Blunt Darts

restored quasi-mansion, red brick with four white columns. There was a meticulous expanse of lawn and a semicircular parking lot. Inside, the librarian was a pleasant change of pace from most Meade residents I’d met. She was polite.
    I identified myself and explained that Ms. DeMarco and I were looking into Stephen’s disappearance. Since I was out here speaking with Mrs. Kinningtoi* anyway, I thought I’d stop by and check Stephen’s library borrowings. I wasn’t sure if Ms. DeMarco had done so yet. ,
    Her middle-age face grew concerned. “You know, I wondered whether someone was still looking into that. Such a poor, unfortunate family. First Telford, then Diane—they were the judge’s brother and wife, you know—and now Stephen. The whole town is whispering about it, but nobody really knows anything yet. You make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.” She walked back into an inner office behind the counter. She came back with a tray of perhaps a hundred old-style computer cards and set it on the counter.
    “By the way,” she said extending her hand, “I’m Madeline Moore.” I shook her hand and she gave it a little extra squeeze a la Valerie—but in a friendly rather than sensual way.
    “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Moore.”
    She looked down and flipped through a few cards. “You know, I nearly cursed the idea of a computer system for borrowers. Imagine, a computer in Meade! But I must say it is more efficient once you get the hang of it. Here.”
    She slid the tray gently toward me. “Stephen read all these books?” I asked.
    “Oh, my, he’s read many more than these. These are just the ones he took out since January. He’d also spend every afternoon after school here in the reading room, literally devouring the books and magazines. I never saw the like of him, poor boy.”
    I began to flip through the cards the way she had. Almost all were novels or historical works. Two I came upon dealt with camping. I was about to ask her if I could see those when a photocopier began hiccupping behind me. It was one of those open-topped machines ‘or use with books. I hadn’t noticed it when I came in.
    “Did you see Stephen photocopying any maps recently?” I asked.
    “Maps? No-o-o, but now that you mention it, I did See him photocopying something that was in an issue of New England Outdoors. In fact, it wasn’t too long before he disappeared. I never would have thought about it if you hadn’t asked me. You see, many of the ah... young boys try to copy certain, well, advertisements for, ah, women’s clothes, and I never thought Stephen was that type, but when I came close to him as he was copying something, he became secretive, so I wondered if I was wrong about him. But I watched him put the magazine back, and I checked on it and was relieved. I just never thought about it after that.”
    “Do you remember what issue it was?”
    “I think so,” she said as she came out from behind the desk and walked over to some periodical racks. “It was,” she said, thumbing through the magazines, “this one.”
    Just as she handed it to me, her phone began ringing. She left me to answer it and I sat down in a stuffed leather chair.
    I opened to the table of contents. Five lead articles, six departments on camping subspecialities. I skimmed the articles. The third one was about the great number of abandoned, tower-style ranger stations and the dangers in using them as shelters. The article mentioned that there were thirty-seven such stations north of New Jersey and it named several. Four were spread widely over the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts. One page of the article was a map showing the stations. I looked up. The copying machine took dimes.
    As I left the machine, I waved to my helpful friend, who gave me a can’t-you-stay-till-I-get-off-the-phone? look. I couldn’t.
    As soon as I left the library, I began looking for a pay telephone. I found one outside a superette market on Meade’s main drag and dialed Valerie’s number. No answer, indicating that she had left to meet her friend in Boston. I hung up and tried the Kinningtons. The judge answered. I hung up and drummed my fingers on the little metal counter that’s too narrow to write on and too slanted to rest coins on. I dialed directory assistance and got the Sturdevants’ number. I called hoping for Kim and raised old Hal instead. I hung up on him, too.
    I jackknifed open the telephone booth door and went back to