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

by Chris Whitaker

  “I’ll take that pink bunny. The big one at the back. For my girl here.”

  Manny put his arm around Furat and pulled her close. She looked up and smiled at him.

  “You can’t have a prize. You didn’t hit the target,” the greasy man said.

  Manny glared at the greasy man, at his helmet-strap beard and his sleeveless denim jacket. He wondered where you could buy a sleeveless denim jacket, if there were some kind of carnival clothing store. Maybe he just took a perfectly nice denim jacket and cut the sleeves off.

  “Well, what the fuck made that pinging sound then?”

  The greasy man sighed. “I didn’t hear nothing.”

  “The fucking target dropped down too.”

  “Yeah, but then it popped back up again. You gotta hit the thing with force, kid.”

  “It’s your fucking gun. I can only point and pull the trigger.”

  The greasy man looked past him, trying to catch the eye of the group of high-school girls standing by the Haunted House.

  “You must have been standing too far back.”

  “There’s a fucking white line on the ground. You drew the fucking thing. I had my foot on it. You said not to step any closer.”

  The greasy man waved him off, smiling at one of the girls when she glanced over.

  “Listen to me, you greasy piece of shit. I shot the fucking target, and the fucking target pinged. Now give me the pink bunny.”

  The greasy man stared at Manny.

  Manny stared back.

  “You got some mouth on you, kid.”

  “Yeah, I got some fucking fists on me too. You try and fuck me, in front of my girl no less, and you expect me to bend over and take it. Not going to happen, my greasy friend. Not tonight. Now give me the bunny, or step outside of your box and we’ll dance.”

  Manny raised his fists, hoping and praying that the greasy man would back down.

  The greasy man looked up. Manny followed his eye and saw Jim heading toward them. Though it appeared to pain him greatly, the greasy man turned and grabbed the pink bunny from the shelf, then shoved it at Manny.

  Jim kept his head down, much too tired for all this shit. The carnival came to town every year and lit up the sky like it was July 4th only to disappear in a puff of hamburger wrappers and cigarette ends come morning.

  The rides tore thick holes in the grass by the sidewalk, and every year some asshole’s truck-cum-bedroom left a deposit of slick, black oil on the street. But then maybe he just had too much flying about in his head to enjoy anything.

  When he’d phoned Brycewood Memorial Hospital that morning he had expected to be told that Billy Brooks was out of danger, or at worst there was no change. So when the nurse told him that Mr. Brooks had taken a turn for the worse, and that even if he did wake up there would be limited brain activity, Jim had to get her to repeat herself.

  After he’d put the receiver down he’d walked to the bathroom and locked the door, then stood there, staring into the mirror. He might have felt guilty, but then he’d thought of Jess. He’d done it for Jess.

  As he walked around, and saw all the smiling faces, and listened to the screams and the laughter, he wondered what people saw when they looked at him.

  He’d get away with it. No doubt about that. He was tough. Tough enough to not fall apart, tough enough to ride out this storm and come out on the other side, even if Billy Brooks died.

  Jerry walked through the crowds of people carefully, not wanting to bump into anyone. He’d won a goldfish, though the game had been so easy that everyone won a goldfish. His father had loved fish. He’d bought Jerry an aquarium for his tenth birthday, then set it up in his office and rarely let Jerry venture inside. “You’ll kill them,” he’d said.

  Jerry breathed deeply, savoring the smell of candy floss and toffee apples, mixed with the thick, blue smoke that pumped from the rides.

  He passed a group of boys, the same boys that threw eggs at him. He heard Dylan say something, and they all laughed. Sometimes he dreamed about hurting Dylan. He’d pick him up by the throat, then squeeze and squeeze until Dylan’s eyes bulged and his feet shook. He woke up happy after those dreams; happy, but frightened too, because he wondered where his breaking point was, and what might happen if he reached it.

