Tall Oaks: A gripping missing child thriller with a devastating twist

by Chris Whitaker

  “I don’t know . . . nothing good,” he said, quietly.

  “You know sometimes when I walk around town it seems so safe, almost like we’re in a bubble. But then I think about what happened, and I can’t believe it. It’s so sad. Wherever he is, I hope he’s okay, because I see his mom sometimes, and she looks broken. Like there’s something broken inside of her.”

  They settled into silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence, both already more than comfortable in each other’s company.

  “Have you heard any more about your sister?”

  She shook her head, brushed a bug from her knee. “She’s okay. My mom said she’s okay, that everything is going well with the pregnancy.”

  “What’s the guy like?”

  “He’s nice enough. I didn’t get to see him much. They’re in love. They’ve got a place together. So that’s something. I know she’s young, but that should count for something, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “My father doesn’t see it that way.”

  “How come you’re not religious, yet he is?”

  “My mother. She worried about us fitting in. She said we could make up our own minds once we were old enough.”

  “And he was okay with that?”

  “My mother wouldn’t come to America unless he agreed.”

  “Then it’s not really fair of him to judge your sister like that.”

  “I know. I think he thought we’d convert.”

  “What will he think of me?”

  She laughed, laughed so much that she held her stomach.

  “He’ll probably like me. Most do. Anyway, I’ve come up with a way to charm him.”

  “Oh God.”

  “When I meet him, I’m going to say kiziniz sicak.”

  “That’s Turkish.”

  “For your daughter is hot.”

  “He speaks English, Manny.”

  “Yeah but if I come at him in his mother tongue he’ll be seriously impressed. Probably offer me a sweet dowry. I’ve got my eye on the Porsche.”

  “His mother tongue is Arabic.”

  “I know, but that language is fucked-up. It’s just lines and dots . . . some kind of code, probably terrorist shit.”

  She laughed.

  “Have you tried to talk to him about it, about your sister? Told him how you feel?”

  “He sees what he wants to, and nothing else.”

  “It’s easier that way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s much easier if things are black and white. My father was the same. He had this vision of what a son should be. Black and white. You fall outside and he can’t see you.”

  She turned to him and smiled. “Is that why you do it? The gangster thing, the boxing, the cursing?”

  He shrugged.

  She smiled again.

  He looked down. “Sometimes, when you smile at me, I forget about trying to be someone that deep down I know I’m not. And it’s not just the cursing, which comes natural to me by the way, a habit I couldn’t shake even if I wanted to. It’s the constant need to be somebody else. Anybody else. Somebody whose father gives a shit about them, or somebody so tough that they don’t care whether their father gives a shit about them.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I forget that I heard him say to my mother that he was tired of being around me, that he couldn’t understand how someone like him could have a son like me; a son that he’s embarrassed to talk to his friends about. And I forget that he said he hates my mother, and when he looks at me all he sees is her, and that makes him hate me too.”

  “That’s awful, Manny.”

  “He wanted me to grow up tough like he did, have that hunger that he had because he grew up with nothing. But when he looked at me, he saw I was soft. And it wasn’t because I didn’t have to look over my shoulder when I walked down the street, like he did, or because I got bought everything I ever asked for, which wasn’t much at all really. It was because of my mother. That’s why I was such a wimp. He said that. Said I was a wimp. Because of my mother, because she wouldn’t push me to do shit that made me miserable but made him happy; because it was her job to raise me while he was at work, and she fucked it up.” He swallowed. “That’s why I do it. Because how bad must the real me be if my own father hates me?”

  He turned to look at her. “So that’s why I like it when you smile at me. But not just because it makes me forget, but because it’s far and away the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  As the sky turned from purple to black, the sun to the moon, and the clouds to the stars, Furat leaned forward, took his face in her hands and shared her very first kiss with him.

  And if he was honest, if he was sure that no one was listening and it wouldn’t come back to bite him on the ass, he would acknowledge the fact that it was his very first kiss too.

