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

by Chris Whitaker

  “Manny,” Elena shouted.

  “It’s okay, Elena, we’ve touched on a nerve in here.”

  “Why?” she called back.

  “We’re discussing Rocky.”

  “I don’t know what your problem is anyway. Two young men in the peak of physical fitness, all sweaty and shit. Should be like porn to you guys.”

  Elena appeared in the doorway. “I told you about that, French. Last time you two discussed Rocky IV, Manny didn’t sleep all night. He was pacing around his room and making notes on why the end fight scene wasn’t too long, and why Rocky’s natural training methods beat the Russian’s steroid-based approach. He was muttering to himself too—kept Thalia awake for hours.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “And?” Manny said.

  French John stood and threw a cushion at Manny. “And Rocky II is a good movie. I enjoyed it.”

  Manny nodded, smiling as French John followed Elena back to the kitchen.

  “Well, I liked it. I think Stallone was cute back then, before he got all funny looking, like someone filled a creased-up old sack with air.”

  Manny laughed. “I knew you’d like it. Better than Rocky I?”

  “Yeah, better,” Furat said.

  “I hope I get one of those moments,” he said, quietly.

  She turned to him, grabbing the television remote and muting the sound.

  “What moments?”

  “You know. The ‘Win, Rocky, win’ moment. When someone believes in you that much, sees the potential in you and just says fuck the consequences, go for it. I think it’s more heartfelt than saying I love you.”

  “There are lots of people that see potential in you, Manny. You just need to figure out what it is that you want from life.”

  “Who the fuck knows at our age? I’m supposed to know now what I want to do out in the real world, even though I’ve spent all my time at school. How do I know what it’s like to be a lawyer or a doctor?”

  She shrugged.

  “And yet I’m supposed to commit the next four years of my life, and get into a shit load of debt, to end up doing something that actually isn’t as much fun as it sounded in those dumb career books they give us at school. The book that tells you a lawyer starts his day at nine and has time for an hour’s lunch break before leaving the office at five to have dinner with his wife and kids. Except we know that’s all bullshit. I’ve read Grisham. I know they work you like a prisoner of war, and, when you do get home, you find out your wife’s banging the gardener, because he’s got the time to listen to her moan all day, and your kids are away at boarding school; the one perk of earning all that money. It’s all lies.”

  She laughed, curling her feet under her and leaning back in the couch. “What about the career days, when they get someone in to speak? They’re better than the books.”

  “We had an astronaut come in one day. Except when I started grilling him it turned out he worked in the accounts department at NASA. Nearest he had got to space was when his wife walked out and took the kids.”

  She laughed.

  “Seriously, he was a mess by the time he left. I asked him a few simple questions and then the teacher stepped in to save him, but by that time the astronaut was near to tears—fucking fraudster. He even gave out his business card at the start, had the NASA logo on it. I kept calling him at work and asking what it was like up in space, what it was like to feel weightless and look back on earth from that far away. He changed his number in the end. Teach him to lie to a bunch of kids though.”

  “I thought about becoming a teacher once—maybe kindergarten,” she said.

  “I think you’d make a good teacher. I think the kids would like you. Thal does. She keeps asking if we’re going to get married.”

  Furat smiled. “What do you tell her?”

  “That you’re not marriage material.”

  She punched his arm.

  Then his lips found hers.

  They broke away quickly when they heard French John coming back to the living room.

  He sat down and looked at Manny.

  Manny smiled back, his heart beating a little faster.

  “Rocky III? Watch Mr. T get his ass kicked?” Manny asked.

  “As long as you promise not to cry when Mickey dies.”

  Manny shook his head. “I’m not promising shit.”

  Jerry opened his eyes. His head hurt and his tongue felt furry. He had a horrible taste in his mouth and his stomach was churning, the contents swishing about even though he was lying still. He was in his bed, though he didn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

  He remembered the limousine coming, and then he remembered Max telling him that there wasn’t enough room, because he took up two seats. He remembered the others laughing. Then Max had given him a bottle of something for the walk home. He’d drunk it all, because he was thirsty, because the walk had taken him so long. And then nothing. A void.

  He sat up. His head thumped, his eyes felt sore. He licked his lips. They felt dry.

  He made his way into the bathroom and ran the faucet, splashing cold water on his face. He reached for the mouthwash and swirled it around his mouth. He felt a little better.

  And then he heard the bell ring.

  He walked across the hallway, each step making his head throb.

  His mother sat up in bed, glaring at him.

  “Look what the cat threw up.”

  He swallowed.

  “You look awful.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “You came in late. You dropped a glass in the kitchen. It scared me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She coughed, reached for her water and took a long sip.

  She banged the glass back down.

  “I didn’t get to take my bath. So I couldn’t relax. I’ve been awake half the night.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled the sheet up to her chin and coughed again.

  “Why don’t you love me, Jerry? Do you want them to take me away? Then you can go out every night. Is that what you want? To see your own mother taken into a home? They beat you in there; they leave you sitting in your own shit. I read about it in the newspaper. They left an old lady lying in her own shit for three days. Her skin rotted away, and then the shit got into her bloodstream and killed her.”

