If I Disappear

by Eliza Jane Brazier

  “No, you better stay here. It’s safer. Make sure you don’t go beyond the perimeter,” she says, like she hasn’t warned me half a dozen times of the impending danger and death if I dare cross the property lines.

  “I won’t.”

  They take ages getting out, moving back and forth into the house for forgotten objects, abstract directives.

  “Almost forgot my Bible!”

  “I would carry. There’s a pistol in your bedside table.”

  “I would stay inside. It looks like rain.” It doesn’t.

  My only real concern is the phone line, which your parents don’t have time to investigate. “Happens all the time. We’ll get Homer down here; he knows how to fix it. In the meantime, if you need to contact someone, you can use the Internet.” I am happy I can tweet the police.

  On her final revisit, your mother says, “While you’re here, can you clean the kitchen?”

  I do that first, even though it’s spotless. I hear the hum of their SUV turn to a roar as they reach the highway. I grit my teeth, imagining your father diving into those curves, and I am grateful I stayed back.

  I finish cleaning the kitchen, but I still don’t feel like they are really gone. I know that Ashland is hours away but I still feel they could come back at any moment with some gleeful regret. “We forgot the engine!” “Just need to grab another gun!”

  I head across the property to ask the police more questions. The mortuary van has gone. I didn’t see it leave, and I have the odd feeling that they have stolen Jed from me, taken him when I wasn’t looking.

  A big black truck is parked sideways out front. I start toward the door and run into Moroni coming out.

  “Whoa!” he says, putting his hands up. His knuckles are bruised and busted, like he’s been in a fight. He lowers his hands. What exactly is he doing here?

  “You’re a cop and a vet?”

  “Just wanted to make sure he was really dead.” He scratches his neck. “You know what it’s like out here. Everyone’s getting killed but there’s no bodies.” He’s teasing me, and I think he and Tasia must laugh about me.

  “I didn’t realize you and Jed were close.”

  “Close?” He spits on the ground and pulls out a cigarette. “That boy was trash. And out here, trash ends up in the trash.” His cracked knuckles contract.

  He walks toward his truck and I suddenly see his headlights out on the road, hear his voice yelling, Get the fuck out of this town! I remember the afternoon I caught Jed driving away from the coffee shop. Your parents said he’d slept with half of Happy Camp. Jed told me he had done something bad. He said he had a death wish.

  I follow Moroni to his truck as he climbs in. My cheeks heat up but I catch the door before he shuts it.

  “Easy there, girl!”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Nope.” He slaps a hand on his chest and grins. “But seeing him laid out like that sure does reaffirm my faith in God.”

  * * *

  —

  The cops are leaving too. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. The way nobody cares. The way people just move on.

  “How can you be finished already?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

  The detective claps his hands. “Pretty cut-and-dried: suicide. The Bards told us they’d fired him.”

  “But what about the bruises? I have reason to believe Moroni assaulted him.”

  “Ha! If I had Moroni on my case, I’d probably kill myself too.” He climbs into his car.

  “But what about—what about his wife?”

  “More than likely, she just left him. Looks like he was a drinking man.” He pulls down the mirror flap and starts cleaning his teeth.

  “But—this is insane!” My voice explodes up my throat, like a choking cough. “A man is dead. Two women are missing.”

  To his credit, he does stop picking his teeth long enough to say, “Two women?”

  “Rachel Bard. She went missing almost two months ago.”

  “She probably just left,” he says, like he hasn’t just used almost the exact same phrasing for Grace, like that doesn’t strike him as coincidental. He hitches his leg up into the car. “Happens a lot out here, and it shouldn’t surprise you. You’d have to be crazy to want to stay in a place like this.” He clucks. “Too isolated. The men get drunk and the women get out.” He gestures to the woods beyond the ranch. “People come out here to die. If they want to live, they leave.”

  He shuts the door. I knock on the window. I can see him sigh, but he rolls it down for me.

  “This is wrong! You need to do something.”

  He shakes his head, starts the engine. “You want my advice?”

  “I want your help.”

  He shakes his head, the car rolls forward and—like he can’t help himself—he calls back, “Get out!”

  I walk back into Jed’s house, knowing it is empty, afraid of its emptiness. There are muddy footprints tracking to the bedroom. Nothing has been preserved or cataloged. The Bible is shut; Grace’s note is still under the bed; the glass of whiskey is spilled across the floor. There is no indentation where Jed’s body was, just mussed-up sheets. I think about calling Grace’s parents. I think they, at least, will care about her disappearance. But I don’t have their number, and even if I could find it, the phone line is down and I would have to drive all the way to Happy Camp, and even then, a signal is not guaranteed. And anyway, I’m a stranger, an onlooker, worse—I slept with her husband. I could reach out to Jed’s family, tell them I knew him, but I’m a trainspotter; I am not really here. I am only looking for you.

  * * *

  —

  I walk back to your house as the adrenaline drains and a syrupy torpor takes its place. I lie on the sofa in your living room.

