Between Lost and Found

by Shelly Stratton

  He watched as Janelle pushed back her shoulders and looked up at him. Her demeanor was resigned yet stoic. At that moment, she seemed like a strong reed in a raging river—she might bend under the weight of the current, but she wouldn’t break.

  “Tell me what happened,” Janelle said calmly. “Is Pops all right? Is he . . . dead?” she asked, her voice cracking a little at the end.

  “We don’t know,” Sam answered honestly.

  “You don’t know?” Her mouth twisted liked she tasted something sour. “What the hell . . . what do you mean you don’t know?” She pushed herself away from the door frame, dropped her hands to her hips, and glared up at him. “What the hell kind of answer is that? Either my grandfather is alive or not! Just tell me!”

  “I would if I could, but it’s not that simple.” Sam looked over her shoulder. “Look, can I come inside? I’ll tell you everything we know so far, but I’d rather do it in there than out here.”

  “Why can’t you just talk to me here?”

  “Well, it’s freezing, for one, and all you’ve got on are a coat and a t-shirt.”

  She glanced down at herself and looked chagrined, like she had just realized what she was wearing. She abruptly closed her parka, clutching the zipper in both hands.

  “I left my robe back home,” she muttered.

  “And I have a few things I need to ask you. It won’t take long.”

  Janelle paused. Her eyes followed the path of his gaze to the cabin’s living room, then she turned back to him.

  She was reluctant to let him inside, and he suspected it wasn’t just because the news about her grandfather had knocked her off kilter. She had been reluctant to let him inside the cabin yesterday, too. When Sam thought about it, he realized she always seemed wary around him.

  This was yet another difference between Janelle and Gabriela. When he first met Gabby at a crowded coffee shop in D.C., she had been overly friendly and talkative. She had practically flopped down at his bistro table, grabbed his newspaper, and started eating part of his multigrain muffin. Her accent had been so thick that he could barely make out what she was saying or the questions she was asking, but he was charmed by her. He didn’t know what to make of the beautiful, foreign woman who would not shut up and acted as if they had known each other forever.

  In stark contrast, Janelle was now staring at him guardedly and acting as if she wasn’t sure if she should slam the door in his face and break out her rape whistle. And this was after Janelle had spoken to him several times.

  “You can trust me,” he said softly, hoping to alleviate any fears she might have. “I’m a cop.”

  She laughed. “Respectfully . . . that doesn’t mean anything, Sam. There are cops out there that are scarier than guys without a badge.”

  He raised his brows, shocked into silence. “Well,” he said, licking his lips, “you’re right . . . I guess. But I’m not one of those cops.”

  “I know, but . . . but . . .” She hesitated again.

  “I’m just here to help, Janelle.”

  Finally, she eased the door farther open with a slow creak and stepped aside, waving him over the threshold.

  Sam followed her inside the cabin and shut the door behind him. Warmth swept over him like an incoming tide, snuffing out the chill from the outdoors. Sam took off his cap, lowered the zipper of his jacket, and began to remove his leather gloves.

  He glanced around him and spotted a rolling leather suitcase sitting a few feet away from the door. Her Coach tote bag was perched on top of the suitcase. Neither had been sitting there the last time Sam had been in the cabin. Was she leaving?

  “You can have a seat,” Janelle murmured, gesturing to one of the lumpy plaid sofa cushions. “Would you give me a second to get dressed? I have a feeling that when I hear this, I want to be wearing pants.”

  He gave a half smile and nodded. “Sure. Take all the time you need.”

  She didn’t return his smile. Instead she turned with head bowed and walked down the short hallway to the Little Bill’s bedroom.

  * * *

  Twenty-five minutes later, Janelle sat in the armchair facing Sam with her knees together and her elbows perched on her thighs. She was in the same t-shirt from earlier, though it was now paired with silk pajama pants covered with little red hearts with arrows through them. Two cooling cups of French roast coffee sat untouched on the oak coffee table between her and Sam.

  “So Pops is still missing,” she whispered, staring at her clutched hands.

  Sam had already told her about finding the badly damaged truck on the edge of a ravine off Cedar Lane. He had also told her about the boot prints in the snow leading away from the crash.

  “We haven’t found him, but the good news is that at least we know Bill survived the wreck. We know he was up and walking.”

  “Yeah, but its freezing out there! It was . . . what? . . . barely ten degrees last night. Even the healthiest person could die from hypothermia or blood loss, and Pops is an old man.”

  “He’s old but he’s strong, Janelle,” Sam argued. “He’s stronger than most.”

  “I mean . . . just look out there!” She gazed over her shoulder toward the dark night outside of the living room window as if she hadn’t heard him. “Pops could be dead already.”

  Her voice choked and her eyes began to water. She looked away from the window and back at her interlocked fingers.

  “Hey,” Sam said, reaching out and holding her hands within his.

  Her hands were warm and supple. When he touched them, he felt his stomach twist in knots again, but this time for a very different reason, one that unnerved him. Sam dropped her hands—like he had been zapped with a painful low-voltage charge. He cleared his throat and sat upright in his chair.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” he said, taking on a more formal tone that seemed befitting a police chief. “Bill could still be alive. Don’t you think the worst now.”