  She was crying now, but he could still see the venom in her eyes.

  She picked up the glass again and hurled it at him.

  It sailed past his head and shattered against the wall behind him.

  “Nice place,” Jim said, looking at the high ceilings, the expensive furnishings, the stone fireplace.

  “Just a rental,” Jared said.

  Jim sat on the leather couch.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Water, thanks.”

  Jared walked calmly into the kitchen, then closed the door behind him. He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. Up and down, up and down. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. There was a cop in his house.

  He eyed the knife, his father’s knife. He needed it now—the release. He’d never been good with stress, had always folded under the lightest of pressure. He hated that about himself. He hated lots of things about himself. But at that very moment, if he could have changed anything, he would have turned into the kind of man who keeps cool, who tries to remember that the cop didn’t really know anything about him. He couldn’t. He’d been careful.

  He reached for a glass, filled it with water from the refrigerator. He tried to stop his hand from shaking. The cop would see that. He’d think there was something wrong. He glanced at the knife again.

  “How much is the rent in a place like this?” Jim asked, as Jared walked back into the room.

  “Quite a bit.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “It’s an expensive town to live in.”

  “For a car salesman,” Jim said, smiling.

  “I have family money.”

>   “Everybody does around here.”

  Jim sipped his water slowly.

  The apartment was large, the whole top floor. The McDermotts owned it, along with the rest of the building.

  Jared watched him look at the walls, at the paintings—all expensive, all tasteful. Jared tried to read him, to see if he’d noticed there were no photographs anywhere, no personal touches.

  “You like it here?”

  “It’s nice. Everyone’s friendly.”

  “But you’re leaving?”

  Jared paused for a moment, searching his mind, certain he hadn’t told anyone he was leaving.

  Jim smiled.

  They sat in silence. Jared jammed his shaking hands deep into his pockets.

  “John’s an old friend. He said he’ll be sorry to see you go, said you’ve shifted a lot of cars. He was surprised. Said you hadn’t been there long.”

  Jared breathed again.

  “Yeah. I guess I just like to keep moving.”

  Jim nodded. Nodded and smiled. He picked his drink up again, took another sip then set it down.

  Jared heard sounds floating in through the window. He glanced over, then cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry, Jared. I’m just knocking on some doors as part of the Harry Monroe case.”

  “Right. How’s that going?”

  “I feel like I’m getting closer. I don’t even know why . . . just a feeling—like I’m going to find him.”

  “That’s good. I can’t imagine what his parents are going through.”

  Jared rubbed his chin, the stubble felt rough against his finger. He liked that feeling.

  “You know where you’re headed next?”

  “Not yet. I might stick around for a while longer. I haven’t decided. I get restless.”

  Jim shifted, crossed his legs.

  “You’re dating Elena Romero.”

  Jared looked up.

  Jim laughed. “Small town.”

  “Right.”

  Jim continued to stare at him.

  “She’s nice. But we’ve only been out a couple of times. It’s not serious.”

  “You met Manny?”

  Jared nodded.

  “He’s a good kid really. He keeps me entertained. He’s been dressing as a gangster. He tried to extort money from Pizza Hut . . . it’s funnier than it sounds. The manager called us, real nervous guy. Adam, one of our officers, he took the guy’s statement. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but this guy tells him how Manny said his car was nicknamed ‘the rolling bomb,’ and Adam just bursts out laughing. Said he couldn’t hold it in.”

  Jared glanced out the window, at the boys running up to Artemis.

  He felt Jim follow his eye.

  “Okay then,” Jim said, standing.

  Jared followed him to the door.

  Jim opened it, then turned. “Shit, I forgot to ask. You didn’t hear anything that night? I know it was a while back, but you didn’t see anything, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Give me a call if you remember anything,” Jim said, as he walked away.

  Jared closed the door, leaned on it and exhaled heavily. Then he walked back through his apartment, took his case out of the closet, and began to pack.

  “Jess.”

  Jess span around.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Roger said, panting.

  He bent down, placing his hands on his knees, his running vest clinging to him. He wore a headband, and sweatbands on each wrist. Articles of clothing she hadn’t seen since the late eighties.

  “How are you?” he asked. “Sorry, stupid question really.”

  “I didn’t know you went running,” she said.

  He smiled. “I see you sometimes. Thought I’d give it a try.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear.

  He stood in the grass.

  She looked down at his running shoes; they were new, too new. They glowed.

  She shifted her weight, leaning on one leg.

  “Have you heard anything?” he said.

  Another stupid question.

  She glanced up the street, saw a mother walking toward them pushing a small boy on a trike. The pedals were turning, but the boy was just a passenger.

  He looked up, met her eye, then looked away quickly.

  “I’m not going to say anything, Roger. If that’s what you’re worried about, then don’t. I’ve got no interest in breaking up a marriage.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just . . .”

  She turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the grass.

