The phone rings and it startles me so much that I jerk upward, banging my head against the bottom of the kitchen table. I rub the spot while reaching for the phone, see that it’s C.J. Am I ready for another lecture? Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Maybe it will calm me down.
“Hello?” I try to make the word as normal as possible. It sounds tinny and small. I clear my throat and am about to try again when C.J. starts talking.
“Hey, it’s me. I wanted to tell you that I looked into your missing person.”
I hear papers moving, and picture C.J.’s fingers shuffling through them.
“There’s nothing here,” he says. “I’ve been through the reports and there hasn’t been one filed by Sandra Garrison or anyone else for Mark Chester.”
That doesn’t make sense. I chew my lip, thinking. “Are you sure?” I ask finally.
“Positive.”
“That’s weird.” Why would she lie about filing a report with the police? “Thanks for checking for me. I appreciate it.” Had I told C.J. Sandra’s name or just asked if a report had been filed? Garrison’s is a pretty popular gym. Maybe he knows Sandra from there and put two and two together.
“No problem,” C.J.’s voice cuts in. “You can pay me back by meeting me for a drink in about an hour. Or dinner, if that’s better.” His voice is sure, confident. Bossy. The skin on my neck crinkles and I scratch it, still working on normal breathing.
“I’ve got that security job in Colchester tonight, remember? Gotta run,” I say and hang up before he can start lecturing.
Straightening to my full height, I walk into the bathroom where I was getting ready before the breathing issue started. “Breathing issue” sounds much better than hyperventilation. Makeup is spread around the sink and my hairdryer is right where I left it, dangling from the outlet by the curly cord. I disconnect it, rewind the cord around the unit and put it away. I finish curling my eyelashes and apply a quick coat of mascara, all the time reminding myself that this is a low-key party, that I could do this job with a hand tied before my back.
Yeah, before the accident, that nasty little voice reminds me.
I dump the makeup back into the bag a little harder than I need to. The voice has gotten louder in these last two months than ever before in my life. “You’re finding that your confidence is shaken, now that you’ve had this serious injury,” I picture my therapist telling me. I haven’t been to see her in weeks. Maybe you should schedule an appointment, the voice says. Maybe that’s why you’re having panic attacks in the bathroom.
I force myself to relax as I double check my appearance. I don’t look scared and overwhelmed, like someone who needs a paper bag to keep from having a nervous breakdown. My new black dress pants, two sizes larger than I usually wear, hide most of my girth. My T.R. Waters Securities black collared shirt is tucked into the waistband, showcasing a utility belt filled with security options: Handcuffs and pepper spray—and my newest addition—a tightly bound, carbon fiber rod about eight inches in length that unfurls to three-feet. It’s virtually unbendable and unbreakable. It can crack a man’s bone with one forceful hit.
“I won’t need any of them,” I tell the empty room. “Everything is going to be fine. This is an easy gig.”
Forty minutes later I pull into the driveway. It’s long and narrow, covered in pea stone and crunches under the car’s tires. There is hardly any snow here at all, just a light dusting on the lawn. The house appears after a bend shrouded with trees. It’s beautiful—a modern farmhouse, ready to have its picture taken for a glossy home decorating magazine. A wide porch wraps around the house and is filled with people milling about. Small fires burning in filigreed fire pots flicker near the porch. I get out of the car, walk toward the rear door, winding my way through BMWs and Lexus sedans and a few enormous SUVs. Laughter and the sound of ice clinking in glasses float across the air to me. The band hasn’t started playing yet.
No one answers my knock, so I let myself in. The house is as immaculate as when I visited the first time, with soaring cathedral ceilings and white on nearly every surface: walls, furniture, and floors. It’s a strange effect, as though I’m walking into a glass of milk.
Julia is a middle-aged woman, plump and well-dressed. She scurries by and I clear my throat.
“Hello, Mrs. Lawson.”
She jumps, startled.
