And Then She Was GONE: A riveting new suspense novel that keeps you guessing until the end

by Christopher Greyson

  Jack’s chest puffed out and he smiled back. The flash popped. “Thanks. When will—”

  “Two to six weeks.” Mrs. Smythe put Jack’s paperwork in a stack.

  “Thanks again.” Jack gave her a little salute as he headed to the door.

  “Jack,” she called out before he reached the exit. A flurry of mixed emotions crossed her face, and then she solemnly said, “Thank you for serving.”

  The words knocked the cocky grin right off Jack’s face. He nodded politely.

  As Jack walked out of the old government office, the bricks and tiles had a different feel. A huge mural of a WWI soldier in a doughboy helmet charging up a hill made him stop. Jack stared at the stark expression of the man, ready to face death, and it dawned on him: even though they’d serve a hundred years apart, he and the man would now be inexorably linked.

  Jack put his shoulders back and lifted his chin. The full impact of his decision to join the Army started to sink in. In three months, he would be going to basic training, and after that, Afghanistan, or possibly Iraq.

  He pushed open the door, and when the bright June sun warmed his face, he smiled. I have three months. One last summer. All his worries about his future blew away in the warm summer breeze. He walked across the outdoor courtyard and headed for his pride and joy.

  His 1978 Chevy Impala.

  He’d had to work a whole summer for the parts, and another summer to make the body pristine. He’d gotten some help from the guys at the high school auto shop. Jack’s dad had helped work on it too. They’d both spent days at a time under the hood, or pulling dents and sanding rust. To Jack, the Batmobile and the Millennium Falcon had nothing on his Impala.

  But there was still a long list of stuff on the internals Jack knew he needed to fix: the piston rings were worn, the water pump was grinding, and it needed a valve job. The outside was mint, but the inside was messed up.

  Just like Jack.

  He hopped in and rubbed the dash. “Hey, baby.” Talking to the car wasn’t superstition; it was a greeting. He loved his car.

  He gave her another pat and started her up. To save some money, one of the guys in the school auto shop had suggested he use an old motorcycle muffler they had out back. As Jack’s foot hit the gas, the car sounded as if someone had mated a monster truck with a Jaguar.

  Traffic was light for the middle of the day. It took only ten minutes to drive over to Hamilton Park, where he and Chandler had planned to meet. Hamilton Park was the centerpiece of downtown Fairfield. A jogging path surrounded the rectangular park’s beautiful eleven hundred acres, thick with a variety of mature trees. A wide, paved walking trail studded with benches formed a figure eight through its gentle slopes, and at its center it passed by a gorgeous four-tiered fountain with a stone catch basin.

  As Jack drove down Main Street, he saw a line of police cruisers and several unmarked Ford Crown Victorias parked in front of an office building. Jack sat up in his seat to get a better view of what was happening. At first he thought it may have been a bad traffic accident, but he didn’t see any fire trucks or ambulances. That also ruled out a medical emergency.

  As Jack drove past, two men in suits, followed by a patrol officer, escorted a pair of sobbing women to one of the Crown Vics. Jack scanned the area around the building but saw no police tape marking the scene of a crime. He wondered what it was all about.

  Farther down the road, on the southwest corner of Hamilton Park, was a large, rundown parking lot next to a couple of aging basketball courts. Jack pulled in and shut the car off. In this area, an addict was liable to smash your windows, looking for loose change, but Jack knew if they didn’t see anything valuable typically they would leave the car alone. Still, he popped the door panel out with a snap, dropped his favorite sunglasses inside, then snapped it shut. If someone did break in, they’d take whatever was in the glove compartment, which had nothing of value, while Jack’s secret compartment was as safe as the Batcave.

  He locked the car and headed toward the basketball courts. A crowd of twenty people sat on aluminum bleachers that rose four rows high, watching a pick-up game. It was easy to spot Chandler in the crowd; even sitting, he towered over everyone around him.

  “You’re late,” Chandler’s deep voice called out as he waved Jack over.

  “You can’t be late for a pick-up game.”

