The Right Side

by Spencer Quinn

  “Oops,” said Mr. McCutcheon, “how in heck did that happen?”

  —and the next picture was Marci’s wedding photo, the same one LeAnne had seen on Coreen’s sunroom wall—Marci in her low-cut wedding gown and Harvey adoring her.

  “Love that shot,” said McCutcheon, in a very soft voice, possibly to himself.

  LeAnne nodded. Meanwhile, the video collage seemed to speed up, as though McCutcheon had started worrying about his time limit. Marci in uniform, Marci on the deck of a submarine, Marci holding baby Mia high in the air, Marci and Mia—looking about her age in the Missing Child poster—at the edge of the Grand Canyon.

  “Here comes the second dissolve,” said McCutcheon. “Second and last—some of my competitors get a little dissolve-happy, in my opinion.”

  Out of the dissolve came a snatch of video. Marci was sitting on the edge of . . . a fountain? A fountain beside a cherry tree? And she wore the prosthetic leg?

  “What is this?” LeAnne said, perhaps quite loudly.

  “Coreen struck up a relationship with one of the nurses when she visited Walter Reed. The nurse caught this on a lunch break. Sent it in just yesterday, in fact.”

  There was another woman in the scene, a dark-haired woman facing away from the camera. She also was sitting on the edge of the fountain, somewhat rigidly, and perhaps aggressively, too; the tendons at the back of her neck stood out. Just from the way she carried herself you could tell that this was not a pleasant woman, no one you’d want to know.

  Marci’s lips moved like she was saying something. Then she watched the other woman. The other woman must have replied, a reply that Marci liked, because she laughed. Actually threw back her head and laughed—and in that moment looked young and happy and carefree. Sunshine gleamed on the silvery parts of her prosthetic leg.

  “Says so much about her, if you ask me,” McCutcheon said. LeAnne felt him glance her way. Tears were flowing, but only from her real eye, so maybe he didn’t see. He seemed about to say something, seemed to change his mind. Now the photo of Marci in the baseball cap was back on the screen. “So much for the collage,” said McCutcheon. “Now we get to the service, if you’re still interested.”

  LeAnne nodded.

  “Still just a rough cut, bear in mind,” McCutcheon said. “Plus I went to a three-camera operation last month, so things have gotten a little complicated. Not to mention the music issue. A lot of folks have a favorite song that needs to be included—and we’ve dealt with an amazing variety—but maybe nothing as discordant as this one.”

  “ ‘Rip This Joint’?”

  “You’re familiar with it?”

  “Marci knew every word.”

  “Quite a feat, right there. I’ve heard it maybe ten times now and I still don’t have a clue what it’s about. Drugs, do you think?” He hit a key or two and the image on the screen changed to rows of chapel pews, seen from above.

  “More like a party,” LeAnne said. “A traveling American party.”

  “Yeah?” said McCutcheon. “What a country!” He pointed to the screen. “This is the footage I’m using from the balcony cam, just for the ending—which was when the song started playing, but I’m not happy with the live feed.” He fiddled with the controls of another machine, blinking above the screen. “You want it to be right.”

  The balcony cam scene started up. The three essential parts were the pastor at the podium, the mourners in the pews, and the coffin separating parts one and two, a coffin covered with the Stars and Stripes. The pastor was talking about how we hadn’t lost Marci since we knew where she already was, looking down as he spoke—the same old comforting shit LeAnne had heard many times, and now tuned out as the camera slowly zoomed in closer on the front row of pews. She recognized a few people: Coreen, Harvey, and Mia. Mia sat next to another little girl, smaller than she was. Mia wasn’t crying, but her eyes were open wide and had an expression of horror in them. Without looking, the other girl reached over and took Mia’s hand. Their heads moved, almost imperceptibly, closer together.