  He felt something hit his shoulder, glanced down and saw a toffee apple on the grass. He heard more laughter. He walked away quickly, his goldfish sloshing about in its bag. He passed between the Flying Scooters and the Pendulum, glancing back over his shoulder, then bumped into the man that ran them.

  “You’re too big, pal. The thing won’t get off the ground,” the man said.

  Jerry heard more laughter.

  “Looking sharp, Abe,” Manny said.

  Abe was wearing a white polo with khaki shorts; shorts that mercifully covered a fair amount of leg. He’d dropped the brogues too, relieved when Manny told him that the heat from the feds was making it impossible for a gangster to operate in Tall Oaks.

  “I’m going to ask her to prom,” Abe said.

  “Who?”

  Abe nodded in the direction of the Waltzer. “Jane Berg.”

  Manny stifled a grimace. “Are you sure, Abe?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

  “No reason. I just always see her with Dylan McDermott. I thought they had a thing.”

  Abe glanced over at Jane Berg.

  She was beautiful. And she stood in a small group of other, almost equally beautiful, girls.

  Abe turned to Furat, looking for assurance. “She sits next to me in math,” he said. “I think she’s single. We used to play together at the Jewish preschool on the corner of Ingalls Street. Our parents are friends.”

  “Well, if she chose to sit next to you that must count for something, right?” Manny said.

  “What should I say? I’ve never done this before.”

  Furat was about to speak when Manny cut her off.

  “Stick your chest out and strut over there.”

  “I’m not sure how to strut.”

  “Remember Travolta, in Saturday Night Fever? When he used to be all money with that luscious black hair? He didn’t walk the streets, he strutted. And the ladies could tell, just by his strut, that he was a fucking champion in the sack. That’s how you need to walk over there. Can you lose the glasses?”

  Abe took them off, suddenly appearing strange; a turtle without its shell.

  He squinted at Manny, his eyes reduced to tiny beads.

  Manny shook his head. “Put them back on. You can always take them off again when you’re banging her after prom.”

  “I’m shitting myself,” Abe said, pacing the street.

  “Calm down,” Manny said, grabbing Abe’s face in both his hands and holding his cheeks tightly.

  “Look at me. Look me in the eye, Abel.”

  Abe reluctantly met his eye.

  “You can do this. You’re a sweet kid with a big heart and Jane would be lucky to have you on her arm. We’re at the carnival now, the home of romance, so there’s no better time. She’s having fun with her friends, kicking back before the serious business of college begins. She’s probably a little nervous too, because no one’s had the stones to ask her to senior prom yet, and she can’t bear the thought of going stag. Sure, she’s thought about Dylan McDermott asking her, or one of the other jocks, and that’s who her friends expect her to go with. But if I know anything about women . . .”

  “I don’t think you . . .”

  Manny held up a hand to silence Furat.

  “And I’m sure that I do, then deep down she just wants to please her father. And what could make him happier than his little princess going to prom with a fucking sexy, six foot four, Jewish prince, with a voice so deep he’s bound to have a set of balls big enough to give the man the ten grandchildren he’s always wanted.”

  Manny pulled Abe’s face down and kissed his forehead.

  “Now go make magic happen.”

  As Abe turned t
o walk away, Manny slapped his ass and winked at him.

  “What do you think she’ll say?” Furat asked.

  “It’s in the lap of the gods now.”

  “I’m worried he’s picked someone a bit too . . . popular.”

  “Yeah, well, the problem is that when we were growing up Abe used to hang around with her a lot. Back when she had an external brace and her mother tried to cut her hair and fucked it up so bad the hairdresser had to give her a buzz cut.”

  “A buzz cut?”

  Manny nodded. “We all thought she was sick, possibly dying. He might have had a better shot back then. But they drifted apart.”

  “Why?”