  Lisa sat on the front step and looked though the forms. She’d knocked on the door a couple of times, then remembered that Max had invited Jerry to his bachelor party. She hadn’t thought that he’d go.

  She could see a light on in the house. She knew that his mother was in there, but with her being so sick she knew she probably wouldn’t come to the door. She’d met his mother a couple of times. She was a bitch. She’d seen her belittle Jerry, every compliment masking an insult. Jerry didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, but he didn’t show it. He took it all. That was Jerry. Someone that took everything thrown at him, and did it with a grace that belied his size. She’d seen Max do it too. They’d argued about it, but Max had never been one to back down. On occasion he’d apologize, but was hardly contrite when he did. He held an arrogance that she had once found attractive, but now hoped might fade as the years passed. He could be cold, detached, like her father was in many ways. Her mother didn’t like him. Her friends didn’t like him. They’d dated since high school. He’d been a football star, destined for great things until an awkward hit by a 300-pound linebacker shattered his knee. She’d stuck by him through the subsequent dark days. She couldn’t very well walk away. His insurance payout meant he wouldn’t have to work all that hard for the rest of his life. He had a nice place, and his own business. She reasoned to her mother that she could do worse. They’d been engaged for seven years; it had taken an ultimatum to finally see him set a date.

  She turned as she heard the door open, then stood when she saw Jerry’s mother standing behind it.

  “Lisa.”

  Lisa smiled. “Hi. I just had some stuff to drop off for Jerry.”

  Jerry’s mother beckoned her in and then closed the door.

  Lisa followed her into the living room. She’d never been inside before. She noticed the smell first—it was strong. She knew it well. Jerry’s clothes often smelled musty. She couldn’t help but stare at his mother. She was big. She had big hands and feet, like a man. She wore toweling sweatpants. Lisa could have fitted into one leg. She walked with a stick, the floor creaking with every step she took.

  “Sit.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  Jerry’s mother waved her off. “I’ll be glad of the company. Jerry’s normally home, so I get lonely when he’s not. We watch The X-Files most nights, and then a movie. Jerry knows all about movies. He reads the reviews.”

  Lisa smiled.

  “He likes the ones with sex scenes. He gets an erection. Thinks I don’t notice. He’s a man. He has needs.”

  Lisa looked down at the carpet.

  “What have you got there?”

  Lisa clutched the papers tightly. “Just some work stuff. Max asked me to drop it off.”

  “You’re getting married soon.”

  “Three weeks.”

  Lisa watched her shift in her seat, searching for a comfort that must prove elusive when you’re that big. She wheezed, each breath more labored than the last.

  “Do you know what time the party finishes?”

  “Late. Knowing Max it’ll probably go on
all night. They’re going to a strip club.”

  “Jerry won’t stay late. He knows he has responsibilities. And he won’t like the strippers. He blushes when he helps me into the tub. I see him looking though, sneaking a peek whenever he can. He has needs.”

  Lisa fought the urge to get up and run. She couldn’t imagine growing up in a house like this, with a mother like that. She glanced over at the gas fire, at the photograph on top.

  “That’s Jerry when he was sixteen. He was always big. Fat. Do you want a drink? We have soda, all different kinds. Me and Jerry like Dr. Pepper. We could drink gallons of the stuff. Jerry said it’s bad for our teeth but it’s just so tasty. We pour it into wine glasses sometimes, pretend we’re on a date. He likes to practice. He needs to. He’s never been on a date before. Can you believe that, Lisa? A virgin at his age. I think it’s sweet really. He wants somebody like me, that knows how to look after him. But girls nowadays, they can’t cook. Can you cook, Lisa?”

  “A little.”

  The tick of the clock was loud.

  “Max is making him pay for that camera. I hear him crying, at night. He’s too old to cry, too big.”

  “What?” Lisa said.

