I’ve got one very fine woman and a good kid waiting for me downstairs. There’s a perfect example of my life philosophy. I’m helping the girls because I get something from it. Exchange of services. I’m only hanging flyers to get out of this crazy fix I’m in.
Or am I?
My heart literally skips a beat when I see Lydia. Her golden hair is up in a ponytail, which usually isn’t my thing I like a girl’s hair down and flowing, but with hers up I can better make out her features. Each time I see her I’m surprised by how lovely she is. Her jawline and cheekbones are smoothly etched, defined, but not harsh or pointy. Even without the benefit of eyeliner and shadow, her blue eyes sparkle. But really, she’s more than the sum of her various parts—her internal sweetness somehow shines through escalating her beauty.
Ugh. Seriously, I’m gushing about her inner beauty like a Hallmark card. Actually, having her around would have been helpful on Day 264 when I was stuck writing Hallmark cards.
I look down at the floor to gain control and pull on Burnsey again. Another second and I’ll be drooling all over her, which would be inappropriate because her brother is missing. I don’t think she’s interested in hearing how beautiful she is at this juncture, especially not from a frumpy teacher at least twelve years her senior.
As the three of us walk to my car, I fill the girls in on Goth Guy’s insight about David. Lydia wants to go to the gas station first. I’m not sure what she expects. She’s not going to find him there, and I doubt the structure will be giving off psychic vibes about his location. Benny and Chuckles have the gas station covered; it’s a much better use of our valuable time and resources to check out other locations. Lydia doesn’t see my logic. Just like a girl, eschew rational thought for a feeling. Oh well, it’s not my dime. I’m supposed to play ball, and saying we’ll go makes her happy. I like seeing her happy, although I’m scared of the fallout that is inevitable. Each passing day means it’s less likely we’ll find David or increases the likelihood we’ll find his body.
What am I thinking? I don’t want to claim that doom just yet, even if it is realistic. When, and if, that does happen I’m glad I’ll be long gone. Seeing Lydia’s world collapse would break my heart. I’m glad I’ll be gone tomorrow; I want to remember her the way she looks right now: hope sparkling in her eyes, determination in her jaw.
We hit the gas station and run into Benny and Chuckles. There is some awkward intercourse before they fill us in on what they’ve got.
“We just finished reviewing the security footage. David was here at 10:37 AM. He paid cash, but we could tell he bought two bottles of Gatorade and what looked like a cigarette lighter.” Benny concludes perfunctorily, closing his notebook with a sharp snap. That’s exactly how I would have played it. Surreal.
“He loves Gatorade,” Lydia says. Then a guilty downward cast of her eyes as she adds, “We can only buy it when it’s on sale.”
“Does he smoke?” Chuckles asks.
“No,” the girls bark in unison.
“That’s kind of a strange purchase. I wonder what he needed it for,” I mutter, but don’t add that a source of fire is invaluable when you’re on the run. One can’t always find shelter, and you might need to sleep or eat outdoors. I don’t think this information will soothe Lydia or Madds, so I keep my yap shut.
“Our witness said he headed over to that bus stop, so we’re over to JTA next to find out which route that is and check for security footage on the bus,” says Benny.
We part ways, but Lydia still wants to look inside. Maybe she is trying to channel her brother. The convenience store is clean and neat, yet still has that vague odor of old hot dogs and Slurpees that all of these establishments exhibit despite the state of repair. We walk to the front where we discover that the 32 oz Gatorades are buy one, get one free.
“He wouldn’t have been able to resist this,” Lydia says, picking one up. “I bet he bought orange and blue.” She’s cradling the bottle as if she were holding a Ming vase instead of some clunky plastic. Maddie picks one up as well. It’s like the bottles are hypnotizing them. The lighters are next to the register on the counter, decorated with different logos: cowboy hats, race cars, skulls. Maddie snatches up the one with the skulls.
“I bet he bought one like this.” Then she grabs one with smiley faces. “Or he might have bought this one because it was ironic.”
