Hunt for a Phantom Read online

  Hunt for a Phantom

  A Mark Banning Mystery

  Stephen L. Brooks

  DEERSTALKER EDITIONS

  Copyright © 2019 Stephen L. Brooks

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-58873-002-2

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOG

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was one of those rare evenings. It was six o’clock, and the whole family was actually gathered around the dinner table. Al Fleming smiled as he looked around at them.

  His wife, Marge, had just set a bowl of steamed vegetables on the table and taken her place. She was about five-seven, blond with a perennial golden hue to her skin. Her eyes were large and a sharp blue. The task of bearing two children had filled out her once slender figure, but Al liked the way she looked just fine. She was a fine cook, a good mother, and she had put up with him for nearly twenty years, which was sometimes quite the chore.

  Grace, their daughter, had inherited her mother’s coloring, and cut a clean, healthy figure. She was athletic, and played on the girl’s lacrosse team at Parkville High. Her natural skills didn’t make her immune from injury, and she was recovering from a sprained ankle which had kept her from playing for the last few weeks.

  Rick, her brother, was heir to his father’s olive skin and dark, curly hair. As he was two years younger than Grace, they both attended the high school. He also played sports, and was on the school soccer team. There was no game tonight, though Al deduced from his son’s restlessness that he might even be imagining himself on the field even now, instead of sitting down to dinner.

  Al was tall, his dark hair thinning, receding, and running with strands of gray. He had been a guard on his high school basketball team, and played a bit in college on scholarship, until injury forced him off the team. He worked his way through the remaining years, finishing a couple of years after the guys he had started with. Age had blessed the injury with arthritis, and he limped sometimes when first rising from a chair. His dreams of a pro basketball career had deflated into a mundane job as an accountant with HUD, but it was a living that, with some judicious financial planning, provided for his family.

  “It’s good for us all to be able to share a meal, even if it’s just once a week.”

  Grace and Rick groaned. Al knew they both had things they had rather be doing than having dinner with their parents.

  “When I was growing up, it wasn’t an issue,” he continued. “My brothers and I had dinner with our parents every night. Even though we all had sports or clubs we were in. Now, your Uncle Ken for example, was on the chess team. And Uncle Bill was on the track team. Made and broke his own records, several times over.”

  The kids concentrated on their meals, eating faster than usual.

  Al glanced at Marge, who shook her head.

  He wasn’t getting through to them. Sure, they had heard all this before, a number of times. He watched them eat. They had always eaten fast, as though a meal was something to get over with as soon as possible in order to do other things. What was their particular hurry tonight? They didn’t eat this fast even when headed for a game. Guess they figured the sooner they finished, the sooner they could be excused, and not have to listen to dad.

  “I’m starting a tradition tonight,” he said. “A family meeting.”

  The kids didn’t groan audibly, but he felt it in their body language.

  “We don’t often have evenings like this, when we’re all together. Whenever we do, from now on, we’ll have a family meeting while we eat.”

  Rick was nearly finished his plate.

  “Slow down, Rick, and give it time to digest.”

  Rick put his fork down. There were only a bite or two of each item left.

  “Now. What are you studying in history now, Grace?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s American History this year, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And we’re just coming up to mid-term. Now, when I was in school that was about the time we were talking about the Civil War. In fact, we were almost through it.”

  “Yeah. The Civil War. That’s right.”

  “Good. Have you studied the battle of Gettysburg yet?”

  “Gettysburg? Maybe. Wasn’t there something about a speech?”

  “Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. We had to memorize it, or at least part of it. Do you have to learn any of it?”

  “No. I remember Lincoln made a speech there, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t learn about the battle?”

  “The teacher doesn’t like to talk about war. He thinks it’s immoral.”

  “Did he tell you the Civil War was immoral?”

  She nodded.

  “What did he tell you the Civil War was about?”

  “I dunno. Something about the north seceding from the south.”

  “No, the south seceded from the north. Did he tell you why?”

  “Something called states’ rights.”

  Al nodded. “Yes, that was part of it. Didn’t you discuss slavery?”

  “Slavery?”

  “Yes. The southern plantation owners had slaves, who worked in their fields. Didn’t you learn about that?”

  “No.” She sounded like she didn’t want to learn about it, either.

  “You didn’t learn that a lot of the black people in those days were slaves to some of the rich southerners?”

  “No. And they’re not black. They’re African American.”

  “When I was your age, we called them Negroes. Then in the Sixties, most preferred to be called black. It’s an old habit.

  “But it’s beside the point. You didn’t learn about slavery?”

  “No. Why should we?”

  “Well, slavery wasn’t the only cause of the Civil war, but it was one of them. That’s mainly what the Lincoln/Douglas debates were about.”

