Lost and Found

By Geoff Tolley

When Barton Macray leaves the rain-drenched city for a secluded mountain cabin, he think he's leaving his troubles behind. But he soon learns that what he really had hoped to escape cannot be so easily forgotten. Haunted by guilt over the failed relationship with his son Lance, Barton struggles to justify many of his choices. And when Lance suddenly vanishes, Barton decides to risk everything to find him,: personal ambitions, professional reputation and presumed innocence. With the help of the only woman he's ever loved, and a meek by brave-hearted deputy, Barton wages a personal battle against a corrupt county sheriff, a power-hungry business partner and a single harrowing memory from his past. In the struggle that ensues Barton Macray finds much more than his lost son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Tolley
• Release date: Aug 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476252087

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The day had arrived. Finally. And despite knowing for quite some time that it would (he knew six months ago, more like a year if he was really honest with himself) the day was no less difficult to face. How to say goodbye? Was goodbye even the right thing to say? Was it even the right thing to think? Yes, this was the day. And now that it was here Barton Macray had no earthly idea what to do with it.

He sighed deeply as his red Volvo hummed atop the gray country road, and peered across the front seat at his dozing passenger, at the way the boy’s chestnut brown hair fell across his ears. It had been a long time ago, almost 18 years, but Barton couldn’t help but think about the day his son was born, about the hopes and dreams that were also born on that day. They had wailed inside his mind, these dreams for the future, refusing to be pacified, or put down, or rolled over. And even back then – way back then – when things were so simple and perfect, Barton understood the day would come when he would have to say goodbye to him. But he always imagined he would be uttering those words while parked outside an ivy-covered dormitory, mingling amongst other freshman parents, smelling the crisp autumn air, swallowing the warm anticipation of the future. He imagined he would be wishing Lance well at college, giving him a hug of confidence, slipping him a smile, offering him a credit card for emergency expenses and emergency expenses only. But that was 18 years ago, and it would be impossible, simply impossible, for the gap between the dream and the reality to be any wider. It was, Barton thought to himself, a goddamned chasm.

It was seven o’clock in the morning, and already the two of them had been in the Volvo for almost 50 minutes. The drive would take the better part of an hour, their destination being where it was: out in the rolling countryside amidst silos and barns and waterlogged rolls of hay.

Rain had been falling for weeks in thick silver sheets, and although it was unusually bright on this morning, the land was dotted with the blemishes of ragged puddles that served as a reminder of one of the wettest springs on record. They were off the main highway now, driver and passenger, darting alongside barbed-wire fences that protected family farms that spanned four, five, six generations. Hand-painted signs advertised brown eggs, Chambersburg peaches, and split cherry firewood by the cord.

Barton rolled his neck, felt his stomach roll. Without warning, rural odors began streaming through the car vents and into his face, darting up his nostrils like liquid. The piercing smell of cow manure, diesel fuel, cracked corn, pesticides. Barton held his breath tight inside his lungs. Jesus Christ. He closed the vents and cranked up the fan. He shifted in his seat, stole another look at his passenger. Barton could feel himself sweating, salt water on the beach that was his flesh.

The gravel driveway appeared on the left, spilling onto the road like a tired creek bed. It was muddy in places, marked by chocolate puddles as perfectly round as coins. The driveway snaked between two walls of ill-tended pear trees, their bare branches reaching overhead like long, arthritic fingers. Barton started up the drive slowly, steering clear of the puddles that had no bottoms. The boy slowly emerged from his sleep.

The farmhouse appeared suddenly, bursting through the sad-looking trees in a rush of white clapboards and deep green shutters. The windows were squares of blue sky. Barton noticed the gutters almost immediately: once copper, but long since stained patina. A weather vane shaped like a horse pranced to the east atop the slate roof, and dirty white tube socks hung over the railing of the wraparound porch. Two enormous rhododendrons stood guard on either side of the white painted steps, their huge purple flowers like fists of rebellion held high toward the sky.

Barton parked the car in a field of damp grass and narrowed his eyes in defense of the rising sun.

Would you look at that, he said. My God. It’s uncanny.

His son silently gazed out the side window, unmoved, uninterested, his nose only inches from the glass.

