“Neatness counts.”
Phil looked down at his hands. “I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
“Oh?” I felt a cold breeze.
“Marge says I shouldn’t upset you, but I figure you’ve got enough trouble without getting more trouble from the people who are supposed to be helping you.”
The breeze got colder. “What are you talking about?”
“An FBI agent came to see me at work yesterday.”
“John Gader?”
“Yeah, that was his name. He asked me if you and Kate got along. If there were a lot of family arguments. If you ever hit your son.”
“What?”
“He wanted to know if you lost your temper when you drank. If you had a girlfriend.”
“The FBI suspects me?”
7
“You son of a bitch.”
Gader faltered when I stepped in front of his car in the parking garage of Denver’s Federal Building. “Calm down.”
“You think I killed my wife and son!”
“I gather that some of your friends told you I’d been asking them questions about you.”
“Destroying my reputation is more like it!” Fists clenched, I stepped toward him.
“Take it easy,” Gader said.
Its engine echoing, a car drove past in the garage, the driver frowning at us.
“This area has security cameras. It’s patrolled,” Gader said. “You don’t even want to think about assaulting a federal agent on federal property.”
“It’d be worth it!”
Gader held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to fight you. If you’ll calm down and listen …”
Behind him, a door banged open. A guard stepped into the garage’s harsh lights. His hand was on his holstered gun. “Is everything all right, Mr. Gader?”
“I’m not sure.” Gader’s lean face was stern. “Is everything all right, Mr. Denning?”
I squeezed my fists so tightly that my knuckles ached.
“If you go to prison, how’s that going to help your wife and son?” Gader asked.
I trembled, feeling anger burn my face.
“Think about what your family needs,” Gader said.
I relaxed my fists.
“It’s going to be fine, Joe,” Gader told the guard. “You can leave us now.”
“I’ll watch the monitor,” the guard said.
“Good idea.” Gader waited until the door rumbled shut.
“How could you possibly think I killed my wife and son?”
“It’s a standard part of an investigation. When a family member’s missing or killed, a lot of times the person responsible is another family member.”
“Jesus, how could I have driven the Volvo to Wyoming, then stolen a car and abandoned it in Montana, and somehow have gotten back here to maroon myself in the mountains?”
“You could have if this guy Dant had been working for you.”
The depth of Gader’s suspicion shocked me. “Why would I have asked Petey to do that?”
“Dant. If you had money troubles and needed the payout from a life—insurance policy, or if you had a girlfriend who made your wife an inconvenience.”
I clenched my fists again.
“But there weren’t any unusual withdrawals from your bank accounts or your stock portfolio, and there wasn’t a hint of scandal about your relations with your family. Besides, I couldn’t figure out how you’d have crossed paths with Dant after he got out of jail in Butte and … Quit staring at me like that. The investigation wasn’t going anywhere. I had to try a different approach.”
“You son of a bitch, you made my friends think I’m responsible for my family’s disappearance.”
“It wasn’t personal. I told you, I was following standard procedure. The point is, you came through the investigation perfectly. You’re in the clear.”
“Thanks. Thanks a fucking lot.”
8
“You seem determined to avoid using Lester Dant’s name,” the psychiatrist said.
I didn’t answer.
“The FBI did a thorough background check,” the psychiatrist continued. “They proved that he’s not your brother.”
My chest was so tight that I could hardly get the words out. “They think Dant crossed paths with my brother and learned what had happened to him as a child. He decided to switch places with Petey, possibly killed him.”
I stared out a window toward a pine tree.
“But you don’t believe it,” the psychiatrist said.
“I can’t .”
“ ‘Can’t’ ?” The psychiatrist evaluated the word.
The tightness spread to my throat. “If I accepted that Dant kidnapped my wife and son, I’d have to admit that, given his profile, he’d have done whatever he wanted to them and …” I couldn’t bring myself to say “killed them.” I kept staring through the window toward the pine tree. “But if Petey was using Dant as an alias …” My voice broke. “If Petey took them, there’s a good chance they’re still alive.”
The psychiatrist sat forward. “Why do you think that?”
“I’ve tried to put myself in his place.” The tree became a blur. “I’ve done my best to imagine what Petey must have felt when he came into my house. My loving family, my comfortable surroundings. Petey wouldn’t have wanted merely to kill me for destroying his life. He’d have wanted my life, the one I’d made for myself.”
I forced myself to continue. “I’ve analyzed the moment when Petey pushed me into the gorge. I’ve relived it again and again. I think Petey’s plan was to wait until Jason wasn’t around and then kill me, making it look like an accident. Then he intended to sympathize with Kate and Jason, to make himself indispensable, and eventually to take my place. The only problem was, Jason saw him push me.”
