Take the Bait

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Where is she?” Jack enunciated each simple word. “One minute she was walking along Stony Brook Road, the next minute she’s gone—how can that be? Why didn’t anyone see anything, hear anything?”

  Frank had interviewed everyone who lived on Stony Brook Road with remarkably little success. The houses there were widely spaced and set well back from the road. Two families had not been home at the time of Janelle’s disappearance. The other three could remember nothing about any cars that might have driven by. Certainly they had heard no screams or shouts. Frank had even stopped by at Mr. Lambert’s house, which, ironically, had a perfect view of the stretch of road from which Janelle had gone missing. Frank had hoped the old man might have had a visitor who’d seen something, or that Lambert himself might have heard something. But the adage about the blind having a keener sense of hearing was not true in this case. Mr. Lambert kept his radio tuned at an ear-splitting decibel, and spoke in the raised tones of the nearly deaf.

  “I can’t stand to think of her out there alone, in the dark, hurt, afraid,” Jack said softly, to himself. He looked up and met Frank’s eyes directly, and his fear passed like a current into Frank’s gut. “What if you never find her? What if I never, ever know what happened to her? I won’t be able to bear it.”

  Frank returned Jack’s gaze without blinking. “I won’t let that happen. I promise you.”

  He was a father, too. He knew what it was to love a child more than your own life; knew what it was to lose a wife, and to have nothing left of her but what you had created together—a daughter. But even though Estelle was gone, taken from him so suddenly by a brain aneurysm in that last dreadful year in Kansas City, his daughter Caroline was safe and sound in her home down-state in suburban Westchester. His little grandsons, Ty and Jeremy, were where they were supposed to be, not missing, or abducted, or dead.

  And he was here in Trout Run, with a crime to solve. He pulled away from Jack Harvey and his web of pain. He couldn’t let himself get tangled there, not this time, not ever.

  By nine-thirty Saturday night, virtually every family in Trout Run, Johnsonburg, and Verona had been called. Janelle’s friends had shown her photograph at every store, movie theater, and restaurant in Lake Placid. They even took the photo out to the Burger King on the New York Thruway, more than thirty miles away. Everywhere, people intently studied the picture, which showed the engaging if slightly startled smile of a girl caught too soon by an impatient school photographer. The fine strawberry blond hair had, for the occasion, been coaxed into poufed wings on either side of her high-cheekboned face. The hazel eyes, unsullied by anything the cosmetics counter at the local drugstore had to offer, were wide and ingenuous. But everywhere people shook their heads, without even a moment of hesitation to give a moment of hope.

  Now Frank sat in the Town Office surrounded by Reid Burlingame, Ardyth Munger, Clyde Stevenson, and Clyde’s son, Ned. The first three were members of the town council. Frank didn’t know why Ned felt the need to be there, but he chose not to make an issue of it. “I’m going to call off the search for tonight,” he told the group as he replaced the phone receiver in its cradle. “Lieutenant Meyerson from the state police barracks in Malone will be here at daybreak with two investigators and a K-9 team.”

  “Well, I’m glad the state police finally realize we have a serious crisis here,” Clyde fumed. “They certainly don’t hesitate to accept our tax dollars, but they are certainly reluctant to do any work.”

  Clyde spoke in a strange syncopated rhythm whose logic was clear only to him. He was not the man an outsider would have pegged as the most powerful person in Trout Run. On the short side of average, Clyde carried no extra weight, but a tendency toward wide hips made him look dumpy and vaguely effeminate. His facial features were unremarkable except for one detail: he had uncommonly long and meaty earlobes. Whenever Frank spoke to Clyde, he found his eyes irresistibly drawn to these fleshy pendulums, which quivered and shook in sync with Clyde’s odd cadences.

  “Since there were no obvious signs of foul play, we had to be certain she hadn’t run away before the state police would get involved,” Frank explained. “They’re prepared to give us their full assistance in the morning.”

  “Well, I think it’s premature to call off our own efforts,” Clyde protested. “Don’t you agree, Reid?”

