The Disappeared

by David B. Silva

  “I'm sorry it hurt so much,” she said apologetically.

  “You said it wouldn't hurt.”

  “I know. And I'm sorry.” She shifted into first and started out of the lot. “It's just that sometimes adults forget how much things can hurt.”

  “Did you ever have to give blood?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “You bet,” she said, checking the rear view mirror. There was a black, late model Ford in the outside lane, maybe half a block behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't lost sight of a car in her blind spot, then turned on her signal and moved to the inside lane.

  “But sometimes you just have to do things you'd rather not have to do,” she said. “You remember when you and your father drove over to Reno to pick up your grandfather's bedroom set?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You remember how you got caught in that snow storm, and how your father had to get out of the truck and put chains on the tires?” She turned left at Bellows Road and moved back into the right lane. Baskin Robbins was another two miles down the road, a small shop that sat just outside the Shasta Valley Mall.

  “It made his fingers hurt,” the boy said.

  “But he still had to get the chains on, didn't he?”

  “It's like the summer, when you make me mow the lawn every week.”

  She laughed and glanced across the seat at him. He seemed so tiny, sitting there staring out the window. She had almost missed the fact that for a moment he had been Gabe in her mind and they had taken a trip far back in time. She wondered now who he really was, this boy. She found herself wondering even louder when he began to chew on his fingernails again.

  The weather had been moody all morning, a little patch of sunshine here, a little sprinkle of raindrops there. But it was beginning to turn serious now. The sky had darkened noticeably, and off to the west, she could see a sheet of rain falling out of the clouds, all the way to the ground like a huge drape across the horizon.

  “Mom?”

  “What?” She checked the rearview mirror again. There was a white van keeping a safe distance not far behind, and a small foreign car—a Yugo or some such thing—in the other lane, a little further back. Traffic was light for this time of day.

  “What about Dad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Where is he?”

  And there was something else. She had come away from the doctor's office with a feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. For awhile, she thought it might have been something the doctor had said or maybe something he had done, some little signal he had sent that her brain had missed but her intuition had caught. Only now, she realized it hadn't had anything at all to do with the doctor. It had been about the black, late model Ford she had noticed outside his office. It had pulled out behind her innocently enough, but it was still trailing along not far behind the white van.

  That was the reason for her sense of unease.

  They were being followed.

  [28]

  Walt answered the phone in that tone of his that could be gruff and unforgiving. He was like that most often when he felt interrupted. In this case, though, it was because he hadn't been expecting a call, and a call unexpected was usually bad news.

  “Yeah?”

  “Walt?”

  “Who's this?”

  “It's Mark.”

  Mark Sessions worked in the computer section of the local baby Bell. Walt had met him years ago in the midst of a department tap on a suspected drug smuggler. The tap had snagged the smuggler; Mark had received a letter of appreciation from the department; and Walt had made himself a friend inside the phone company.

  “What's up?” Walt asked.

  “I can't talk long, but I thought I'd let you know that you were right. There was a call made from the Knight house a couple nights ago.”

  “What time?”

  “A little before ten.”

  “That's what I wanted to hear, Mark. Hold on a sec and let me get a pencil and paper.” He pulled open the drawer of the night stand and rummaged around blindly under the Gideon Bible.

  “Don't bother.”

  “Why? What's the problem?”

  “You aren't going to like this. The number belongs to a phone booth.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Sorry, Walt.”

  “Don't be. I should have known.” He closed the drawer, suddenly feeling tired again, and leaned back against the stack of pillows.

  “It was only a block away.”

  “What?”

  “The phone booth... it was only a block away. At the 7-Eleven on Kirkwood. I can't be sure of this, of course, but it looks like they linked that number to a number in Chico.”

  “Another phone booth, right?”

  “You got it,” Mark said. “And from there, it went down to the Bay Area. After that, it's anybody's guess. Sorry.”

  “No need. At least that confirms what we're dealing with.”

  “If anything else comes up...”

  “Thanks, Mark.”

  “No problem.”

  Walt hung up and gazed out the window. He watched a puff of gray-white clouds go sauntering past the Motel Six sign and disappear into the distant blue sky like one of David Copperfield's illusions.

  Illusions were showing up everywhere it seemed.

  [29]

  “Have you got your seat belt on?” Teri did her best to keep the calm in her voice. In the side mirror, the black Ford drifted toward the inside of the lane then back behind the white van again. It was like looking up to find someone staring at you from across the room, and it stood the hairs up on the back of Teri's neck.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because you're supposed to,” she said.

  She pressed down on the accelerator, and the car gradually increased speed from thirty-five to forty. The white van began to fall back, shrinking in the rearview mirror, and for a brief moment Teri let herself hope for the best. It did not last long.

  The black Ford crossed to the inside lane. The sky, dark and cloudy, rolled across its windshield like an old grainy movie, and beneath the gray veil she could barely make out the figure of someone sitting in the passenger seat. He shifted forward briefly; his hands on the dashboard, then sank back into the shadows again

  “So where is he?” the boy asked again about Michael.

