By the time it got dark, I had found my way to an immense hall that should rightly be called a Great Hall, like the ones I had seen in photos of castles in England. It was filled with long tables set end-to-end and over a hundred metal chairs pushed underneath a white linen tablecloth. I bet that it was freezing in the winter months, with its twenty-foot-high ceiling and cold brick walls. Hanging from the walls to complete the image of an old medieval hall were long banners but they held team colors not knight’s crosses.
There were windows way up high, just under the eaves that let in a meager amount of light but most of the illumination came from a dozen round vapor lamps hanging down from the ceiling on long black chains. Along one wall was the kitchen, open through a half wall and a serving line behind which stood four old ladies in white aprons and hair nets. Every one of them looked as sour as spoiled milk and lemons and as I watched, they slammed serving spoons of unrecognizable food down onto plates as boys of all ages plodded grimly through the lines. Unobtrusively, I headed for the end and took my place. No one ahead of me said anything and no one arrived after me. The boy ahead of me glanced over his shoulder, eyeballed me, and moved forward as if I were of no interest to him.
None of them wore a uniform, just the average gamut of clothes; jeans, Dockers, cargo pants, sweats, and shorts. T-shirts, polo's, and the occasional button-down Henley. I heaved a sigh of relief, I had been afraid that we would have to wear uniforms or worse, the preppy suit that the paralegal had bought and was residing in my luggage. From the looks of things, that wouldn’t be part of the torture in the school.
Slowly, we inched our way forward until I was able to guess at the food. There was no second choice, it was eat that or nothing. Something square shaped and brown covered with brown gravy and worm-like things in the dark gravy. Mashed potatoes covered with more worms and gravy. The potatoes looked as if they could be used as cement blocks. Bread, rolls, and white stuff heaped with butter. At first, I thought it was grits, not something I expected up north. Or maybe it was shoe peg corn, or it was Lima beans. It was hard to tell and could be anything.
The women serving didn’t look up at me and no one screamed ‘who the hell are you’ so, I took my mystery food to an empty table end and sat. Played with the stuff. I didn’t raise my eyes either until someone sat next to me and spoke in an undertone.
“It’s supposed to be meatloaf and onion gravy,” he said.
“Oh, thank God,” I sighed in relief. “I thought it was worms.”
The boy snorted. I took a quick look and saw that he was both taller and older than me. More developed with strong arms and wide shoulders. Chestnut brown hair with rusty highlights and blue eyes. Dimples in his chin and curiosity on his face. His eyebrows were dark, almost black. He was smiling as he poked the mystery meat.
“There are some of the older dudes that say it’s cat or dog but I’m more inclined to think it’s made from recycled tires,” he admitted. “You’re new.”
I nodded. “Got here a few hours ago. I’m Cris. Cris Lacey.”
“Fitz Sandford. Second yearer.” He frowned. “Is that a word?” We shook hands. “You have an accent, from the South?” he asked.
“Me?” I laughed nervously. “I’m from Tennessee and you have the accent.” I broadened my vowels and clipped the consonants sounding just like him, voice, tone, and all. He looked amazed.
“Hey! That’s my voice! Can you do old Hopper?”
I mimicked the speech the Head Master had given me, and he nearly cried in amusement. “Did old Hopper assign a junior to show you around?”
“Just some skinny guy named Adam and he dumped me in the new room,” I said. In the attic, I think. Or the back-ass of nowhere.”
“Who’s your roommate?” Sandford asked, his brow furrowed.
“Somebody named Childs,” I answered and was not prepared for the look on his face, but he didn’t say anything further. Instead, he started eating as if he was starving and the food delicious.
“What?” I asked, not moving my mouth so the words seemed to float in the air.
“I can’t say anything,” he whispered. “But, don’t sleep in his room. Find somewhere else. Anywhere else.” He stood, went over to the last table, and deposited his tray with most of the food left on it before exiting the dining hall. I watched the others eating in near silence, broken only by the clatter of silverware. It was the quietest bunch of kids I’d ever been around.
A bell chimed four times in the distance and as one group, everyone stood up, left their trays, and walked out the end doors. I followed, my curiosity over-riding my fears.
No one ran, pushed, or shouted. In an orderly fashion, they formed two lines and marched down the hallway toward the end where there were two metal doors that opened outward with a push bar. One group went through the left-hand door and the other through the right. I wasn’t sure what the difference was or where I was supposed to go so, I chose left because I was right-handed. That was the way I kept my lefts and rights apart, I had trouble remembering which was unless I tied it to my writing hand.
It was a bathroom. Industrial sized like the ones I’d seen in the football lockers at the big stadium. The only place my Dad had ever taken me, but I hated football and remembered getting carsick going, during the game and coming home.