I guess I get it. This is the last place David was seen. For both of them, it’s a link to him. Like Stonehenge, the store holds a connection to the past, and they hope lingering there will help them conjure him up. It won’t. David isn’t here anymore. He hasn’t been here for two-and-half days. I lay my hand on Lydia’s shoulder. This is the first time I’ve consciously touched her. Her smooth skin feels warm and soft. Suddenly, I don’t know what to do with my hand. Is it comforting or pervy? Do I leave it there or move it? I resist the urge to yank it off her shoulder because that would definitely be weird.
“We should head on,” I say, removing my hand at what I hope is a normal, uncreepy speed. Lydia clutches the bottle a moment longer, then puts it back in the display. As she’s done so many times in the past two days, she sheds her sorrow and clothes her herself with resolve.
“Come on, Em. We’ve got work to do,” she proclaims and heads out to the car.
She’s already given Madds a nickname. They’re already bonding. For most people, a nickname is a sign of affection. For me, it’s about the job. Nicknames are a quick way to remember people’s attributes and foibles, what makes them an easy target. They are not terms of endearment. Using nicknames also keeps people at bay. If I never call a person by their name, I keep them dehumanized; they are not people, just caricatures.
Huh, once I learned Lydia’s name, that’s all I’ve called her. I wonder what the shrinks at Life Mod would think that means.
We decide to canvass the strip center across from the gas station. There are several stores there, and we hope someone saw him. It’s also a good vantage place for flyers because it’s near both the gas station and the bus stop. The first few stores yield no leads, but they let us put flyers in their windows. Finally, the lady at the Hallmark store recognizes him.
“Yeah, I saw that kid. He was waiting at the door when I opened the shop. Real eager beaver. Bought all of my white pillars.”
“What?” Lydia asks.
The lady walks us over to the candle section of the store. The scent of wax and vanilla assaults our noses.
“He bustles right in and clears me out of my white pillars, five of them. He bought a red one, too. I figured he needed them for some sort of school project. Real nice boy. Paid in cash, then left.”
“Did you see where he went?” I ask.
“Nope, I had another customer.” We ask her to retell the story three more times, but she doesn’t have any more information.
When we explain that he is missing, she expresses sorrow, “Shame. He was such a handsome boy. Real polite. Why don’t you hang that up in our window?”
Candles? Candles are weird. Everything else he’s done makes sense in light of running off, but pillar candles are heavy and unwieldy. They’d only slow him down. Plus, he had to know there’d be flashlights at the convenience store. Why buy six candles when one flashlight is cheaper and lighter? Not your problem, Smullian. Gone tomorrow, remember? This is not your mystery to solve. Aren’t you happy about that? Despite the odd purchase, the girls are buoyed by the exchange. They drag me into every business in the surrounding area, but no luck.
“Why don’t we go to the park? He loves it there,” Maddie suggests.
“I’m not sure what good that would do. We know he was here Monday morning. The park’s ten minutes down the road,” I answer, feeling a little like Debbie Downer.
“Mrs. Granger heard him leave at 6:45, but he wasn’t here until the store opened at 10. Where did he go in between? He might have gone to the park.”
“Makes sense, Em,” Lydia says. Then she looks authoritatively at me
. “Let’s go.”
Is it wrong that I like so much when she gets feisty? I shrug and exhale, Burnsey-style. “I guess it’s logical.”
We all pile back into the car and head to the park. No one’s talking. It’s dawned on the girls that while we’ve gotten more information, we’re no closer to an answer. In fact, the more we learn, the more perplexing his disappearance becomes. I turn on the radio to dispel the silence.
Unlike the funereal car ride, the park is alive. A couple of moms chat while their offspring dash around the playground with shouts and giggles. A few fitness nuts in bright, tight clothing jog down the nature trail. Fishermen lean over the end of a recently stained dock, casting into the sparkling St. John’s River. I smell burning charcoal and turn to see a family prepping in the pavilion for a picnic dinner. I see why David likes it here. He can be in the presence of people without having to interact with them. It’s a place where he can quietly observe life as he scratches out sketches in his book.
