Girl Who Wasn’t There

by Vincent Zandri

  By the time we’ve exhausted our search, it’s going on six in the evening.

  “It’s time,” Penny says, her body shaking, trembling. “You promised. Remember?”

  The house detective.

  “You’re right,” I agree. “It’s time. But first, let’s make one last check on the beach behind the hotel. For all we know, Chloe will be sitting there on a beach chair waiting for us to come back. Maybe she thinks we’re the lost ones.”

  “We are lost,” she says.

  “No truer words,” I say to myself. “I’ve been lost inside my head for ten years.”

  CHAPTER 12

  NO ONE OCCUPIES the beach at this hour of the evening. The lounges are still there, but they’re empty. The small roped-off shallow area designated for little children is also empty, as is the little wood dock that’s perched beside it. Now that the angle of the sun prevents its rays from warming the beach, the Adirondack air is cooling down. It makes me worry even more for Chloe, as though the onset of night brings not only darkness, but cold despair.

  “Let’s walk the beach,” I say. “Just a quick inspection to see if Chloe left anything behind that might give us a clue to where she took off to.”

  “This is so damned silly,” Penny says, acid in her tone. “We need to be involving the professionals by now. They’re going to think it’s strange we waited so long.”

  “Just look around for a minute or two, Pen.”

  She takes in the south end of the small, narrow beach, while I walk to the north end. I’m seeing nothing but crushed sand castles, small craters dug into the sand, discarded candy wrappers, an empty beer can, and even a pair of discarded swimming goggles. I feel like one of those amateur treasure hunters who scours the beach after hours with a metal detector in hopes of uncovering some spare change or discarded jewelry. But in this case, I’m searching for a sign of my missing daughter.

  We walk and we search, but there’s nothing to be seen, nothing to be discovered or uncovered.

  No choice but to give in.

  “It’s time to call in the house detective,” I whisper to myself, maybe a half second before Penny screams.

  CHAPTER 13

  I RUN.

  Run toward the sound of the scream. Run along the water’s edge to where Penny is standing, my boots kicking up the sand and clean lake surf. My jeans are soaked through by the time I come to her.

  “What is it, Pen? What did you find?”

  My breathing is rapid, shallow, pulse pounding in my temples.

  She holds a single object in each of her hands. In her right hand, she holds a yellow polka-dotted bikini top. In her left hand, an iPod. The bikini top is soaked and covered in sand. The iPod screen has been smashed and lake water has seeped into it.

  For a moment or two, the adrenaline and extra oxygen that fills my veins and arteries makes me feel like I’m levitating off the beach floor. I want to scream and rip somebody’s head off, spit down his throat. But who exactly? Rabuffo? Is this his revenge? The abduction of my daughter? Does he know for sure that I exposed his entire operation to the authorities?

  People talk.

  Doesn’t matter that I gave away everything I could under the guise of confidentiality, which, in the end, wasn’t very confident since I retained my real name and my true identity—I didn’t qualify for the federal witness protection program since mine were state offenses. So, like I said, people talk. Words matter. Words have consequences. Chloe’s abduction could be that consequence.

  Penny is swaying, her knees knocking together. I grab hold of her before she drops to the sandy ground like a sack of cold blood and bones.

  “I … can’t … breathe,” she says.

  “Listen, Pen,” I insist. “Your lungs are constricting. Breathe easy. Just breathe …”

  She’s trying her hardest to listen to my instructions, but her eyes are rolling up into the back of her head and I’m almost certain she’s about to pass out. I hold her all the tighter, and soon she’s supporting herself on her own two feet again.

  “How can this happen?” she says, her voice weak and wobbly. “Who did this, Sidney? Who took our daughter?”

  I swallow something that feels and tastes like a rock.

  “Let’s talk to the hotel detective,” I insist.

  “Something we should have done a long time ago,” she says.

  CHAPTER 14

  OUR HANDS LOCKED together, we head back into the hotel, up the single flight of stairs to the lobby. We don’t approach the front desk; we throw ourselves at it.