C’mon, Barton urged. "Just look at it. You have to see the resemblance."

The boy took a long and bored breath, the way teenagers do. Barton dragged his hand over his cheek, and once again traced the shape of the house with his eyes. Incredible, he thought to himself.

Again, Barton tried his son: It looks just like grandma’s, don’t you think?

The boy chose not to respond and the silence hung like a bad odor, thick and sour. Barton sighed.

Are you ever going to talk? Jesus, Lance. You're going to have to. Talk, I mean. Sooner or later.

Lance rolled his eyes, and then blew a deep, disgusted breath from his lips. Barton frowned silently to himself.

Look, he finally pleaded. "I wish this was your grandmother’s house, okay? Don't you know that? For God's sake… He turned his upper body in the seat and leaned toward Lance until the safety belt bit into his collarbone. I wish the circumstances were different. You think this is fun for me? Do you? You think this is what I wanted? Driving all the way out here…dropping my son off at this...this... this…PLACE."

Lance snapped open the car door and sprang outside. A cool blast of air swept across the front seats. Barton shivered, jerked open his door and stepped outside himself. His polished loafers sank in the soft, wet ground. Barton glared at his son from across the roof of the red car that shimmered in the morning sun.

"Aren’t you going to say anything?"

Lance huffed and marched away toward the farmhouse. Barton reached into the back seat, plucked the suitcase free and screamed, "at least wait for me!"

The boy moved toward the farmhouse, striking a balance between flight and caution. Barton followed ten yards behind, unable to close much ground with the awkward suitcase hanging from his left side. A gust of wind slapped his cheek the way after-shave does. Splashes of sun streaked up the front steps of the farmhouse then disappeared into the shadows on the porch.

Barton lumbered across the muddy patch of ground and thought to himself that other parents had parked in that very spot, fathers not unlike himself he supposed, dads who meant well and really tried, but who felt lost and even a little sick, unsure of what to do next, or why it had come to this, or where it had all gone so terribly wrong.

Lance continued on, passing a wooden signpost that announced The Guidance House, glancing sideways at a lopsided pile of plastic milk crates, stepping over a football that appeared lost and forgotten. Barton followed Lance’s back, noticed his long stride and quick gait, and felt himself running out of breath.

Lance. Please!

The boy stopped at the foot of the painted wooden steps and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his black jeans. He stood motionless. Barton came up from behind, winded, his arm aching from the weight of the leather suitcase. High above their heads a weather vane creaked in the breeze, whining like a tired drunk at last call. Through the screen door, Barton smelled bacon and warm sugar oozing from the house, slipping across the porch and tumbling down the steps.

Sure does smell good, don’t you think? Barton thought to himself that he sounded stupid, or uncomfortable, or quite possibly both. From the side of the house, a dog began yapping in a high-pitched frenzy and Barton turned to look. But just as he did, he heard the loud slap of the screen door and snapped his head back to the front of the farmhouse, the porch, where Mrs. Freeda Sale presently stood.

Good morning! she announced gleefully. Welcome to the Guidance House!

Her voice sounded as eager in person as it had on the phone days earlier when Barton had first spoken with her, and he recalled just then how she had enthusiastically raced through her own qualifications without his ever asking. She had been an RN for several years before going back to school where she earned a Master’s degree in psychology, after which time she took a job as a social worker, because, as she put it, I was drawn to it. During that same phone conversation, she had told Barton that the idea for The Guidance House had come to her in a dream, a lush full-color dream, complete with music from The Summer of '42', and just as he had begun to wonder if she wasn’t a bit flaky and that maybe the whole thing was a bad idea, she had volunteered a multitude of state and federal certifications, the most impressive of which was the fact that her home for troubled boys had been deemed one of a thousand points of light by former president George Bush. We have the best success rate in the state, she had said proudly on the phone. Something about life on a farm. It teaches discipline, teamwork, a sense of responsibility, an aura of self-respect."

An aura? Barton had asked.

Yes, Mr. Macray. An aura. That’s what I said.

Barton lowered the suitcase down to the ground and smiled meekly.