There was a row of commodes on one wall, sinks lined up on another and shower stalls in the corner. The entire room, walls, floors, and ceiling was tiled and the humidity inside reminded me of the swamps back home.
Boys went about their business, peeing, pooping, washing, brushing teeth, and showering. No one showed me the towels, soap or toothbrushes and the only soap I saw was the soap in liquid dispensers on the wall near the sinks.
I wandered, looking for a new toothbrush although I had one in my luggage if I ever found my way back upstairs. I was headed out the door when I was grabbed from behind. When I turned in his arms like an eel, I saw that it was Sandford. He dragged me into a small alcove and there was stacked the supplies. Hundreds of clean white towels, hand cloths and wash cloths. Toothpaste, brushes, combs, BO spray and roll-ons. Nail-clippers. Boxes of Kleenex. Even cream for hemorrhoids. I wondered at that. Soap and shampoo, no-name brands like Mom bought because it was cheaper.
He placed one of everything in a pillow case and stuffed it into my arms as he pushed me out the door. We went down another hallway to the main staircase. I vaguely remembered coming in that way with the paralegal and didn’t get a chance to stare at the massive wooden structure that looked like bat-wings stretched across the front of the building. It rose majestically up three floors, each a landing that went left and right.
Open doorways showed me classrooms, all of them empty and the further we walked down the hall, more doors appeared, closer together. These were bedrooms, singles, for the teachers he explained. At the far end of the long corridor were dorms holding ten beds each and there were four such dormitories on the next two floors. Each bed had a chest at the foot and a long narrow closet that held students’ coats, boots, suitcases, and unused clothes. Supplies and personal belongings that did not fit into the chest.
He pushed me inside and closed the doors. Sliding doors made of a rich dark wood. Digging into his pockets, he pulled out a lighter and proceeded to light up a spliff. I gaped. He couldn’t be more than thirteen and was already doing drugs. Not that marijuana was a real drug.
“Okay, here’s the gist of it. Jeffrey Childs is a psychopath. He breaks in the newbies. Once he does, the goons they call teachers take over. You’ll do anything they say to get away from Jeffrey. Everything Hooper wants, or the teachers want, you’ll do. He’s building his future power base by brain-washing his puppets so when we leave here, he has us on hold. Like Soviet sleeper agents. Don’t sign anything, if you have any assets, he’ll get you to sign them over to the school.”
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed at his paranoia. He looked pissed off.
“You don’t believe me? Then, go sleep in his room tonight. You won’t be the same kid in the morning,” he burst out. “And if you think you can go tell Hopper, good luck. He condones it as part of the curriculum.”
“He rapes them?”
“You know what that is?”
I nodded. “Mom made us leave the last place I lived because the landlord was like that.”
“No, I mean do you know how he does it?”
On the exact method of the act, I wasn’t quite sure and although my father was abusive, he had been careful not to do anything like that to mom when I was around. Sure, I’d seen animals do it and Mom had explained those situations to me matter-of-factual so that I understood it was natural and ordinary. But she had not gone into those kinds of acts, other than to tell me that if anyone touched me in those places, I should scream loud and long for help. I should not be afraid to tell her, my teacher or anyone I trusted. Around Mr. Calibrisi she had been extra-vigilant and explained why I should never be alone with him or any stranger.
Fitz explained in graphic detail and I was horrified. Sick to my stomach. He must have had that done to him. The food in my stomach churned and came up without warning. I threw up all over someone’s brand new Adidas sneakers. Fitz turned green as he smelled it and rushed further into the closet. He disappeared.
“Wait!” I called out and went after him. After I wiped off my mouth on a green denim shirt.
*****
Tempe drove until the moon rose and then drove some more. He had been on the 3 to 11 shift and had expected to be up until midnight or later. He drove from the small town of Pine Bayeux through Louisiana, Mississippi and almost halfway through Alabama before he gave in to the exhaustion of being up for over 18 hours. Map Quest had given him clear, easy directions and a travel time of 20 hours and 40 minutes. He had driven twelve before he pulled off the Interstate and into the Clarion Suites at a small city by the improbable name of Defuse. Defuse, Alabama.
The lobby was clean, coffee pot on and freshly made, the clerk bright-eyed and welcoming even at four in the morning. Tempe asked for a single and gaped at the price. $118 for one night which included Wi-Fi and a Continental breakfast. He grumbled but pulled out his wallet for his credit card. The clerk, a young man in his early twenties stared in fear as he caught sight of the ugly black handgun under his shirt.
“Relax,” Tempe said with his soft Cajun drawl. “I’m a Deputy Sheriff.”
He flipped his wallet and showed the kid his gold star with Pine Bayeux and Louisiana embossed on the surface.
