by David Bell
Kimberly felt helpless. It had been twenty-four hours since Giles Caldwell had been reported missing by his brother, Simon. Twenty-four hours and nothing to go on.
When she returned to the station, she saw that three hours had slipped away. Hunger started to gnaw at her gut, and she wished she hadn’t polished off the whole cookie at lunch. She checked the landline on her desk and saw five calls from Simon Caldwell.
“What now?” she said out loud. “Did he see Jack the Ripper fleeing his brother’s house?”
Then she received a text from Peter.
You’re going to be at the soccer match tomorrow night, right?
Kimberly wrote back, feigning a confidence that was starting to slip away, Of course. See you there.
Jennifer’s coming. Is that okay?
A sudden and sharp anger rose inside her. Why did he think he needed to ask her?
She started to type. I’m not a shrinking violet. I know you’re fucking someone else—
But she stopped herself. No need to text in anger. And she tried to adjust her thinking, give Peter the benefit of the doubt for being considerate. Who had the hair-trigger temper now?
So she wrote back, No worries. Maria is excited to be a starter for a change.
“Ugh.”
She gripped the phone so tight her fingertips ached. She never thought she’d end up divorced, never expected to have an ex-husband. But who did? No one walked down the aisle thinking, I can’t wait until we split up.
Let it go, she told herself. Think about Maria. Think about the great child the two of you managed to create. That was her world, and if she lacked any excitement in her love life—and she lacked it, she sorely lacked it—she took solace in having a great kid and a job she loved. Even if the job was pushing her to the edge.
She missed the kid—she did—and wished she could punch the clock at four thirty or five and head home like everybody else. She wished for a night of watching mindless TV and double-checking Maria’s latest paper on the history of American Indian tribes in western Kentucky or stretching her brain as she helped her review fractions.
But how many people had it easy in this life? Everyone struggled, and everyone wished for more. She remembered riding in the car with her parents as a kid, her mom singing along to the radio. I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden. . . .
Who got the rose garden? Anyone?
Kimberly knew her nights wouldn’t return to normal until the case was cleared, until they knew exactly what had happened to Giles Caldwell. She wished they had just one decent, working theory. He’d run off with a woman. He’d fallen victim to a random, violent break-in. He owed a mobster money. His brother killed him in a fit of rage. . . .
You never knew what family members would do to one another.
She’d already told Peter to prepare for more nights with Maria, more unpredictability. They worked better as a divorced couple than they ever had when they were married. Maybe that was her rose garden—a healthy, functional divorce.
Her cell phone rang. She rolled her eyes when she saw the name on the caller ID.
She gave serious thought to ignoring it. She had too much going on and didn’t have time to fend off yet another mindless request for a date from a fellow officer. She might have been alone, but she wasn’t desperate.
But something compelled her to answer. Maybe deep down she liked the flattery of being pursued. Maybe she wanted something to distract her from the open case, some excuse not to continue to bang her head against the wall.
Some excuse to believe the mayor hadn’t taken up residence in her mind.
“Hey, Nelson,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Kimberly, doesn’t the sound of my voice make your day?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” she said, not hiding her disdain.
Detective Ben Nelson worked for the Nashville Police Department, an hour away from Laurel Falls. They’d met on a handful of occasions, hanging out at local conferences and working regional cases the departments collaborated on. Nelson wasn’t bad-looking for a guy in his late forties, even though he wore clothes that were twenty years out of date and somehow always managed to have black dirt under his fingernails as though he’d been digging in the backyard in his free time. He was divorced with three kids, all older than Maria, and asked every unmarried woman he came across to dinner. And kept asking. Kimberly felt thankful for the sixty-mile buffer between them.
“Well, I suspect you’re expecting an invitation to dinner, aren’t you?” Nelson asked.
“I’d hate for you to disappoint me. I like saying no for the ninety-ninth time.”
“Then prepare to be disappointed,” he said, his voice buoyant.
Kimberly’s mind started to wind up, wondering what else he could be calling about. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I mean, I could still ask you out at the end of the call,” he said, “but what I have to tell you might be more important.”
“What are you calling about, Nelson?” Kimberly asked. “Please?”
His voice changed. It grew more professional, more subdued. “Okay, I’ve got a friend who works for the airport police here in Nashville. He’s been there for years, name’s Travis. A good guy. We used to bowl together.”
In her mind’s eye, Kimberly saw Nelson bowling, his grimy nails against a ball adorned with swirled colors.
“So I was talking to Travis a little while ago about another case. No big deal. We had a guy run out on bail down here, and they grabbed him getting on a plane. It happens. But in the course of our talk, he tells me about this thing that just happened at the airport.”
Kimberly felt her mind wander. She looked back at her desk, back at the file Brandon had dropped off earlier. She expected Nelson to share some diverting story about a terrorist scare or someone smuggling something bizarre—drugs or an exotic lizard—in a strange orifice. She listened with one ear and half of her mind. . . .