  Reid opened his mouth to reply, but Frank cut him off. He didn’t appreciate this decision making by committee, and he intended to squelch it fast. “It’s dark and we haven’t discovered anything. The last thing we need is for one of the volunteers to get lost or hurt. There’s really nothing more that can be done tonight by the searchers.”

  Ardyth looked out the window, through fine droplets that clung to the glass. “I don’t know. It’s starting to rain and the temperature’s really dropped. Hypothermia’s a real possibility if the poor girl is out there in just a T-shirt,” she said.

  Frank massaged his temples, struggling to keep the edge out of his voice when he answered. “Well, Ardyth, I’d agree except Janelle didn’t get lost on a hike in the woods. We have no reason to believe she’s out in the open.”

  “We have no reason to believe she’s not, either,” Clyde insisted. “Most likely, her abductor has dragged her off into the forest and is holding her there.”

  This time Frank didn’t even attempt to restrain his irritation. “There is absolutely no evidence to support that statement, Clyde. I’ll thank you not to go getting everyone more upset than they already are by spouting off theories that have no basis in fact.”

  A shocked silence engulfed the room. Frank could hear his own blood pounding through his arteries, propelled by a heart beating much too fast for a man his age. Then support came from an unlikely corner.

  “I think we’re all a little too tense to accomplish much more tonight,” Ned said as he rose. Although taller than his father, Ned was still several inches shorter than Frank. Dressed for the search in hiking boots and a ratty University of Pennsylvania sweatshirt, he looked younger than his thirty years. “Chief Bennett has probably organized many searches in his career—let’s let him do his job,” Ned said, dropping a casual hand on his father’s shoulder. He directed an affable smile at the rest of the group, revealing perfectly even teeth. To Frank’s amazement, Clyde stood without another word and left the room with Ned following.

  Ardyth and Reid stared at the door that had just closed behind the two Stevensons. Finally, Ardyth found her voice. “Boy, I never saw Clyde back down like that. Maybe you’re right, Reid. Ned’s coming back home does seem to be having a good effect on the old goat.”

  Ever diplomatic, Reid let this characterization pass without comment. At seventy-two, he still practiced law and had a reputation for being both even-handed and even-tempered. “Better get out there and call in the searchers, Frank,” he said as he put on his jacket. “You see, I would’ve agreed with you if you’d just given me the chance.” His smile took the sting out of the words. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  After Reid and Ardyth left, Frank trudged across the green, the fine, cold mist coating his face and penetrating the shoulders of the uniform he had changed into when he realized this would be a working day like no other. The chill barely registered compared to the cold knot of tension lodged within. What had possessed him to snap at Clyde like that? There had been no call to be so defensive, as if Clyde were accusing him of incompetence.

  And who was to say Clyde’s ideas might not be right? Keep an open mind, listen to other opinions—if he hadn’t learned that from the Balsam case, he hadn’t learned a thing. But the hell of it was, tolerance didn’t come any easier here in Trout Run with Clyde, than it had in Kansas City with Detective Rob Perillo.

  Clyde and Rob Perillo had nothing in common, except that Frank didn’t like either of them, and he let it show. He’d allowed his contempt for Perillo, the man—his poofed-up hair and pumped-up biceps, his constant bragging about chicks and wheels and scores—to blind him to the val
ue of Perillo, the cop. When Perillo said he sensed something “off” in the story presented by Ricky’s father, Frank had ignored him. What could a punk like Perillo know about a pillar of the community like Steve Balsam? And when Perillo had kept digging, Frank had rebuffed everything the detective had brought him, until Perillo had gone over his head and brought it to the chief.

  And then he’d had no defense, because Perillo had been completely, entirely right. It was Perillo who’d noticed that no one outside of Ricky’s family had seen the boy since the day before they reported him missing. Perillo had discovered that the old lady who claimed Ricky had sold her a candy bar got the day wrong. Perillo had uncovered the long history of visits to different emergency rooms by all the Balsam children. Perillo had carefully built the case against Steve Balsam, but by the time he got anyone to take him seriously, crucial forensic evidence had been lost, opportunities squandered. The father couldn’t be successfully prosecuted, but Frank had been tried in the court of public opinion and found guilty. He was lucky to be able to “retire” with some shred of dignity intact.

