The Disappeared

by David B. Silva

  “Mom, this is for girls.”

  “Oh, for heaven's sake, Gabe. Give me a break, will you.”

  [32]

  Walt woke up in a cold sweat. He sat on the edge of the bed, his heart pounding faster than he ever imagined possible. He slowly rubbed his hands over his face, and stared down at them, studying the wrinkles, the pores, the hair. And gradually, the dream came back to him.

  Jeff Newcomer.

  Raymond.

  Joseph.

  Samuel.

  Berry.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Richard Boyle.

  He got up and went into the bathroom to relieve himself. When he was done, he washed his hands and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Richard Boyle was the man who had kidnapped his two children and disappeared on his wife. He was the man Walt had been hired to find, and the reason Walt was here. Only Walt had never expected to find Richard Boyle in his dreams.

  [33]

  “We fucking lost them!” Mitch said, barely able to control his anger. The light turned green and he made a left through the intersection on the way out of the mall parking lot. He switched the car phone to the other ear and checked his watch. It was a quarter past five. They had spent nearly two hours combing through the mall, all for naught. The Knight woman and the boy had simply vanished.

  “That's not what I wanted to hear. Where'd you lose them?”

  “The Shasta Valley Mall.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About two hours.”

  “And the boy, how did the boy look to you?”

  “Okay, I guess. I didn't get much of a look at him. Once she realized who we were, the woman kinda went ape shit, you know. She jumped the curb and ran the car into an RV. Left behind one fucking mess.”

  “He wasn't hurt, was he? The boy?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “We need the boy alive, Mitch. You understand that? If something happens to him, I'm holding you personally responsible. This is the second time you've screwed this thing up, and quite frankly I'm running short of patience. I want the boy back, and I want him back before this thing gets any further out of hand. You understand me? Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm sorry.”

  “All right. Now... if there was an accident, there should be an accident report. And if she abandoned her vehicle, then the police should be looking for her. Keep tabs on what they're doing and make sure you let me know the moment they come up with anything. Have you got any idea where they've been the past two days?”

  Mitch glanced into his rearview mirror, saw that the left lane was open, and moved into it without signaling. “No, nothing. We're still checking out the husband, but it looks like he's living out of state. Could be they've been staying with a friend we don't have a line on yet. We'll keep an eye on the clinic in case they turn up there again.”

  “Better reinstate the surveillance on her house, too.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sooner or later, she's bound to turn up somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir.” It had been an easy assignment and so far he had screwed it up royally. Retrieve the boy, that was it. No blood. No unnecessary force. Just make sure that he understood it would be in his best interest to come along peacefully. Well, that wasn't going to happen now. Mitch knew it, and the man on the other end of the line knew it.

  “Sorry about the screw up.”

  “You and me, both, Mitch. You and me, both.”

  [34]

  Nearly three hours had passed.

  The boy, whom Teri had referred to as Gabe out of pure exasperation, had sulked for a short time before curling up in the corner and falling asleep. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off him. He had slept sitting up, knees to chest, his head buried in the fold of his arms, and she had noticed a mark on the back of his neck. It was a scar of some sort. Round. About half the size of a dime. Maybe from Chicken Pox.

  He stirred.

  Teri got up and stretched, then checked her watch and pushed aside the curtains. Traffic had picked up considerably in the women's section. Four of the eight changing rooms were occupied and she could see half-a-dozen women and several children rummaging through the racks. A new clerk was working behind the register. She looked up and smiled like an old lost friend.

  “How're we doing back there?”

  “Just fine,” Teri said.

  “Need any help?”

  Oh, you wouldn't believe the help I need, she thought.

  “No, everything's fine. Thank you.”

  It was another ten minutes before the clerk became preoccupied and they were able to slip out of the changing room. Out on the main floor of the mall, they crossed to the other side, made their way past a Software Etc. and a B. Dalton, past a Payless Shoe Source and a Shear Magic, and into Sears. They exited out the back of the store, onto Larkspur Avenue, which bordered the mall on the north.

  No sign of Mitch.

  No sign of any of his friends.

  The evening sky, which was moments from sunset, was a muddy orange and brown color, streaked with perfect brushstroke clouds that seemed too well-defined to be real. Teri took in a deep breath, grateful to be out of that damn dressing room and into the fresh air again.

  “What now?” the boy asked, clearly on the cranky side. She could hardly blame him, though. It had been a long, difficult afternoon and she was feeling a little cranky herself.

  “I don't know. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  They caught a city bus cross town to a place called Casa Lupe. The boy ate a taco and burrito plate, with beans and rice, as hearty a meal as he had eaten since his return.

  Afterward, Teri used the pay phone on the corner to try to reach Walt in the Bay Area. She had hoped he might be able to suggest what she should do next, but she wasn't able to get a hold of him. It was all up to her now. God, what a difference a few days made.

  She dug the quarter out of the change release and tossed it to the boy. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, you're doing better than I am, then.”

  “No answer?”

  “No, he must be out somewhere.”

