Float on the downhills, her coach had told her. Don’t force it!
Her lighter body would work against her. Kirsten was heavier and stronger.
Float!
If she could get to the bottom even or slightly ahead, she was confident she was faster on the home stretch.
She concentrated on keeping her body loose.
The first turn was a long arc. She was still ahead as she came out of it. The second was a tester, steep and sharp. The type of turn she’d always struggled with, tightening up and not committing.
She could hear Carl’s voice: Float!
She struggled to relax her muscles and headed into the turn. Down and around, faster and faster.
At the end she was still ahead. Now a long straight. She could sense Kirsten gaining. Then she could see her, edging ahead.
Ahead was the last curve – sharp to the left followed immediately by a tight turn to the right.
Float!
Suddenly, Crys was in the zone. Fatigue and fear drained away. She was on the outside watching herself. Watching herself float through the taxing S-curve. Watching herself ahead by five metres at the bottom. Watching herself cross the finish line ten metres ahead of a struggling Kirsten. Watching herself raise her ski poles in unbridled joy.
‘And the winner of the 2017 Minnesota Women’s Biathlon is … Crystal Nguyen!’
The small, enthusiastic crowd of skiers and spectators whooped and applauded.
As she pushed through the crowd to the podium, Crys was experiencing an almost out-of-body experience. It was as though she was watching herself being patted on the back, relishing the taste of her first major win. Part of her was thrilled, part surprised at the positive reception, and part feeling a bit of an anticlimax after the hundreds of hours of training she’d put in.
As she stood between the two runners-up, holding the trophy above her head, she realised what a strange sight it must be. She, a typical Vietnamese woman – short black hair, dark olive skin; they, tall, blonde women of Nordic descent. She was pretty sure that it was the first time a woman who wasn’t white had won such a high-profile race.
The press realised they had a good story, and photographers crowded around, cameras flashing.
‘Crys, what’s it like to be the first Vietnamese winner?’ shouted a reporter in the crowd.
‘I don’t know what I’m feeling at the moment,’ she replied with a smile. ‘But I’m sure it’s no different from what other winners feel – elation, satisfaction.’
‘But don’t you feel proud that a Vietnamese can beat the Americans?’
‘I don’t think about my heritage when I’m skiing. I’m just proud to have won against such tough competition.’ She indicated the two women next to her. ‘Being Vietnamese has nothing to do with it.’
Let’s get this over with, she thought.
‘Is there any particular aspect of your training that made the difference?’
Crys nodded and pointed at the back of the crowd. ‘My wonderful coach, Carl Hansen. Without him, I’d still be on the course.’ She lifted her hands and applauded in Carl’s direction.
It was after ten o’clock by the time Crys opened the front door of her rented home on the outskirts of Duluth. She, Carl and his wife, had enjoyed a leisurely celebratory dinner at a local restaurant, but now she wanted to savour the day by herself.
She loved the quietness of living on a cul de sac, with a forest as a neighbour, loved the fact that hardly anyone used the road in front of her house. No one ever peered in the windows or knocked on the door wanting to borrow a cup of sugar. Better yet, she wasn’t asked to the occasional neighbourhood get-together. To the few people who lived on her road, she was invisible.
She lit the wood stove and unrolled her yoga mat on the floor. She needed to stretch and centre herself after the excitement of the day. She sat down and slowly twisted into a half lotus, her tired muscles protesting with each stretch. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and quietly chanted her mantra: Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng. Úm ma ni bát ni hồng.
It took some time before she was able to clear her mind of the myriad images of the day: the perfect shooting score, the terrifying final downhill, and the trophy – the trophy she and Carl had worked so hard for. Slowly, she began to relax. Her heart rate slowed, and she tried to open her mind to nothingness.
Half an hour later, she stretched out into the downward dog, holding it for a minute, then ended with a couple of minutes in the corpse pose.
When she stood up, she took her glass of water and sat next to the stove, gazing into the flames.
It had been an almost perfect day – with one exception. Her friend Michael had promised he’d fly in from New York to root for her, but he hadn’t appeared.
Michael was a writer for the New York Times. They’d become good friends because of their shared interest in the environment, particularly endangered species. He’d originally contacted her to talk about a series of articles she’d written for the Duluth News Tribune on the plight of grey wolves. After that, they’d emailed each other a lot, chatted on the phone, and met on several occasions at conventions in various parts of the country. They were kindred spirits and became close. He was serious and committed to wildlife, but he was also fun … and goodlooking in a craggy sort of a way. He was the sort of man she’d been waiting for, and she could feel herself falling for him. So she’d been thrilled – with just a touch of jealousy – when National Geographic had invited him to write an article on rhino-horn smuggling.
While he was travelling in Vietnam and South Africa, they’d kept in touch as usual. He let her know what he’d learned on his trip, and then he’d tease her about the frigid weather in Minnesota. In return, she’d write that she knew the rhino assignment was just a cover for a vacation in the sun. They were both looking forward to getting together at the time of her big race. It would be great to have the support of such a good friend, Crys had told herself.