So, Mrs. Sale said from atop the porch steps. You found us alright, I see. She had a round and sunny face, which peered out from under a crown of short gray hair. She was short and thin, with muscular forearms and taut copper skin, and her teeth gleamed like rain-soaked pebbles as she spoke. Barton guessed she was in her mid-fifties.

Lance, it’s nice to meet you.

The boy rolled his eyes, then yawned toward the morning sky.

Lance, this is Mrs. Sale. The woman I told you about.

The screen door creaked open once more and this time a young boy of fifteen or so stepped onto the porch. His hair was wet and matted to his forehead; he bounded down the steps in a flannel shirt and bare feet, retrieved the suitcase from Barton’s shadow and whispered to Lance, you got anything good in here?

Lance held still.

Barton inched forward.

Son, I just want you to know that --

Lance quickly dashed up the steps with the anonymous boy, and, together, moving in perfect unison, they rushed past Mrs. Sale before disappearing inside.

Barton’s sentence was left hanging, untended to, unfinished.

Mrs. Sale took a soft step down, then smiled at Barton and said, he’ll be fine.

But I wanted to say --

Why say good-bye, she interrupted. Good-bye marks finality. This is the beginning.

Barton swallowed the cool morning air. A black crow screamed from a nearby oak. The sky was as blue as it had been in weeks.

Barton said, please tell him I love him.

He knows that, Mr. Macray.

Barton dragged his left hand through his hair. Sometimes I wonder. He looked past the farmhouse, out into the fields that ran off in every direction, and was again reminded of the place where he grew up, how he used to perch himself high atop the slate roof as a boy and look out over the tan-colored fields, which had always looked like a giant open palm to him, welcoming the sun into its warm soft center. He remembered how much he had liked studying the shadows that were cast by the passing clouds, so massive and gray, spilled across the acreage, shaped like battleships and bears and the state of Rhode Island.

I’ve done everything I can for him, Barton sighed. His mother doesn’t believe it, but I have. This is best.

Mrs. Sale nodded. In the distance, a tractor groaned, sputtered once, then roared to life.

This is best, Barton repeated. It is.

Mrs. Sale took another step down the stairs. Her canvas shoes sighed. In a warm steady voice, she said, who are you trying to convince?

Excuse me?

You keep saying this is best, Mr. Macray. Well, excuse me for saying so, but I already know that. I don’t need any convincing. But I was wondering if maybe you do.

Barton smirked sheepishly. He brought his fingers to his lips, and then rubbed his hands together. She was only five feet from him, and her clothes smelled of blueberries. Barton checked his watch. Okay, well, is there anything more you need from me?

Mrs. Sale descended the last step. Her dress fluttered in the breeze, dancing to the low and distant growl of the tractor in the fields.

Maybe you can tell me one thing, Mrs. Sale whispered.

Okay, sure. Barton leaned slightly forward, as though hard of hearing.

I was wondering about something in particular.

Barton nodded. Okay.

The woman took a tiny step forward. Her hands were pressed together, resting at her waist. The incident with the baseball bat, the attack on the boy at the other Center. She paused and cocked her small head. I know it’s the reason he was expelled, but do you have any idea why he did it?

Barton froze. His tongue turned to Styrofoam, the back of his neck burned.

The reason I ask, Mrs. Sale continued, is that I’ve seen a lot of troubled boys in my time, and I’ve learned to read them in a minute. Really, just one minute. His eyes. They don’t seem to be the eyes of a young man who would do such a thing.

Barton felt as though his legs might collapse at any moment, dumping him to the ground like a sack of cornmeal. He teetered slightly, and took a deep hollow breath. His heart was in a full gallop, racing towards his throat. Barton began backing up, withdrawing, stepping away from the tiny woman who had brown ink droplets for eyes just as fast as he could. But Mrs. Sale followed his path of retreat, step for step, her forehead suddenly etched with lines of concern.

Are you okay? she gasped.

Barton held up his hand like a crossing guard, and wildly shook his head. She was a small and dainty woman, 100 pounds with her shoes on, and yet she appeared to Barton to be a charging bull, head down, horns ablaze.

