Calling Home by Michael Cadnum Page B

“Anything,” he said slowly, “at all.”
    Mr. Williams turned his hand palm up. “Mrs. Litton is tremendously upset. The poor, tormented lady.”
    â€œIt’s awful,” I squeaked. “I had no idea.”
    â€œYou had no idea at all that Mead Litton was missing, none whatsoever, until this moment as you sat here in this room?” asked Inspector Ng.
    â€œNo,” I said, and the lie of it, knowing that it was a lie, climbed up my head like a monkey and tried to peek out at Inspector Ng through my eyes. I took a deep breath and told myself that if I had ever, in my whole life, shown any composure, this was the time to bring it back; this was the time to be a genius, this was the time to let my face lie for me so well that I could stand among these enemies like Daniel in the Den of Lions and walk free, completely unharmed.
    I looked to the floor, at Inspector Ng’s black shoes, noticed that they needed to be polished but that his pants wore a hard crease, and looked up, the perfect liar. “No, I didn’t know anything about it. We hung around a lot, but he didn’t tell me any of his plans.”
    â€œI can believe it. That Litton kid is very low IQ. A behavior problem from nursery school,” said Mr. Tyler.
    I looked into Mr. Tyler, seeing inside Mr. Tyler’s intestines ropes made of IQ tests, and all the other tests students take by marking spots on pieces of paper they will feed into a computer. I shot the thought into his dried-up guts that what Mead had was something Mr. Tyler would never understand, and which all the computers in the world could not detect. But the face I showed Mr. Tyler was one of concern and humility.
    Inspector Ng shrugged his shoulders. “We have to follow up on every possibility in a case like this, even when it is purely routine and the subject in question has probably, in all likelihood simply—” Inspector Ng closed his notebook—“taken a hike.”
    â€œBut,” said Mr. Williams, “if you hear from Mead in any way, you will please let an administrator know. His poor mother is so distraught. My word, it is a trial to be a parent.”
    â€œThe young have no comprehension. None at all,” said Mr. Tyler.
    Inspector Ng said nothing. He tucked his notebook into his pocket, and clipped his pen into his shirt, and smiled at me, suddenly. He believed me, the smile said. This was all purely routine. I was a good, slightly mixed-up kid, who was, basically, harmless. But also, far inside the smile, I saw another Inspector Ng, an Inspector Ng who crouched, holding a thirty-eight with both hands, and shot holes in people he didn’t like.
    I found Lani sorting through books in her locker. For someone who was so healthy and sure of herself, she had a very messy locker, all trash and shoved-in books. Lani liked to read, and her locker was a jumble of mystery stories and inspirational biographies of famous athletes.
    â€œI heard you were in trouble,” she said, looking at me carefully.
    â€œNo. No trouble. I want to go to the zoo. Want to come along?”
    She showed very slight surprise. “I have softball practice, Peter, and it’s late in the day to go to the zoo, isn’t it? We could go on Saturday.”
    â€œI feel like seeing some animals in prison. I feel a great kinship with them.”
    She studied me and, as always, I had the sense that she really saw me, the actual human, and not simply what she expected to see.
    The zoo was nearly empty, but warm and sunny in the late afternoon. We stood before a weedy plot of dirt, and an aqua-green pool of peeling paint and water. Two alligators lay before us, torpid as lengths of meat.
    â€œI hate seeing animals penned up,” said Lani. “It makes me so sad.”
    â€œMead is missing,” I said, staring at the gigantic reptiles.
    â€œWhat happened!”
    â€œThey think he ran away.”
    â€œWhy would he run