Bitter Falls

by Caine, Rachel

  That frightens me sometimes. Letting anyone that close, giving anyone that power over me . . . it’s both thrilling and terrifying. But at moments like these it’s precious indeed.

  I submit my finished reports, photos, and financial findings in the Kingston investigation to my boss. J. B. Hall owns the private detective agency I work for, and she’s a hell of a smart, tough woman.

  She acknowledges receipt, and she’ll be the one to review the work, document the findings, and present it in a client-friendly way to the final customer. The board of directors won’t find it very palatable, though they’ll almost certainly hear about his arrest well before the report arrives.

  I’m just as glad to not be on that end of things. I have too much drama in my life.

  J. B.’s already sent me more work, I realize. I open her message. This is an odd one, she says. Cold case of a missing young man, and you’d think it would be the parents hiring us, but it’s not. It’s a nonprofit foundation. Maybe on behalf of the parents? It’s unclear, so go carefully. It’s so thin that really all we need to do is check the boxes. And it’s in your neck of the woods. Take a look?

  I download the file attachment. It’s a not-very-thick police report about a missing person: a young man who vanished from a bar on a night out with his friends. He is—was?—a senior at University of Tennessee in Knoxville. The facts are slight and sketchy. Remy Landry, twenty-one years old, white, originally from Louisiana.

  Remy had gone out with six friends on a Friday night and hit two different bars with the group. When they finally regrouped at the second bar, Remy was nowhere to be found. They’d all assumed he’d hooked up with someone and left, but texts and calls to his cell hadn’t been answered. He had his own car. It was found parked and locked back at the campus. That made sense; he’d ridden to the bars with his friends.

  Surveillance footage attached to the digital file shows Remy at the first bar; the compiled footage shows him ordering drinks, dancing with his friends, chatting up girls. Seeing him makes me feel cold inside: he’s a handsome kid with an easy smile, strong and lean and agile. He looks like he’s on top of the world. The only odd thing is that he’s carrying a backpack. I wonder if that’s why the police assumed he was a runaway.

  The second bar doesn’t have as much footage, but it catches Remy and his friends arriving at the club, and the friends leaving. There’s a note on the file that says the back exit had no surveillance camera, but that they’d viewed every minute of footage from the front. Remy had come in. He’d never left, not by that door. And he’d taken that backpack.

  The police had done a thorough search of the club and turned up nothing. They hadn’t acted immediately, of course. The search had been done days later. Nobody takes missing college students—particularly missing young men—that seriously, especially if they don’t come home from a bar. Not when there’s no obvious evidence of a crime.

  He’d been gone a long time before anyone believed it was a problem. And he’d vanished into thin air. No clues. No witnesses that the police had been able to locate.

  And that was when I realized the date of the disappearance.

  Three years ago.

  I text J. B. This thing is way cold. Are there any new leads?

  My business cell rings a minute after I send the text, and I pick it up to hear J. B.’s warm, confident voice. “You’re asking about new leads in the Remy Landry case, and we don’t have any. I’ll be honest, the police did a pretty decent investigation once they got on it. Not sure who this nonprofit is that’s paying for our work, but it seems like it’s church-related. I’m digging into it.”

  “You sound like you have a bad feeling about this one,” I say. I know J. B. pretty well by now, and her instincts are razor sharp.

  “I do. And yet . . . something happened to this young man. Regardless of the people who are putting up money, finding out what happened has to be a good thing for his parents.” She sighs. “You’re a mother too. You know.”

  I do. The thought of one of my kids disappearing, never to be seen again . . . it keeps me awake at night. I know how much darkness there is out there.

  I know the predators swimming in it like sharks.

  “I can start by talking to the parents,” I tell her. “They’re in Louisiana?”

  “The mom’s in Knoxville, which is why I’m sending it to you. The dad’s still living in their house in Louisiana. Running the business.”

  I’m already nodding. “In case the kid shows up at the family home,” I say. “I’ll talk to the mom first, then.”