Mr. Macray, please. I didn’t mean to upset you. If I said something to --

No! he yelled loudly.

She jumped, startled.

Barton paused, then lowered his voice: I mean, no. No problem. I, ah, I have to go. I’m late. The office. I just need to get to my office.

Barton continued backing up, almost lost his balance once, but never took his eyes off Mrs. Sale. She stopped her advance, and the gap between them grew wider and wider – ten, twenty, thirty yards – until Barton bumped into the Volvo and almost fell backwards onto the hood. He gathered himself together and fished his keys from his pocket. The sky was still there, up there above him, blue and vast and home to the clouds he talked to as a young boy. It's going to be fine, he mumbled to himself. But was it, was it really?

Do you have any idea why he did it?

He could hear her voice ringing loudly in his ears, laced with judgment and suspicion. Barton popped open the car door and fell into the front seat. He urged himself to take a breath, a deep breath, then attempted to fit the key in the ignition, but found it astonishingly small and hard to find. His vision turned to soup. A wave of nausea shot up from his stomach and lodged inside his esophagus. His attempts at breathing seemed clumsy and worthless; he was sucking air, that much he knew, but it was air that felt empty.

From behind the wheel, Barton Macray squinted in the direction of Mrs. Sale, who was standing ten yards in front of The Guidance House, her mouth agape, her eyes as big as nickels. Barton’s heart was racing, convulsing, pounding at the walls of his chest like a raving lunatic inside a locked room.

Jesus, he gasped. Jesus H. Christ.

CHAPTER TWO

Myles Cyberia stood inside a corner office on the twenty-seventh floor of The Myan Business Tower, his attention captured by the small blue traffic helicopter that hovered magically outside the window. It rose slightly, then rotated eastward on its axis, and Myles could see two people inside, wearing large headphones and dark aviator sunglasses.

On his desk sat a personal computer, two rows of neatly lined-up manila folders and a leather appointment book, closed. Two metal chairs were positioned in front of his desk, slightly angled toward one another. A white bookcase stood against the adjacent wall, its shelves full of corporate tax codes, the economic theories of Adam Smith and other titles befitting a Chief Financial Officer. There were photographs, too. Neatly framed and standing proudly at attention. There was one in particular, of Myles and a long-time friend, posing inside the doubles alley of the tennis court, their wool socks shaded orange from the clay.

A loud knock at the door startled Myles.

Come in, he said.

You wanted to see me? Jack Syms stood in the doorway. He was tall and slight, dressed in a black turtleneck and black jeans.

Yes, I did. Come in. Have a seat.

Jack stepped over to the couch and slowly lowered himself downward. His green eyes danced nervously around the office. He smacked his lips once, then again. Jack was a copywriter in his late-thirties, who, like all reasonably accomplished writers, carried a pad and pen in his hand, as though an idea worth jotting down might flash through his brain at any time. It had been Barton’s idea to recruit him six years earlier from the city magazine where he had been a features reporter, and Jack had since established himself as the advertising agency’s best copywriter.

Myles walked toward the door, peered out into the hallway, then shut the door quietly. The rising sun cast the office in an eerie, orange glow.

Jack, you’re the senior writer on the War Games account, isn't that right?

Jack nodded affirmatively.

You’ve been on the account, what, five years?

Jack nodded again.

You know the General?

Jack smirked cautiously. "Ah, well, I’m not sure anyone can know the General." He placed his pad and pen on the cushion next to him.

I don’t mean knowing him out of the office, Myles said.

Jack’s face went blank.

Myles sighed. I’m confusing you, aren’t I? That’s my fault. I’m sorry. Myles took a deep breath, then retrieved one of the chairs by his desk and pulled it back toward the couch. He turned it around to face Jack and sat down. Myles leaned forward.

Jack, let me come right to the point. I have a situation on my hands.

A situation?

Well, yes. It seems the General called earlier this week wanting to talk with Barton, who, as you know, handles his business.

Jack pursed his lips and stared pensively at Myles, whose face was only two feet from his own. Myles continued talking:

Of course, Barton isn’t in the office this week. And The General said it was of dire importance that he talk with someone right away, and Meredith saw fit to direct the General’s call to me. Probably because I’m the other partner here, even if I am just 'the bean counter'.