But then the emails stopped coming.
In his last email, about four weeks earlier, he wrote excitedly that he’d discovered how the rhino-horn embargo was being circumvented in South Africa and was going digging for the final pieces of information he needed for his article. He’d jokingly invited her to his inevitable Pulitzer reception.
Initially she hadn’t been concerned about his lack of contact; it was normal – he was pursuing a difficult story, after all. She understood that. But when she still hadn’t heard from him after a couple of weeks, she’d started to worry. For the past ten days she’d been trying to contact him – both by email and by phone on his New York and South African numbers. All to no avail.
Finally she’d sent an email to National Geographic asking whether they knew where he was, but they hadn’t replied.
Now that she had some time, she was going to try to get to the bottom of it.
The next morning, Crys negotiated an early morning snowfall on the way to her office at the Duluth News Tribune. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to plan what she needed to do to find Michael.
She pulled out her cell phone. First, she called Michael’s New York numbers – at home and at the New York Times – but only reached voicemail messages that indicated he was on assignment overseas. As before, she left messages asking him to call her.
She also tried his South African number; it went to voicemail immediately, suggesting that the phone was turned off. She left a message there too.
She knew that Michael was from Princeton, New Jersey, but he’d told her that he wasn’t on speaking terms with his father. That had struck a chord with Crys, who hadn’t spoken to her own father for twelve years, since he threw her out of the house for not behaving as he thought an obedient Vietnamese daughter should.
Next she called directory assistance and was given the numbers of three Davidsons in Princeton. She called the first and asked the man who answered whether he had a son, Michael Davidson.
<
br /> ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked. ‘If you’re trying to collect on his debts, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
Crys guessed this wasn’t the right Davidson, but it would be rude to just hang up.
‘No, nothing like that. I’m looking for a Michael Davidson who is a journalist with the New York Times. I must have the wrong number.’
‘Yeah, that’s my son. He’s with the Times. What’s it to you?’
‘He and I are good friends and exchange emails quite often. I haven’t heard from him for a while and was wondering if he was ill or something,’ she said, not wanting to worry him about his son being missing in Africa.
‘I’ve no idea where he is. I haven’t spoken to him for two years.’
‘He’s on a project overseas and—’
‘He’s sure to be up to some no good somewhere or other. Probably hiding from the debt collectors.’
Crys frowned. This conversation wasn’t getting her anywhere.
‘Would you have the number of his ex-wife? Maybe she knows something about where he is?’
He gave a sour chuckle. ‘Sheila? Forget it. She’d love to get her hands on him. He’s always behind on his alimony payments, and he owes the doctors and hospital a fortune for his daughter’s surgery. Fool didn’t have health insurance. Must have got his brains from his mother.’
‘I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mr Davidson,’ said Crys, eager now to hang up. She didn’t want to listen to any more unpleasant family stories. ‘Thank you, though.’
‘Good luck finding him,’ the man said, and rang off.
Crys felt a pang of sadness that he seemed to care so little about his son. Shouldn’t he be concerned, no matter what had happened between them in the past? She knew Michael had been married, but was puzzled that he hadn’t mentioned his daughter. She wondered if he was scared that telling her would put her off him. Or perhaps whatever had happened was too painful to talk about. And whatever his father had said, Crys was pretty sure Michael would be paying off his debts. He just seemed that sort of person.
There was one more call she wanted to make before calling National Geographic to follow up on her email.
‘Barbara Zygorski,’ the voice on the other end of the line said.
‘Hi Barb. This is Crys Nguyen. How are you?’
‘Well, thanks. It’s been a long time.’
‘Sure has. I wonder if you’ve heard from Michael recently.’
‘Not for a while. Probably a month or so. Last I heard he was heading for Mozambique, hot on the trail of some smugglers. What’s up?’
‘I’m really worried. He’s usually so good at dropping a line every day or so. Now it’s been four weeks.’
‘Knowing him, he’s probably up to his ears in crocodiles somewhere in the bush. With no internet connection.’
‘You’ve been at the Times a long time – would you do me a big favour?’
‘If I can.’
‘Could you ask someone in IT to check if Michael has used his email account anytime since I received my last email from him. It was exactly four weeks ago today.’
There was silence on the line. Crys decided to wait for a response.
‘I don’t know…’
‘Look, I know it’s against policy and all that, but this could help us find him. I’m sure you know someone who won’t blab.’
Another pause. Then: ‘Okay, Crys. I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.’
Crys thanked her and hung up.
Finally, she phoned the National Geographic office and asked for a Sara Goldsmith, who was the editor who’d offered Michael the rhino assignment.
Crys introduced herself and explained she was calling because she’d not heard back in response to the email she’d sent enquiring about Michael Davidson’s whereabouts.