  “The hotel detective!” I holler at the portly blond desk manager I spoke with earlier. “Get him. Now!”

  In my free hand, I’m holding Chloe’s bathing suit top and her destroyed iPod. He glances at the items, swallows something, and breathes in deeply.

  “Can we please keep our voices down?” he asks, with an anxious grin on his face while pulling his belt up over his soft underbelly. “Other hotel customers occupy the lobby.”

  My veins are on fire. I feel my biceps squeezing through the tight skin that covers them. I hand Chloe’s things to Penny, clench my fingers and hands into rock-hard fists. I’m tasting the salty blood now that I’ve bitten through the flesh on my lip.

  My right hand is raised and reaching across the counter even before the act can register with my brain. I grab hold of his shirt, pull him into me. The entire hotel lobby seems to go mannequin still, while I pull his face into mine.

  “My daughter is gone,” I whisper, forcefully. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your damned clientele. Got it?”

  “Sidney,” Penny says, voice steady and serious. “Let the man go.”

  Suddenly, like waking up from a bad dream, I realize what it is I’m doing. An electric shock wave courses through my nervous system, and I release him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s the stress. My wife and I, we’re very worried.”

  The blonde woman from the office in back emerges from out of the open office door. She steps up to the desk.

  “The hotel detective is on her way,” she explains. “Please wait here, Mr. O’Keefe.”

  “Her,” I say, like a question.

  “Is there a problem?” the manager poses.

  How am I going to respond? That I just spent the last ten years surrounded by human-growth-hormone and steroid-injected male New York State corrections officers?

  I feel my insides going south fast. My head is spinning. I’m biting down on my lip again. I glance at Penny. Her worried eyes are locked on mine. I must be a sore sight to behold.

  It’s then my bowels turn to water.

  The public men’s room is located on the opposite side of the lobby, off the long corridor that also accesses the second-floor rooms. I head inside, find that it’s empty, and lock the door behind me. Pushing open the stall, I drop my jeans, and get rid of whatever poison has infected me. My brow is covered in sweat and my gut feels like somebody kicked it with a steel-toed jackboot.

  When I’m done, I get dressed, then stand before the bathroom mirror and wash my hands in steaming hot water. Turning the hot water off, I turn on the cold water. I cup my hands together, fill them, splash the water on my face. Again and again. Gazing into the mirror, I watch the water bead and drip off the skin. My face is tight and stressed, the five o’clock shadow having evolved into a salt and pepper scruff.

  The equally salt and pepper hair on my head is closely cropped. So close, it looks like I cut it myself with scissors. There’s a pinky finger–sized scar on my scalp, above my right eye. It’s where somebody broke a plastic food tray over my head back when I was employed in the prison kitchen. I nearly drowned him in a fifty-gallon vat of yellow potato salad. I spent three months in the hole for that one. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t my fault. What mattered is that I threw the last punch, so to speak. The COs never see the first punch. That would be too fair.

  I close my eyes, breathe deeply.

  “Get it together, Si
d,” I say aloud. “You don’t get it together, you’re going back. You go back with Rabuffo knowing you testified against him, you’re a dead man. Christ, you just might be a dead man now. You know Rabuffo’s style at this point in the game. Let the father live just long enough to see his family die. Could be Rabuffo is starting with Chloe, then Penny will be next. He’ll do it to make you suffer, to tear your heart and soul apart. Finally, he’ll finish with you. But it won’t be quick. He’ll make it hurt. He’ll have one of his Chinese bosses perform Lingchi on you. Cut bits and pieces off of you, until you’ll resemble one hundred ninety pounds of raw meat. Until your heart finally has had enough and it ceases to beat.”

  One more splash of water to the face.

