Gabriel races the dead grandfather through the melting snow to Willard’s car which is already moving.
¤
Despite the sleeping bag Willard gave him, the back seat of the car is cold. Gabriel’s indoor shoes, all he has to wear on his feet, have turned to ice and he can hardly move his fingers, which smell of the dead grandfather. A rust hole in the floor scoops up dirty slush from the road.
The box from a Kentucky Fried Chicken meal slides around on the back seat beside him. The chicken and fries were good, but nowhere near enough to eat. Gabriel wants mountains of crispy drumsticks and fries, and rivers of gravy. If he could he’d eat so much his stomach would burst. All that’s left of his single chicken wing, handful of fries, and medium drink: grease stains on the cardboard box, a few bones sucked clean, and a dry Pepsi cup.
Willard has a talk radio station playing. He turns the volume up when the news comes on. A woman jokes with a man about the unseasonal spring snow. She tells people to stay off the roads if they can stay home. She doesn’t say anything about the shed fire or Gabriel.
“Pit stop,” Willard says as he pulls over at the side of the road.
Gabriel follows Willard out of the car. Like every other time they’ve stopped to pee, they’re parked in the middle of nowhere. They’ve passed through towns so people and houses might be close by, only Gabriel can’t see them. It seems like all the people in the world except Willard and Gabriel have disappeared. He hopes the house in Trenton has neighbors.
Willard only walks a few steps before he opens his fly to take a leak. Gabriel, who has diarrhea cramps, struggles further away through wet snow. He crouches to do his business beneath a tree that drips icy water onto his head.
A small bird’s scratch marks decorate the snow all around the base of the tree. Gabriel remembers a picture from a book his teacher read to the class in kindergarten. The brown bird in the pictures had black eyes and one red feather sticking up from the top of its head. It was a mother bird, looking for a place to build a nest.
All he has to wipe himself with after he does his business is a page Willard let him keep from a newspaper that shows Celine and Elvis standing in front of their apartment. The snow has melted back at home and Celine is wearing a mini shirt, black tights, and her boots that go way past her knees. Elvis towers above her in his white jumpsuit and red cape. There’s a photograph of Gabriel too. His teacher, Miss Granger, took it with her camera, so he’s wearing his angel costume. Gabriel wants to save the pictures, but he can’t: to prove to Willard he is Terrance, he uses the paper to wipe away his diarrhea.
«37»
Knowing he should find a motel room for the family doesn’t make Ben drive slower. The night hides whatever scenery there might be. Romy’s asleep with her seatbelt off and her head on his lap, not much of a risk considering where they are. Both children are snoring. Fatigue aside, he’s having the time of his life.
He’s in the zone, at one with the Mercedes, and tailgating the only other car on the straight-as-an-arrow road, a canary yellow 1987 Mustang. When the young blond driver burned past him a few miles back, she looked over with an expression of sexual challenge. Now he’s riding her tail, pushing her on, although it’s speed, not flirtation, that interests him.
Ben trusts his driving abilities and the Mercedes can easily keep up with the older Mustang. He’s wringing every bit of enjoyment out of Jeff’s dream machine that he can before he has to go back to Maggie the Mazda. Even the risk of getting a ticket he can’t afford to pay doesn’t persuade him to slow down—life has to have some rewards or why keep living?
Jeff has turned out to be one lucky bastard. It seems hard to believe Ben was once their parents’ favored child. Sometime between kindergarten and university the baby of the family managed to reverse his fate with the elder brother. Now Jeff gets the goods while Ben is left holding an empty box.
Up ahead the blond demonstrates a surprising lack of skill as she fishtails on the endless stretch of straight road. Ben keeps tight.
For a few soul-satisfying hours he’s content to pretend he’s Formula One champ Jacques Villeneuve. After all, didn’t Aristotle himself say the soul never thinks without imagination? It’s in his soul’s best interest to picture a Ferrari Enzo waiting for him back home instead of a piece-of-crap Mazda. Why not let his soul claim ownership of the Mercedes, as his second car or maybe his third? “You are Someone with a capital S,” he murmurs.
Romy moans in her sleep, bringing Ben back to reality. He surveys his beautiful, bag lady wife. If they had the money for Dolce and Gabbana he doubts she’d dress differently. Just once, Ben would like to see his wife in a low-cut shimmering blouse, tight skirt, and pair of stilettos. No underpants. She has the stature, beauty and sizzle factor to pull off such a look, just ask men like Harvey Sam. Not that Ben minds the attention his wife receives: one thing in life he is absolutely certain, he can trust his wife.