‘I do apologise for that,’ Goldsmith said, ‘but I’ve been trying to find out where he is myself. I was waiting to have some definite news before I got in touch with you.’
‘Do you mean you haven’t heard from him either?’
‘Well, when he was in Vietnam, and after he headed for South Africa, he’d email me every few days with updates, asking me to keep his notes and photos for safekeeping. Then about a month ago, his emails stopped coming. The last place we know he was at was a rhino farm called Tshukudu Nature Reserve near Kruger National Park in South Africa. I spoke to them recently, and they said that he had been there, but had then left for Mozambique – something he hadn’t told me about. Anyway, we then contacted the South African police and asked for their help. They took a while to get back to us, and when they did, they said that the only contact they’d had with Michael was in a town called Phalaborwa, where he’d interviewed the police chief about some poachers they’d caught, who’d been given stiff prison sentences. They did tell us that South African Immigration had confirmed that Michael went to Mozambique around that time, then returned ten days later. There’s no record of him leaving South Africa after that. I insisted that they open a missing person’s docket, but I haven’t heard back, I’m afraid.’
‘So, he must still be in South Africa, unless he left illegally – which is unlikely.’
‘We’re worried that something may have happened to him,’ Goldsmith said. ‘Smugglers are generally not a pleasant group of characters.’
Crys’s chest tightened. ‘Have you contacted his family?’ she asked.
‘As far as I know he’s an only child, and he told me his mother died young. I located his father, but he said they hadn’t spoken in years.’
‘I just spoke to him too. He has no idea where Michael is … and apparently doesn’t care.’
There was a silence. Crys wondered what could have happened and realised Sara must be doing the same thing.
‘You’ve got to send someone to find him,’ Crys said at last. ‘You can’t just stop looking.’
‘We’ve thought about hiring a private investigator, but nobody who has anything to hide will speak to them. They’ll just clam up. We’ll be wasting our money and end up knowing no more than we do now. I guess we just have to leave it to the police for the moment.’
‘But you’ve got to do something!’ Crys protested with a sinking feeling; had everyone washed their hands of Michael?
‘So, what do you suggest, Ms Nguyen?’
‘I … I don’t know…’
When Crys put the phone down, she slumped in her seat. It seemed that Goldsmith had spoken to everyone with whom Michael had had recent contact, without any success. Michael had truly disappeared.
And no one seemed to care too much about it.
Chapter 2
That evening, Crys couldn’t focus on anything. She tried to watch TV – a BBC wildlife documentary – but she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to Michael and what could have happened to him. No one went off the radar for a month without letting someone know where they were.
What can they do to find him?
Sara Goldsmith hadn’t been optimistic that a private eye would ever get close to the people who had useful information, and she was probably right. Government officials and the police would be open to meeting, and perhaps the farmers that Michael had spoken to would too, but the people actively involved in poaching almost certainly would stay clear.
So, who was left? That was the question that haunted Crys for most of the evening.
The answer came to her when answers often did – when she was in a yoga position and her mind was clear. She should go herself.
It made perfect sense. She had a strong personal interest: she really liked Michael and their friendship was developing. She had the qualifications: she was a relatively well-known environmental writer with a strong background in investigative journalism. Her general focus of interest was endangered species – and rhinos certainly fit that bill. And she had the time – her last major project had just been published.
All she had to do was convince National Geographic to send her to lo
ok for him and work on the article.
She untwisted from her half lotus and was so excited by the idea that she nearly forgot to end her session with stretches and a cool down.
When she stood up, she could barely wait until the morning, when she could call Sara Goldsmith and make her suggestion.
‘Good morning, Crys, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Have you heard from Michael?’
‘Good morning, Sara. Unfortunately I haven’t. But I have been stewing over our conversation yesterday and the fact we couldn’t come up with a good plan to look for him.’
Goldstein didn’t respond.
‘Okay, so I have a suggestion that I’ve thought through carefully, which I think would work.’
‘And that is?’
Crys hesitated, then took the plunge. ‘I’ll go…’
She paused, but again there was silence from the other end of the line. She realised she was going to have to convince Sara.
‘I can go under the pretext of writing a story about rhino poaching – just like Michael. If you’ll let me see his notes, I should be able to speak to the same people he spoke to and perhaps find out who he thought was involved in his big story.’
‘Hmm … it’s an interesting idea,’ Goldsmith said at last. ‘And you’re willing to fund yourself?’
Crys took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I was hoping that you would hire me to finish writing Michael’s story.’
This time there was a very long pause. Crys wished she’d worked her way around to the suggestion rather than just throwing it out immediately. But she wasn’t good at prevarication.
‘I don’t know, Crys,’ Goldsmith said eventually, and Crys’s heart sank. ‘I’m worried that Michael may have run foul of the smugglers – they are very nasty, I believe. I wouldn’t want the same to happen to you.’
‘Ms Goldsmith, I can do the job. I’m an investigative reporter and deal with environmental affairs—’
Dead of Night Page 2