  Now, over a year later, he’d built a life for himself here in Trout Run. It was a dim shadow of the life he’d lived before, but it was more than he believed he could ever hope for when he’d first left Kansas City. The rebirth had been painful, and one thing he knew for sure—he didn’t have it in him to do it again. If he couldn’t succeed as police chief in Trout Run, he’d hole up somewhere far away and wait for Alzheimer’s to overtake him.

  Frank shook himself as he headed toward the lights of Malone’s diner, shining with deceptive cheerfulness in the otherwise dark town square. No need to get maudlin—things weren’t that bad yet. Probably by tomorrow Clyde would have forgotten their little set-to.

  Regis Malone had agreed to keep the diner open late, giving the volunteers a place to tank up on coffee between assignments. Earlier in the evening, Frank had told all the volunteers to report back to the diner by nine-thirty. As he drew closer, he could see the place was now jammed, with more cars parked out front than there were on a Saturday morning in deer season. At least Jack wasn’t there—he’d persuaded the father to wait at home by the phone. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stood silently in the entranceway. It only took a few moments for the buzz of conversation to peter out.

  “I’d like to thank everyone for turning out to help today,” Frank began. “I don’t think we can be very productive in the dark, so I’m calling off the search until tomorrow. The state police will be here at daybreak with the K-9 team. Anyone who’s able to help tomorrow should report here to Malone’s and follow instructions from Sergeant Vigne.” Frank paused. He didn’t want to say the next two words but knew he had to. “Any questions?”

  Immediately, the diner turned into a babble of raised voices and waving arms. Frank patiently sorted through the questions inspired by a day of unchecked production from the rumor mill. No, no fragment of Janelle’s clothing had been found. Yes, he’d heard about the car with Connecticut plates seen circling the green three times, but they had turned out to be elderly tourists looking for the Adirondack Craft Center. No, it wasn’t true that Janelle had been spotted hitchhiking on the Thruway. And so it went, for nearly half an hour.

  Finally, Frank wound it up with a little pep talk. “We have every reason to be optimistic. The fact that we haven’t discovered any signs of foul play encourages me to believe that we will find Janelle unharmed.” He smiled. “Now, go home and get some rest.”

  As he crossed the green back to his office, Earl appeared, breathless, at his side.

  “Is your car over here?” Frank asked. “I didn’t see it outside the office.”

  “Nah, it’s over by Malone’s. But I thought you might have something else for me to do.” Earl emphasized the “me” slightly, distinguishing himself from the general mob of townspeople who had been dismissed from the search.

  “Afraid not, Earl. I’m going home soon myself.”

  “Oh. Okay, then.” Earl stopped walking, letting Frank go ahead.

  In a few more steps, Frank stopped, too, and glanced back over his shoulder. Suddenly, he wanted company. He’d been surrounded by people all day long, yet he’d been all alone. He opened his mouth to call out to Earl, then closed it again before any sound escaped. He didn’t want Earl now. He wanted someone to share all his contradictory ideas with. Someone who would just listen and not tell him what sounded right or wrong or crazy. He wanted what he could never have. He wanted Estelle.

  He felt the familiar surge of emotion that had plagued him since Estelle’s death. Strange that he should be so angry with her in death, when he rarely had been in life. Unbidden, that final scene in the hospital came to him. Estelle in a coma, tubes and wires running into and out of her like some appliance. Caroline holding her mother’s hand, telling her softly how much she loved her. And there he was at the foot of the bed, consumed with rage, wanting to grab Estelle by the shoulders and shake her, screaming, “Come back! Come back here right now, do you hear me?”

  Later that day she died, and at the funeral people kept saying how wonderful that he’d been with her at the end. It was all he could do to keep from punching them, the flaming fools.

  He swallowed his anger now, sending it down to join the anxiety and fear already roiling his belly. When he went to meet his maker, it wouldn’t be his heart or lungs or brain that brought him down, it’d be his digestive tract—he was sure of that.