  “Puberty hit. She got a nice set of tits and a firm ass, and Abe grew tall enough for the janitor to come get him every time a seventh grader threw their football onto the roof of the cafeteria. And then his balls dropped so low that James Earl Jones worried that his voice-over work would dry up. Couple that with her perfect smile, and his lack of muscle, and they became chalk and cheese.”

  Abe walked back toward them, his head low and the eyes of the most popular girls in school searing a hole in the back of his head.

  He shook his head and Manny pulled him in for a tight hug.

  “She said thanks for asking but no.”

  “Could be lesbian?”

  “No. She’s going with Dylan McDermott.”

  Jess walked into the police station and steeled herself as the memories flooded her mind. They always did, every time she came in. It had been busy that day—people jostling and phones ringing, cameras outside and news vans blocking the street. Jim had held her tightly, leading her through to the back room where she’d given her statement. A few days later she’d had to stand beside her mother and appeal for Harry’s safe return. She didn’t know who she was appealing to, but she had been thoroughly coached beforehand. Not that it helped—as soon as she felt the eyes burning into her, the camera lenses, the flashes, she’d fallen apart. She’d dropped to her knees and sobbed. Jim had quickly picked her up and led her away. Her grief had been so raw, so unflinching that it turned out to be far more powerful than any heartfelt plea might have been. The outpouring of sympathy that followed had been overwhelming. Letters came addressed to her from all over the country. She’d read some of them, though taken little comfort from being in the prayers of strangers.

  She’d been back to the station every week since. She’d watched it slowly empty as the months passed. Now it stood quiet, day and night. The pace slowed, the bustle a memory.

  She knew State Police were still involved, that sightings were still being followed up and that Jim was in regular contact with the FBI. She drew no comfort from any of it.

  She saw a picture of Harry on the notice board; it had been there since day one. He’d loved the police station. He’d always wanted to go in, to look at the cars and get a glimpse of the bad guys.

  She walked up to the reception desk and rang the bell, then stood, waiting. She looked at the envelope in her hand—more photographs of Harry, ones she’d found hidden away in Alison’s house.

  She rang the bell again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She drummed her fingers on the desk.

  She walked through to the back, then opened the door to Jim’s office. It was dark inside so she switched the light on. She took out the photographs and set them out on his desk. He hadn’t asked for them—he had more than enough.

  She turned, and then she saw the file, left out, left open.

  HARRY MONROE.

  It was thick. She turned each page slowly. There were hundreds. She passed the forensic reports, then the interview transcripts. She skimmed her own, remembering each word spoken. Then she came to her mother’s, her aunt Henrietta’s. There was nothing in them, nothing of note. Jim had spoken to everyone that knew them, and not many people really did.

  She came to Michael’s. She thought it would be difficult reading: the questions Jim asked; the answers Michael gave. But she was numb to it. She knew he’d cheated. She’d known about Cindy Collins from his office. She’d known there’d been others too.

  She looked at a photograph of the single green hair. There were numbers written next to it. She didn’t understand them. She turned the page again. She saw another interview transcript, this time with Dr. Stone. She saw her name mentioned. She wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t a long interview.

  She turned the page again. She saw Jim’s neat handwriting. There were notes—pages and pages of notes. And there were photographs. A series of photographs of a man she’d never seen before. She stared at his face. Then at his name. Then she stared at the words written below. Person of Interest. She stood, and taking one of the photographs, she walked out of the door. She clutched it tightly as she walked back toward town, back toward the heat and noise of the carnival.

  “You can see for miles,” Elena said, as the Ferris wheel turned slowly and their car swayed gently.

  “I’m shit scared,” Thalia said, from between them.

  Jared put his arm around her and pulled her close. She smiled up at him as he stroked her back.

  “There’s a Ferris wheel in Las Vegas that’s twice the size of this one. It goes so high that you can barely see the ground,” Jared said.

  Thalia leaned forward and looked down. “I can see Manny. He’s holding hands with Furat.”

  Elena looked down and smiled.

  “Do you like Furat?” Thalia said.