“I’m sorry, no one answered my knock,” I say.
“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the door? My son and his friends decided it was too beautiful a night to stay indoors?” Again with the high notes turning every sentence into a question. I grit my teeth and paste a big, fat smile on my face.
“You can come right through here?”
I follow Julia Lawson through the house and then through a side door, ending up near the edge of the wide front lawn. She introduces me to the band, a three-piece funk-jazz-rock ensemble in which her son, Alexander, plays drums. I smile, nod, shake hands all around.
The crowd is relaxed and though the music hasn’t officially started, the drinking has. Still, I can hardly picture a mosh pit sprouting up on the lawn anytime soon. I walk the perimeter, using my Mag flashlight to check the area hidden by brush then plant myself at the side and front of the crowd. I’m near enough that people can see the back of my windbreaker which reads “security” in wide white letters, but not in the way that blocks their view of the band. My breath forms in white clouds but just barely, the temperature more like a cool spring night than a frigid mid-January one.
The band starts about twenty minutes later. The music isn’t bad and the food looks delicious, catered by a company out of Burlington. I have a rule that I don’t eat or drink on the job, though my mouth waters when I make another round near the food table. As the night goes on, the crowd disperses onto the lawn, dancing and shimmying to the beat. Woolen hats fly from heads and jackets are shed as the group dances. Yells from happy fans become background vocals to the music when a particularly popular song is played. I listen and watch. Watch and listen.
My cellphone reads twelve o’clock when the hair on my neck stands up. I heard something. A noise I can’t quite place. But what? I check the crowd. Dancing bodies, many pressed together in a rendition of Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray’s moves in Dirty Dancing, crowd the center of the lawn. The music is still loud, the amps pouring out heavy bass and percussion, while one of the singers strums his guitar and croons. I clear my head of all these sounds while I listen for something else.
There it is again. A thready meow of pain. Definitely human. I walk in the direction of the parking area, pause and wait. The next time I hear the sound it’s quieter and coming from the woods near the driveway. I scan the crowd again, part of me wishing that I’d asked C.J. to play backup, part of me tingling with anticipation. I walk to the edge of the wooded area, drawing out the powerful flashlight but not flicking it on.
The light from a nearly full moon illuminates my path into the trees for a few seconds, but then branches crowd it out. If I switch the light on, I’ll get a better view but it will also notify whoever’s out there of my presence. Silence is hard to maintain on the newly bare ground. Wet leaves and twigs and smashed down grass line the way. There’s a noise to my right, a shuffling of something and snapping branches. I change course slightly, head in that direction, moving as quietly as I can. Switching the flashlight to my left hand, I pull out the night stick and hold my breath. My feet move closer to the sound. My heart beats hard in my chest.
There! Another small gasp of pain. I lunge through the remaining feet, hand drawn high overhead with the stick, ready to crack it down on someone’s head. A young woman stands against a tree, her dress up around her waist. A guy in his twenties, long-haired and rumpled, stands in front of her. His pants around his ankles, his buttocks white in the moonlight that’s reappeared.
“Get away from her,” I say, my voice steely in the chilly night air.
The woman screams. The man whirls toward me.
&nb
sp; Chapter Seven
“Did you hear me? I said get away from her—now—or I’ll knock you into the next county.”
The woman bends forward, hands pulling her dress down. My brain is already planning out next steps: handcuff the guy, call 9-1-1, practice some round house kicks on his shaggy head while waiting for the cops and ambulance to get here.
The man just stands there, facing me, arms loose by his sides. His eyes, I can see in the abrasive flashlight beam, are half-shut. I lower the night stick by several inches.
“Put your clothes on.” I say. “You picked the wrong party to have a date rape.”
“What?” Both voices speak in unison.
“Date rape?” The woman’s head reappears after pulling her undies up from around her ankles. She is tall and thin, her legs tanned even in the moonlight.