  3

  “A COFFEE AND A POWDERED.” Reid Burlingame dropped four quarters into the cigar box on the counter and went to join the group gathered around the big Formica table in the front window of the Store. “They sure did devote a lot of time to Janelle on the news out of Plattsburgh this morning. Announced a toll-free number and everything.”

  The Store had been “The Mack Bros. Store” for the first fifty years of its existence, until the death of both Macks had caused its sign to be truncated by the thrifty new owners, Stan and Rita Sobol. Their slogan was still, “The Store that has most everything…” The locals snidely completed the sentence with, “except what you really need.” Everyone drove to Plattsburgh or Lake Placid to do their serious grocery shopping, but the Store was a handy stopgap. And Rita did make a mean cup of coffee. Every morning, the Store hosted the Coffee Club, a gathering of Trout Run’s sharpest eyes and tongues.

  Frank, who had entered the Store through the back door precisely because he wanted to avoid the crowd at the front, now eavesdropped on them from the other side of the bread rack. He had come in search of a decent cup of coffee after a long morning of bringing the state police up to speed and coordinating their efforts with his own.

  “You know who’s paying for that phone line?” Bart Riddle proceeded to answer his own question. “Clyde Stevenson. They say he’s offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information that helps find Janelle.”

  Reid nodded, running his hand through his thick silver hair. “No matter what you might think of Clyde, you have to admit he’s a good man to have on your side in a crisis.”

  Frank snorted. He’d never go that far; the only benefit lay in not having Clyde against you.

  Jeanne Arnott, picking up her copy of the Plattsburgh Press-Republican, added her two cents’ worth. “Jack’s worked for Clyde for twenty-five years—it’s the least he could do. I tell you, I hardly slept last night, thinking of Janelle out there with some pervert.”

  “It don’t much matter—he won’t have to pay out. People don’t want to get involved these days.” Augie Enright hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, adding more downward pressure on pants already sorely strained by the weight of his large belly.

  “Now, now Augie. People report information to those hot lines all the time,” Reid insisted.

  Good old Reid, Frank thought. Always the voice of reason.

  “Just crackpots who want attention. No, they’ll never find her. Just look at that.” Augie pointed toward the big plate glass window. />
  Bart obediently peered through it. “Look at what?”

  “Look at all those goddamn trees! Look at the mountains!”

  The view from the Store was spectacular, Frank had to admit. Mount Marcy loomed in the distance, and several smaller peaks nestled at her feet. Vivid green flushed the trees at the foot of the mountains, while at the crest they still struggled to shake free of their wintry brown. The birches and maples were almost chartreuse this early in the season, while the deep green pine trees provided swathes of contrast. Not one building, not one clearing, interrupted the flow of the forest.

  “Janelle could be anywhere out there,” Augie continued. “What’s one hundred-and-five-pound girl compared to all that? She could be stuffed in a cave or weighted down in a lake. This is probably the best place on earth to hide a body. And no one would ever see you. Why, I’ve gone fishing in these lakes and never seen another soul all day long. If you knew where you were going, you could fix it so that body would never be found in a million years.”

  Augie’s words expressed Frank’s fears all too accurately. What if he came up with a suspect, but not a body? No body, no crime—he likely wouldn’t be able to prove a thing. Frank drew a deep breath. He had to stop second-guessing himself, looking for similarities to the Balsam case at every turn. He decided to challenge Augie.

  “What makes you think Janelle’s been murdered?”

  The men at the table twisted in their seats at his voice. Frank stepped out from behind the bread rack and, without waiting for an invitation, claimed a chair at the table.

  “I didn’t say she’s been murdered,” Augie said, hastily backing away from his comments.

  “Well then, what’s your take on Janelle’s disappearance, Augie?” Frank prompted as he fixed himself a cup of coffee and tossed fifty cents in the box.

  “Oh, she’s been kidnapped, sure enough. I hear that Meyerson fella from the state police was asking Jack, did Janelle have any problems, like she run away or something.”