At a pancake house on Stone, he pulled in to the parking lot and soon was making phone calls in a nearby booth.
He’d already prepared a speech for these friends and acquaintances who’d been abandoned when WITSEC whisked the Satarianos into the Smiths’ new life.
“Yeah, well, I got this job opportunity on the East Coast and I had to jump at it. Didn’t mean to leave you folks in the lurch.”
That was all he intended to share, other than, “Look, I promise I’ll call again under better circumstances, but Pat and me, we’re crazy with worry, trying to find Anna. We think she got homesick and ran back there to go to the senior prom. Have you seen her?”
This, with minor variations, was how he steamrolled over any questions, and elicited support, since most of those he called were also parents. Then when whoever-he’d-called said he or she hadn’t seen Anna, Michael would say, “Thanks, anyway, sorry, gotta keep looking, ’bye,” and hang up.
This approach was successful in all ways except the key one.…
…No one had seen Anna.
Worst of all: no answer when he dialed the number of boyfriend Gary Grace’s parents. And he tried them in between every other call, getting nothing but an endless ring and then the coins rattling back down.
The need to keep the calls brief prevented gathering any other information, such as whether the Graces were out of town. But some information Michael already had: for example, he knew that little groups of the kids always went out to dinner before the prom, nothing organized by the schools, just cliques, socializing, and that after prom, parties (mostly at the homes of various kids) would go on till dawn.
Sometimes the prom itself was held in the Incline Village High School’s gymnasium, but all the crepe-paper streamers in the world couldn’t turn that echoey, sweat-sock-smelling cavern into the kind of romantic wonderland the students had in mind. So most years, the Prom Committee found some other, more appropriate venue in the area; and of course Tahoe offered many nice possibilities.
Several months (that seemed like years) ago, Michael had taken the booking himself, helping out his daughter, who after all had been on the committee: the 1973 Incline Village Senior Prom would be held in the celebrated Indian Lounge of the Cal-Neva Lodge.
This fact may have eluded Pat; in any case, Michael had no intention of reminding her.…
When he emerged, unsuccessful, from the phone booth, night had settled over Tucson, and the neon sambo’s sign had replaced the sun. Still in the suitcoat, he raised the lapels against a cool evening that threatened to turn cold.
He pulled into the driveway just after seven.
Pat met him at the door, a beautiful woman who looked terrible, her makeup long since cried off, her eyes webbed with red, her usually carefully coiffed ’do a tangle of greasy blonde worms and snakes; only the yellow pants suit looked crisp, polyester holding up under any tragedy.
He had never seen her look worse, nor loved her more.
“Nothing from the calls,” he said.
“Not a word from Anna,” she said, voice cracking.
He looped an arm around her and walked her into the house, nudging the door shut. Her head leaned on his shoulder.
They settled onto the Chesterfield couch in the front room, their target-like abstract paintings seeming particularly ugly to him at the moment.
“Have you heard from the Parhams lately?” he asked.
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Molly claims she called everybody she could think of, going back to friends Cindy had in junior high. All the parents were supportive, of course, but nobody knew anything.”
“No big party last night?”
“No. And no other lies about a slumber party at somebody else’s house. This looks like strictly a scheme of Anna’s and Cindy’s.”
“Really looking that way.”
Pat craned her head. “Do you think Anna went somewhere else?”
“Other than Tahoe, you mean?”
“Yes. I mean, if she’s really fed up with us, maybe she went out to California or something. Lot of kids live on the street out there—Haight-Ashbury or something?”
He shook his head. “Our girl’s no hippie. She likes her creature comforts. Really, we’re probably overreacting.”
She reared back. “How can you say that?”
“I mean…because of our specific…situation, we’re reacting in a way that…makes sense.” He shrugged. “But if you take WITSEC out of the equation, Anna’s just a teenager whose parents moved and made her miss prom.”
“You mean…she hasn’t run away for good, just to go back to prom?”
“Right. If we didn’t do a thing, she’d probably come strolling in that front door tomorrow night or Sunday, and face the music.”
Pat’s eyes narrowed. “You could be right. I think…I think you are right. She’s just run away for the weekend. But with our… like you said, ‘situation’…it’s so very awfully terribly dangerous.”
“Yeah.”
He held Pat, and she cried into his chest.
For a long time he squeezed her, patted her, and then he said, “Should we eat something? I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Could you eat? I don’t think I could eat any-thing.”
“We probably should.”
He was thinking of keeping her busy; but he was also thinking about keeping himself sharp and straight—he’d be flying via that red-eye tonight, after all. With a big day tomorrow.…
Fifteen minutes later they were eating ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table. Pat was drinking a glass of milk, Michael a Coke.
“Funny,” he said.
She smirked humorlessly, half-eaten sandwich in hand. “I can’t imagine what’s ‘funny.’”
“Took me back a second. When we were kids in DeKalb… teenagers like Anna…this is what we’d drink. Woolworth’s soda-fountain counter. Glass of milk for you, Coke for me.”
Her smile was bittersweet. “We’ve been together a long time, Michael.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
She reached across and squeezed his hand. “What now? I’ll go crazy, waiting.”