  “I do.”

  “Does Furat’s mommy like Manny?”

  “I very much doubt it,” Elena said, and then turned to Jared. “Thanks for coming with us.”

  Jared smiled at her. He’d been sitting in the dark when she’d called, his mind sinking to the darkest of places that told him to the push the knife a little deeper.

  He turned away quickly, sucking down great mouthfuls of air. It crept up on him, the darkness, and then it hit him hard. He wanted to get off, to get away from them, from everyone.

  “Are you okay?” Elena said.

  He wanted to say no. To scream at her to look at him, to see what he saw, what his parents and everyone that really knew him saw.

  He nodded, though kept his eyes pinned on the twinkling lights. “I’m fine.”

  He calmed as the car began to move, as the wheel brought them back down from the sky. He felt his mind lighten as he stroked Thalia’s back. He found they calmed him down, kids. That’s why he liked to watch them from his window. They were so pure, so unaffected. He looked at them, especially the little boys, and he felt jealous, because he missed being a child. He wanted to go back, to try it all again.

  He stepped out of the car and was about to turn and help Elena and Thalia when he was knocked off his feet. The first blow caught him above the eye, the second square in the nose. His eyes blurred. Her screams mixed with the music. He brought his hand up to his face and tried to defend himself. He heard Elena shouting, and Thalia crying. And then he saw the cop dragging the woman off of him. He pulled himself up and got to his feet.

  “WHERE IS HE?” she screamed.

  Over and over.

  A crowd gathered quickly.

  He felt Elena’s arm round him as she led him away.

  22

  A Good Wife

  Lisa tried to smile at Jerry. She’d just told him that Max’s parents were going to sell the PhotoMax. He’d nodded as she told him, as though he expected it. But Jerry was difficult to read. He rarely met her eye; he blushed whenever she smiled at him. He was painfully awkward around her, from the way he stood with his arms folded across his chest, to the way he kept his head dipped low, as though his chin were glued down. He did all he could to appear smaller.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  He nodded.

  She tried to smile again but it was difficult. Her life had taken a turn she was struggling to cope with. She rented a small apartment above the pharmacy but had moved back in with her mother, just until she got herself togethe
r. She wondered when that might be. Max’s mother blamed her. She hadn’t come right out and said it, but she now regarded Lisa with an icy detachment far at odds from the warmth she was used to. Lisa didn’t miss him. As bad as that sounded, she didn’t miss him. She might, one day, when the feeling came back, when the numbness faded. She did feel the guilt though. She felt it so deep in her bones that she knew it would be with her forever.

  She’d felt her share of pain over the years.

  She thought of Max. She thought of her father. She found that she was crying. That happened often now. Her mother would pass her a tissue, then she’d notice that her cheeks felt wet.

  “Are you thinking about Max?”

  “My father, actually.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He had dementia, at a young age. He’d go days without saying a word, to me, to my mother. On good days he’d talk to me. He’d call me Lisa and spend time with me. On bad days I was a stranger.” She spoke quietly, without emotion.

  “Oh.”

  “He loved birds,” she said. “I’m not sure why. He used to feed them and they’d shit all over the yard.”

  Jerry smiled.

  “I still miss him. When he died I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. I stayed in bed for a whole summer.”

  “And then you felt better?”

  “And then my mother gave me his old photograph album. It was as I flipped through the pages that I began to feel better, because I could feel him in every shot. Does that sound stupid?”

  “No,” he said, quietly.

  “I recognized the ones we had taken together, in the forest, while we had been searching for the red-billed cuckoo. He didn’t like me tagging along, said I made too much noise. I wondered if it even existed. My mother said that he probably hadn’t seen it. She said that he claimed to have seen lots of things that never were, because his mind left him so often.”

  “Oh.”

  “He spent his whole life looking for it. I don’t know why it was so important to him.”

  “Maybe because it’s so pretty?”