“Oh, in that case, I can offer you a Law Enforcement discount. We take 20% off for all Police Officers.”
“Well, that’s mighty neighborly of y’all,” Tempe drawled. Knowing that the management liked the idea of an armed Police Officer nearby in case of any trouble.
“That brings your room down to $84 plus tax,” the kid said cheerfully. Tempe still grumbled at the highway robbery prices. He was handed an electronic key stamped with a room number.
“Room ninety-five. That’s on the first floor, near the ice machine and sodas. Right down the hallway and to your left in the back. It’s quieter there and your car will be under video surveillance. It’s not a police cruiser? So, you’re from Pine Bayeux? Where’s that?”
“Nope. F-150,” he said and walked out, ignoring the kid’s attempt at conversation.
The room was small. Barely big enough for the double bed, luggage stands and twin night tables. The bathroom had a tub and a shower stall. Plenty of hot water. Heavy covers on the bed and a hard mattress with firm pillows.
He threw the key on the counter, removed his Glock, and tucked it under his pillow. After washing his face, he turned the TV on to CNN and crashed on the bed. He was asleep before the commercials were over.
In the morning, he woke late. Later than he had planned, he had wanted to be on the road by 9 am but he had overslept long past that. He blamed it on the long hours driving and the worry over what he would find when he reached Cris.
His face in the mirror was creased from lying on wrinkled sheets and his eyes looked like Joe Penney’s Basset hound, the one that hung out at the Polk Inn. Besides running late, looking like crap, he had forgotten to plug in his cell phone, and it beeped annoyingly, signifying that it was dead. Not that anyone was going to call him. He had little outside contacts except for the Sheriff’s Department.
He washed his face in ice water, changed to fresh clothes and checked out without enjoying the Continental breakfast. Coffee and donuts. Breakfast was McDonald's, with a large coffee half cream and a breakfast burrito. After a sixty-dollar fill-up at the mini-mart, he was back on the Interstate heading for Tennessee.
The Great Smoky Mountains impressed him with its grandeur, its sweeping vistas over fog-laced valleys, mountain ridges of glittering gray granite, towering pines, sparkling streams and what must be heaven on earth for anglers.
Virginia’s green meadows, stately homes and grazing TBs made him nostalgic for his old home farm, a Thoroughbred rehab place run by his father. He might have been a pervert, Tempe thought, but his father had sure loved his horses.
He didn’t stop until he was deep in Pennsylvania, the ugliness of its dead steel industry and poor economy a blight on the countryside. Parked at a text stop, he called the law firm he’d chosen on Chenille’s say-so and told them that he would be late. He was referred to a satellite office in Albany instead of NYC. If he could make it there by 5 pm, an associate would wait for him to arrive. Tempe agreed. When he pulled the truck back onto the Interstate, he did 85 and 90 the rest of the way.
Once, flashing blue and white lights came on behind him and when he did not pull over, the State Trooper pulled up alongside. Tempe held his badge up to the window and the Statie nodded, turned off the lights and flew past him.
Several miles down the road, he passed the cop on the side of the road with another unlucky driver caught speeding.
Albany was one of the ugliest places he had ever seen. Downtown was even worse, whole blocks blighted and in need of urban renewal, starting with demolition. There were whole blocks abandoned and destroyed by squatters, scavengers, and drug use.
The law firm was on the east side, in the area that was in the process of re-gentrification. Housed in a modern office building, it was a shiny metal cube that screamed pretentious money. The law firm of Dennis, LeHayne and Perry occupied three whole floors at the very top of the building.
Tempe parked in the company lot, in the space marked ‘VISITORS,’ exited and entered the lobby. He was directed to the elevators and took it up to the tenth floor, ignoring the fancy lobby, the upscale gentleman’s bar, and the crowd of departing people.
The cage opened on a lobby done in gold wallpaper, understated elegance, and the smell of old money. The receptionist was a statuesque blonde with exquisite looks toned down to the surroundings. She was just putting on her coat when Tempe stepped in front of her desk.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Perry,” he said. “He said he would wait for me to get here.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Tempe Neige.”
“I’ll tell him that you are here.” She took off her coat, gave him a brilliant smile and picked up the phone hidden in her top drawer. Seconds later, she laid the phone down. “Follow me, Mr. Neige.”
She walked smoothly down the carpeted hallway on impossible high stilettos that made her legs look terrific. Tempe stared the whole way and she turned to give him a flirtatious look over her shoulder. They passed antiques with real flowers resting in Waterford Crystal, original works of art on the walls and carpeting that made you sink to your ankles.
At the end of the hall were double doors and she knocked, opened one and Tempe waited for her to go first.
“Thank you, Mr. Neige,” she said and went in.