  “He’s not good with his money. He spends it all on his photographs. He’s always buying paper, and memory cards. After my medication there’s barely anything left for groceries. And he likes to eat. His father wasn’t good with money either. I had to hide it all. All our savings. Behind the bed. There’s a false wall, you know, behind the bed. You push on the bottom right-hand corner, where the baseboard is, and the wood panel pops off.”

  Jerry’s mother smiled then, a vacant smile.

  “But don’t tell anyone, Lisa,” she said, the vacancy quickly replaced by fear. “They’ll break in and steal it. They’ll tie me up. That’s what they do. And Jerry can’t protect me. He’s big, but he’s soft. A big fucking pussy boy. He shouldn’t leave me alone. He’ll regret it when I’m gone. He’ll get his punishment. ‘For the wrongdoer will be paid back for the wrong he has done, and there is no partiality.’ Colossians 3:25. I haven’t got long, Lisa. I know that. I’ll be with God soon.”

  Lisa stood quickly, no longer caring if she was being rude. “I better get going now. Where should I leave these?”

  Jerry’s mother looked up, smiling again. “In Jerry’s office. He likes to call it his dark room. But it’s all digital now, right?”

  Lisa nodded.

  “Second door on the left.”

  Lisa opened the door, switched on the light. It was bright, the bare bulb hanging low. It was neat inside. A small desk sat against the far wall, beside a file cabinet. There were photographs on the walls, maybe fifty. They were all landscape shots, all of Tall Oaks. Though the quality was poor, he was clearly talented. She looked at his desk, spotless and polished. His camera lay on it, it was an old model. She picked it up. It felt light, cheap. She placed it back down again.

  “Leave it in his file cabinet. In the top drawer. On top of his photographs. He thinks I don’t know. He has needs.”

  Lisa kneeled down and turned the key, opening the drawer.

  The photographs were on top. At first she didn’t want to look, embarrassed for Jerry, because the lady was naked. But then she saw someone else in them.

  A man.

  Max.

  Her car was old. She floored the gas pedal. Jerry’s mother had watched her leave, watched her leave with a big fucking grin on her fat face.

  Lisa was mad. She could feel the anger, her heart racing and her fingers white as she gripped the wheel tightly.

  She watched the needle climb as she drove out of Tall Oaks, the trees hurtling by as she kept her foot to the floor. The roads were empty. She didn’t know where the club was exactly, but Crandall was a small town. A shitty town, with a shitty strip club in it. The Eager Beaver. Max had loved that name. He didn’t try and hide the fact that he was going there, because she’d been cool about it. It was his bachelor party. They were strippers, not hookers. She’d trusted him.

  She saw a sign for Crandall and turned off, passing through Despair. She wanted to kill him. Fucking pervert. Taking photographs and giving them to Jerry. She wondered why Jerry had kept them, though she didn’t blame him. His family was so fucked-up there was no doubt he would be too.

  She thought of her mother, of her wedding dress and the church they had booked. And then the tears came.

  She cried hard, her eyes blurring, the unlit roads blurring too. She came to a bridge, the Half-Chance Bridge.

  She tried to wipe her eyes.

  She kept her foot on the gas.

  She didn’t notice she had veered until she saw the lights coming toward her.

  And then she screamed.

  The last thing that Max would see—would ever see—as he stood up and stuck his head out of the sunroof, was the sight of the car coming toward them.

  And that was followed by the sight of the limousine passing through the flimsy, wooden barrier.

  And, finally, the sight of the ravine rushing up toward him.

  18

  The Suburban Coffin

  Jim hated Sundays. He wasn’t sure why exactly, but he hated them. It wasn’t the religious connotations, though he was a nonbeliever—the things he had seen making it hard to believe there was any higher power than a crazy person aiming a gun at you—it was just the feel of the day. Maybe that changed if you had kids, or had someone to spend the day in bed with, someone to help you forget the fact that tomorrow was Monday and you’d have to face another week all over again.