“Meets this woman on a plane . . . shares a kiss with her . . . then she ignores him when they’re up in the air. . . . He finds her on Facebook. . . . He finds out she’s missing. . . . Turns out she used to live in Laurel Falls. . . .”
Kimberly pulled her eyes away from the file. “What was that?”
“She used to live in Laurel Falls. Up until a few months ago. My friend Travis, he looked her up on social media. She lived and worked in Laurel Falls until she moved down here to Nashville a few months ago.”
“So where is she missing from?” Kimberly asked.
“That’s just it—no one really knows what’s going on. A friend filed a police report, and there’s a lot of chatter on her Facebook page. Travis and his guys at the airport took all the information down and let the man who smooched her go on his way. There wasn’t much else they could do at that point, right? And they’re not even sure if he saw this woman or if he was just kind of lovestruck. She didn’t show up on the passenger list.”
“Sure, okay. So you’re calling me because this woman lived in Laurel Falls at one time?” Kimberly asked. “Are you saying you want me to do some legwork for you? Because I’m kind of buried right now.”
“I know you’re buried. You’ve got a missing adult up there in little Laurel Falls. Prominent businessman, friend of the mayor. Clock’s ticking, right?”
“Even as we speak.”
“I’m not calling about him,” he said. “Not exactly.” His voice brimmed with excitement, like that of a salesman building up to the revelation of the amazing deal he’d been holding back. “When Travis told me about it, I checked out this woman’s Facebook page too. Just curious, you know? And I won’t lie: It’s a little slow here today.”
Kimberly tried to organize her thoughts. What did this guy kissing a woman in the airport have to do with her? Why had she even answered the phone?
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“What did you see?” she asked, trying to speed things along.
“I just sent you the link,” he said. “It should be in your inbox. I figured I’d let you check it out for yourself. Travis will probably call you soon, but I wanted to be the first to share the news. You can thank me later.”
And then he hung up.
Kimberly sighed as she closed windows in an attempt to access her e-mail. The message from Nelson wasn’t there yet, and while she waited, whistling softly to herself, she felt a strange anticipation growing in her chest, a thrumming, tingling adrenaline.
Slow down, she thought. Had she grown so desperate for a break that she allowed herself to think a guy like Nelson could deliver one via e-mail? Knowing him, it was more likely to be a bad joke or a stupid cartoon. Maybe a video of a guy getting hit in the nuts by a soccer ball.
But then the message popped up, accompanied by the irritating new-mail chime.
She clicked on the link, which took her to the Facebook page for someone named Morgan Reynolds, who was apparently the woman in the Nashville airport who had been reported missing. Kimberly scanned the woman’s page. She saw pictures of her hiking, pictures with friends. Pictures with a dog and pictures of her drinking a pink cocktail on what looked like New Year’s Eve. A pretty girl, no doubt about that. Athletic, slender. Beautiful eyes.
But why had Nelson sent it to her? What did it have to do with her life besides being a reminder of how much younger everyone else looked and how much fun they all seemed to be having?
She glanced at Nelson’s message again and read what he’d written above the link.
Check out where she worked.
Kimberly did, clicking the “About” button on Morgan’s page. The name of the company where the woman had been most recently employed popped up.
She read it once. And then twice.
It took three times for it to really sink in.
“Holy crap,” she said, even though no one was listening.
19
I went as far as standing in line with the other passengers, getting ready to board the flight to Tampa. I held my boarding pass in my hand, my feet doing the slow walk to the jet bridge and the gate agent, which I considered the point of no return for getting on a plane.
But as I shuffled along, pressed against the bodies of those around me, hearing their conversations, their chiming phones, the repeated “Thank yous” and “Enjoy your flights” from the airline employee in her blue clothes, I kept thinking about Morgan. An undercurrent of desperation had run beneath her words when we spoke on the courtesy phone. She’d sounded like a person who wanted to say more, needed to say more, but couldn’t.
The rush to get away from me, the failure to explain it all.
The alias, the sunglasses.
How could I just stand by and do nothing?
I couldn’t go back to the airport police. They weren’t even convinced I’d seen Morgan on that plane. And I was wondering exactly who I had seen. . . .
And wasn’t it possible involving the police would make things more difficult for Morgan? Was she in some situation the police couldn’t help her out of, at least not yet?
I stopped four people back from the jet bridge, the boarding pass getting wet as my palms started to sweat. I faced the prospect of squeezing into a long metal tube with only a free Coke and a bag of peanuts to look forward to.
Or I could turn around, rent a roomy car, and try to help someone who really needed help.
What choice did I have?
I headed for the rental car counter, where I acquired a large sedan, something more comfortable even than the car I drove back home. Once my carry-on and my computer bag were stowed in the trunk, I started out. The tires hummed pleasantly over the interstate, the dashboard-mounted GPS pointing me north on I-65 toward the Tennessee-Kentucky border. Traffic was just light enough ahead of rush hour to allow me to make good time.