It amazes him now to remember how cocky and sure of themselves they had been while in university. Put together, her degree in theater and his in philosophy aren’t worth beans. Romy calls herself an acting coach even though most of her income derives from cleaning the houses of the rich, not the famous. His sales position at Electrolux has nothing to do with Kierkegaard or Leslie Armour, and everything to do with dust bunnies under other people’s beds. The master and doctorate degrees they both planned to earn never materialized; Helena had instead.
Ben feels a rush of shame. How can he complain about his lot when he has the two things Jeff would trade all of his wealth for, a sensual wife and beautiful children, even if one of them is more of a handful than he would have chosen. Ben certainly doesn’t envy Jeff his worn-out spouse or pitiful, twisted daughter. And how can he complain when some children disappear without a trace.
Up ahead the blond blows past three roadside deer as though they can’t possibly spook. Ben slows until the ruminant family fades back into the night in his rear-view mirror.
What he wants right now, right here, is to wake Romy up and persuade her to give him another blowjob. Even though he knows she’s unlikely to consent, he turns his head to check on the children. They’re both dead to the world; no chance they’ll wake up. He sinks the fingers of his right hand into Romy’s thick hair. When he leers in her direction, she’s watching.
His wife looks amazing in the dashboard light. “Hi, gorgeous,” Ben says. “Hungry?”
To his great surprise, Romy’s hand slides toward the zipper of his pants. “Starving,” she says.
A few minutes later, when he reopens his eyes, briefly shut during climax, Ben realizes he missed the moment the blonde’s Mustang spun out of control on the straight road. After endless straight roads, some joker decided to engineer a single sharp curve.
Metal screeches along metal. Bodies maintain deadly trajectories. Glass shatters. Voices, his own included, moan and shout unintelligible words. Below the mess of a deflating air bag, he feels blood drain from a punctured artery.
Ben reaches for Romy’s wet, twitching hand. “No,” he says, “not us.”
But Ben, as usual, is wrong.
«38»
Romy doesn’t have to stand because she can levitate off her bed. She floats in a room with white, walls that expand to make room when she nears the ceiling. With effort, she rights her body, then drifts towards an arched doorway. In the distance, down a hallway, faceless people flow away as if on a current. She understands she’s seeing every person she has ever known, liked, or loved. The energy is peaceful, and Romy is filled with joy as she joins the others.
She drifts until she finds herself alone at the end of the hallway, where she descends a spiral staircase. No longer floating, her feet touch cool marble. After what seems like hours, the staircase ends abruptly, as does Romy’s sense of well-being. The step she’s on tips forward, tumbling her into an enclosed space. Shaken as she is, she needs a moment to find her feet and get her bearings by turning in circles, searching for a door or window that doesn’t exis
t. When she finally gives up, the stairs have risen beyond her reach, far overhead. She is trapped in a five-sided box.
A sound behind her draws her attention. She turns and finds the boy who’s missing, Gabriel, huddled on the floor. His angel wings are wrapped around his bent legs for warmth, and a halo floats above his head. His tear-filled eyes, gazing at Romy, act as a mirror in which she sees herself. She too has wings, although hers are blood-splattered. She is missing parts of herself: her mouth, both arms and her breasts.
“Elp,” the boy says. Romy does nothing to respond to his distress. Without arms to hold or a mouth to speak, she’s no longer a woman who can comfort a child. Without breasts she is no longer even a woman.
With no way to escape, Romy takes a seat on the floor of the box opposite the boy. Minutes, then hours, then an eternity pass. Death, if Romy is indeed dead, is boring.
Change, when it finally comes, is for the worse. The walls move, scraping along the floor, closing in; squeezing out the oxygen and light. The stairs above compress as the ceiling descends, bringing with it darkness. Romy’s armless effort to push back is futile. She feels the boy crushed between the wall and her body. What space is left fills with their blood, until she is drowning in it.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Kiknicky,” a female voice says. “You’ve been injured in an accident, but you’re going to pull through. You’re in the hospital now.”
A creature with a human voice peels Romy’s eyelids up. Another creature fights to pin Romy to a bed. As Romy thrashes, they stick tubes in her, tie her down, and fill her body with poison. They act as though they cannot hear her shrieks.