  “Not now, honey.”

  “He's okay, isn't he?”

  “Please.” The tires began to pound out a sudden rhythm, and she realized the car had drifted too close to the lane divider. She made a small correction back into the outside lane, and focused once again on the black Ford.

  “What's going on?”

  “Nothing, honey.”

  The boy glanced over his shoulder out the back window. “It's a cop, isn't it?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  The Ford slowly inched forward, trailing along slightly less than a car-length back now. An endless parade of dark-gray clouds went swimming across its windshield, like a sea of whitecaps, and barely discernible beneath them, Teri thought she caught a glimpse of the driver's face. It was Mitch.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What's the matter?”

  “It's him,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “That man from the other night.”

  Up ahead, the stop light turned green and she said a silent prayer that it would hold. She pressed down on the accelerator and brought the speed up to just under fifty.

  “What do they want?”

  “I don't know.”

  In the rearview mirror, she watched the white van pull into a Chevron station on the right. The Ford immediately increased its speed, moving up along side her on the left. The light turned yellow as both cars sailed through the intersection. On the far side, the Ford switched lanes and cut in front of her.

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “I'm not sure,” she said honestly. She
thought she had heard a hint of fear in the boy's voice, and she didn't want to add to that, not even a little, because it was everything she could do to keep her own fears under control.

  A light drizzle began to fall. Teri turned on the wipers. They made a maddening, rasping sound as they scraped across the surface of the glass for the first stroke or two, then settled into the steady tempo of a metronome.

  Up ahead, the rear passenger-side window of the Ford slowly rolled down. She watched a black-gloved hand emerge like a vampire bat flitting out of its cave just after twilight. With the index finger in the air, it motioned toward the curb, and she knew time was quickly running short.

  “You aren't going to stop, are you?”

  Teri checked her rearview mirror.

  “Mom?”

  “Hold on,” she said.

  [30]

  Walt hung up the phone, uneasy with the knowledge that whoever was after Teri, they were obviously sophisticated and very well-funded. He didn't care much for the implications of that thought. There was a chance—a good chance, in fact—that he might be getting in over his head. Though he tried to remind himself that chance was a two-headed coin. The fact that they were sophisticated at least narrowed down some of the suspects.

  All this whirled around in his head like a wind storm shifting the sands, and eventually he fluffed up the pillows and settled back for a short nap.

  With the nap, came the dream.

  “Write your name, Mr. Travis.”

  Walt looked up from his desk. He was in the first row, second to last seat, farthest from the window that looked out across the school yard. Someone had carved the initials W.T. into the desktop, and circled it with a black permanent marker. It was not a nice thing to have done.

  “Huh?”

  The teacher, who was a man of about forty and stood almost as tall as the top of the chalkboard, held out a piece of white chalk. His eyes were red embers, his brow creased and stern. He was a familiar man, and Walt thought if he resembled anyone it would be his father.

  “You heard me, young man. Come up to the chalkboard and write your name.”

  The rest of the class all turned in their seats and waited to see what he would do.

  “But...”

  “Now, young man.”

  “I...”

  The teacher glared at him a moment, an if-looks-could-kill kind of glare. Then suddenly he slammed the palm of his hand against the board. It made a huge, terrifying noise, sharp and jarring. A cloud of chalk dust swirled madly into the air.

  “Now!”

  Walt climbed out of his seat, his legs rubbery beneath him. He passed through a row of strange faces, girls and boys that he couldn't remember having ever met before. Distrustfully, he took the chalk that was presented him.

  “Your name, Mr. Travis. On the board. Fifty times, if you will.”

  He looked from the chalk to the huge, empty board that towered over him like a mountain waiting to be climbed. Slowly he began to write: JEFF NEWCOMER.

  Giggles erupted from behind him.

  “That's not your name, Mr. Travis.”

  “Yes—”

  “That's not your name!” A ruler slammed across his buttocks, nearly standing him as high as the teacher's chin. “Now do it right!”

  R-A-Y-M-O-N-D.

  “That's not right!”

  Another slap across his back side.

  J-O-S-E-P-H.

  “No! That's not who you are! Do it again!”

  S-A-M-U-E-L.

  “No! Again!”

  B-E-R-R-Y.

  “No!”

  RICHARD BOYLE.

  “Richard Boyle. Now remember that,” the teacher said sternly. “It's Richard Boyle. That's your name now. You understand me? It's yours.”

  “It's yours!” the class yelled in unison, a sick delightful sound of harmony.

  “It's yours! It's yours!”

  [31]

  The Shasta Valley Mall came into view up ahead on the right. The main entrance was a block away, hidden between a Carl's Jr. that had been under construction for several months and a Bank of America branch that had been there for years. Teri didn't think the black Ford was going to let her get that far.