I took a deep breath. “So the plan was ruined. What was Petey going to do? Kill Jason? Make that death look like an accident also? Try to take my place with Kate? No. Jason was an essential part of what Petey wanted. Not just my wife but my family. Obviously, he couldn’t live in my house then, not without Jason telling the police what he’d seen. But Petey could steal my family. He could hide them someplace and screw my wife whenever he wanted. He could force my son to treat him like a father.” I squeezed the words out. “At least they’d be alive. If Petey and Dant are the same person. If Petey took them. But if Dant’s who the FBI claims he is, if he isn’t Petey, he probably killed Jason right away and hid his body in the mountains. Then he made the best of a failed plan by looting the house and forcing Kate to go someplace with him, probably the Montana mountains, where he could rape her as much as he wanted before he got bored with her and—” I stopped, unable to admit Kate might be dead.
The psychiatrist narrowed her eyes as if I’d just described hell. But whether it was the hell that Kate and Jason suffered or whether it was the hell of what she considered my delusional mind, I couldn’t know.
9
As I swallowed another antidepression pill, I heard the doorbell ring. The FBI with news, I hoped.
But when I opened the door, I frowned at children in costumes on my porch. Trick—or—treaters. It was Halloween, but I hadn’t been aware. I didn’t have candy. Not that they cared. They stumbled back as if I was the one in a scary costume. When I tried to explain, they ran from the porch.
I closed the door and shut off the light. Peering out a darkened window, I saw other costumed children, and as I hoped, they passed the house. I couldn’t help remembering that Halloween was one of Jason’s favorite holidays. How he’d loved to dress up as a space monster or a mad scientist. How I had loved to go out with him. But that wasn’t going to happen now. It made me angry that I’d frightened the children. Was my face that twisted with loss? Were my eyes that dark with insanity?
The vial of pills remained in my hand. Cursing, I threw it across the living room. Depression gave way to fury. What was it that Petey had said when he’d first approached me and I’d thought
that he was a fake, when I’d told him to get away before I beat the shit out of him? “Brad, you’d have a harder time outfighting me than when we were kids.” We’ll see, I thought. In that moment, as I heard someone on the street shout to warn children away from my porch, I vowed to stop waiting for the police and the FBI to do something. I had to stop hoping that something would happen.
I had to make something happen.
10
“A theory of substitution?” Gader asked.
“Yes.” I was so distraught that I stood in front of his desk instead of sitting. “We know that Petey lied.”
“Dant.”
“But what if the reason he was so convincing is that he based his lies on the truth? He was in Butte and Colorado Springs at the times he said, after all. He just wasn’t doing what he claimed.”
“What’s that got to do with this theory of —”
“You told me that West Virginia doesn’t have a town called Redemption.”
“That’s correct.”
“But what about the rest of the country? Is there a town called Redemption anywhere? Or what about towns in West Virginia whose names have a religious connotation similar to Redemption?”
Gader thought about it. “Possibly. It would help Dant to keep his stories straight.”
“Could you check?”
Gader leaned back in his chair. His thin face looked even thinner from weariness. “I’ll try. The Bureau has me working double time on …” He pointed toward a thick stack of documents on his desk. “What difference would it make? All that stuff Dant said about his past was a lie to make you sympathize with him.”
“But what if it was only partly a lie?”
“It still won’t help us find your wife and son. Every lead’s been followed. The task force has been disbanded. All we can do is wait for Dant to surface.”
“Petey.” I strained to keep control. “Damn it, doesn’t anything you learn about him take you one step closer to understanding his patterns and where he might go?”
“Sure,” Gader said. “Of course.” He stood and walked me to his frosted—glass door. “The theory of substitution,” he said without conviction. “Certainly. I’ll definitely do some checking. By all means, if you think of anything else, just let me know.”
11
“Mr. Payne will see you now,” the receptionist said.
I set down the three—month—old Newsweek, which might as well have been up—to—date, given how little I’d paid attention to what was happening in the world. Crossing the small waiting area, I entered an office that was spacious by comparison, although in my own company it would have been considered tiny.
It was austere: a wooden chair, a desk, a computer, another chair. And a fish tank into which a portly, bespectacled man tapped grains of food. His white hair contrasted with the healthy ruddiness of his cheeks. His sport coat was off. He wore yellow suspenders over a blue shirt.
“How are you this afternoon, Mr. Denning?”
“Not very good, I’m afraid. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”
Payne nodded, his puffy chin bobbing slightly. “It’s for sure nobody comes to me with happy news. I used to internalize it all. At the end of the day, I’d be a wreck. But then I remembered the fish tank in my dentist’s office and how it calmed me before I went in to have my teeth drilled. These are just garden—variety goldfish. I don’t know if they help my clients, but they do wonders for me. Would you believe that I used to be a hundred—and—forty—pound bundle of anxiety? But ever since I got these fish, I’ve”— he spread his arms to his girth—“blossomed.”
I had to smile a little.
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Denning.” Payne set down the box of fish food and eased into the chair behind his desk. “Would you like some coffee? A soft drink?”