Myles laughed. Jack smiled nervously.

Anyway, the situation is this: General Z is coming in for a meeting this morning. He has input for us on an upcoming ad campaign, the release of a new flight simulation game, something to do with a helicopter, based on the Apache I think, something like that. Anyway, I tried to hold him off until Monday when Barton would be back, but no go. He leaves town this afternoon for the islands and wants to see something as soon as he gets back. Now I’ve done a lot of studying up on the account, but you’ve been in the trenches – pardon the pun – for five years, so I could use your help. Myles stared into Jack’s eyes.

Well, sure. Okay. Jack rubbed the thighs of his pants, and then asked, did you call Barton? I mean he’s not on vacation or anything. He told me he would be around, that if anything came up, I should just call --

Do you know why he’s not around? Myles interrupted.

Jack nodded no.

Well, that’s the thing. Myles shook his head sadly. This stays between us, okay? Myles didn’t wait for Jack to respond before adding, he’s having terrible trouble with his son. His marriage, too. He needs some time. Myles stood up from the chair and began walking toward the window, his back towards Jack. Barton told me the same thing, ‘just call if something comes up.’ Myles turned around, facing Jack, who was leaning back on the couch, looking out of breath. But I don’t know, Jack, it seems to me like we’re doing him a favor, you know? Giving him some time by himself.

Yea, I guess so, Jack mumbled, sounding unconvinced.

It must be terrible to deal with, Myles sighed. Having a son who almost killed someone.

Killed someone! Jack was suddenly sitting straight up, as though an electric shock had pierced his spine. His son almost killed someone?

Son-of-a-bitch... I’ve said too much. I apologize. It’s none of our business, really. Except that… Myles speech started trailing off then stopped suddenly. He rubbed the back of his neck. Look, he whispered, Barton is a friend first, and a business partner second. I just want to do what I think is right, keeping in mind what’s he going through and all.

Jack blew a deep, labored breath from his cheeks.

We’ll bring him up to speed first thing Monday, Myles said calmly.

Yea, okay.

Myles smiled. Thanks Jack. The General will be here inside the hour.

Jack stood up from the couch, snatching his pen and paper as he rose. He took one small step, and then stopped suddenly. He uncapped his pen, feverishly scratched something down, re-capped his pen, then clicked open the door. Office sounds streamed over his shoulder and onto Myles’ desk: computers buzzing, coffee brewing, copy machines groaning.

Tentatively, like a baseball player venturing off first base, Jack stepped into the hall.

You can keep it open, Myles announced through a grin. The door. Just keep it open.

Jack nodded. Slowly, he followed his drifting thoughts around the corner and disappeared from Myles’ sight.

Myles strode across the carpeted office and lifted a photograph from its perch: He and Barton, smiling in the sun, their tennis shorts as white as pearls, their canvas sneakers dusted orange from the clay. It was 1978, and they were a long shot to win so much as one match, blissfully happy just to have qualified as a doubles team for the NCAA tournament. But after knocking off the number two seed from Texas in the first round, Barton and Myles found themselves brimming with confidence. Nothing to lose, they kept telling each other, nothing to lose. In fact, they did not lose a single set in the next four matches, and after three days of startling the white-collar tennis establishment, they found themselves in the championship match against the top-seeded team from Stanford.

Myles played confidently in the first set, which he and Barton won in a tie breaker, but then began tiring under the blazing sun, losing command of his forehand, spraying his volleys wide, twice double faulting on break points. They lost the second set 6-2, and in the third and deciding set, Myles was of little help. His volleys had turned weak and tentative, his service return inept and predictable. Barton, on the other hand, had played brilliantly. He seemed three inches taller, quicker than Myles ever remembered, more intense than he had ever seen. Barton took full command of the match, furiously pumping his fists with each point won, ripping cross-court winners, deftly angling his volleys, lobbing with astonishing disguise, unloading nine service aces – including a rocket on match point.

The next day’s headline had read, Macray leads UCal to tennis title.