I left downtown Nashville in the rearview, the receding football stadium, the tall buildings. The racing cars and spaghetti snarl of converging interstates.
I quickly found myself past the outer suburbs, with more room, more lanes, less traffic. I saw bunches of trees, a sea of mostly green. The leaves were just thinking about changing, and I knew the coming weeks would show full-on autumn, a blast of colors that would nearly hurt the eyes. I suddenly felt like I could breathe more easily. I was seventy-eight minutes from Wyckoff and kind of looking forward to what I hoped would be a calming drive.
Then I remembered my dad. “Shit.”
What would I tell him about this excursion to Wyckoff?
I checked the clock on the dash: 4:33. He wouldn’t expect me until dinnertime, probably not until seven or so. That gave me some cushion. I decided to get to Wyckoff and look around. Based on what I was able to learn I could decide what to tell Dad. I hoped to know something quickly, and then I could give him as much information as possible. He’d still think I was nuts, but at least I could provide the whole story.
I wasn’t sure what I expected. Before I started my drive, I asked Siri for information about Wyckoff and learned it had about seven thousand permanent residents and close to fifteen thousand students. That seemed manageable, right?
As soon as I had that thought, I felt foolish. Even with a population of just one thousand people, how would I find a single person who clearly didn’t want to be found? And how did I know she’d even gone to Wyckoff after she’d bobbed and weaved around so many other facts?
But what did I have to lose? If I went there and struck out—the most likely scenario—then I could return to my life knowing I’d done everything I could to help Morgan. If I’d taken the plane to Tampa, swallowed the peanuts and the Coke, and then faked it through a series of work meetings and dinners, I’d always wonder.
I didn’t want to wonder.
I crossed the state line from Tennessee into Kentucky, and then the GPS took me off the interstate at a town called Deep Creek, sending me northwest toward Wyckoff on a two-lane state road. At first I passed a series of strip malls and fast food restaurants with everything crowded and jumbled together. Traffic flowed heavy in both directions, and I missed being on the interstate with no one close by.
A trace of a sickly sweet smell filled the car as I left the town limits. A giant hill rose on my right, the grass green and lush, flocks of birds circling at the top. Massive trucks motored over a makeshift road. A landfill, a garbage dump, and the gross stench overwhelmed the car. I breathed through my mouth for a few miles until I saw a sign that said Wyckoff was only forty-two miles away. The outlined route on the GPS looked winding and slow, a two-lane with few places to pass. I took a chance on breathing again and discovered the dump smell was gone, receding with its image in the rearview. I cracked the window, letting the fresh air wash over me.
Then my phone rang. I saw the caller’s name on the car’s display.
Renee.
“Double shit,” I said.
But I answered.
“Hey.”
“Hey, guy. Are you in Florida yet?”
I thought about lying. Well, a little north of there. But that felt just plain wrong, not to mention foolish. I might not have been in love with Renee, really in love, but I didn’t want to lie to her.
“A change of plans,” I said. “I’m not going to Florida.”
“Oh,” she said. “Does your dad have you doing something else?”
“No, I’m doing something on my own,” I said.
“You are? What do you mean? Your own deal?”
The farther I went, the more peaceful the scenery looked. Open fields, white farmhouses. Scattered cows and horses and even sheep. It reminded me of growing up in Indiana, the miles and miles of flat land, the unimpeded view of the horizon. I’d lived in Chicago for five years, but it never felt as much like home as a place surrounded
by neat rows of corn and soybeans.
“It’s not work,” I said.
And then I took a chance—a big chance—and told her the CliffsNotes version of the story. Meeting Morgan in the gift shop. The drinks at the bar. The Facebook posts about her disappearance.
I left out the kiss. Of course. And I left out the awkward exchange on the flight to Nashville, the one that ended when the flight attendant threatened to summon the pilot.
But Renee was smart. She could figure out that I wouldn’t be following a woman across state lines unless I felt something for her.
Something strong.
Renee remained silent while I talked. Very silent. And maybe I was an idiot for telling her the truth, but I didn’t feel like lying. I didn’t feel like living a life I didn’t want to live anymore.
When I was finished, she stayed quiet. The kind of quiet that makes a person wonder if the call dropped.
“Are you there, Renee?”
“That’s quite a story.”
“You understand, right, that I can’t just turn my back on someone who might be in trouble?”
The question sounded foolish even as I asked it.
“Someone in trouble who happens to be a woman,” she said. “Joshua, you could be getting in really deep here. What if she’s dangerous? What if it’s some scam? What if there are other people involved, people who might hurt you? You’re smarter than that. Let the police handle it. She could be a crazy person, and you’re running off to chase her like you’re some chivalrous knight.”
“It’s not like that, Renee. It’s about . . .”
But I couldn’t finish the sentence. It was about her being a woman. A beautiful woman. And it was about that kiss. It was about how connected I already felt to her.