“No way,” the man says in a far-out-this-is-trippy kind of way.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” the woman says, and I can see a wide smile on her face. Laughter tumbles out between her words.
“I wasn’t being raped. We were ... Do I have to spell it out for you?” she motions with her hand. “We came here with other people but sort of got together on the dance floor.” The man nods along as the woman speaks.
“We were looking for a little, you know, privacy?” she says, stretching out the last word.
You’ve got to be joking.
I lower the night stick the rest of the way while they huddle close together. Pot head guy has pulled up his baggy cargo pants, and says, “Hey, we’re not like under arrest or anything are we?”
I shake my head and turn around, ready to rejoin the party and see if anything wild and crazy has happened in my absence.
“Could we borrow your handcuffs anyway?” he asks as I walk away. Her laughter tumbles behind me.
The party finishes up after one-thirty and I collect the rest of my wages from Mrs. Lawson. I assured her that she could send a check to the office but in her strange, questioning voice she told me, “Really, let’s take care of everything tonight?” I could use the money, so I didn’t argue.
I wait until most of the guests clear out, then find my car. The air is thick with smoke, some from the fire burners and some from cannabis that was discreetly smoked in the makeshift parking area. I see the hippy chick from the woods holding hands with the guy she must have come with. They are polar opposites, he looks like an investment banker, preppy with hair neatly trimmed. She leads him to an older model Saab, and glances at me over her shoulder. She puts a finger to her lips playfully and gives me a wink. I roll my eyes and get in my car, then drive home and collapse into bed. My shoulder aches, but I smile in the darkness. It feels good to be back in the saddle.
***
Saturday morning dawns clear but cold. The weatherman had predicted that the spring-like temperatures wouldn’t be long-lasting and he was right. I went for a walk after my first cup of coffee, feeling a little less like an old woman than usual. Maybe the boost in self-esteem was effecting my health, too.
When I get back, sweaty and panting slightly after climbing the hill near the trailer, I check for messages (none), swig a big glass of water and make some toast. I look longingly at the coffee pot but figure that if I am going to clean up my act health-wise, I should probably limit my consumption to a couple of cups a day. Maybe I should try making one of those smoothies like I had at the Juice Bar. Thinking of it reminds me that I need to call Sandra. I dial her cell phone. No answer. Next, I try the gym.
“Garrison’s Gym, this is Sandra.” Her voice is annoyingly perky so early in the morning. I glance at the clock. Oh, well. Still, too perky for eleven o’clock.
“Hi, Sandra, it’s Tayt. I have a couple of questions for you. Can I meet you when you get done work?”
Pause.
“Sure,” she breathes out, voice quieter. “I’m done in an hour if that works. I had the early morning shift. Do you want to meet at the Juice Bar again or somewhere else?”
“I’m just getting ready to go in to work myself. Can you meet me at my office?” She agrees, I give her the address and we hang up. I take a quick shower, doing a few PT stretches between shampooing my hair and shaving my legs, and make it to the office moments before she arrives.
Sandra seems even taller in the low-ceilinged space. Today she’s wearing some kind of snug Lycra pants and a hot pink coat trimmed with fur. I motion to a seat near my desk and ask if she wants coffee. If she wanted some maybe I could have a small cup.
“No, thanks,” she says, quashing that dream. “What’s this about? Did you find something out about Mark?”
I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment. How to do this tactfully? Not that I haven’t been thinking about a way to handle this on my twenty-minute commute to St. Albans.
Perhaps bluntness is best. “Why don’t you tell me why you lied about filing a police report?” I ask.
Sandra starts to form the word, “what” on her lips, but when I lower my chin and give her my don’t-even-try-it glare, she instead looks at the ceiling. Then her hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I most certainly did go down to the police barracks and file paperwork. Maybe they’ve lost it,” she says finally.
I shake my head. “That’s not possible. Sandra, the police don’t just lose paperwork. Besides, I have a friend on the force.” Her head snaps back front and center and she stares at me. “He searched all their missing person reports. You never filed it. Why not? And why tell me that you did?”