Myles directed his gaze away from the photograph and toward the windows that stretched floor to ceiling. The helicopter was gone. It had darted out of sight – how long ago Myles couldn't be sure – but he was left with nothing to study but the blue expanse of morning sky. The fact that it was blue and not gray proved noteworthy in and of itself, since record rainfalls had pounded the region for three relentless weeks. It was a peaceful blue, as seamless as a tablecloth, uninterrupted by so much as a single stitch of cloud. Myles thought to himself that it was going to be a perfect day.

***

Mr. Macray. Mr. Macray! Are you alright? Freeda Sale was hunched over and staring deeply into the side of Barton’s face. You’ve been out here for twenty minutes, she cried. Are you alright? Should I call a doctor? You look like maybe you could use a doctor.

The sound of her voice pulled him back to the surface. His vision had been restored. His heart had stopped racing, and he could feel his fingertips, really feel them, as warm as clay. Barton turned to look at her.

I’m fine, he said matter-of-factly.

You weren’t just a couple minutes ago. Good heavens. I thought you were going to fall --

Oh, that. Barton waved his hand playfully. Probably just my hay fever.

Hay fever!?

That’s right. Shuts down my whole system.

At this time of year? I don’t --

Barton quickly reached past Mrs. Sale’s thin waist and grabbed hold of the car door. He began drawing it shut, forcing her to shuffle back and out of the way.

Mr. Macray!

My wife will call tomorrow, he said just before slamming the door. To see how things are going. Barton started the ignition and threw the car into reverse. Mrs. Sale remained in place, arms folded across her chest, frowning. Her dress fluttered in the breeze like a flag.

Barton shifted into first and began down the long muddy strip of ground that led away from the farmhouse. The driveway ended after a hundred yards or so, spilling out onto Route DD. Barton paused the car, took a deep breath, opened the window and draped his left arm outside. The fumes from cow manure and truck oil rose from the ground like steam, collaborating in such a way that it formed a ghastly morning odor. A clay-colored pickup truck chugged by, an old Ford carrying crates full of live chickens. Small white feathers floated like confetti in the wake of the truck’s path. Is there cause for celebration?

Barton began pulling onto the road when he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw two small figures emerge on the porch. With a press of the brakes, he stopped the car and peered back toward the farmhouse.

He opened the door slowly and stepped free from the Volvo. The road seemed to be hissing. The morning sun rested on his shoulders, and his ears felt as warm as soup. Barton craned his neck slightly to see through the trees that lined the drive, to see the farmhouse and its porch, to see the boys who had appeared in its shadow. They had no idea Barton was watching them, standing in the middle of the road from a hundred yards away and watching them, following their every move, no matter how small or insignificant. Neither boy was Lance, and although it was difficult to make out many details from such a distance, the boys appeared clean-cut and quiet. Short hair, subtle mannerisms, no smoking. Barton rubbed his eyes and look harder. Then harder still. He wondered if his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, helping him to see a couple of young innocent boys because that’s what he wanted to see, needed to see: a pair of role models for Lance, kids who were disciplined and respectful and trustworthy, kids who might be able to help his son.

The boys moved freely about the porch, and then stepped down into the yard. They lingered outside, their hands in their pockets. They could run at any minute, Barton thought to himself. Dash across the fields, hop the short stone fence, make it to the road, hitch a ride. It was something Barton was worried about, something he had asked Mrs. Sale about during their initial phone conversation: Lance has a history of running away, he had told her. Six different times. Is that something I should be concerned about?

We don’t lock them in, if that’s what you’re asking. She had paused, then robustly followed up: If we don’t show these boys that we trust them, they’ll never trust us. That’s the key, Mr. Macray. Earning their trust. It’s everything.

From his place at the end of the driveway, Barton took one last look at the boys, as well as the farmhouse, then slipped back in the car and started down Route DD. It was dotted with brown clumps of dirt, clumps that had been run over a hundred times and were now as hard as rock. Barton’s car sped along, thumping loudly every other second. The road snaked its way between acres of soggy farmland, land that appeared tired and worn-out, littered with red tractors and crippled plows.

Every half mile or so, posted along the rambling line of barbed wire, were No Hunting signs. It was a simple declaration, No Hunting, but it stirred