t describe the hurt I saw flicker across my father’s face, as though the pain of that time was still raw and fresh, like an open wound.

 

     Papa didn’t respond to my question, but his face gave me the answer I was seeking.

 

     “Trevor, you’ll be eighteen in May, but eighteen or eighty, neither one gives you the right to sneak around behind my back and dig into parts of my life that I’ve chosen not to share with you. It shows a huge lack of respect for me on your part.”

 

     “I respect you.”

 

     “Oh, really? That’s funny, because it doesn’t feel that way right now.”   

                       

     “Why wouldn’t you share it with me?” I pushed. “The stuff about Monroe and Chris’s injury?”

 

     “Because book or no book, those things are none of your business.”

 

     “Why? ‘Cause you’re ashamed of what happened?”

 

     I saw his fists clench. Looking back on it now, I realize that if he’d belted me, I’d have deserved it.

 

     “Whether I’m ashamed or not isn’t the issue. The issue is, you’ve crossed the line by deliberately violating my privacy.”

 

     “You’ve said the truth always comes out.”

 

     He scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

     “It just means that if you’d told me the truth when I asked why you moved to Denver, then we wouldn’t be going through this now.”

 

     He shook his head with disgust.  As he brushed past me, he said, “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

 

     I stood there for a long time, not certain how a stupid school assignment could have brought me so much trouble.  Does even a work of fiction always end up revealing more to the writer than he ever thought possible at the start of the book?

 

     I gave a heavy sigh, then went in search of Papa. I found him in the laundry room putting on his coat and hiking boots. His voice was gruff, his sentence direct and to the point.

 

     “I’m goin’ to Carl’s.”

 

     My voice, on the other hand, was small and timid.

 

     “I...I didn’t know you had plans with Carl for today.”

 

     “I don’t, but we’ll find something to do. Might go into Juneau for a movie and supper. Don’t know when I’ll be back.  Be home from the party by ten-thirty.”

 

     “I...I can still go?”

 

     Papa turned to face me. “Would it do me any good to tell you no?”

 

     “Huh?”

 

     “You’ve already shown your lack of respect for me, so what difference does it make now whether I forbid you to go to the party?”

 

     “If you...if you say I can’t, then I won’t.  I won’t, Papa. I promise.”

 

     “Your promises mean nothing to me at the moment. Go to the party, or don’t go the party, I really don’t care. Just be home by ten-thirty. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

 

     I watched as my father left the house. His shoulders were pulled back and stiff as he marched to the Land Rover, his posture alone telling me how enraged he was. I knew he was going to Carl’s because he needed an excuse to be away from me, and I admit, that hurt. Never before had Papa ever felt the need to be away from me.  I’ve been spoiled in that regard, and I know it. As his only child, I’ve always been the apple of his eye.

 

     I paced from room to room after Papa left. The appetite I’d had when I walked in the door was gone.  I couldn’t concentrate on the TV, and didn’t feel like listening to music or reading a book.  I finally came up to my room and started typing all of this into my journal.  If nothing else, writing in my journal helps me sort things out.

 

     I have to leave in a little while to pick up Kylee. I was thinking of calling and telling her I’m sick, but I know how much she’s looking forward to the party. Besides, Kylee’s mom went to all that trouble to make my costume, so I’ll feel even guiltier than I already do if I back out now.

 

Papa hasn’t come back yet. I know he’ll be home before my curfew and ‘listening’ for me to come in, but I have a feeling he won’t have much to say...if he’s not already in his bedroom with the door shut.

 

     Believe it or not, the worst part about today is that I wasn’t grounded. For the first time in my life, I’m realizing that sometimes no punishment is the worst punishment of all.

 

Part 4