  Jess walked for miles, to the very edge of town. She saw Harry’s face on every streetlight she passed. She slowed for each of them, sometimes smiling back at him, sometimes just staring, and trying not to cry. She liked the town at night, when the heat of the day began to subside, when drapes were closed and televisions flickered from between them. She used to take Harry for a walk in his stroller, every night after they’d eaten dinner. He was quiet. He’d take everything in through his big, blue eyes. She’d talk to him, tell him who lived in which house, and how she knew them. He had a comforter, a small piece of red cloth. He called it Ralph. She and Michael had laughed about it when he’d come up with the name all by himself. He’d grasp Ralph tightly in his small hands as they walked and walked. He didn’t ask for much. He wasn’t one of those kids that you had to cross the street with to avoid passing by the toy store window. Alison spoiled him. Whenever she stopped by she’d bring another toy. Harry worshipped her. He used to beg her to stay for dinner, sometimes even for the night, crying as she waved goodbye and walked out the door. Alison would tell him not to be silly, though Jess could tell she was inwardly thrilled. Harry used to shake hands with people. He’d see the mailman and stick out his hand. He was beautiful. She could say that with some surety. Max kept his photograph on the wall in the studio, said he was nearly as beautiful as his mother.

  She walked up to the old clapboard house and rapped on the door, dislodging some paint chips as she did.

  The house was located on the southern edge of town, far away from the white picket fences and manicured lawns. It sat on the border of Tall Oaks and the much smaller, much less desirable town of Marsh Creek.

  Something about the place made her shiver. It wasn’t because the house stood alone, the neighboring houses hidden by a dense copse. It was because, in all the times that she had knocked, and it was fast approaching double digits, no one had ever answered. Even the time she’d heard movement inside.

  She needed to speak to the owner; she needed to be thorough, to cover every house.

  She’d once caught her mother on the Internet, trawling for stories about missing children—the ones that were found safe and well. Jess had sat beside her. They were hard to find, the stories, especially after more than a few days had passed, and the Internet was a vast place. Still, it happened. Her mother said miracles sometimes happened.

  She banged the door again, this time hard enough to feel pain in her knuckles.

  She walked along the veranda, past the fallen swing seat; its chains long since pulled free of the roof, and then peered through the window.

  The glass was dirty, caked in the haze of a ruthless summer. With night closing in she could see little but her own face reflected murkily back at her. She tried to rub away the dirt, but it was thick beneath her hand. She picked at it with her nail and managed to chip away a small circle in the grime, just big enough for her eye.

  When she leaned forward and stared through, the air was sucked from her lungs.

  She felt the tingling in her fingers, the twitch in her legs and the heat rise to her face. She tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

  There was somebody in there, lying on the floor.

  Facedown.

  And it looked like a child.

  20

  The Burn

  The funeral was arranged quickly. It was surprising how many people t
urned up at the church. People that didn’t even know him; people that felt compelled to come for their own private reasons, and those that came simply because it gave them a break from mundanity.

  Jim was there, of course, and so were the other members of the Tall Oaks Police Department. Though they weren’t there in any official capacity, they ended up having to run crowd control when the church burst its banks and the mourners started to spill outside, blocking the street.

  He looked different in the photograph. They always did when they’re gone, Father Andrew thought. As if you could tell, just by looking at a snapshot, that they were no longer with us. Father Andrew had been worried about the ceremony. Not because he knew him, which he did, or because so many people had turned up, which he expected, but rather because the circus was in town. He didn’t like them, the noise they brought with them, the attention. But he understood why—it was big news. He knew of some of the other priests that would have made the service about something else: a chance to show their stuff, to work the room. Perhaps make the odd joke, just to show the new faces that they were normal after all, even if they based a life on nothing more than blind faith. They’d project, their voices booming and echoing around the arched roof. They’d want to say something about him being with God now, about how God, in his infinite wisdom, wanted him there by His side. That was supposed to make the parents feel better, as if his life were never in their hands. But it rarely did. The pain was too raw, too sudden—they’d just want it to be over with as quickly as possible. Then they could head over to the church hall and stand at the back of the room, wondering how people could feel hungry when his death still hung so fresh in the air, darkening the flowers and dulling the music. They’d see people quickly form a queue when the Saran wrap was taken off of the aluminum foil trays, and then wonder if it was okay to take two sandwiches and two chicken legs. They’d watch people deep in conversation, conversations that had nothing to do with him and his life; conversations that often ended with smiles and laughter, like they had place in the room. They’d make eye contact with the odd person, and that person would smile at them and try their best not to make it a happy smile. All of this, when all they wanted to do was let the grief wash over them and drown them for a few months . . . or years. Until such time that the raw feeling tempered and they could look forward again. And Father Andrew knew all of this, because he had lived through it when his own son had passed. So he kept the service brief. He spoke of his short life, he asked a few of those closest to him to read something. And then he dismissed everybody, back outside to where the cameras were waiting to capture their grief, then email it to their copy editor who’d polish it and slap it on the evening edition for all to enjoy.