  Grace picked at her food. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “Usually you clean your plate and ask for seconds. At least finish what you have.”

  She resumed eating.

  Al glanced at Marge for help.

  “What about you, Rick? How’s school going for you?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Algebra. I don’t get it. I’ll never use it in real life.”

  “No? Well, algebra is problem solving. It teaches you to think.”

  Marge was making as much progress with Rick as Al had with Grace.

  “I don’t want to think. I want to play pro soccer.”

  “Well, you’ll still have to study algebra.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, that’s what you have to do right now. Study algebra, history, English, science, all those things.”

  “I’m passing in school.”

  “Yes, just passing. Your report card was all C’s and a D last semester.”

  Rick shrugged.

  “All right, here’s the deal; and you should know this already. There’s a road you have to take to get to the pros. That may seem way ahead, but you have to train yourself for it now. You know that you have to keep your grades up to stay on the team.”

  Rick’s shrug this time was reluctantly acquiescent.

  “I’ll bet you’ve already heard that from
coach on more than one occasion.”

  “Yeah.”

  There probably had been a note from the coach as well, which Rick had yet to show him; but Al let that slide for now. “So to stay on the team, you have to study too. We know you’re a good player; you have to be a good student, too. And you know where that will lead?”

  Rick tried to hide it, but was beginning to have interest.

  “College recruiters will start checking out your games soon. And you know who they’ll want to see? The guys who are scholars as well as athletes. And if you work hard, that will be you.”

  Rick was more obviously thinking it over now.

  “And that can lead to a scholarship. And it’s the pro recruiters who look out for college players who also have the smarts. And, a few years from now, that might be you again. How about that?”

  Instead of acknowledging that he understood, Rick decided to be fifteen and shrug again.

  Al regarded Marge with a shrug of his own that meant, “Well, I tried!”

  Marge shook her head at Al.

  Both their children hurried and finished their plates, asking almost simultaneously to be excused.

  “All right. But do your homework,” Al admonished.

  “And let us check it when you’re done.”

  “I finished mine in study hall,” Grace said as she hurried out of the kitchen.

  “Me too.” Rick was right behind her.

  They bounded up the steps, Rick shoving at his sister to get by, and her punching him in the arm. He punched her back, and there was a quick giggling roughhouse before they went to their separate rooms.

  Al rose, came to the foot of the stairs, and called up, “Then bring it down so we can check it.”

  “It’s at school.”

  “Mine too.”

  Al sighed and returned to the table. There was a little left on his plate, and he stared at it a long moment.

  “They’re being teenagers,” Marge said. “Nothing we can do about that.”

  “I just wish they realized what they’re throwing away. Their education, their future.”

  “What education? Doesn’t sound like Grace’s history teacher is teaching much.”

  Al shrugged and nodded. “You’re right. How can you teach the Civil War without discussing slavery? And even if he’s some kind of pacifist, he must understand that to teach about peace you have to teach about war. And to teach about war, you have to teach about battles. Especially one as important as Gettysburg.”

  “Now, Al...”

  “And you can’t teach the Civil war without teaching about slavery. She acted like she didn’t even know or care that it had once been a normal thing in this country.”

  “No, she didn’t seem to know or care about it.”

  “Neither does her teacher, I’ll bet. Isn’t there a PTA meeting coming up?”

  “Next Tuesday.”

  “I’ll see if I can make an appointment with this history teacher, and let him know what I think.”

  “Don’t go flying off the handle.”

  “This man needs a piece of my mind. He’s probably one of those liberals who doesn’t know or care about true history. Why do they let such people become teachers, that’s what I want to know.”

  They were both finished, and Marge began collecting plates. “Al, don’t get yourself all worked up. Mind what the doctor said about your blood pressure.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I take my pills.”

  “But I saw all the salt you put on your potatoes and veggies. And it wasn’t the dietary salt, either.”

  “That stuff leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Keep it up, and you won’t live to walk your daughter down the aisle.”

  “Hmph. She’d better not do that any time soon, either.”

  * * *

  It was 11:00, and as Al headed up to bed he passed Grace’s room. Her light was still on, and this was a school night. Her bedtime had passed an hour ago. He opened the door and looked in.

  “Dad! You’re invading my privacy!”

  She was on her laptop, and quickly closed it to hide its secrets. She rose to confront him, coming close to block his view of her room with her body.

  “You only have certain kinds of privacy under my roof, young lady.”

  “I’m gonna keep this door locked from now on!”

  “Go ahead. I know where the keys are.”

  They glared at each other several moments. Al finally spoke.