We show his picture to several patrons to no avail. One gentleman does recognize David as a park regular but hadn’t seen him in more than a week. While we’re canvassing, a young woman enters the picnic area. I should say “enters stage left” because that’s how it feels, like a production. Her dark locks are pulled back with a gauzy, beaded scarf. Her long skirt, also beaded, is a wild array of colors. Her shirt a ruffled mess. I hear a faint tinkling of bells; it’s a bracelet—no, an anklet. I’m certain of it. The whole outfit screams, “Look at me! I’m bohemian.” But it’s all wrong.
The arrangement of the scarf on her head is too perfectly placed, with flattering loose, dark tendrils of hair framing her face. The skirt and shirt, meant to appear disheveled as if the wearer cared not at all for trivial things such as appearance, still shows off her slender figure, and the colors complement her copper skin, dark hair, and raven eyes. I catch the faint hint of floral fragrance in the air, which goes against a true hippie’s love of all-natural hygiene products that do little to curb body odor.
My blood starts to boil. There is one type of small-time crook I loathe. They don’t even deserve to be called grifters. They’re con men, plain and simple. Mediums. In confirmation of my suspicions, she climbs onto one of the tables with her anklet jingling along in accompaniment. She elaborately waves her arms about, and then rests them in the classic meditation position. She aggressively shakes her head from side to side, loudly inhaling and exhaling. Then, she proceeds to meditate. All of this, from her elaborate dress to her theatric posing, is designed to draw all eyes to her. As I said, a production. This isn’t a gentle soul communing with the elements. This is a spider weaving her web. Did David fall into it?
I’ve known a few psychics/mediums in my journeys, and I assure you they’re all the same. They are cold-blooded, heartless invertebrates ready to maximize a person’s tragedy by bilking them for every penny they’ve got. I consider them the bottom of the heap not only because I would never take advantage of someone’s suffering just to make a buck, but also because it’s a waste of talent. This type of scam requires someone be adept at cold reading and aware of a person’s physical cues, body language, and even breath speed to determine facts about them. We tell our life stories to people every day without saying a single word. Psychics can pick up on all that. It takes phenomenal observational skill, and they waste it on low-hanging fruit. It’s easy to con someone in the throes of grief; they want to believe loved ones are out there waiting to talk to them. Bilking a love-starved person? They’ve done half the work for you. They’ve already deluded themselves that there’s a special someone out there. Being a psychic or medium is lazy, as well as dastardly, as far as I’m concerned.
A sensitive, guilt-ridden boy would be easy prey to a witch like this. She makes my spidey sense tingle. I glance over at Lydia and Madds. They’re busy talking to the family at the pavilion. I don’t want them with me when I talk to this fraud. She’ll try to snare them. I shuffle over to her table, which is centrally located for maximum visibility.
“Have you seen this boy?” I say, holding up the flyer.
She glances at it. “I’ve never seen this young man.”
She closes her eyes and returns to her “meditation.” It’s a deliberate dismissal. She doesn’t want to look at the picture or talk to me. I tap her on the leg and hold the photo inches from her nose. “Are you sure? David comes to this park regularly.”
She practically slaps my hand away. “No, I’d remember such a noble child. I commune here with the spirits daily.”
As I’ve already mentioned, we nefarious types do well because we dehumanize our victims. I want her to look at him; I want her to hear his name. I want him to be real to her. I put the flyer in her lap. “Well, thank you Miss, uh,” I stammer, waiting for her to fill in her name. Not that I think it will actually be her name.
“Bronwen Evangelista.” What gothic romance did she rip that from?
“Keep the flyer. Call the number at the bottom, if the spirits tell you anything about David.” I tap the photo, bringing attention again to his face.
“Certainly, nothing would please me more than to help this poor soul,” she says as she picks up the flyer and places it facedown beside her on the table.
Three things are painfully evident: 1) she’s a con man 2) she’s lying 3) she knows something about David’s disappearance. I resist the urge to grab her by the throat and squeeze until she coughs up what she knows, but I can’t risk it. Bodily harm to another while in a host? I have no idea what that would do to my sentence. I’m scared for the kid. This is bad, but I can’t risk alternative sentencing for the twerp. There’s too much time already under my belt to mess it up now. I’ll call Benny boy. He’ll handle it. It’s his area anyway.