  McCutcheon pointed to the screen. “Mia, Marci’s daughter, the one who disappeared. You heard?”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Can’t say,” said McCutcheon. “But we had something similar a few years back. They found the kid in a treehouse on an abandoned lot where he’d lived as a toddler. Simply up and run away to a sort of sanctuary, as least in his mind.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes, so no harm done. Let’s pray for something similar in this case.”

  LeAnne was not in a prayerful mood. “Who’s the other girl?” she said.

  “With Mia?” said McCutcheon. “That’s my granddaughter Belinda Jane, but everyone calls her B.J.”

  “They’re friends, Mia and B.J.?”

  McCutcheon nodded. “More so this year, I think. They’re in the same class at school.”

  “Harvey Wald’s class?”

  “Correct.” McCutcheon glanced her way. “For a newcomer, you’re on top of things in our little burg.”

  The camera panned over toward the podium, where the pastor seemed to be wrapping up. “Rip This Joint” began to play, the sound not very good, as McCutcheon had said, murky and bass heavy. The mourners began to move out of range, Mia and B.J. trailing, and talking now, their heads again very close. Or rather it was Mia talking and B.J. listening, and whatever Mia was saying seemed to bring an astonished look to B.J.’s face. At least it appeared that way, but the moment was short, a fraction of a second, and then the girls passed from sight.

  “Can you back that up?” LeAnne said.

  “Say when.”

  “When.” The tiny moment went by once more. A strange interaction, or was she reading too much into it? “What do you think they’re talking about?”

  “Girls have themselves some serious conversations in a way boys just don’t,” McCutcheon said. “That’s one thing that hasn’t changed over the years.”

  LeAnne wasn’t buying that. She’d heard many boys of eighteen, nineteen, twenty, boys she’d served with, in conversation. The style, syntax, vocabulary, and volume were very different, but the talk was just as serious.

  “Were you in the military, Fred?”

  “Not me.” He went quiet and turned back to the controls, mixing in the good version of “Rip This Joint.”

  “Is today a school day?” LeAnne said. “I’ve lost track.”

  McCutcheon shook his head. “Spring vacation.”

  “What do the local kids do on spring vacation? B.J., for example.”

  He checked his watch. “Right about now she’ll be at gymnastics.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just a bitty thing, but the coach says she has promise.”

  “Bitty things are what they’re looking for in gymnastics.”

  “Really? You know something about it?”

  “A little,” LeAnne said. Then, just when she’d been on a purposeful sort of roll, she dead-ended. Hadn’t she been headed in some direction, following some idea? She squeezed her eyes shut, like a kid thinking her very hardest. Both eyes, meaning at least in this one task the bad one was pitching in. LeAnne got lucky. “Where’s the class?” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Goody was asleep when LeAnne got back to the car, sprawled across both front seats although mostly in LeAnne’s. Her tail, with its uneven end, rose once and fell with a thump; if not asleep, then at least her eyes were closed.

  “Move it.”

  Goody didn’t budge.

  “We don’t have time for this shit.” LeAnne had a real bad feeling, unfamiliar and at first unplaceable. Then she got it: she was afraid. But of what? Something specific? Or a general sort of dread?

  Goody’s eyes opened. She gazed at LeAnne with one of her coal-black looks, the meaning of which, if any, was not evident. LeAnne gave Goody’s haunches a push. Goody swung her head around and growled, her inner ferocity beyond doubt. The next thing LeAnne knew was that she’d raised
her fist and was about to . . . She caught herself in time and lowered that too-quick hand. Goody rose in a deliberate way—which, in a human, LeAnne would have called dignified—and shifted over to the passenger side, revealing that she’d been lying on her toy.

  LeAnne picked up the stuffed dog, slightly slimy with Goody’s saliva. The stuffed dog had only one eye? When had that happened? This development stunned LeAnne. There had to be some meaning in it, but what? She turned the dog over in her hands, a floppy-eared kind of dog, white with brown patches, a somewhat familiar type, maybe a popular breed. She squeezed it, feeling for anything that might be hidden inside, and was checking for an opening, like a tiny pouch or zippered pocket—and finding none—when Goody leaned over and snatched the thing away.