  The yellowish green of Chandler’s t-shirt contrasted with his ebony skin. The slogan on the front of the shirt, “Army Strong,” emphasized his massive chest. “Where were you?”

  “Getting my passport.”

  Chandler shook his head. “You were late for that too—I got mine last week.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I have you to mother me.” Jack smirked as he knuckle-bumped his friend.

  Chandler gestured to the attractive girl with long, dark hair who sat next to him. Her high cheekbones accentuated her big brown eyes. “This is Makayla.” Makayla extended a slender hand. “Makayla, this is my brother, Jack.”

  Makayla shot a puzzled glance Chandler’s way, but to Jack she just said, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Her words had an odd hesitation to them.

  “Don’t believe a word of it.” Jack shook her hand and then sat.

  Makayla leaned closer to Chandler and whispered, “That’s not your brother.”

  “Yes it is. Jack’s my brother.”

  Makayla folded her arms and lifted her eyebrows.

  “What?” Chandler shrugged.

  “Clearly he is not your brother,” Makayla stated emphatically. “He’s—he’s—”

  “He’s what?”

  “He’s white!”

  Jack opened his eyes wide in a look of comic surprise, then frantically patted at his arms. He jumped up and squeaked, “I’m white?”

  The mostly African-American spectators turned around to look at him.

  Chandler pulled Jack back down and said to Makayla in a mock whisper, “We never told him that.”

  “So you’re… adopted?” Makayla asked.

  Now Jack’s mouth fell open. “Chandler? Is this true?”

  “We never told him that either,” Chandler said with a straight face. “Leave it to my Aunt Haddie. We must be the only poor black family that goes and adopts a white kid.”

  “Shut the front door. You’re playing me.” Makayla gave Chandler a hard push.

  Jack smiled at Chandler. Since they were seven, they’d pulled this joke a dozen times. “Technically, I’m his foster brother. I lived with Chandler and Aunt Haddie for four years before a nice couple adopted me and I moved out.”

  “But in my mind, Jack’s blood,” Chandler added. “I hate foster labels or any of that junk,” Chandler said. “Jack’s as much family to me as Michelle. Not a foster or anything else.”

  Jack put his arm around his friend’s massive shoulders and made a goofy face. “Can’t you see the resemblance?”

  Makayla laughed. “Now I can. Even though you two are as black and white as yin and yang.”

  “Yeah, and don’t forget the weight difference. I’m the skinny one.” Jack patted Chandler’s stomach. “Chandler here needs to jog.”

  Chandler knocked his hand away. “Funny.”

  “I’m not kidding.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “Did you run this morning?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? Come on, Chandler. You’re supposed to be running every day.”

  “Who’s being the mother now?”

  Jack playfully scoffed.

  “I thought you were going to stop by and we’d both go for a run.” Chandler draped his big arm across Makayla’s shoulders.

  “I had to get my passport. You should still have gone.”

  “I’ll go running tonight.”

  “When are you going to have time? We’re all going out tonight.”

  “I’ll go right after this game.”

  “You were going to take me for an ice cream.” Makayla pouted.

  Chandler rubbed his buzz cut. “I can
’t win.”

  “Sure you can.” Jack crossed his arms. “Take her for an ice cream at Wilbur’s. It’s right near the school. Don’t get one for yourself. She can eat the ice cream while she watches you run laps at the track.”

  “Works for me.” Makayla smiled.

  “I don’t have my jogging sneakers.”

  “We’re going to be running in boots soon. It’ll be good for you.”

  Chandler sighed, then reluctantly nodded.

  Makayla waved at a girl on the other side of the bleachers. “My sister’s here. I’ll be right back.” She stood and added, “Nice meeting you, Jack.”

  “Nice to meet you too.”

  “So,” Chandler stretched his legs out, “who’s your date tonight?”

  “Kelly.”

  “Is that the cheerleader you met at the galleria?”

  “Yes. The really cute one.”

  “So it’s your first date?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chandler made the sound of a bomb falling and then blowing up.

  “What? You’ve never even met her.” Jack kicked a bottle cap off the bleachers.