I take one last stab at humanizing him for her. “Are you sure you don’t know anything? That’s David’s sister and girlfriend. David’s been missing since Monday, and I’m sure you can imagine what torture it is for the two of them. They’d give anything to have David back home. David’s only 15.”
Bronwen’s face is tight, and her eyes glazed over. She’s steeling herself against the guilt. “No,” she says with forced civility. “I’ve never seen this lad.”
I storm off before I do something that will be vastly satisfying, but regretful. I debate telling Lydia. If I do, she might march over there and rip into our psychic fraud. I fear I pushed it too far, and, if Lydia gets added to the mix, Bronwen might skip out before Benny can get his hooks into her. But I can’t lie to Lydia. I lie to women multiple times a day; it’s never been any sweat off my brow. They lie to me. I lie to them. We all get what we want. I don’t want to do that with Lydia…which is really kind of comical, because since I’ve met her, I’ve pretended to be three different people she knows. I’ve perpetrated an immense charade on her, but an outright lie? I can’t do it.
I gather her and Maddie close and whisper, “That woman knows something. She’s lying. Don’t go over there. Detective Diaz should interview her. It could be nothing. I think she’s a con artist; she may not want to say what she knows because it will expose her own crimes. She may not know anything important, but she is lying.”
“How do you know?” Lydia whispers.
“Trust me, I know. Let’s go to the car, and I’ll call Detective Diaz.”
I catch up with Diaz, fill him in on the Hallmark lady, and then tell him about Bronwen.
“She said she hadn’t seen him. Doesn’t seem like much of a lead.” He sounds distracted.
“I’ve been a teacher a long time. She is definitely lying. I’ve learned to recognize the signs.”
“If we have time, we’ll swing by tomorrow and interview her.”
He’s coddling me. I press. “Even if she doesn’t know anything about David, I’d have someone keep an eye on her for fraud. She’s all kinds of shady. She said her name was Bronwen Evangelista, though I doubt that’s on a birth certificate anywhere.”
“Thank you. We’ll follow-up on
the Hallmark store and this woman at the park.” The call ends. I resist beating the phone into the dashboard, refraining for the benefit of the girls. I know he’s doing his job. I know he and Chuckles are beating down every lead. I know they have their concerns about the runaway angle. But I’m still irritated. Doesn’t he get it? This could be so much worse than we first thought
VI
Next stop, local library. Lydia and Madds erupt from the car like they’re strapped in ejection seats. Flyers in hand, they are ready for another round.
“You girls go on,” I call after them. “I need to connect with a parent.” It’s not an outright lie; Benny will be a parent soon. I can’t help it if the girls assume I meant a student’s parent.
Lydia nods in agreement and leads Maddie inside. I need to try again. He has to understand. I dial.
“Detective Diaz,” the voice answers.
“Uh…This is Keith Burns again. I have some concerns I don’t want to share where Lydia can hear.”
“I assure you. Detective Weidman and I are doing all we can to—”
“Gosh no. I’m not concerned about how you’re doing your jobs. I’m concerned about David. I didn’t think he’d run away in the first place.” I talk fast, so Benny Boy can’t get a chance to interrupt. “Now these candles. That’s not a typical thing to buy when you’re running off. They make no sense. What possible reason could David have for them? I think it means he wasn’t planning on taking off. He was skipping school for something, but not leaving town. That’s why there wasn’t a note. Whatever he was doing with the money didn’t have to do with splitting. Second, that chick Bronwen’s possible involvement has chills running up my spine. She gave me the creeps. What if she’s a scout? Looking for young, vulnerable boys and girls without much family for…you know…nefarious purposes. What if David is right now trapped in a sex trafficking ring?” It almost happened to me once, but I was road-wise enough to catch on before they lowered the boom. David is sweet and trusting; perfect meat for a scam like that.
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