  Your parents’ sofa is floral and smells of the eighties, and the Christ statue is looking down at me, its shoulders hunched as if in a shrug. I shut my eyes and picture myself dying, see your parents coming back tonight—the glint in their canine survivor teeth.

  And your father says, “Well, that’s what happens.”

  And your mother says, “I’m not surprised.”

  Like this is circa eighteen hundred, the true wilderness family, where people die all the time. The men get drunk and the women get out. He said a mouthful there. Did I really come here to die?

  There are no voices bouncing through the canyon. Occasionally cars pass by on the highway, but I don’t hear them so often now. Everything blends and softens.

  I picture Jed making the call, then what? Did it hit him, the full consequences of everything he’d done? Did he believe Grace was dead? He must have believed she was dead and it was his fault. She died and he didn’t even look for her.

  But the phone line is down. Did it go down before or after he made the call? Did someone know? Was someone trying to stop him?

  I sit up, back rigid. I remember the discovery I made before Jed died, the name carved deep into the tree. FLORENCE. And I can’t give up. You kept her spirit alive and you kept looking. You kept the spirits of all these lost women alive.

  I’m not perfect. I have made mistakes and compromises, but I have fucking tried. I fucking care. Maybe sometimes I don’t care enough about myself; maybe sometimes I care too much about other people. I am not like Jed, or your mother or your father or your brother or Clementine or Tasia. I don’t have my head in the sand. I see more. I care more. I’m not perfect, but I’m good enough. I can do things other people can’t do. Because I never stop searching.

  I don’t have the phone, but I have the Internet. I sign in to my Hotmail account and find a message from Clementine, like she read my mind.

  Hey, I heard what happened. I can’t believe it. She seems like the type who can never believe a bad thing when it happens. I think of Florence; I think of how Homer was in love with he
r. I wonder what Clementine thinks of that. Please come over! It’s probably best not to be alone right now.

  I message her back immediately. My fingers are shaking as I type, and I don’t quite understand why. Yes! I would love to! Can I come tonight?

  I wait, hoping she will get back to me. In the meantime, I toggle through your parents’ tabs. I scan the latest toy your father was searching for, a small sailboat to dart through the water. It wouldn’t survive the Klamath; I wonder what it’s for. I wonder if he plans to build a whole ocean on the ranch, an ocean and a forest and a city and a beach and a whole world, all theirs.

  A dark truck crests the drive. I wonder who it could be. I scan the tabs and find the one for Facebook.

  I think, Grace. I click and the sign-in page appears. Someone has signed out of Homer’s account. Instead there is a long row of accounts, all the log-ins for all the people who worked here over the years. I slide through the list, looking for Grace, but other names pop:

  Elizabeth Lowe

  Leah Townsend

  April Atkins

  The women you talked about, not in every episode, but scattered throughout your podcast. The women who disappeared. They came here. They disappeared from here.

  I find Grace’s name. I click on her account. The password is saved, and it signs me in automatically. I hear a car door open, hear heavy footsteps come up the drive.

  A click takes me to a Facebook page with several chats open. I click on the chat with Marybeth Abrams.

  I read Grace’s message: We’re doing well. Jed is finally getting his act together. It’s so beautiful out here—like heaven on earth!

  The message was sent today.

  Footsteps rise up the walk. The doorknob rattles.

  Episode 78:

  A Face You Could Trust

  He had a face you could trust. That was what everybody said. Even after they found out he was responsible for at least five murders, people still went to pains to say, “He was just so likable. That was the only scary thing about him, to be honest: You just had to like him.”

  I exit out of the tab in a panic, forgetting to preserve it. It vanishes and I don’t know if I can get back in.

  Your brother is standing in the doorway. His shoulders sag and his hands are in his pockets. Even his dimples are frowning.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, the first normal thing I have heard all day. “I liked Jed.” This surprises me; I never saw them interact, but I suppose I don’t know everything. I remember Jed said he liked Homer too. That Homer was a good person. And that is what a good person says.

  I think of all the missing women. I try to contain myself. Where are they? Did they just happen to pass through here? Did you cover them because you knew them? Is it just a coincidence that they all disappeared?

  “So did I.” I stand up from the desk, move away from the computer so he won’t suspect anything. I clear my throat. “I didn’t expect to see anyone.”

  “Clem said I should check on you.” His face is hopeful on her name. “And my dad wants me to see about the phone line.” He tosses his keys and catches them. “I’m just gonna head up the mountain, have a look. If you want, you can come to our place for dinner. Clem’s making chicken pie.”

  “I’ll come up with you.” I move toward the door, thinking of his name on the tree. I need to talk to him, alone. He steps back in surprise. “I should probably know where the line is, in case it happens again.”

  “. . . Okay,” he says like he doesn’t really see the point, which annoys me.

  His big black truck is parked out front. He takes your mother’s ATV, and rather than climb on the back with him, I follow him up on your father’s ATV.

  We ride up the hill, above the ranch, close to the shooting range. I see Jed’s ATV abandoned on the road and think of that day I found him up here firing his gun, how haunted he looked. I wonder if he’s haunted now. Can you be haunted after death? I think of all the women who came here. I wonder where they went.