  “It’s just… you’ve talked about her enough, and—”

  “I’ve never said a bad thing about her.”

  “She just doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “My ‘type’?” Jack’s shoulders rose. “I don’t have a type. But if I did, blond cheerleader with a great bod is a good ‘type’ to have.”

  “I’m talking the rich part: drives Daddy’s BMW, lives in Knob Hill—that type.”

  “So you don’t like her because her family has money?”

  “No…” Chandler stretched the word out. “It’s not her. It’s you. You’re not a country club, polo horse type of guy.”

  Jack laughed. “That’s for sure.” His smile dropped. “Are you saying that’s what she wants me to be?”

  Chandler leaned back. “Look, just because you’re invited to a dinner at the country club doesn’t mean they’d let you in as a member. But I know you. Under your tough exterior, you got a big heart. You fall hard. This girl is used to fancy restaurants and exotic trips, not ice cream and the b-ball game.”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe she’s different.”

  “Maybe…” Chandler watched the game for a bit, then said, “Six thirty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll be late.”

  “Five bucks says I’m not.”

  Chandler reached for his wallet.

  “I thought you didn’t bet,” Jack said.

  “I don’t. It’s not a bet when the outcome is guaranteed. And it’s a guarantee you’ll be late. Easy money.”

  “Shut up.” Jack stood.

  “We on?” Chandler held out five bucks.

  “No.”

  Chandler laughed.

  As Jack walked away to his car, a police cruiser rolled into the parking lot, followed by a dark brown Crown Vic. Two officers hurried out of the cruiser, one male and one female.

  Jack stopped when he saw the grizzled detective riding shotgun in the Crown Vic: Detective Clark. When Jack was twelve, his adoptive father set up a couple of police station tours and ride-alongs. That’s when he first met Clark. Clark took a liking to Jack, and gave Jack a real picture of what law enforcement was like—warts and all.

  The car door opened and Clark got out. His short gray hair was a few shades lighter than his suit. He spoke to the uniformed cops and handed them some papers. The two officers nodded and followed the other detective over to the basketball courts.

  Detective Clark noticed Jack and strode over. He gave Jack’s hand a firm shake. “How are you, Stratton?”

  Jack grinned. He couldn’t help it. Clark always stretched out his last name in a voice that made you think he chewed rocks.

  “I’m good.”

  “I heard you’re headed into the Army. Why not go straight to college like your dad and I suggested?”

  “I thought the Army would be best.”

  Detective Clark’s expression remained unchanged.

  “My dad’s having to take early retirement because of his health,” Jack said. “It’s his heart. I didn’t want him to have the stress of paying for my college, too.”

  Detective Clark gave Jack an approving nod. “Well, the Army is a good way in. GI enrollment. Then college though, right? And after that, the police academy?”

  “That’s the plan. I still have that shirt you gave me.”

  “That thing had to be four sizes too big when I gave it to you. I never thought you’d grow into it.”

  Jack briefly smiled.

  “It’s a smart plan, Jack. That’s what my partner did.” Detective Clark watched one of the officers talking to a few people in the bleachers. “Just remember to stay out of trouble. Any kind of disciplinary record can kill your chances.”

  “I will.” Jack followed the seasoned officer’s watchful stare. “What’s going on? Does this have something to do with what was happening at H.T. Wells?”

  Clark raised an eyebrow. “Observant.” He took out a cigarette.

  Clark’s eyes matched his suit. Pale gray. Because of the dark circles under them, his eyes looked even grayer today, like the sky before a storm.

  “Something happened,” Clark said. He handed Jack a flyer.

  It showed a picture of a petite woman with shoulder-length honey-blond hair. Her bangs made her bright, cornflower-blue eyes and her wide smile stand out in her heart-shaped face. She was pretty, but the way she angled her head made her seem shy. She reminded Jack of a teacher he had a crush on once. Clark lit his cigarette while Jack read the flyer.

  Missing.