  “Why can't we just go home?”

  “Because they might be waiting for us there.”

  “What about the apartment?”

  That's why she had wanted to talk to Walt, just to make sure that it would be safe to go back to the apartment. Somehow, these guys had picked up their trail. Maybe it had been at the doctor's office. Maybe it had been at Walt's. Maybe it had been by chance. The problem was—she had no way of knowing.

  “I suppose we could go by,” she said hesitantly. She looked down at him, smiled, and pulled him into her for a hug. “Quite a mess we've gotten ourselves into, isn't it?”

  “It'll be all right, Mom.”

  “I hope so.”

  [35]

  Teri stood across the street from Walt's apartment watching the windows and trying to decide if it was safe or not. The thing that troubled her the most was the light in the kitchen. She couldn't remember if she had turned it off, but couldn't image that she had left it on. It could be that Walt had come home unexpectedly early. Or it could be that someone was waiting to surprise them.

  “How long do we have to wait out here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “There's no one up there.”

  “You willing to bet your life on that?”

  “Yeah.”

  She glanced down at him, recognizing the mix of weariness and frustration on his face, and wishing she could wave a wand and make everything better. All she could do, though, was ruffle his hair and turn her attention back to the apartment. “I don't know. I just don't like the idea of that light being on.”

  “You just forgot it, that's all.”

  “Maybe.”

  For as long as they had stood here, the apartment building had been quiet. Except for the coup
le on the bottom floor, who had gotten into a fight and had spent some time yelling obscenities back and forth. The husband—or boyfriend or live-in or whatever he was—had come stomping out of the apartment with a jacket slung over one shoulder and a beer in one hand. He had gone around the corner to the back side of the building, muttering to himself and that had been the last Teri had seen of him. Things had quieted down appreciably after that.

  “All right,” she said uneasily. “I guess we can't stand out here all night.”

  They crossed the street in the middle of the block, Teri keeping the boy in front of her as she guardedly made sure there was no obvious danger. Around the outer edges of the courtyard, they kept under the shadows of the overhang. Near the northwest corner of the building, where the lighting was brighter, she took him to the top of the stairs, one step at a time, and paused near the landing.

  “Let's just wait here a second.”

  “What for?”

  “Just to be on the safe side.”

  The boy picked up a twig off the ground and toyed with a black beetle that had the unfortunate luck of having crossed in front of him at just the wrong moment. Teri leaned back against the iron handrail and watched the kitchen window, half-expecting to see someone moving around inside. When that didn't happen, she brought out the key Walt had given her the first night. She crossed the walkway to apartment B-242, and plugged the key into the lock. It toggled both directions without success. But before she had the chance to try it a third time, the door gradually swung open on its own.

  “It's unlocked,” the boy said, surprised.

  “Shhh.”

  Inside, the short entryway was cast in a crisscross of shadows. The kitchen was off to the right, bright under the overhead fluorescents. The living room was straight ahead, slightly off center, again to the right. Teri took a short step across the threshold and paused.

  The boy stepped up behind her, his hand slipping around her wrist and holding on.

  “It's okay,” she said. “I'm just going to take a look. You stay here by the door.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  “Let me check it out first.”

  At the first doorway, she stopped and slowly peered around the corner into the kitchen. It looked as if all hell had broken loose. Drawers were pulled off their tracks, utensils scattered across the floor, the refrigerator door left open. There was a pile of cereal boxes and empty soup cans, jelly jars and empty macaroni packages on the floor in the middle of the room. A three-fingered track of apricot jelly stained the walls above the countertop and the sink, and someone had squirted the ceiling with what looked like ketchup and salad dressing.

  It was worse than that, much worse, but that was as much as she needed to see. She turned and started back out the door.

  “We've gotta get out of here!”

  [36]

  It was getting cold out.

  Walt blew into his hands to warm them, and settled a little deeper into the front seat of the car. The evening cloud cover had finally dissipated. The sky was a remarkable crisp, deep black, sprinkled with a garden of stars.

  Four hours had passed since he had first arrived here. Across the street, the house had given itself to the quiet of the night. It was a small two-bedroom, Sixties tract home with a flat, gravel roof and an oak tree in the front yard. It belonged to Richard Boyle, though he was currently going by the name of B. L. Richards. He worked at a printing shop off of Fourth Street called the Ace Printing Company. He had been working there for nearly nine months, having moved into the area with his two kids from a small town in upper Oregon. That was the story he had pitched to his employer. It was the same story he had offered up to the secretary at John F. Kennedy Elementary where he had registered the kids. And it was all a lie.

  Walt glanced at the clock. 10:20 p.m. He flipped on the radio, met with an instant barrage of static, and grumpily flipped it off again.

  “Come on, Richard. Where the hell are you?”

  He hadn't seen Richard and he hadn't seen the children, and that was not a good omen. It left him wondering if Boyle had somehow made him, if he had known Walt was getting close and had already pulled out of the area. A father who steals his children keeps them nearby. So if Walt's information was correct and this was the place and Boyle was B. L. Richards, then where were the children?