He told her about the ticket on the red-eye.
“You have to stay here,” he said.
She arched an eyebrow. “Hold down the fort?”
“Home fires burning,” he said, nodding. “I’ll keep you posted, every step of the way.”
“I know you will. But I…I.…”
She put her sandwich down and began to cry again. He got up and went around to her, knelt by her, slipped an arm around her shoulder, and said, “I know it’s hard to be strong. And there’s not much you can do, now. You really should get some sleep.”
“Sleep? I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You didn’t think you could eat, either, and what happened to half of that sandwich?”
She laughed a little. “I still have those pills, from when… when we heard about Mike.”
She meant the sedatives.
“Can you take those, along with the, uh, other?”
“Valium, Michael. It’s not a bad word. Yes. The same doctor prescribed both, nothing to worry about.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll feel better on that plane, not thinking you’re tossing and turning and, uh, just.…”
“A mess?” She sighed, managed a small smile. Then she yawned. “My God, I am tired, at that.…”
She took the pills at the kitchen counter, and he walked her into the bedroom. She got undressed and into her preferred nightwear, baggy black silk men’s pajamas. Either the time they’d spent talking and eating, or the medication, had relaxed her.
He took her in his arms. “You look beautiful.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
“But you do.” He kissed her on the mouth, tenderly. “Get some rest. And I’ll hold down the fort.…”
“Love you,” she said, and got under the covers of the four-poster. She switched off the nights
tand lamp, and he slipped out of the dark bedroom into the hall, closing the door, tight.
He went back and finished his sandwich. Considering what she’d been through, Pat was doing all right; he was glad she’d had the presence of mind to get some sleep, even if a somewhat medicated one. He cleared the kitchen table, put the dishes in the sink, and ran water over them. He got out of the suit he’d been wearing all day and into a black Banlon shirt, some gray Sansabelt slacks, and crepe-sole loafers. Then he took some time getting an overnight bag together, including a change of clothes, some toiletries, and a box of .45 ammunition.
Though exhaustion was nipping at his heels, he didn’t allow himself to fall asleep; he sat in his recliner in the rec room, sipping another Coke (the caffeine was just the ticket), and watched television, volume low so as not to bother Pat. The Rockford Files he enjoyed—Jim Garner was just doing Maverick again, but that was okay with Michael—but halfway through Police Woman, he was thinking that Angie Dickinson’s good looks weren’t enough to justify this nonsense when, on the end table beside him, the phone rang.
He looked toward the hall, and the bedroom, wondering if it would wake her, expecting Pat to come rushing out.
“Smith residence.”
“Say,” an amiably gruff male voice said without preamble, “it’s Sid Parham. Listen, Cindy’s come home.”
He sat up. “What does she say about Anna?”
“Why don’t you come over and talk to her yourself. She says Anna’s fine, but.…” Embarrassment colored the perhaps too-friendly voice. “…You come talk to her yourself.”
He went in to tell Pat, but she was sound asleep.
Deciding not to disturb her, he shut her back in, and soon stepped out into another chill, clear night, though the streetlamp on this block was out and the full moon was on its own. Almost running, he crossed the street to the Parhams; on the front stoop, he glanced at his watch, thinking about the red-eye flight: quarter till eleven.
Stocky bald Sid Parham, in a two-tone burnt-orange leisure suit (was he going skydiving?) met Michael at the door and led him, once again, to the kitchen. Molly was wearing an identical leisure suit. And parents these days wondered why kids rebelled.…
All four chairs were taken at the square glass kitchen table, mother and father framing the daughter, with Michael across from the girl, a small, petite blonde who had drawn the best features from both her parents, and still wasn’t pretty.
But maybe that wasn’t fair—the girl looked tired, and sat slumped with more than just sullenness. Her light blue eyes were hooded, emphasizing her robin’s-egg eye shadow, their industrial-strength mascara matched by dark circles that could pass for Halloween makeup.
She didn’t look at him, at first. He’d seen this teenager with his daughter numerous times, and she’d always been well-groomed, for the type; but tonight her hair—blonde with dark roots, straight to her shoulders—looked unwashed and bedraggled. She wore a green tank top, which flattened the perk out of her small breasts, and cut-off denim short-shorts and sandals.
She was playing with her car keys.
Had he been her father, Michael would have already taken those away from her.
But he kept his voice friendly. “Cindy, what’s the story? Where is Anna?”
“How should I know?” Cindy asked.
Her father said to her, “You told me she’s all right.”
“Well, she is.”
Michael said, “When did you see her last?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where is she?”
Half a smirk dimpled a cheek. “When was I put in charge of her?”
“You weren’t. Where is she, Cindy?”
A weight-of-the-world sigh came up from her toes; my gaaaawd, adults were stupid! “Look, I dropped her off at a Denny’s on Speedway yesterday evening.”
“Why?”
“She met up with some friends in the parking lot. They were going to a party.”
“What friends? What party?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t go to it. And they were her friends, not mine. I had this other party to go to.”