  “Look, if I thought you were burning the midnight oil doing some extra studying, it would be all right.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “You closed your notebook. Looks to me like there’s something there you don’t want me to see.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll let that go for now, ‘cause it’s late. Turn it off, change your clothes, and get in bed. I want to see that light off in ten minutes.”

  Her eyes were still defiant as she said, “All right. I’ll turn off the light.”

  Al wasn’t satisfied with that, but sometimes with teenagers a Pyrrhic victory is all you’ll get. He said “Good night” and went to the main bedroom. After he had prepared for bed, he crept back down the hall and confirmed that her light was out. He went to bed, intending to set some new rules down and enforce some old ones tomorrow.

  Sleep didn’t come easily, but when it did only minutes seemed to have passed before his clock radio awoke him. Dave Durian and the boys on WBAL AM were adlibbing their usual bantering filler between news and weather reports. After the sports, where he heard for the third time of the Orioles’ latest depressing loss, he pushed himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

  He brushed his teeth, washed, and shaved. Marge, in the meantime, had set his clothes out for him. He always went for office casual, and he pulled on a short-sleeved knit shirt and brown pants. He and Marge tried to keep quiet, as the kids didn’t have to get up until about an hour later. Marge took care of their needs before leaving for her part time job.

  Al went past Rick’s room and saw he was lying asleep. Grace’s room was shut. He tried the handle gently; it was locked. He made a mental note to have a discussion with her about that when he got home.

  They went downstairs and he packed his lunchbox, which carried both breakfast and lunch items. They kissed good-bye at the door and he walked down to the car. Yes, there were quite a few things he wanted to discuss with his offspring after work.

  * * *

  The bus was tied up in traffic on 95 coming home and it was nearly five when he came in the door. Marge was sitting on the sofa in the living room, her features contorted with stress. Rick came down the stairs, his own face vacant of concern.

  “What’s wrong? Al asked. “Rick, is your sister upstairs?”

  “No.”

  “She hasn’t come home yet,” Marge said.

  Al searched his internal calendar. “Did she have lacrosse practice or something?”

  “No. That’s tomorrow.”

  “Did she call?”

  “No. That’s why I’m worried,” Marge said.

  “She’s all right,” Rick said. “She’s probably hanging with Mitch.”

  Ray Mitchell, whose friends called him Mitch, was Grace’s boy friend. He had an old ‘Vette and drove Grace to school each morning.

  “That’s probably it,” Al said. “They probably stopped for a soda after school.”

  Marge looked at him in disbelief. “This isn’t the Fifties, Al. Teens don’t stop for sodas anymore.”

  “Okay, snacks at some fast food joint.”

  “Or maybe parking,” Rick offered.

  Both parents glared at him.

  “And what would you know about that?” Al asked.

  Rick shrugged. “Stuff I hear at school.”

  Al had no desire to delve into his thirteen year old’s vault of knowledge about teen sexual practices. “She might be with Mitch. Have you tried calling?” he asked Marge.

  “No. I
wanted to wait until you were home.”

  Al didn’t want to argue over division of parental responsibilities, either right now. Besides, perhaps Marge was only giving Grace a little extra time to get home before calling.

  The Mitchells’ number was in their phone. He pulled it up and rang it. After a moment or two Joe Mitchell answered.

  “Hi, Joe. This is Al Fleming. Is Ray home?” Joe Mitchell answered that he was. “Put him on for a minute, will you?” Al waited and Mitch soon came on. “Mitch, this is Mr. Fleming. Did you see Grace this afternoon?” He didn’t like the negative answer. “Wasn’t she waiting for you to bring her home?” He liked the second negative answer even less. “Did she tell you where she was going after school?” The third negative answer was three too many. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone, no further along than when he had started.

  He knew the numbers of the parents of some of Grace’s girl friends, and tried each of them. All he obtained were more negative answers. They were not what he wanted to hear.

  He sat down beside Marge and told his wife and son the empty results of his calls. “I’m taking off tomorrow,” he said, “and going to the school. Maybe someone there saw something.”

  * * *

  Joe Mitchell had his own questions for his son. When Mitch hung up the phone, Joe caught him by the arm as he started back up to his room. “Not so fast, son. What was that about?”

  Mitch was about five-nine and lanky, with perpetually unkempt black hair, and heavy eyebrows. His father was about his height, but if he had ever once been built like his son, you’d never know it from his present beer-barrel shape. His formerly black hair was now mostly a wispy memory that tried in vain to cover what it could of his scalp. Mitch faced his father squarely, but with respect as he tried to assemble words for an answer.

  “Mr. Fleming’s looking for Grace,” he finally said.

  “And he thought she might be here?”

  “Yeah. Guess he thought we had a study date or something.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, dad, I don’t.” He frowned as he realized what this might mean. “Does Mr. Fleming think Grace might be missing?”