Blunt Darts

double-parked out front. I took the steps two at a time, and just caught the tail end of a dial tone noise as I opened apartment door. Someone’s time for a message ad just run out. I waited until I heard the machine Urn off with a click, then rewound the tape to payback. There were two messages. The first was from Val:
    “John, I’ve arranged to have us meet Kim at two o’clock at the Sturdevants’. You’ll never find it without me, and anyway I don’t think Mrs. Sturdevant would talk to you without me there. I don’t know how much time I have left—I hate these machines—so pick me up at one-thirty here. I mean here at my house. Remember, 17 Ford...“
    One admirable thing about the tape. It cuts everyone off equally. The second message, after two hangups, was too concise to be affected by the machine’s tolerance for talking.
    “I regret to report there has been no progress at this end, Mr. Pembroke. You need not contact me.”
    I thought of Nancy DeMarco and wished that someone would make some progress toward finding Stephen.
    Apparently, however, I thought and wished too long. By the time I got back downstairs, an orange parking violation card fluttered between my windshield and wiper. I put it in my pocket, stopped at a steak house on the way to Meade, and picked Valerie up at 1:35.
     
    The Sturdevants lived on Fife Street, a string of large, split-level homes about half a mile long on one side of the road. On the other side of the road was apparently untouched forest land. Val said that it was “conservation land,” which sounds ecologically advanced but which really means that the town fathers and mothers had voted to buy up vacant land to ensure it would not be developed into new homes or businesses. It also meant that the Sturdevants and other home owners could enjoy in perpetuity gas-fired barbecues and sun decks in their backyards and views of the forest primeval from their front yards.
    We stopped the car at 9 Fife, distinguishable from the other splits only by its mailbox label and a bright green upper story over a flat white lower story. I’m sure that the Sturdevants thought the color choice enhanced the “country” look of their neighborhood. Personally, I thought their house looked like a giant 7-Up can somebody had tossed out a car window.
    The flagstone path led in a straight line from the edge of the road slightly upgrade to the front door. The neighborhood was sans sidewalks, another country affectation.
    A woman of perhaps forty answered Valerie’s ring. She frowned as she recognized Val. An invisible puff of air-conditioned atmosphere wafted past her to us. “Hello, Mrs. Sturdevant,” began Val. “This is—“

“My husband and I had a talk after I spoke with you, Miss Jacobs,” interrupted Mrs. Sturdevant, who was slim and ash-blonde, but with a pinched face and eyes that flickered nervously from Val to me and back again. “We’re not at all sure that we should let you talk to Kim about all this. We’re afraid it might upset her.” Val looked taken aback, so I slipped into the conversation as gently as I could. “Mrs. Sturdevant, I’m John Cuddy. If I were in your position, I think I’d have the same hesitation. But a boy your daughter’s age has disappeared and,” I embroidered a bit, “the family is frantic to find him. If we could just come in and talk with you for a few minutes, we’ll abide by whatever decision you reach.”
    The wheels were turning in Mrs. Sturdevant’s head. I had the feeling that they turned infrequently, and slowly when they did. “Well,” she began and paused. She seemed to have been prepared by Mr. Sturdevant to defend against an assault, but not to decline an invitation to diplomacy.
    “Please, Mrs. Sturdevant?” said Val in a soft voice.
    Mrs.Sturdevant blinked and relented. “All right, come in.”
    We followed her into the house. It was dark and quiet inside as well as cool. We turned left and climbed eight low steps to the living room level. A large picture window provided a striking view of the I conservation land across the street. In a corner of the room squatted a twenty-five-inch color console television (I believe RCA calls the cabinet “Mediterranean”). The sound was off, but the video displayed some sort of game show. An overweight woman in a red dress was hugging a slim, middle-aged host who smiled enthusiastically. Mrs. Sturdevant took a chair with her back to the TV. Valerie and I took the couch. Although