  “Tread lightly, and be gentle. Their marriage isn’t in good shape.” That’s also not surprising. A lot of couples fall apart after the disappearance or death of a child. Especially an only child like Remy Landry.

  “I’ll be careful. Did they ever find anything else? Something that didn’t make it to the file?”

  “No. No cell phone traces, no leads from friends, nothing from bar patrons. Nobody saw anything. Like I said . . . it’s frustrating. Like chasing shadows. But if we can offer some closure to this family . . .”

  I don’t like being anyone’s last resort. “And if I can’t come up with anything new?”

  “Then maybe that’s also an answer. Maybe they’ll finally let go,” she says. “Sometimes we’re just there to mark the boxes and cash the check. It’s part of the job, Gwen. Like it or not.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll go over everything one more time.” I hesitate. “And . . . what if I find something?”

  “I sincerely hope you don’t, unless it’s a real breakthrough that helps us find him,” J. B. says. “But I’d like to give these parents whatever peace we can, one way or another. You find anything, you bring it to me and we’ll do our best.”

  “You don’t think he’s alive, do you?”

  “Three years on, without a single confirmed sighting, with his credit cards and phone unused? What young man does that?”

  “No history of mental illness? Drugs?”

  “Casual drugs, same as most college kids. But negative on mental illness. Whatever happened to him, I don’t think he had a sudden psychotic break in a college bar.”

  She’s right, of course.

  “And . . . you’re going to keep digging into who hired us, right?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Back to you as soon as I find out more.”

  I thank her for the work and get off the phone, and then I start to dig.

  Remy Landry seems like a normal young man for his age. A little wild, but nothing out of the ordinary. A bit of a player with a string of ex-girlfriends, but none of them seem more than normally annoyed at him. Like J. B. said, his friends admitted to club drugs and pot use, but Remy was body-conscious; whatever he took, or drank, he did it in relative moderation. I look at his selfies and watch videos on his social media pages. He’s a handsome guy with a bright, easy smile and the confidence of someone who’s never doubted he’s going to succeed. He was loved. His friends clearly enjoyed his company.

  What makes a guy like that disappear from a crowded bar in the middle of a night out? My instinctive answer is a girl, but I don’t see him paying special attention to anyone on the footage.

  I spend a couple of hours combing through files, making notes, then review the attached video surveillance footage from the bars twice more. J. B. has noted where my guy appears on the recording, but I log into the cloud and start the full video from the time that Remy and his friends arrive at the club. I want to watch every camera and every second. Maybe someone missed something. Maybe someone around him seems suspicious. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know that if it’s there, I’ll see it.

  Only I don’t. I don’t see anything.

  By the time my personal phone rings at two in the afternoon, I’m tired, achy, and yawning; I put the camera footage on pause and snatch up my phone because I’m half-desperate for a break anyway. I check the number.

  It’s my son. He never calls f
rom school unless there’s an emergency—usually with Lanny, who’s more of a trouble magnet than Connor.

  I answer and feel my heart kick-start to a faster rhythm. “Connor? What is it?”

  I hear noise, but not my son’s voice. Then an adult—a woman—says, “Ms. Proctor?” She sounds scared. I feel the whole world lurch around me. This isn’t okay. Not at all.

  “Is my son all right?” My voice comes fast and full of dread.

  “Yes,” she says. “Well. Relatively. This is Mrs. Prowd, I’m your son’s—”

  “History teacher,” I say. My mouth has gone dry, my hand tense on the phone. “What’s wrong?”

  “There was an, ah, altercation during our drill—”

  “What drill?” I say, and then I remember. It’s like the floor falls from under me. I should have known this. Connor’s reluctance to go to the school today makes total, blinding sense. I was advised but I had the date wrong. Oh my God.

  Today was his active shooter drill at school.

  “Look, I’m sorry, I should have talked to him about it,” I say to the woman on the other end of the line. “If he didn’t act appropriately, I’ll talk to him. He’s going to counseling for—”

  She takes a deep, audible breath. “Connor’s been taken to the hospital.”