  Initial Evaluation for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder:

  Integrated Summary and Conclusions:

  5. If possible, state prognosis for improvement of psychiatric

  condition and impairments in functional status:

  A Missing Child poster was thumbtacked to a message board outside Just Tumblin’ Around Gymnastics, a low, flat-roofed building with a circular drive. LeAnne stopped in front of it, studying Mia’s face in the hope of somehow seeing inside her, and then drove around and back out onto the street, where she parked and waited. Every mission was based on a plan. At the moment, she had none. Winging it was usually fatal in her combat experience. Carefully conceived plans could also be fatal. All that was on the negative side. On the plus side was the fact that the twisting and shearing behind her fake eye had gone dormant and she had no pain; and also—no leaving this out—she had the feel of Goody’s tail resting on her knee. Crazy that that was a positive, or even factored in at all, but it was true.

  Cars began rolling into the circular drive. The door to Just Tumblin’ Around Gymnastics opened, and girls from about eight through ten years old in sweats and tights began coming out and climbing into the cars. Soon all the cars were gone and only one girl remained, a bitty little thing—B.J. She sat down on a bench out front and got busy checking her hair for split ends. LeAnne was struck by something she’d missed on the video, namely the resemblance of B.J. to Tasha, the bitty little best friend from her own gymnastics days. Same sturdy body type, same short, squarish feet, even some facial similarities, especially the peaches-and-cream complexion. LeAnne looked over at Goody.

  “Is this the kind of thing you’ll help or hinder?”

  Goody clutched the toy dog firmly in her mouth.

  “Lots of kids are crazy about dogs. Dogs in general. But what about this particular girl and you specifically?” LeAnne took another look at B.J., still busy with the split ends, her eyes crossed. “Girls in gymnastics don’t scare easily, right? Isn’t that a given?” LeAnne clipped the leash to Goody’s collar. “Don’t fuck up. That means dropping your little buddy, for starters.”

  Goody let go of the toy.

  “You understood? Or just a coincidence?”

  Goody gave her a coal-black stare. LeAnne opened the door and they got out, LeAnne first and not even having to fight for the privilege. They crossed the half-moon-shaped island of lawn separating the street from the circular driveway, Goody on her right, but not straining at the leash, instead walking at exactly LeAnne’s pace, like a well-trained dog. B.J. heard them coming and looked up, smoothing down her hair on both sides.

  “Hi,” LeAnne said. “Don’t worry about Goody, here. She’s pretty big, all right, but harmless. Relatively.”

  “I like dogs,” B.J. said. She smoothed down her hair again. “Can I pet her?”

  “Don’t see why not, myself,” LeAnne said, moving closer, Goody right with her. They stopped in front of the bench. B.J. extended a small squarish hand and gave Goody a tentative pat or two on the top of her huge head. “She likes that,” LeAnne said.

  “Her tail’s not wagging,” said B.J.

  “She’s funny that way. Try scratching between her ears.”

  B.J. scratched between Goody’s ears. Goody went very still. LeAnne shortened her grip on the leash and held tight, but there was nothing to worry about; Goody was just falling into one of her trances.

  “It’s still not wagging,” B.J. said, turning to LeAnne—and catching sight of her bad side for the first time. She looked away, real fast, and shrank back a little, her hands clasped together in her lap.

  LeAnne felt dizzy. She fought it off, tried to smile, tried to find something funny to say about Goody, but all that came out was, “Don’t be afraid. It . . . it looks worse than it is, believe it or not, much worse.”

  “Sorry,” said B.J. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” LeAnne said. “My name’s LeAnne. I was a friend of Mia’s mom.” The girl’s eyes shifted, like she was having some sort of thought. “From the army,” LeAnne added, in case B.J. was trying to figure out the relationship. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Yes,” said B.J. “I mean no. Um, like, sit down.”