  I turn off the faucet. Standing straight and stiff, I pull a fist full of paper towels from the wall-mounted dispenser, dry my face. Tossing them into the receptacle, I can’t help but steal one more glance in the mirror. They’re standing behind me. All four of them. The Chen family. The Chinese father and mother, and their two kids. One a boy, the other a little girl, not much younger than Chloe. They’re staring at me in the mirror, not saying anything. They’re alive but their heads and faces are bleeding.

  There’s a hole in the father’s forehead. So wide you can see the whiteness of his brains. His wife’s left eye has been shot through. The entirety of the little boy’s cranial cap is blown away, while the little girl’s left lower jaw is shredded from an exit wound. Yet somehow, they are able to stand there, eyeing me, like they want something from me.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed since I first saw them standing there, but my head feels like it’s spinning out of control. Until the father opens his mouth, whispers one word.

  “Revenge.”

  I close my eyes, whisper, “Go away. Go the hell away. I never touched you. I told them not to kill you. Wemps and Singh, I told them, damn it.”

  The loud knocking startles me.

  A fist pounding on the wood door. I open my eyes and dread the reflection I’m going to see in the mirror. But the Chinese family is gone. Of course, they were never there in the first place. I dreamt them up.

  … Get it the hell together, Sid … Stop living inside your head …

  “Sid, are you okay?” Penny inquires through the door. “What’s taking so long?”

  “Sorry,” I say, reaching out to unlock the dead bolt. Then, opening the door, looking into her face. “I felt sick. I’m okay now.”

  I step out into the corridor.

  “You look pale,” she says.

  “It’s okay. There’s no time to worry about a stomachache.”

  “The detective is here. She’s in the lobby, waiting.”

  I start walking.

  “Sid,” Penny says, stopping me.

  I turn and eye her.

  “It’s getting dark, Sid,” she goes on. “It’s getting dark and our daughter is out there somewhere.”

  … Rabuffo …

  “We’re gonna find her, Pen. If it’s the last thing we do on God’s earth, we’re gonna find her. Tonight.”

  Turning, I head back into the lobby, my eyes searching for the hotel detective.

  CHAPTER 15

  SHE’S TALL AND slim with straight dark hair parted over her right eye. She’s got a leather bag slung over her shoulder and she’s wearing a tan, lightweight business suit, her skirt cut just above the knees, her matching jacket covering a tight white button down. She’s wearing black pumps for footwear, which makes her even taller. She recognizes me before I realize who she is. When she holds out her hand, I catch a glimpse of the firearm that’s holstered on her waist.

  “I’m Giselle,” she says, taking my hand in hers, gripping it tightly, with confidence. “Giselle Fontaine. I understand we’ve got ourselves a situation.”

  She releases my hand, offers Penny a nod.

  “This is my wife, Penny,” I say.

  Giselle shakes her hand. Then, “Why don’t we head to your room, folks. We can talk in private there and I can get a look at the place.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the detective turns and heads into the stairwell that leads back downstairs to the ground floor rooms.

  Pulling out my keycard, I open the door for her, half expecting to see Chloe sitting on the bed, watching television. But I’ve already given up hope on her just suddenly showing up like that. Still, my heart jumps up into my mouth when I open the door. I’m almost tempted to utter the name, Chloe. But the room is dark and silent and all too dead.

  Here’s what I do.

  I flip on the light switch, which engages every ceiling and wall-mounted lamp in the room. Together the three of us head into the room, which contains two beds, three suitcases, numerous electronics chargers plugged into the outlets, plus a cooler filled with beer and cold soft drinks.

  Immediately I’m attracted to the cooler. I pull out a cold bottle of Dos Equis.

  Penny gives me a look. So does Detective Giselle.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know this isn’t the time, but after a day like today, I really need one.”

  Giselle grins, holds up her hands.

  “Hey, don’t mind me. I’d have probably downed a fifth of vodka by now if any of my rug rats had gone missing. Knock yourself out.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a notepad. “Now I’m going to ask you some vital questions about your daughter, then I want to get a sort of timeline idea of what occurred.”

  Penny holds out the bathing suit top and the iPad like she’s presenting evidence to a court of law.