  “What?” I’m on my feet, the chair zipping across the room on its wheels and banging hard into the wall. I barely notice. I’m clutching the phone so tightly now that the edges dig into my skin. “Is he okay?”

  “He may have a broken nose,” she says. “There were three of them involved.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “There was a fight in the classroom,” she says. “I’m sorry—”

  “Which hospital?” I demand, but then I correct myself. There’s only one ER in town. “Norton General.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m really sorry. I tried—”

  I hang up while she’s still talking. I’m already on the way to the door, grabbing keys and purse and punching in the alarm code to disarm the system.

  I’m halfway to my car when I see the shiny sprinkle of window glass on the pavement and remember, too late, that I’m a sitting duck out here.

  I stop. I turn toward the tree line and make a slow half circle. If they’re out there, I want the Belldenes to see that I am not fucking afraid of them.

  If they’re out there, they don’t let me know.

  3

  CONNOR

  I’ve been having the dream again. The one where there’s a man with a gun, and he’s coming after me. I can hear his footsteps. I’m in the dark, trying to get away, but he keeps coming, no matter how hard I run. I don’t remember how I get home, but then I’m just inside, standing there, and everybody’s dead. Mom’s on the floor. Sam’s slumped over at the table. I can’t really see Lanny, except for her feet sticking out from behind the kitchen counter, but I know she’s dead too.

  Then I feel the barrel of a gun against my head in this cold, perfect circle, and my dead dad’s voice says, “I’ll always come for you, kid,” and I wake up shaking and wanting to throw up.

  I always have these dreams before school shooter drills. I never tell Mom, because she hates the drills, hates the whole idea of them, but she also wants me to know what to do. And I have learned. Run, hide, fight—it’s been said to us so often I wonder where “learn” fits in.

  The first time I had to do it, it was in a school in Massachusetts, and I didn’t really mind; I was a little kid, and it felt a little bit like a game. But here in Tennessee they really get into it. They run it like they’re training us for the military.

  I lied to Mom this morning when she came to talk to me; she thought it was bullies and I let her. It’s easier. It’s something she can understand. She grew up in a world where you were safe at school, or at least where bullies were the worst thing that could happen besides tornadoes and fires.

  But that’s not how it is now.

  They’ve told us there’s going to be a drill today, but we don’t know when. So I spend the whole day waiting for it, not listening to the teachers, not paying attention to anything, because I’m waiting for the alarm tones to go off to tell us to shelter.

  It finally happens in history. I hear the tones, and the PA says, “Attention. This is a drill.”

  I’m already falling into nightmare. I’m sitting in a brightly lit classroom with twenty other kids, but I feel like I’m alone in the dark with a monster. I can hear it coming. Him coming. I see Mom and Sam and Lanny dead just like in the dream.

  My teacher is trying to be calm and telling us to execute our plan. I don’t remember a plan. I don’t remember anything. I keep thinking about the dream. My dad’s voice saying he’ll always come for me. Is this how it happens? Is he sending somebody after me again?

  I flinch because now it’s not in my head, I’m really hearing gunshots. And screams. That’s not me having a flashback—the sounds are echoing all around us.

  People are moving, but I’m frozen in place. Students are shoving their desks around to block the door. One wraps a belt around the slow-close hinge at the top of the door to jam it shut, while a girl, hands shaking, pushes thick rubber stoppers under the door to keep it closed against kicks.

  There’s a newly installed deadbolt, and I hear somebody turn it with a click. Someone tapes a poster over the glass window so whoever’s outside can’t see in. They’ve put it up with the image facing us. George Washington giving us the thumbs-up, with neon letters around him saying HISTORY IS AWESOME.

  Most of the students have already fled to the corners, huddling together. Some are crying and screaming, too, because the gunshots and the noises are so loud, and all I can think about is my mom on the floor, bleeding. Sam dead at the kitchen table. Lanny’s motionless feet sticking out.