I shook my head no.
He laced his fingers over his ample stomach and gave me the most sympathetic look I’d ever experienced. “Then tell me how I can help you.”
Haltingly, I explained about Kate and Jason.
Payne nodded. “I read about it in the newspapers and saw the stories on television. A terrible thing.”
“My attorney says you’re the best private investigator in Denver.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know a lot of private investigators.”
“He says you used to be with the FBI. He says you tracked down a serial killer.”
“That’s right.”
“He says you predicted where a team of interstate bank robbers was going to hit next.”
“True.”
“And when they were going to do it. He also says you blocked a domestic—terrorist attempt to—”
“But that was only on the weekends.”
The joke caught me unprepared.
“Please. All that flattery just makes my cheeks get redder,” Payne said. “I was part of a team. We each did our share.”
“My attorney says that you did more than your share.”
“Did he also tell you that it cost me my first marriage, not to mention a bullet in my knee that forced me to leave the Bureau? I finally got the wisdom to stop having undue expectations of myself. You shouldn’t have undue expectations either, Mr. Denning. I’m good, but only because I often see patterns others don’t. For something like this, it’s important to your emotional health that you don’t count on the impossible.”
With nowhere else to turn, I swallowed my disappointment. “Fair enough.”
“So let me ask you again: How do you think I can help you?”
“The FBI and the police have given up.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “It’s been six months. I heard somewhere that in missing persons’ cases, the more time drags on, the less chance there is of finding the people who are missing.” I could barely add, “Finding them alive at least.”
“It depends. Every case is different. Statistics are a record of the past, not a prediction of the future.”
“In other words, you’ve got an open mind. You’re exactly the person I need. Name any fee you want. Money isn’t an issue.”
“Money isn’t an issue with me, either. I charge the same fee to everyone,” Payne said. “But what do you expect I can do that the police and the FBI couldn’t?”
“At the moment, they’re not doing anything.”
“Possibly because there isn’t anything to be learned.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“Understandably.” Payne spread his hands. “But you have to realize that I can’t duplicate the resources available to the FBI.”
“Of course not. You can listen to new ideas, though. You can … I don’t think I’ve made myself clear. I don’t want to hire you just to continue the investigation.”
“Oh?” Payne looked mystified. “Then what do you want?”
“I want you to teach me so I can continue the investigation.”
12
“I need a handgun,” I said.
“What kind?” The clerk had a beard and a ponytail.
“Whatever’s the most powerful and shoots the most bullets.”
“Rounds,” the clerk said.
“Excuse me?”
“They’re not called bullets. They’re called rounds. The bullet’s the part that blows away from the casing and hits the target.”
“Fine. Whatever shoots the most rounds.”
“Is this for target shooting or home defense? The reason I ask is, some people believe a shotgun’s the best way to deal with a burglar.”
“How about one of those?”
“A revolver? It only shoots six. These semiautomatics shoot more. But you’ll need to decide which caliber you want: nine—millimeter or forty—five.”
“Which is the biggest?”
“The forty—five.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Just so you know your options, biggest isn’t always best. The forty—five holds seven rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. But this nine—millimeter over he
re holds ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. A lot of power with eight rounds, versus somewhat less power but eleven rounds.”
“How much less power?”
“With the nine—millimeter? Let’s put it this way, it gets the job done. Actually, the only reason the magazine in this nine—millimeter holds only ten rounds is that in the mid—1990s, Congress passed an anti—assault weapon law that limits the capacity of handgun magazines. But before the law …”
“Yes?”
“There’s a gun show in town Saturday. I’ll introduce you to a friend who’s willing to sell a prelaw Beretta nine—millimeter that holds fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You bet. Don’t misunderstand. There’s nothing illegal about him selling the weapon. The law only forbids manufacturing or importing magazines that hold more than ten rounds. But because my friend bought his before the law was enacted, it’s legal. That model doesn’t come on the market often, so I expect you’ll have to pay extra.”
“Naturally.”
“But after that …” The clerk looked uncomfortable.
“After that?”
“No offense. You’re obviously new to this. So you don’t shoot your foot off, you might want to take some lessons.”
13
In the darkness beyond my window, the first snowstorm of the season gusted, but I hardly paid attention, too busy using Internet addresses that Payne had given me: sites that he said the FBI favored for researching places. Next to my new laptop computer, I had dictionaries and thesauruses to help me find words associated with redemption. Most weren’t promising. I couldn’t imagine anyone calling a place Atonement, Propitiation, Mediation, Intercession, or Judgment, for example. As it turned out, a village in Utah was called Judgment.
On the wall to my right, I’d attached a large map of the United States. Periodically, I got up and stuck a labeled thumbtack where a place’s name had a religious connotation. After several hours, there were tacks all over the country, but no pattern. None was in Montana. I was beginning to understand why Gader hadn’t wanted to investigate my theory.
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