  “Our daughter’s gone,” Penny interjects, acid-like. “That’s all we know.”

  “I understand that,” Giselle says, locking eyes on the items in Penny’s hands. “But the more information I have, the more I can help.”

  I pop open the beer, steal a deep drink.

  “We found that stuff on the beach in back of the hotel, just minutes ago,” I offer.

  Giselle takes the stuff in hand, stares at it for a long beat.

  “Your daughter’s?”

  Penny nods.

  Giselle’s eyes go wide. It’s a while before she blinks. That’s when she stuffs the items into her bag.

  “It’s state’s evidence now,” she explains. “I’ll make sure the police get it tonight, as in immediately.”

  “Show her the picture of Chloe on your phone, Pen,” I add.

  Penny pulls out her smartphone, presents it to the hotel detective who stares down at it.

  “Very fine-looking young lady,” she says while eyeing Chloe’s face as though committing it to memory. Then, reaching into her jacket pocket and coming back out with a business card, “Here’s my cell number. Please forward the picture to me so I can send it on to the hotel staff. While we’re talking, the staff will be making a sweep of every room, space, crawl space, nook and cranny in the facility. No area will go unsearched. Do we have an understanding?”

  Penny and I both nod. Somehow hearing that the detective is being proactive fills me with the dreaded H word again. Hope.

  She hands Penny the card.

  … Hope is but a dream …

  Giselle makes specific inquiries about Chloe. Her age, height, weight, school, hobbies, social media site subscriptions including her WhatsApp account, you name it. She writes the pertinent stuff down. Then she asks to see my daughter’s things.

  “You mind if I go through her suitcase, Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe?”

  “Why?” Penny begs. “Even I don’t do that. It’s a privacy thing.”

  “You should,” Giselle says. “Kids your daughter’s age can sometimes get involved with people and things they shouldn’t. Kids Chloe’s age are dying.”

  “Are you saying my daughter is doing drugs?” Penny says. “She’s only eleven.”

  “Oh gee, I’m not saying that at all,” Giselle offers. “But what if there’s a receipt for a train ticket, or heck, even a plane ticket? What if there’s a note from a girlfriend or boyfriend that indicates she ha
d every intention of running away? What if she’s not doing drugs, but has a secret boyfriend who is? You gotta think about all the possibilities.”

  I drink some more beer, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I might have been incarcerated for a long time, but I’m very much aware that the death rate among teens and pre-teens has increased by almost thirty-five percent during those ten years. Oxy, fentanyl-laced heroin … it’s killing kids Chloe’s age, and their parents are blind to their addiction. They’re not recognizing the signs. The death stare, the weight loss, the insomnia, the mood swings.

  “Let her check, Pen,” I say. “The detective is right.”

  “We’ll look together,” Giselle says. Then, her eyes shifting to me, “Oh, and one more thing, folks. If we don’t come up with anything in our search through the hotel, it is my duty as hotel detective to call in the police. That iPod and bathing top in my bag is reason enough to call them in right this second. But because of your special, let’s call them circumstances, Mr. O’Keefe, perhaps it’s better that you and your wife pay a personal visit to the police chief himself. His name is Joe Walton.”

  “What special circumstances?” I ask, already anticipating the answer before she annunciates it.

  “Now, darn it all, Mr. O’Keefe, I know who you are, and what you were accused of doing all those years ago. I know that you are newly paroled and I’m happy for you and Mrs. O’Keefe. You seem like fine people to me and my heart aches for you. But procedure is procedure, and I’m going to tell you right now that you both should have come to me sooner with this. I can only assume you did not want to rock the legal applecart, so to speak. The last thing you need right now is a hotel full of cops. Am I right?”

  My heart sinks from my mouth to somewhere around my feet. When I look at Penny, I’m not sure if what I see is disappointment in her face or just plain disgust. I want to say something in my defense. But I don’t. What the hell am I going to do? Explain to her that I exposed a mob boss and now he might be enacting his revenge on me?