David Wiltse - The Edge of Sleep

In the meantime Dee would explain to the boy what his duties and responsibilities were and what she expected of him. He wouldn’t understand at first; they never did. He would complain and tell them to take him home. If he was very foolish, or very frightened, he would threaten to call the police. Dee would forgive him today. She always forgave everything at first. She was so happy about her new present that she didn’t care if it had little imperfections. It was only with time that the imperfections would become apparent to her, and then they would seem to grow and grow until that was all she could see. The image of her beautiful boy would fade and she would see only ingratitude and disappointment.

But that would be a few weeks from now. In the meantime. Dee was his beautiful eagle again, soaring so gracefully above him. And the boy was her unfledged chick, confined by necessity and the surrounding dangers of hunters and lofty heights to the nest where she would care for him. And when she flew away to find food for her new hatchling. Ash would keep it company in the nest, like a big flightless bird himself, no more able to leave the aerie than was the boy, but stronger, protective. Even instructive. Ash could teach the young bird things it must know to please its mother. He could never teach it quite enough, it seemed, for eventually it would fail to please. No matter how hard Ash tried, no matter how manfully the boy attempted to win her approval, ultimately he would fail.

And then the bits of flesh that the mother eagle carried back to the nest to feed her chick would change. They would turn into pieces torn from the chick itself. She would feed the chick itself to eat. And the young bird, so carefully schooled by then in gratitude and submission, would dine upon itself without complaint until it was all gone.

There were over two dozen witnesses to nothing. The police had gathered that many employees and shoppers who were, or might have been, present at a nonevent.

Interest dulled by repetition, the local police dutifully took down the stories of people who had seen everything except the one thing that mattered. Karen and Becker moved among them. FBI identification displayed, eavesdropping and sometimes adding a question themselves.

It was like interviewing the neighbors after a Mafia murder, Karen whispered to Becker. Nobody knew nothing. In this case, however, they were not being uncooperative. They were like witnesses at a magic show who had seen but not seen, and did not know what the conjurer had done.

“What you got to realize is this place has always got crowds,” said the manager of a doughnut stand whose open-fronted shop gave him a large view of the main floor of the mall. “I’m not saying business is all that great. I’m not saying people are buying much-but they’re here is what I’m saying.” The man sucked on a toothpick, waggling it up and down when he paused.

Becker stood just behind the interviewing officer, watching the man whose name plate identified him as Fred.

“They come in groups, they come in pairs, they come alone. Who can keep track, you know what I mean? This morning they brought people from the nursing homes. You never saw so many walkers and canes and wheelchairs. They bring them every two weeks as an outing. Just coming here is a treat for them, I guess. They certainly don’t buy any big ticket items, you know. At that age, why bother?”

The man called Fred spoke with his teeth clamped together to hold the toothpick in place, giving him the look of a man with lockjaw, Becker thought.

“This afternoon there were the kids from the school. I saw them, sure, they trooped right by here on their way to the scientific toy shop, I guess. I didn’t see where they went. Sometimes it’s the pet store. They look at the tropical fish as part of their science projects, something like that, I don’t know. I know they don’t stop here.”

“Kids don’t like doughnuts?” Becker asked.

The police officer in charge shot Becker an annoyed glance until he noticed the FBI medallion on Becker’s chest. The officer still looked annoyed but said nothing.

“Who doesn’t like a doughnut? But these kids were supervised, you know what I mean? You got a teacher in front of the pack, another one alongside, a school nurse bringing up the rear to get the stragglers. It’s like a cattle drive or something. They’re not about to get loose to come over for a quick doughnut.”

“Did you see any of the kids alone at any time?” the officer asked.

“How’m I supposed to know that? You see individual kids alone all the time. How do I know if they’re from that group or with their friends or with their parents or just here to ride the escalators. They don’t wear signs saying ‘I am alone.’ ”

“Do you pass your shop to get to the men’s room?” Becker asked.

The manager thought for a moment, striking the toothpick with his tongue so that it danced up and down.

“You can, sure, but I’m not that close to the john, if that’s what you mean. You can pass down the whole corridor to get to the john. Or you can get there from the other direction.”

“Did you see any boys in the company of an adult during that time?” the officer asked.

“That time? What time?”

“The time we’re talking about,” the officer said wearily. This was his fifth interview in less than an hour. It was like asking people sitting on their lawn if they’d seen any grass. “Between three-thirty and four o’clock.”

Fred snorted rudely as if the cop were an idiot. “Did I see any boys with adults between three-thirty and four o’clock? When do you think parents take their kids shopping?”

The cop tried to ignore the sarcasm by controlling his breathing. It made him sound more impatient than ever.

“Did you see anything unusual? Any sign that any of these adults was forcing the children in any way?”

“Forcing them? You got kids? You got to force them half the time.”

“What do you mean?” Becker asked.

“Well, they’re like wild animals, ain’t they? You got to control them. So you give them a yank on the arm, a swat on the butt, you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” said Becker.

“Sometimes you grab them by the scruff of the neck and march them along. Is that what you mean by forcing them?” Fred was now addressing himself to Becker, attracted to the FBI initials like a moth to a brighter light than the ordinary policeman.

“Did you see any of that?”

“I see it all the time. Did I see it between three-thirty and four? How do I know? Probably. You see parents with kids, you’re going to see some forcing. Nothing wrong with that, I do it myself. If I didn’t give my kids a yank by the ear every now and then, we’d never get anywhere. Frankly, they need a swift kick every so often.”

“Thank you for being so frank,” said Becker. “Did you notice any men with boys? That’s not as common, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Except on the weekends. Then you see plenty of it, guys pushing strollers, guys with Cub Scouts, you name it.”

“How about today? Between three-thirty and four.”

“Look, I don’t really keep that close track of what I’m seeing when, you know? It all just kind of passes in front of you, people, just lots of people. You notice the real strange ones, or the real good-looking ones, but otherwise…” He shrugged. “I get paid to sell doughnuts, is what it is. I’m a people watcher, yeah, but I ain’t a student, if you see what I’m saying. Now you, you guys in the FBI are trained observers, right?”

“How about weight lifters?”

“I mean, you’re trained to look at a crowd and pick out the one guy you’re after by the way he’s walking, or something, right? Is it true you can look at a guy and see if he’s carrying a gun?”