  Stacy Shaw. Age 26. White female. Blond, blue eyes. 5’2”. One hundred and ten pounds. Last seen wearing a gray blouse and black dress pants, and carrying a tan handbag with gold swirls. Stacy is diabetic and may need immediate medical attention.

  “What happened?” Jack asked.

  “The young lady works over at H.T. Wells, but we found her car a mile outside of town, in a ditch, at Ford’s Crossing last night. She went off the road, down the embankment, and hit a tree. We’re looking for anyone who may have seen her.”

  Jack pointed to the cruisers. “Why so much manpower?”

  Clark took a long draw of his cigarette. “I can’t say, but believe me, it’s critical we find her as soon as possible.” He looked at Jack. “Do me a favor—ask around, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Can I keep this?” Jack held up the flyer.

  “Sure. Tell your old man I said hi.” With a parting pat on the back, Clark turned to go.

  Jack walked to the Impala. As he got into his car, he spoke aloud to himself: “Someday… Detective Jack Stratton.”

  As he was exiting the parking lot, he saw a policeman rush over to the detectives, followed by two teenage girls. Clark held the flyer out. One of the girls pointed at the picture and nodded. Clark reached for his notebook.

  Jack hoped the detective had just gotten a good lead.

  4

  Dominoes

  Jack tucked in his short-sleeve, black, button-up shirt that fit as though it was custom made, then stared in the mirror. Maybe this one?

  Jack hated all the ritual and pretense that went along with a first date. Right now, instead of enjoying himself, he was concerned about Kelly’s parents’ opinion of him. Kelly had given the impression that they were pretty snobby. He looked at the large pile of other shirts that lay on his bed and moaned.

  Jack’s father, Ted, who was across the hall, leaned away from his desk. “You look pretty enough. Get your butt in gear.”

  Jack reluctantly settled on the shirt he had on.

  “Yoo-hoo! Jack?” his mother, Laura, called from the bottom of the staircase.

  Jack pulled on his sneakers and hurried out of the bedroom. “What time is it?” he called out as he thundered down the stairs of their modest Cape Cod-style house.

  “Five forty-two.” His dad followed him and tapped his
watch while giving Jack a you-wouldn’t-have-to-ask-if-you-wore-the-watch-I-gave-you look.

  “Crud, I’m late.”

  His mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t speed,” she said. “You can be fashionably late. It builds anticipation.”

  Laura Stratton was a small, slender woman with hazel eyes who always seemed to be concerned for Jack’s well-being. From the time Jack had walked through the front door, his mother had exceeded everything he’d thought a mom could be.

  His father followed him down the stairs and patted him on the back. “Midnight, Cinderellie.” His blue eyes peered past his round glasses up at Jack. Short and heavyset, Jack’s father had a presence that drew your attention. Jack didn’t know whether it was the years of teaching math or the way he carried himself, but when his father was in the room, the focus shifted to him.

  “Two o’clock?” Jack grinned.

  “Eleven?”

  “You’re going backward.”

  His mother rubbed Jack’s shoulder. “You should have gone for one o’clock.” Her short, light brown hair bobbed as she cast an arbitrating glance her husband’s way.

  “Midnight it is.” Jack’s father’s tone left no room for haggling.

  “Fine.” Jack leaned down and kissed his mom’s cheek. Like a proud mother smiling at a newborn baby, she grinned up at him. He expected her to pinch his cheek, but instead she stretched up and kissed it.

  “You’re picking up Chandler too?” his dad asked.

  “Yeah, he’s bringing Makayla.”

  Jack’s mom dashed away. “Ooh—let me get my camera.”

  “Mom, it’s just a date.”

  “It’s the first time you’re taking Kelly out. First dates are the most important.”

  Jack looked to his father, who just shrugged. Jack rolled his eyes.

  Jack’s mom called back, “Do you have the flowers?”

  “Yes, Mom. I put them out in the car so I wouldn’t forget.”

  As his mother searched for the camera, Jack tapped his foot. His father crossed his arms and looked Jack up and down as though he were appraising a car. “You’re a handsome boy, Jack.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “There’s something we should talk about. You should—”