  LeAnne laughed, a laugh that sounded weak and distant. “That’s a tough one.” She sat down, keeping B.J. on her left, and the dizziness began to fade. Goody tried to shift over to LeAnne’s right, got herself tangled in the leash. LeAnne started straightening that out, felt B.J. watching her. “How was gymnastics?” she said.

  “Okay,” said B.J.

  “What skill were you working on?”

  “Back walkover on the beam.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not too great.”

  “How about on the mat?”

  “My back walkover? One of my best! Not that I’m any good, really.”

  “Don’t be too quick to criticize yourself,” LeAnne said. “I struggled with that one for the longest time.”

  “The back walkover?”

  “On the beam. Fell so many times I must’ve thought I was a bird.”

  B.J. laughed a tiny laugh. “You did gymnastics?”

  “I was pretty average. But I had a friend who ended up being very good—looked a lot like you, in fact—and she gave me a tip that helped big-time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just before you raise that front-foot heel, my friend Tasha always put her hands just so.”

  “Like she was praying?”

  “Exactly. She said it made her narrow, like the beam itself.”

  “Hey!”

  “Try it next time.”

  “I’m gonna,” said B.J. “Do you say a prayer, too?”

  “I didn’t myself, but it can’t hurt. Just make it short.”

  B.J. nodded her head in a very serious way, possibly committing the short-prayer tip to memory. LeAnne counted silently to thirty. B.J. started smoothing the sides of her hair once more.

  “I missed the funeral,” LeAnne said, “but I’m sure they had prayers.”

  “Lots.”

  “You must be worried about Mia.”

  B.J. nodded again. “My dad’s out on the search—that’s why he’s late.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s at work.”

  “Here’s a good short prayer for gymnastics, in case you decide to go that route,” LeAnne said. “ ‘Please make this fun.’ ”

  “ ‘Please make this fun.’ Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Did you know your grandfather is making a video of the service?”

  “No.”

  “I saw some of it, mostly the ending. It looked like you were a big help to Mia.”

  “Really?”

  “I did notice that as you were leaving, she said something that seemed to surprise you.” LeAnne felt B.J. turning toward her, also felt the girl tensing up, but she herself remained facing forward, bad side hidden. “I couldn’t help wondering what that was about.”

  “Did—did anyone else notice?”

  “Oh, I’m sure not.”

  There was a long pause. Goody was lying down now, eyes closed, snoring softly. LeAnne got the weird feeling she was actively helping in her ow
n way.

  “You’re from the army?” B.J. said.

  “I am.”

  B.J. lowered her voice. “Are you part of the mission?”

  “It depends what mission you’re talking about.”

  B.J. lowered her voice even more. “The secret mission.”

  “I have clearance,” LeAnne said.

  “So . . . so you know about it?”

  “There are lots of secret missions. Remind me.”

  “Her mom’s secret mission,” B.J. said, now just a whisper.

  “Ah,” said LeAnne, lowering her own voice.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Depends on what you’ve heard.”

  Now LeAnne turned to B.J. The kid suddenly looked even younger than she actually was, almost like her kindergarten self. “That she’s alive,” B.J. said. “On a secret mission. But no one can know or she’ll die.”

  The dizziness returned, worse than before. LeAnne might have fainted if she’d been standing. “Mia knows?”

  “Her mom sent for her. So Mia wouldn’t be upset. It worked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s how I noticed. At first she cried all the time. And then it stopped. So I was like, how come. And she told me.”

  LeAnne took a deep breath, pushing back the dizziness. “Told you that her mom was alive?”

  “And wanted to see her. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, her mom wanted to see her,” LeAnne said, like some politician picking every word very carefully; which made her feel sick inside but didn’t stop her.

  “I swore not to tell. But if you already know—”

  “Exactly right. The only unclear part is how Mia found out about this.”

  “There was a message from the army,” B.J. said.

  “A message from the army?”

  “The night before the funeral. One of those commandos came to her window.”

  “Commandos?”

  “With his face all painted camo.”

  “This is sounding so strange.”