  Her jaw tightened. “No offense, Sam, but frankly it doesn’t sound like you and your men know much of anything. You don’t know where he is! You don’t know what condition he’s in! Why should I have any confidence at all in what you’re saying? Why the hell shouldn’t I think the worst?”

  Anger. He had expected as much. Being angry was a normal reaction in a situation like this when one felt so powerless, but Sam couldn’t help but find it frustrating that her anger was directed at him.

  “Because until we know something, no one should jump to any conclusions, and that includes you. Until we find Bill’s body, I’m going with the notion that he’s still alive, and you should, too.”

  She stared at him for a long while before finally nodding. “You’re right. You’re right. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. You—”

  “No, I was wrong. I should apologize. You’re only trying to help. I know that. It’s just . . . I thought Pops was okay. I came here believing he was lost in the mountains somewhere and needed my help, and then Connie told me he was fine, that this was Pops’s stupid ploy to mess up my engagement. So I was pissed at him but relieved that he was all right. Now I’m being told that isn’t true, either. He’s back to being missing again and . . .” She swept a hand over her face, looking fatigued. “It’s all just a lot to take in, you know?”

  “I know. But I need you to hold it together, because we’ll need your help if we’re going to find Bill.”

  Her face lit up and she sat erect. “Sure! Of course. Anything you need!” She nodded eagerly. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Tell me when was the last time you talked to Bill. Tell me exactly what he said. And I’ll need a physical description of him. Any birthmarks, tattoos, or details that would stand out and help anyone spot him. We could come up with a description ourselves, but you’re his granddaughter, so . . .”

  “No, I can do that.” Janelle nodded again. “Absolutely!”

  “We’ll hand it out to the trackers and the
other officers and deputies. Give me a few good pictures you have of Bill, too. Two or three of them would be best.”

  “I can do that. I can do that! Just let me . . . wait!” Janelle rose from the armchair. She started to pace around the living room, shifting aside random items like a stack of magazines and a dinner plate covered in crumbs. She scanned the space like she was searching for something. He watched her as she did it, his eyes locking onto the way the silk of her pajama pants swayed around her legs, outlining the shadowy imprint of her hips and thighs.

  “It’s around here somewhere,” she mumbled under her breath, standing on the balls of her feet as she checked the top of the brick fireplace mantle.

  Sam’s focus raised by several inches. He noticed for the first time that Janelle wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her t-shirt. Her breasts undulated with her jerky movements as she searched. Her nipples jutted proudly against the thin cotton fabric in a way that was so unwittingly provocative—like a lace thong peaking over the waistband of a pair of jeans or bra strap dangling off a shoulder—that he wanted to avert his eyes, but couldn’t.

  Janelle snapped her fingers, catching Sam by surprise. His gaze shifted away from her breasts guiltily.

  “I know where it is! Jesus, where is my head lately?” she murmured before scampering across the room to her tote bag. He watched as she dug into the bag’s depths and then pulled out her iPad. “I don’t have any photos in my wallet, but I have a few digital ones on here,” she said as she typed her password onto the glass screen. “I could print them out or send you a file.”

  “That would help.” He kept his focus on her face as he spoke, ordering himself not to drift any lower than that. “Send me whatever you’ve got. And I’m going to need you to stay in town for a little bit longer.” He glanced meaningfully at her suitcase leaning against the wall near the door. “Can you stick around for a while just in case we have any other questions or need anything else from you?”

  Janelle paused. She lowered her iPad to her side and gradually nodded. “Yes. Of . . . of course.”

  He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she said a little too loudly. She tapped the iPad restlessly against her thigh. “It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I already called Mark and told him that I was taking a flight home tomorrow, so he made reservations at a restaurant and plans for something big . . . something important to him . . . I mean, to us,” she quickly added. She laughed softly.

  He could tell from the mortified expression on her face that she knew how strange she sounded, comparing an elderly man lost in the woods to dinner reservations and “big plans.” But she forged ahead anyway.

  “It’s just . . . I’ve disappointed him before. I feel like I’m disappointing him all over again.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. Frankly, the more he heard about this Mark fellow, the more he wondered if Bill was right in not liking him.

  “Well, I hope your boyfriend would tell you,” Sam began in a measured voice, trying his best to hide his budding distaste for a man he had never met, “not to worry about any of that stuff and just do what you have to do to help find your grandfather. In fact, I hope he would be on the next flight out here to sit with you as we do our search. He should be by your side, holding your hand while you go through this.”

  “Of course, he will! That’s . . . that’s totally what he’ll do! I’m just being silly.” She fussily waved her hand. For a brief moment, the ghost of another expression darted across her face: apprehension and maybe even a little fear. She blotted out both. “I’ll tell Mark everything and he’ll . . . he’ll come.”

  “Good,” Sam said before pulling a four-by-six-inch notebook from one of his jacket’s interior pockets along with a ballpoint pen. He flipped it open to a blank page. “Now let’s get started.”

  PART II

  “Not until we are lost, do we begin to understand ourselves.”

