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,