The office was large with a view, a corner office with windows that looked out on the city’s green-space with the river in the background. Thick gray carpeting lined the entire room, the walls were honey wood and book shelves took up all the rest of the wall space. Bookshelves loaded with all kinds of books from paperbacks to hard covers, law tomes to coffee table photo books. The desk was an old metal one – scarred, dented and long enough to park a battleship. Tempe had seen the same in government offices all over the world. He had one in his office in the Sheriff Department in Pine Bayeux.
The man behind it was the same age as Tempe – thirties or perhaps just forty. He stood up, over six-feet but Tempe was taller, although not as heavily built. He was dark-haired and had brown eyes.
“Thanks for staying, Ruth,” he said. “You can leave now.”
“Good night, Mr. Perry. Mr. Neige.” She looked at Tempe again. “Neige means ‘Snow’ in French,” she added. She closed the door softly on the way out.
“Ruth speaks seven languages,” Perry said and held his hand out. Tempe shook it, his hand firm but not overpowering. “I see you’re eyeballing my desk. Wonder why I have an old piece of junk in the fancy office?” The lawyer smiled.
“To remind you of where you came from,” Tempe said, and the lawyer looked surprised.
“Exactly. You’re the first person who’s ever guessed why. Have a seat.”
Tempe sat in one of the two leather client chairs and crossed his legs. His gun rode up and Perry’s eyes were drawn to it. “Whoa,” he said, and panic was on his face.
“Relax. I’m a Deputy Sheriff and I have a carry permit out-of-state.” He handed over his driver’s license and gold badge for verification. Perry made copies of both with the camera feature on his smart phone.
“Okay.” He dragged it out as he sat back in his chair, ill at ease from his body language.
“What can I do for you, Deputy Neige?”
“Call me Tempe. Are you familiar with the Connolly Law Group out of New York City?”
“One of the largest firms in the city. They’ve won over a billion dollars in judgments.”
“And the bus accident over a year ago?” Tempe continued, curious to see if the lawyer saw where he was going.
“Yes. The one and only survivor on the bus was awarded 150 million. Last I heard, though, the child is still in a coma.”
“He woke up. Two days ago,” Tempe said. “I’m a Deputy Sheriff in Pine Bayeux in Louisiana. Over a year ago, my wife run off and took my ten-year-old boy. I spent months looking for them, never found hide nor hair so I sent a sample of his DNA and his fingerprints out to all the Law Enforcement agencies across the country. A few days ago, the results came back. John Doe is Cris. Cris Snow, my son.”
The lawyer’s mouth hung open. His eyes grew round and then calculating. Tempe continued, “I know that there will be opposition to getting custody of Cris. I want you and your firm to handle it. Can you do that?”
Perry’s eyes gleamed. “We’d love to represent you and your son, Tempe. It’s just the kind of case I like to sink my teeth into. I’ll draw up a contract and go over the terms with you.”
“In my part of the country we shake on it and our word’s good enough. I’ll give you 5% of the settlement.”
Perry calculated but Tempe answered before he could figure the sum. “That’s 7.5 million. That ought to cover all your expenses,” he drawled. “I ain’t paying $1200 an hour.”
“Give me a dollar. We’ll consider that my retainer. Where is your son, Mr. Neige?”
“Reacher Hall Prep School in Mt. Upton, New York. I’m headed up there next.”
“Were you planning to show up and take the boy home?”
“Yes, sir. Where he belongs. With me.”
“I doubt that they’ll let you waltz in and remove him. Not without some kind of paperwork or court order. Let me get you something before you do that. I should have something before tomorrow afternoon. You have a reservation somewhere?”
“Hotel in Mt. Upton. A BnB,” Tempe said.
“I’ll make one for you at the Hilton here in the City. Hang on for just a few more minutes. Oh, by the way. Mind me asking why your wife left with the boy? Is it something that could bring up concerns over your fitness as a father?”
“She left me because I caught her with another man. Threatened to divorce her and take Cris away from her,” Tempe said without batting an eye. There never was a report filed on any of her complaints nor would any of the deputies rat him out. And Violet was dead, so she couldn’t call him a liar.
Perry was on his cell and spoke for seconds before he turned to the Deputy. “You have a room for three days if you need it that long. I don’t surmise so but you never know how the Judges rule till they rule. Room 1207, Hilton East. I’ll print you out directions and the address. You have a cell with Google Maps? Good. The firm will pick up the charges so order whatever you like. It’s on us. There’s also a nice bar on the main floor. It’s been a pleasure, Tempe. I’ll call tomorrow as soon as your papers are ready.”
He stood, and they shook hands as the lawyer escorted him all the way back to the elevator. They rode down together, and Tempe answered questions about the bayou, the swamps, fishing and hunting. In the lobby, they parted ways, he to the parking garage and the Deputy to the lot.