Michael shook his head; but he kept all anger and irritation out of his voice. “Cindy, you’re Anna’s only friend, her only contact in this town. We’ve only been here six weeks.”
“What’s the problem?” She looked up in mock innocence and batted her eyelashes at Michael, which might have worked if he were eighteen and her baby blues hadn’t been so bleary. “Didn’t she come home or something?”
“You know she didn’t.”
Her father said, “Cindy! You told us Anna was fine!”
She gave him a dirty look and went back to playing with her keys.
Michael said, “You do know where she is.”
The girl said nothing.
“Where is she, Cindy?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Would you rather talk to the police?”
She looked up sharply. “What did I do?”
Michael shrugged. “My daughter’s been gone long enough for me to file a missing-persons report. You’re the last known party to’ve seen Anna. So you’re the first they’ll be talking to.”
“…What if I do know where she is?”
“Then you should tell me.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I promised her. You guys are terrible to her.”
“Then I’ll tell you. She’s in Lake Tahoe.”
Cindy said nothing, but her eyelids flickered.
Sid Parham said, “Where have you been since yesterday, Cindy?”
“Driving.”
Molly Parham said, “Driving where? You’re going to get in trouble, young lady!”
Michael closed his eyes.
Then he opened them and said, “Cindy, I know Anna went back to Crystal Bay so she could attend prom.”
Sid Parham said to Michael, “You’re from St. Paul.”
Michael said, “Sid, I know I’m a guest in your home. But you need to let me handle this.”
“Well…sure…but.…”
Michael rose, gave Parham a nod to come talk to him, out of the girl’s earshot. Near where the kitchen fed the living room, Michael said softly, “I have a big favor to ask, Sid—and I’m asking as one father to another. May I please talk to your daughter alone?”
“Oh, now, I don’t—”
“I’m not going to browbeat her, and I certainly won’t touch her. But I think having you and your wife there makes it harder for me to get through to Cindy.”
“Why would that be?”
“Kids this age take an attitude with their parents around. I’ve talked to Cindy half a dozen times, and she’s never been like this with me before. I think I can get her to relate to me…one-on-one, if you’ll give me the chance.”
Parham drew in a deep breath, looking more than ever like Uncle Fester; when the man finally spoke, Michael half-expected it to be in a high-pitched whiny voice.
But the voice was Sid’s usual baritone, and so gentle as to be almost sweet. “Listen, Michael—I know you love your little girl. Like we love ours. And I know all about how difficult it can be.… So you go ahead.”
“Thank you, Sid.”
“Understand, if it gets loud, I’m coming in!”
“I understand.”
Parham nodded. “I’ll talk to Molly.…Give me a minute.”
The man of the house went over, whispered in his better half’s ear; she frowned, started to say something, but he whispered again. And finally, reluctantly, she nodded.
Sid, walking his wife away from the kitchen table, a gentle guiding hand on her elbow, said, “We’ll be in the front room, if you need us.”
“Thank you,” Michael said.
As they left —looking like janitors in an art museum in those leisure suits—Cindy frowned. She seemed confused and perhaps a little worried.
Michael said t
o her, “How much did Anna tell you?”
Cindy looked past him and shrugged.
“Did she tell you that she was putting herself in danger?”
Cindy looked at her keys, fiddled with them.
He plucked the keys from her fingertips and set them down, with a small clunk, out of her immediate reach.
“Did she tell you that she was putting her mother and me in danger?”
Cindy folded her arms over her small flattened breasts. “She wanted to go to her prom. What’s so dangerous about that?”
Relieved to finally have confirmation of his theory, he asked, “How did she get there?”
The girl shrugged. Her emotions seemed on the verge of breaking through the sulk; the tiredness helped—it took energy to maintain a good pout, even for a kid.
“Did she tell you everything?”
“…Maybe.”
“Did she tell you the kind of people this involves?”
The girl looked away.
Were her eyes damp?
“You didn’t drive her there. If you had, you’d still be in Tahoe, staying till after prom, to make the round trip.”
She smirked, but the curled lips quivered. Somehow the blue eye shadow and mascara only made her look younger.
“What did you do, Cindy?” he asked, casual. “Meet the boyfriend halfway?”
The girl’s forehead tensed a little.
Thinking out loud, Michael said, “You drove halfway, and met Gary at a rest stop or gas station…? And he drove her the rest of the way, right?”
“Why ask if you know?”
“Not a rest stop. I’m going to say…Las Vegas. That’s about halfway, and that sounds like fun. But all that desert driving, it’s no picnic, is it?”
Tiny chin jutted. “What if I did drive her? I’m eighteen.”
“Without stopping it’d be maybe six, seven hours to Vegas. With pee breaks, and grabbing quick bites at diners, maybe eating in the car. You must have air-conditioning in that little Mustang your folks got you.…”
“So what if I do?”
He sat forward. He kept his voice even, flat, only vaguely threatening. “Why are you back so late? Why didn’t you stay in Vegas longer?”
“You’re so smart. You tell me.”
“…Well, it sounded like more fun than it was. You’re right, you are eighteen, and you have to be twenty-one to get into the casinos. And those security boys can spot a fake ID at a hundred yards.”
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