  —Henry David Thoreau

  CHAPTER 11

  Tuesday, April 22

  Somewhere

  Little Bill woke up to the sensation of pain so bright and exquisite that he almost screamed as soon as he opened his eyes. But he couldn’t scream. All he could emit was a long, tortured groan from his parched throat and lips. And he didn’t open his eyes, either, so much as feel his lids flutter slightly as sparse shafts of light filtered through his lashes.

  Besides the pain, he felt the light weight of sheets thrown across his body and a pillow beneath his head—which was not what he had expected. The last sensation he had had was cold asphalt and melting snow beneath his cheek when he crumbled to the ground from exhaustion after dragging his sorry ass out of his truck and up that rocky hill. He could remember walking then crawling a few yards or maybe twenty feet . . . or maybe two miles, for all he knew. He also remembered that damn dog with the big brown eyes, gazing down at him and panting stale doggy breath into his face.

  “Go . . . go get help,” he had rasped to the dog, who had inclined its head and stared at him blankly.

  A Lassie it was not.

  “Well, if you ain’t gonna get help, then don’t just stand there looking stupid!” he had shouted before roughly shoving the dog’s muzzle and then going limp.

  Little Bill obviously wasn’t on that roadway anymore. It was obvious, too, that he wasn’t dead and in heaven, because he knew he could expect to find Mabel standing over him, yanking back the covers, and telling him, “Get up, Bill! The day is wasting, honey! We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  So where am I, Mabel?

  For once, she didn’t answer him.

  He willed his senses to focus, to climb above the pain, so that he could figure out this mystery.

  In addition to the sheets and pillow, he felt heat—a warm, toasty heat. Was he in a hospital? He listened for the distinct sound of beeps from a monitor or the shuffling of rubber-soled shoes across linoleum tile but heard neither. Instead he heard the drone of a distant television, then a laugh track. He heard a dog barking. He heard a door opening, the ring of glasses knocking together, and a door slamming shut.

  Little Bill sniffed the air like a hound locking onto a scent. It didn’t smell like a hospital, either. He detected no bleached surfaces or penicillin or the stale odor of the sick and dying. Instead he smelled dirty carpet and a musky fragrance that belonged in the wilds of the Amazon or the back of a smoke-filled van where long-haired hippies lounged around singing “Kumbaya” or whatever the hell hippies usually did.

  Reefer, Little Bill thought with shock. Is that really what I smell?

  “I do believe so, honey,” his wife finally answered.

  He could sense movement in his periphery. Something was coming toward him from his left. It got closer and closer, and then he felt a heavy weight plop onto the center of his chest, making him groan again in agony. He heard the purring next, then the soft flap of slippers rushing toward him.

  Little Bill felt something soft and furry flick across his nose and cheek. Was it a tail? He tried futilely to raise his arms and swat the cat off his chest but the most he could achieve was a slight rocking from side to side, causing the bedsprings to emit a barely audible squeak underneath him.

  “Mikey Gordon, you get off of that man!” a woman whispered shrilly.

  Little Bill felt the cat being removed from his chest. It meowed loudly in protest.

  “He’s not feeling well. That’s not how we take care of our patients,” the woman admonished.

  Patients? So he was at a hospital?

  Little Bill gathered all the will he could muster to force his eyes open, at least for a few seconds. When he did, he was greeted by the sight of a skinny, middle-aged woman with long, strawlike blond hair adjusting a multicolored quilt at his feet. The cat—a fat gray Persian—sat on the floor, grooming itself and purring softly. The space was dimly lit but with what little Bill could see, he knew that the room was filthy. Two towering piles
of dirty clothes sat in the corner opposite the cat. A bedsheet was held over the room’s only window with masking tape. On the walls around Bill were several band posters with names like “The Grateful Dead” and “Phish.” Another poster, old and water-stained at the edges, featured a glowing marijuana leaf.

  When the woman finished adjusting the quilt, she glanced up at Bill. Her brown eyes damn near popped out of their sockets. She snapped upright when she realized he was staring at her.

  “Holy shit!” she gasped before yelling over her shoulder. “Hey, doc! Doc! Come in here! He’s awake!”

  Little Bill heard the heavy thump of footsteps. He gazed over the woman’s shoulder. Staggering into the room was a scrawny guy with wild gray hair, wearing sagging gray sweatpants and a stained t-shirt that barely covered his pot belly.

  “Doc,” the woman said, clapping her hands, “I think he’s finally on the mend!”

  Who the hell is he?

  “I don’t rightly know,” Mabel answered back, seeming even more bemused than Bill.

  This man didn’t look like any damn doctor that Bill had ever met. He watched as the guy pushed smudged glasses up the bridge of his nose and leaned in close to Bill’s face. When the man smiled, he revealed a gap between his front teeth as wide as a thimble.

  “Far out!” Doc exclaimed just before Little Bill lost the battle to keep his eyes open and faded into blackness once again.

  CHAPTER 12

  SILVER ALERT

  William Clancy Marshall

  Missing: 4/20/16

  Age Disappeared: 78

  Sex: Male

  Race: Black

  Hair: Bald

  Eyes: Brown

  Height: 5’4”