  He thought he’d be happier, after what had happened with Jess. He thought he’d feel less like every day was a Sunday, like he was biding his time waiting for something to happen. And he had thought that something was Jess. If he couldn’t find Harry then it had to be Jess. He wondered what the future held for them. He guessed that he wanted more than she did, and then felt stupid for thinking she wanted anything more than for him to bring her boy home. It was a conversation for another time, maybe even another life. He took a deep breath. He had fucked her. And he had fucked himself. Fucked himself when he drove to Despair and beat that hick half to death. He already felt the weight of what he had done clouding his mind, taking away his energy and refocusing it somewhere it didn’t need to be. He needed clarity, he needed single-mindedness. He needed to find Harry when no one else could.

  The pressure was about to ratchet up again. After the accident, the circus was coming back into town. They’d focus on Max, but they’d run pieces on Harry too. Jim supposed it was a good thing, that it would get people talking about the case again, but he also knew their rabid gaze would shift to him as well. They’d see he’d gotten nowhere, made no progress. The small-town sheriff way out of his depth. They’d be right about that. What they wouldn’t know was that he had managed to fuck the mother of the missing child too. The mother who was anybody’s. And that made him as bad as all the others that had used her grief for their own selfish reasons.

  It was quite the accomplishment. He should be given a Service Cross, or a Medal of Valor. Yeah, he liked that, a Medal of Valor for not finding the kid and for fucking his mother. If that wasn’t courageous—that complete disregard for ethics and for the damage he might do to the case—then he didn’t know what was.

  He walked along State Street, past the mansions set so far back from the sidewalk that the owners would break a sweat reaching their own mailboxes. Then he turned into Harrison, where the houses were still impressive, just not embarrassingly so.

  This was where the bankers and the lawyers lived. Lines of BMWs and Mercedes sat in front of the houses, the odd Prius too. The front yards were all neat, beautifully colored. The fences were painted, the windows gleamed.

  When he reached the end of Harrison, he turned right into Roanoke Avenue. And this was where he found Manny, sitting on the curb and squinting up at the clear, blue sky.

  “What’s up Gambino, or is it Gotti, or maybe Balboa? I can�
�t remember anymore.”

  Manny turned and looked at him, smiling. “Oh shit, the feds.”

  Jim laughed, and sat down beside him on the curb.

  They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the morning rays before they turned angry.

  “Where’s your suit? It’s only going to be eighty-nine degrees today. Thought you might have teamed it with an overcoat—you know, hide your pump-action inside.”

  “Nah, I’m thinking of turning my hand to something new. Can’t fucking move in this town for cops. It’s no place for a gangster. And what’s with all these big name stores? How am I supposed to shake down Pizza Hut if I’ve gotta meet with the regional manager to do it, And then put it in writing before he passes it to someone else to approve? It’s ridiculous. I bet Giancana didn’t have to put up with this shit.”

  Jim lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke down deep.

  “The manager of Pizza Hut called us, made a complaint. You’re lucky you’ve finished school. I could’ve shown up there and hauled you away.”

  Manny looked at Jim, his eyes wide. “That would have been awesome. I could’ve screamed some shit at you like: ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. Fuck all this bullshit.’ And then I’d wink at Skinny, tell him to call my lawyer. Fucking gangster.”

  Jim laughed.

  “Seriously, Manny, you going to cut this shit out now? Your mother’s been through enough.”

  Manny looked down at the street, watched an ant struggle with something three times its size. “Yeah, I’ll cut it out. Too hot for that three-piece anyway.”

  “You thought about what you want to do with your life yet? There’s a whole world out there. You’re young enough to do whatever you want. It’s a gift you know. Don’t throw it away.”

  “Says the man that came back.”

  “Yeah, says the man that came back.”

  “You heard from my father lately?”

  “I saw him a couple a months back.”

  “Where?”

  “In Tall Oaks. He was going to see his accountant, needed to collect some papers.”

  “He ask about us?”

  “No,” Jim said.