Blunt Darts

my car. I took out the New England Outdoors page I’d photocopied and studied the small-scale map on it. I had a rough idea where the Willow Wood sanatorium was, but none of the ranger stations was very close to it. The two farthest stations were at least sixty-five miles away from each other and probably not easily accessible by car. Which meant a day or two of scouting them out, assuming Stephen would be in the last one I’d check. Assuming that he was in any of the stations. Assuming that this was the article he had copied. Assuming that Ms. Moore was right about which issue he’d had.
    The alternative was to try to find out if there was any faster way to trace him to one of the stations. Valerie still seemed the best bet for that, and I could call her later tonight or earlier tomorrow than I could either Mrs. Kinnington or Kim. I folded up the map and drove impatiently homeward against the rush’ hour flow.
     
     
     

     
     
    I picked up a bucket of chicken at the Kentucky Fried on Brighton Avenue in Allston, once again bemoaning the passing of the franchise that had been diagonally across from my apartment on Charles Street. I wrestled the rental into a parallel parking space with six inches to spare front and back.
    The red light on my telephone tape machine was lit, but I decided it could wait until after dinner. I washed the chicken down with two Molson Golden Ales and settled into an easy chair with one of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels. I had read four pages when a telephone in the novel began ringing. Memory jogged, I put the book down, walked to my telephone machine, and replayed the short message. I replayed it several times. The muffled voice on the other end said only the same one word each time:
    “Remember.”
    The chicken parts in my stomach made an effort to reassemble themselves. I had another Molson’s to calm them down.
     
    I tried Val’s number every half hour up to and including 11:30.I know, because I could recall seeing Johnny Carson’s monologue but drew a blank on his guests. I stretched stiffly in the easy chair. The clock on the mantel said 4:15. I went to bed, resetting my clock radio for 6:15. I awakened to Deep Purple’s classic “Smoke on the Water” on WCOZ (whose motto is “Kick-ass rock and roll”). I splashed some water in my face and called Valerie.
    It rang four times before I got a sleepy “Hullo.”
    “Val, it’s John Cuddy.”
    “Oh, hi, John. I must have over—hey, it’s only six-thirty!”
    “Yeah, I’m sorry, but I might be on to something.”
    “Oh, really?” she said, in my mind’s eye sitting up in bed and pushing her hair back. “What is it?“
    “Remember when we were on the beach, with those guys playing football?”
    “Hmph. I’ll never forget it.”
    “I asked you about what transportation Stephen might use, and you said you couldn’t think of any.”
    “Right.”
    “How about the Berkshires?”
    “The Berkshires? The mountains or the region in
    general?”
    “Either. Whatever. Did Stephen ever talk with you about the Berkshires?”
    She paused. “No, not that I can think of. Why the Berkshires?”
    “Well, a couple of things. Someone saw him looking at a magazine with an article on them. He also spent time in a mental institution out there, so he might know a little more about that area and therefore head that way.”
    “Stephen was so interested in so many things, but I can’t think of anything—Wait a minute! He did do a social studies paper once about how... oh, what wasit?  Meat, that’s right, meat! He had written it for another teacher, but was proud of it so he wanted me to see it. It involved how meat went from somewhere in Boston all over the state by truck. I’m pretty sure part of it dealt with the Berkshires.”
    “Kind of thin. But I think I know where to start.“
    “Oh, John, will you still be able to come for dinner tonight?”
    “It depends.”
    “On what?”
    I debated a lie. “I’ll be there,” I said.
    “Terrific. Seven o’clock?”
    “You bet.”
    She giggled. “See you then.”
    “Bye-bye.”
    I hung up and checked the clock. This would be the busy time down at the meat exchange and I wanted to get there when the boys had a little time to talk, so I did a long-for-me six miles to run off the chicken and the Molsons, trying not to think about the voice on the tape, which I knew but could never prove was Blakey’s. I had breakfast and decided on a T-shirt and Levis for the trip to