  We stand outside the box and Homer brings out his phone for a flashlight, gets down on his knees and starts tinkering around. I am not paying attention and he doesn’t explain what he is doing.

  I want to ask him about Florence and the others, but I know better than to jump right in. I need to ease him out, gain his trust. Fast.

  “What was it like?” I say, suddenly. “Growing up out here?”

  “It was quiet,” he says, and I wonder if he is being pointed but I can’t tell.

  “With your sister?”

  “No, not her.” He smiles and pulls a new, elaborate multi-tool out of his pocket like he can’t wait to use it.

  “Why do you think she left?”

  “What, Rachel?” He tinkers with something. “She probably just wanted to do her own thing.” He winks at me, and I see his dad in him, the slightly loony complacency.

  “Then why did she stay so long?”

  He sits back. “Can I tell you the truth?” He wipes his multi-tool meticulously with a handkerchief, cleaning off any evidence. I can see why it still looks new. “There was a time when I thought our parents would leave this place to me.” He points with the tool down below us, where the ranch sits in the cradle of the mountain. “I thought that made sense, right? I’m the oldest son. They were raising me up to one day take over. But eventually I realized they weren’t; they just weren’t. They fought hard for this place, and they didn’t want anyone to take it from them. That’s what it felt like to them, like I was trying to take it.” I realize that by “them” he means your mother. “I had to make my own way, find my own life. Maybe Rachel thought, if she stayed . . . She was always the favorite. For a while, maybe she thought it would go to her.” I wonder if he thought it would go to you. I think, Motive.

  “What changed?”

  “It was Easter Sunday.” He is still cleaning, polishing his multi-tool. “We were there with the girls. Moroni and Tasia were there. Jed was there. Rachel was digging into Jed, right there at the table. Mom was just lapping it up.”

  “What was she saying?”

  “Just . . . I don’t know. . . . How clueless he was. Jed had a lot of problems; I really felt for the guy.” I think about all the times I ate into Jed. I think that he deserved it. But it doesn’t surprise me that Homer doesn’t. “Rachel has a real vendetta against, you know, men.”

  “Why do you think that is?” I say, and the question sounds pointed. He is her brother. He and her father were the only male specimens for miles around.

  “I won’t speculate.” He stops and I realize I have lost him. That I have to encourage him, make him think we are of the same mind.

  “I see” is the best I can manage. “Then what happened?”

  “Rachel made a comment. She said something like when this was her place, she wouldn’t have any men around. Something like that,” he says, and I wonder if you were more colorful.

  “And that’s when Mom brought out the will. You can imagine it was a pretty exciting Easter dinner.”

  I lean closer. I can see the ranch in the corner of my eye, darkening like a bowl of blood. “Who did she leave the ranch to?”

  He pulls out some electrical tape. “Her dogs.”

  A gasp bursts from my lips. “What?”

  “She willed it to her dogs, and my dad just laughed. My mom likes to do things like that. She likes to play with people.” I think of the word Jed used: “punish.”

  “Can she even do that?” I think of her dogs, think your mother stands a strong chance of outliving them.

  “If anyone can . . .” He shrugs. “The two of them went out to talk but the message was clear. That’s why Rachel left. She’d been here over thirty years. Never had her own life. Never started her own family. To tell you the truth, I think she was counting on this place. Even if it went to me, she knew she’d always have a place with us
,” he says like he is the hero of every story.

  He stops, frowns suddenly, then looks at me like he’s my psychiatrist, like I am the one confessing to him. “I’m telling you all this because Clem told me why you came here. She said that you were . . . fascinated by Rachel.” Your brother has a habit of using the softer word. “I’m hoping, maybe, if I tell you the truth, you’ll just go home.”

  It’s weird how much it stings. He’s the cute, good boy, and he doesn’t want me here. That’s what it feels like, in a completely illogical way: Him trying to protect me feels like him rejecting me. And I think: Why does he want me to leave? And I think: What’s his motivation?

  “What truth?”

  “Rachel just didn’t fit in here. She made people uncomfortable.” Sweat pops along his brow, like it hurts him to say it. “She could be . . . too much for some people.” I don’t doubt he thinks that, Homer with his perfectly sweet, accommodating wife. And I want to tell him that he has no idea what it’s like to be a woman, that there are really only two choices: You can be too much or you can disappear. I want to tell him, even though I know he won’t understand me, because some small part of me still wishes he could.

  He shuts the door with a clang. “Fixed it.”

  I come out of my daze. “Really?”

  “Yep.” He spins his tape. “Easy.”

  “What was it?”

  He frowns. “Wires just split.”

  “You mean someone cut them?”

  “Why would someone do that?” He starts to stand and I realize I have completely forgotten to ask him about Florence. He is walking toward the ATV, and there isn’t time to be sneaky.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  He stops, turns slowly. “Well, Sera, you just did.” He smiles with his father’s eyes.