Huddleston, the Principal.”
“Dr. Huddleston, thank you. I’m Roarke and…”
“Yes,” he interrupted more out of enthusiasm than bad manners. “Ms. Frasier explained. I’m sorry we can’t help with Mr. Lodge’s academic record.”
Roarke noted that Fraser positioned herself directly in front of the ‘L’s,’ as if to block them from view.
“But I do have a telephone number for you,” the principal continued. He handed over a green 3x5 card on which he’d written a name and address. “Pat Sullivan. Theodore Lodge’s English teacher. He lives about three miles from here. No one else is around. It’s hard to keep people in education these days, Mr. Roarke.”
“Thank you,” Roarke said.
“He was everyone’s favorite teacher. I’m sure Pat will have some stories to tell you. He sure could give you an earful about me. We all had him.”
Roarke thanked the principal and made a mental note of precisely where the Lodge file was likely to be kept. He considered recovering it at night, but figured the last thing the president needed was a burglary at a Democratic rival’s high school. No, a break in would not be good. He’d have to make friends on the inside for anything he really needed.
Sullivan lived in a weathered two-story New England shaker facing the harbor. Roarke knocked on the retired teacher’s door three times before a 75-year-old man opened it.
Sullivan wore a green turtle neck sweater and jeans. Roarke instantly saw why students liked him. He had energy and character, sparkling blue eyes and a handshake that said he was happy to meet you. Sullivan was easily twenty years more youthful than his age and probably could still be teaching if he wanted to. But a quick assessment of the hand-carved masks that lined his hallway walls told Roarke that Sullivan now spent most of his time traveling.
After the introductions and pleasantries, Sullivan invited Roarke to sit down.
“Teddy was a great student. I remember him well. He was torn about going to Harvard Essex and he asked me what I thought. I wasn’t his advisor, but he loved English and he was always in after class to discuss the latest books he’d read. He was a big Cheever and Updike fan. I think he even wrote Cheever once and got an answer back. And Teddy had talent, too. He could have been a brilliant writer. But he let a lot of things drop after his parents died. Who knows, maybe he still will. Presidents always write their autobiographies. And Carter wrote a novel.”
“I see you have him elected already.”
“Did you see his speech today?”
“No, did he say he was still running?” Roarke asked.
“No, which means yes.”
“So you still follow him.”
“Well, a bit.” Sullivan showed some disappointment in his voice.
“Did you keep in touch after Teddy went to boarding school?”
“For awhile. A few letters. But after the accident I never heard from him again. Not a letter. Not a visit. Never.”
Roarke understood why his disposition changed.
“Why not, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Pat. Please, it’s Pat. I was only Mr. Sullivan to my students. Actually ‘Sully.’ You know I retired nine years back?”
Roarke nodded. “And it looks like you’ve been keeping busy?”
“Oh?”
“Traveling. You have quite a collection of tribal masks—from the Amazon and South Africa.”
“Very good, Mr. Roarke.”
“Scott.”
“Scott it is. You’ve traveled some yourself?”
“A bit.” Roarke stopped short of saying anymore.
“You asked ‘why not.’ I can only assume that there was too much pain connected with coming home. He was at school in Amesbury, Harvard Essex Academy, when he had his accident and then his mother died. I’m sure he felt responsible for her heart attack. But I don’t know. I’m an English lit teacher, ask a psychologist.”
“And you’ve never talked to him since?”
“Oh, I tried when he got elected to Congress. I sent a letter congratulating him and even proposing that I
“Dr. Huddleston, thank you. I’m Roarke and…”
“Yes,” he interrupted more out of enthusiasm than bad manners. “Ms. Frasier explained. I’m sorry we can’t help with Mr. Lodge’s academic record.”
Roarke noted that Fraser positioned herself directly in front of the ‘L’s,’ as if to block them from view.
“But I do have a telephone number for you,” the principal continued. He handed over a green 3x5 card on which he’d written a name and address. “Pat Sullivan. Theodore Lodge’s English teacher. He lives about three miles from here. No one else is around. It’s hard to keep people in education these days, Mr. Roarke.”
“Thank you,” Roarke said.
“He was everyone’s favorite teacher. I’m sure Pat will have some stories to tell you. He sure could give you an earful about me. We all had him.”
Roarke thanked the principal and made a mental note of precisely where the Lodge file was likely to be kept. He considered recovering it at night, but figured the last thing the president needed was a burglary at a Democratic rival’s high school. No, a break in would not be good. He’d have to make friends on the inside for anything he really needed.
Sullivan lived in a weathered two-story New England shaker facing the harbor. Roarke knocked on the retired teacher’s door three times before a 75-year-old man opened it.
Sullivan wore a green turtle neck sweater and jeans. Roarke instantly saw why students liked him. He had energy and character, sparkling blue eyes and a handshake that said he was happy to meet you. Sullivan was easily twenty years more youthful than his age and probably could still be teaching if he wanted to. But a quick assessment of the hand-carved masks that lined his hallway walls told Roarke that Sullivan now spent most of his time traveling.
After the introductions and pleasantries, Sullivan invited Roarke to sit down.
“Teddy was a great student. I remember him well. He was torn about going to Harvard Essex and he asked me what I thought. I wasn’t his advisor, but he loved English and he was always in after class to discuss the latest books he’d read. He was a big Cheever and Updike fan. I think he even wrote Cheever once and got an answer back. And Teddy had talent, too. He could have been a brilliant writer. But he let a lot of things drop after his parents died. Who knows, maybe he still will. Presidents always write their autobiographies. And Carter wrote a novel.”
“I see you have him elected already.”
“Did you see his speech today?”
“No, did he say he was still running?” Roarke asked.
“No, which means yes.”
“So you still follow him.”
“Well, a bit.” Sullivan showed some disappointment in his voice.
“Did you keep in touch after Teddy went to boarding school?”
“For awhile. A few letters. But after the accident I never heard from him again. Not a letter. Not a visit. Never.”
Roarke understood why his disposition changed.
“Why not, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Pat. Please, it’s Pat. I was only Mr. Sullivan to my students. Actually ‘Sully.’ You know I retired nine years back?”
Roarke nodded. “And it looks like you’ve been keeping busy?”
“Oh?”
“Traveling. You have quite a collection of tribal masks—from the Amazon and South Africa.”
“Very good, Mr. Roarke.”
“Scott.”
“Scott it is. You’ve traveled some yourself?”
“A bit.” Roarke stopped short of saying anymore.
“You asked ‘why not.’ I can only assume that there was too much pain connected with coming home. He was at school in Amesbury, Harvard Essex Academy, when he had his accident and then his mother died. I’m sure he felt responsible for her heart attack. But I don’t know. I’m an English lit teacher, ask a psychologist.”
“And you’ve never talked to him since?”
“Oh, I tried when he got elected to Congress. I sent a letter congratulating him and even proposing that I
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