  My father’s voice whispers in my ear. I’ll always come for you, kid. You’re mine.

  I feel like I’m falling down a black, black hole, and there’s no bottom. My skin’s cold. I can’t move. It’s like I’m in a cage but I’m just sitting there at my desk. I keep screaming at myself to move but I can’t.

  Someone bangs on the door from outside and tries to shove it open.

  The teacher’s shouting at me, but I don’t know what she’s saying. I hear only the gunshots. The screams. I can’t move.

  Then there’s someone right next to me, grabbing me, and I think, I’m not going to die today, and without even thinking about it I pick up the stapler that’s under my desk—we’re supposed to throw staplers at anybody who gets in, I remember. But instead of throwing it I wrap my fist around it and punch him. Hard enough that I feel something twinge in my hand with a bright zip like electricity. I don’t stop. I hit him again. He’s screaming, but so is everybody else, and the pop-pop-pop of the gunshots is still echoing from overhead, and all I can think is, I got him. I got him. I’m safe now.

  Then someone else jumps on me. I hit him too. Then a bunch of them have me out of my desk, and I’m down on the floor. Everybody’s yelling. Someone’s kicking my hand to make me let go of the stapler, and now I’m yelling too. I’m screaming, Make it stop, and finally . . . it does.

  No more gunshots. No more screaming. It’s quiet. I’m curled up on the floor and there’s blood smeared red on the old linoleum floor. I see a yellow hair ribbon next to me, a broken phone, fallen schoolbooks, a tipped-over backpack. I look up to see the stark faces of my classmates. They’re all staring at me.

  The teacher’s standing over me, calling my name, but I don’t answer. I don’t know what to do anymore. I just shut my eyes.

  “It’s just a drill!” one of the guys on the floor a few feet away is sobbing. I open my eyes and realize that I know him. He’s not a shooter. He’s in my class. It’s Aaron Moore, everybody here just calls him Bubba. He’s holding a hand to his cheek, where he’s dripping blood. One of his hands is swelling up too. Another one of my classmates is down next to him. Hank. He’s whimpering and holding his jaw with both han
ds. Blood’s dripping from his mouth.

  Blood’s on the stapler lying on the floor between us.

  I did this.

  I’m the monster.

  “Are those real gunshots?” someone is shouting at our teacher. Kids are quietly crying. Holding on to each other. “Is someone really shooting?”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s just a drill, calm down, everybody please calm down,” my teacher says. She bends down next to me, and touches me on the shoulder. “Connor? Connor, can you hear me?” Her fingers are shaking. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to. “Brock, get that door open. Run and get Principal Loughlin. Tell him we need an ambulance. Two ambulances. Go!”

  Brock’s a skinny kid with glasses. He looks scared to death, but he runs over to the door and starts pushing desks away. Someone helps. It takes a while for them to get all the barriers out of the way. By the time they get the door open again, I’m slowly realizing that I did something really, really bad.

  But I heard gunshots. Real gunshots. Real screams. I don’t understand why this is happening.

  Then the PA comes on, and someone says, “Attention, everyone: there is no active shooter, I repeat, there is no active shooter on the premises. For the purposes of today’s drill, we used a recording of gunshots to simulate the environment you might encounter if an actual shooting were to occur. There were no gunshots fired. Teachers, please remain calm and encourage your students to follow their coping strategies. This concludes today’s active shooter drill. Thank you.”

  He says thank you. I don’t know why he would say that.

  I’m listening to people crying, and the boy whose jaw I broke—Henry Charterhouse—is glaring at me with blood all over his face, and I can still hear those gunshots echoing in my head around and around and around.

  I don’t have a coping strategy for this.

  Once I start crying I can’t stop. They give me a shot when they put me on a rolling bed to take me to the ambulance, and it makes everything go soft at the edges and fuzzy and I quit fighting them so much, but I’m trying to tell them that he’s here even though I know that isn’t right either. There is nobody. Dad wasn’t after me. Dad’s dead.