  There were no lights on in the house.

  There was no activity.

  A couple of the neighborhood kids had said they hadn't seen Christy or Garrett, the Boyle kids, since late last week. The family had crammed into their old Datsun late one night, all three in the front seat, and had apparently driven off to run errands. Christy waved good-bye on the way down the street, but no one could remember them coming back. And no one could remember seeing any luggage when they had left.

  “I thought they were going out to dinner,” one little girl said.

  Walt blew into his hands again, and glanced up the street, where a dog was circling a pair of dented garbage cans. The neighborhood had been alive two hours ago, a group of boys playing street hockey, neighbors arriving home after work, a boy going door-to-door collecting for his newspaper route, a woman and her daughter out walking the family dog. Gradually, things had grown quieter, though, and now it was as if the block of tract homes had turned into something of a ghost town.

  He watched the dog stand on his hind legs and knock over the smaller of the two cans. The lid fell off, rolled over the edge of the curb and wobbled to its death like the last throes of a coin that had been flipped. A loud metallic explosion of noise went echoing down the street. And not a soul stirred. Not a single person in the entire neighborhood.

  That was enough for him.

  He climbed out of the car and started across the street, tired of playing it safe and wasting his time. Odds were Richard Boyle had gathered up his kids and had checked out. It was that simple. Somehow he had gotten word and they had done a quick vanishing act. Heaven only knew how far they had traveled by now. Maybe all the way back to upper Oregon.

  As Walt opened the side gate and made his way around back, he made a mental note to check the possibility that Boyle had taken the kids back to Oregon. People had a habit of tipping their hands, whether they were aware of it or not. That was by no means only true in poker. A tell was a tell, and upper Oregon was Boyle's safe bet.

  To Walt's surprise, the sliding glass door opening to the back patio was slightly ajar. They had left in a hurry. He rolled open the screen door, which made an agonizing squeal, then slipped through the opening and into the house.

  His eyes made an adjustment.

  This appeared to be the family room. Linoleum floor. Sofa. Coffee table. Fireplace. He shuffled through the stack of T.V. Guides on the table, finding nothing of note, and wandered into the adjoining room, which turned out to be the kitchen.

  It was darker here. Walt pulled a pen light out of his pocket and did a quick scan of the counter top. A stack of newspapers. A six-pack of Old Milwaukee. An overturned salt shaker. A toaster. Half a loaf of bread. An open jar of peanut butter. A sink full of dirty dishes. He hadn't noticed it at first, but he noticed it now... the strong permeating odor of rotten food. Not only had they left in a hurry, they had left several days ago.

  “Dandy,” he muttered. “Two days, three hundred miles, all for nothing.”

  He turned off the pen light, returned it to his jacket pocket, and took advantage of the nearest light switch. It didn't matter if the house was suddenly all lit up now, did it? Not unless you're worried about alerting the neighbors. Which he wasn't. Because he wasn't planning on being here that long.

  In the kids' room, several of the dresser drawers had been pulled out, the clothes dumped in a pile on the bed and apparently sorted. It was much the same in the other bedroom, clothing strewed about on the floor and bed, closet doors open, a pair of tennis shoes left behind in the corner.

  He picked up a matchbook from the dresser, tossed it aside, and wondered what had
happened. How had Boyle been tipped? Walt sat on the edge of the bed, tapped the lamp shade with his index finger and watched the dust rise into the air like an angry swarm of bees.

  He was going to have to start all over again.

  From the beginning.

  Social security numbers. Change of address requests. School transcripts.

  “Christ.”

  There was an old shirt lying on the nightstand at the base of the lamp. He tossed the shirt aside, pulled out the top drawer, and rummaged through the contents. A telephone book. Flashlight. A couple ball point pens. A cassette by the Crash Test Dummies. An old shoelace. Some paper clips. Another matchbook.

  He slammed the drawer shut, then picked up a scratch pad that had been hiding under the old shirt. Someone had scribbled a note across the pad. The top page had been torn away, but underneath a faint impression had been left behind. He pulled the matchbook out of the drawer, struck a match, blew it out, and three matches later, he held the paper up to the lamp. Most of it was sadly unreadable, even after lightly brushing the match tips across the surface of the paper. But the last five letters came through remarkably clear, and Walt didn't like what he saw.

  The letters were: B-242.

  [37]

  Mrs. Knight, I don't have much time ... this is your son, Gabe ... I'm fine, Mom ... it's not possible ... Mrs. Knight, if you'll step back into the house, please ... run! ... Teri, he would be almost twenty now ... it's him ... I'm sorry, I've got to go out of town on business ... let me run some tests and get back to you ... I think they're following us ... are you okay, Gabe? ... what now? ... we sit and wait ... you think someone's in the apartment? ... we've gotta get out of here! ... run! ... run! ...

  Teri opened her eyes with a start.

  She shuddered, fingered the damp hair away from her face and sat up in the tub.

  Run! ...

  Run! ...