Sandra looks away, out the window and then rises from her seat and walks to it. The panes of glass are smeared with dust. When she turns back toward me seconds later, tears are making their way down her face.
“You got me, okay? I didn’t file the report. I did go to the station, but I got too scared in the parking lot and ended up just leaving. I thought ....” She breaks off and motions to the box of tissues on my desk. I hand them to her. Stretching causes a little shiver of pain in my shoulder and chest. “I thought you wouldn’t want to start looking unless everything had been done all legally. I needed to find Mark and I didn’t want to get the police involved in case he wasn’t really missing. I mean, imagine trying to explain to him if the police picked him up somewhere.”
“But he is missing, isn’t he? Why would you need to explain your worry to the police when Mark’s been missing several days? That seems like a pretty normal concern for his girlfriend to have.”
Sandra blows her nose and gives me a smile that wavers.
“I just ... got scared. And now I’m scared on two levels. I’m afraid to get the police involved in case this is completely innocent and I’m scared to not involve them because something bad may have happened to Mark.”
“So that’s why you called me.”
Sandra nods, slowly. She looks like she’s about to say something else, but looks instead out of the window again.
“Have you found anything yet?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’m going to talk to his friend, Chad, again. Is there anyone else—any other friends?”
“Chad from the restaurant?” she asks. I nod. Sandra makes a noise that sounds disgusted and shakes her head.
“Don’t believe a word he says. The guys been in jail on drug charges more than once. He’s a complete waste of breath.”
“Well, at this point I don’t have a lot of other avenues to try. I’ve spoken with his boss who knows nothing. You’re telling me he has no other friends, no family in the area. How far are you willing to go with this? Should I book a plane ticket to his childhood home, start checking with his relatives there?”
Sandra nods.
“And you won’t consider filing a report officially? I really encourage you to do that, Sandra. It would be a lot easier if we had the resources that the police can offer—”
“No. Please, not yet. I will if it comes to that. But for now, I just want you to do what you can, okay?”
I look at her, eye
s unwavering. She’s stopped crying but her eyes plead with me. “Whatever it takes. I can pay you whatever is needed. I just want to find out what’s happened to him.” Her eyes tear up again and she presses the tissue over them.
***
Despite Sandra’s claims that Chad is a convicted felon and not to be trusted, I stop by the restaurant to talk to him again. He’s not there. One of the waitstaff tells me it’s his day off and that I might find him at the gym or the billiards hall.
I try the billiards hall first. It’s a retro-looking place on Kingman Street, the décor is nostalgic: old black and white photos of St. Albans city back in the 50s, kids walking to school with hobo-style lunches carried on sticks, old trains crisscrossing city streets. Red carpet lines the floor. There are four pool tables set up in a large rectangle and near the back a group of men and a single woman play darts.
Chad is playing by himself at the table in the far corner. A lone beer bottle sits on the side of the green carpeted table.
“Hi, remember me?” I ask.
He looks up from the shot, pauses, looks back down and connects the cue to the ball. It makes a satisfying smack and plunges a striped ball into the pocket nearest me.
“Sure, how’re you doing?” he says. He doesn’t sound enthusiastic but not quite aloof either.
I nod. “Listen, I don’t want to be a pest, but I had a couple more questions for you. About Mark.”
Chad stands to his full height, shakes dreads out of his eyes and sips from the bottle of Long Trail.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you. I don’t know where he is. Still haven’t heard from him.”
I nod. “I was actually wondering about Mark’s relationship with Sandra. How well do you know her?”
Chad chokes a little on his swallow of beer.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s the second time you’ve choked, literally, when I brought up her name.”
“Sandra Garrison?” He asks, wiping the back of a hand over his mouth.
I nod again. He calls her a name I haven’t heard since seventh-grade gym class.
Hear No Evil Page 4