  “Mom...”

  “Just hold on.”

  She slammed her foot down on the accelerator, and gave the steering wheel a sharp tug to the right. The rear tires squealed, kicking up a cloud of blue smoke, before they finally caught and sent the car into a sideways skid.

  The front end jumped the curb.

  Teri over-corrected in an effort to keep the car from doing a one-eighty, and ended up making matters worse. The right front fender clipped a street light, sheering it off near the base. The impact as it came crashing down sounded like a wrecking ball taking its first swipe at an old, tired building. She barely heard it, though. The car squealed across the sidewalk, forced its way into the narrow space between a pickup truck and a telephone booth, then suddenly accelerated again. She felt the weight of her body forced backwards into the cushion of her seat. It was everything she could do just to keep her hands on the steering wheel, and suddenly she realized that even that wasn't going to be enough.

  Not this time.

  It was going to take more than just holding on.

  For a moment, everything seemed to slow down, ticking off the seconds in an irretrievable manner that left no doubt there would be no turning back. The car shimmied and rattled, just missed a planter box, then rammed front-grille first into the side of a parked RV.

  Teri felt the steering wheel press against her breasts, and with a shudder the car settled back on its springs and came to an abrupt standstill. The engine continued to race for another ten to fifteen seconds, sounding as if it might explode, then gradually winding down again. Everything turned deathly quiet.

  She unstrapped herself from the seat belt. “You all right?”

  The boy smiled at her, struggling with his own belt. “That was wicked. Really wicked.”

  “I'm glad you enjoyed it,” Teri said, wishing they had time to stop and count their blessings. The boy's side of the car was bulging inward now, a strange sculpture of metal and plastic that might have been a popular piece if only it had been on display at an art gallery. “We're going to have to get out on this side.”

  She gave the door handle a tug and realized with dread that something wasn't right. The pull was too easy. There was no resistance. She put her shoulder against the door and tried again, but the result was the same. The door wasn't going to open.

  “Just break out the window,” the boy said.

  In the distance, she could see the black Ford coming back across the intersection into the mall parking lot. There wasn't much time now.

  “Mom...”

  “I heard you!”

  But first, she tried to roll down the window, amazed that she had the presence of mind to even think of such a thing. Like the door handle, though, something inside the trim panel had apparently slipped off its track or had become stripped of its threads. The handle dangled from the shaft, useless.

  “Try this.” The boy handed her the small First Aid box from the glove compartment. “It's metal.”

  She stared at it, toying only a moment with the idea before covering her face and slamming one end of the box into the glass. Instantly, it bounced back at her. Left behind was little more than a tiny spider-webbed pattern near the heart of the window.

  “Hit it harder.”

  “I'm trying.” What scared her more than anything was that she might put her arm through the window and end up cutting herself on the shards of glass. There was that fear, and then there was the fear of being trapped in here.

  The Ford had gotten caught in the backup of rubberneckers across the way. Through the windshield, she watched as all four doors open nearly simultaneously. A small group of men climbed out and started across the parking lot in her direction.

  Teri took another swing at the window, hit it hard enough to shatter the
glass this time, and after that it was only a matter of knocking away the shards from around the edges of the opening. Teri climbed through first. The boy followed close behind, catching his pant leg on the lock, then shaking loose. He fell to the ground head first, wearing half-a-grin, half-a-grimace.

  The men were only fifty yards behind them now, Mitch in front, looking like a football player in a suit, only a little heavier and maybe a little slower. The others had fanned out on either side.

  Teri helped the boy to his feet, and pushed him ahead of her, between two parked cars, over a small area planted with ivy, across the road, and into the southwest doors of J.C. Penny's. It was warm inside, and she was immediately struck by the calm in here. The chaos on the other side of the doors suddenly seemed a thousand miles away. She glanced back, seeing no sign of Mitch or his friends.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I don't know.”

  They passed through the cosmetics department, past women's clothing, and followed the tiled walkway out into the mouth of the mall. In the back of her mind, she had been thinking—more like hoping—that they might be able to blend in with the shoppers and maybe find their way out through another store. But it was late afternoon now, and foot traffic was light.

  Up ahead on the left, a Gottschalks had recently moved in. Teri crossed the floor, keeping the boy in front of her. In their rush to escape the car they had left his cane behind and he was limply markedly now. Distantly, it crossed her thoughts that there hadn't been a normal, peaceful minute since the moment he had shown up on her doorstep.

  “Not much further,” she said. “Hang on.”

  “I'm okay.”

  Once inside Gottschalks they followed the walkway toward the women's section in the back, Teri glancing over her shoulder and trying to convince herself every step of the way they were okay, that Mitch and his friends hadn't seen them.

  A clerk looked up from her register, and smiled.

  Teri forced herself to smile back, and pushed the boy toward the changing rooms, where a heavyset woman was modeling slacks in front of the mirrors. They moved to the back stall, closed the curtains, and sat down.