The poison burns through Romy’s bloodstream. She needs Ben to save her. She needs her children, lost to her in this nightmare. If this is a dream, she needs to wake up. “Help,” she says. It doesn’t sound right, and she tries again, this time getting it right, “Elp.”
«39»
Launa’s tip line has proved its value: the day before, she personally delivered fifty business cards, with the direct contact number and a picture of Gabriel in his halo, to the people of Fenny. Now callers have filled a cassette with messages. She listens carefully to each, taking notes where appropriate, and deleting ones trying to sell her time-share condominiums or lower mortgage rates. She saves the calls from folks commending her for helping Gabriel, but erases messages of blame.
A few callers report sightings of a suspicious-looking character spotted in town. From the descriptions, Launa recognizes old man Connor, a harmless character who wouldn’t hurt a flea. Still a tip is a tip. It’s not for her to decide the value. She labels the cassette with the date and contents and sets it in a Tupperware container for transporting to the police station.
She opens Front Page on her computer. A click of the mouse brings her to the “Daily Remembrances” section of her Gabriel Wheeler website. She has written a brief piece about the boy every day since the site went live. Today, however, she can’t think of anything new. He was, after all, only one student of thirty.
She decides to play loose with reality for the sake of keeping the child front and center in people’s minds. Gabriel asked me once if he could be anything he wanted to be when he grew up, she writes. I told him, “Yes,” and he said, “Then, I’ll be safe.”
There are six new messages on the comments page today. Launa responds to five. She deletes the sixth, which wants her to experience better orgasms, an impossible promise for them to fulfill as she has never had one and is not sure she believes they exist for women. As always, she signs off for the day by leaving a request that the world remember Gabriel Wheeler.
She wonders if Detective Harvey Sam has visited her website. He hasn’t left a comment. She cannot imagine, however, that he has not stumbled across it in the course of his investigation. She meant to discuss her plans with the man before going through with them, but somehow failed to despite frequent opportunity. Now, each time he doesn’t mention her activities, she wonders if he views her efforts as a vote of non-confidence in the police. Or, perhaps he views Launa as an old busybody who can do neither harm nor good.
The notion is too painful to entertain, especially now that she has decided on her next course of action. Tomorrow a realtor will come by to stick a For Sale sign on Launa’s front lawn. Launa will keep a modest portion of the proceeds to maintain a bare bones existence, but a significant sum will go to a Bring Gabriel Home fund.
If it is true that everything has a price, Launa plans to buy a boy.
¤
Launa perches on the edge of her chair where a dizzying headache has landed her. She tries to shake off the bad feeling, which began while handing out her Gabriel Wheeler Tip Line business cards. The labor must have been too much for a person of her age, which she no longer remembers. Sixty and seventy both sound right.
She attempts to lift a palm to her temple to soothe the pain, but her hands have become unwilling to move. She leaves on her outdoor shoes, which is a no-no on the white carpet, especially since her house sold two days after listing and her move date looms. The dirt will have to wait, however. There’s a flashing red light on her old answering machine rummaged from the attic. Flashing red lights are like principals; they require a prompt response.
The distance from the chair to the machine, though not far, is difficult to navigate. She smashes a thigh against a table’s jutting top. Next, an embroidery basket attempts to trip up her feet. Her more compliant left hand lifts the receiver. After a quick grapple with the bulky object, she works her way through the process: presses the button; listens to the voices when they speak; and pays attention despite the ache in her head.
A woman claiming to be her friend Ethel talks first. Launa allows the words “bed bugs” and “stolen pair of slippers” to wash over her like a brook that burbles without meaning. She has a rod of concentration out and is fishing for Gabriels. Ethel says, “Goodbye.” Some callers mention Gabriel, but not where he might be. One thanks her for “keeping the hope alive.” Another condemns her to hell. Two laughing children shout, “Elp, elp.”
Launa returns with some effort to the chair and removes her right shoe, setting it upside-down so it can do no further harm. The headache worsens with activity, and she would like someone to tuck her into a soft bed with fresh sheets, but cannot imagine who could do such a kind thing for her.
Launa Granger certainly cannot. Not only is she not herself, she has also gone completely blind.
«40»
Harvey leans back in the ergonomically-correct chair that doesn’t let him slouch. After hours of reviewing every item attached to the various Gabriel Wheeler files, no new illumination has come. The review highlighted a few loose ends in the case that felt cold from day one, but not a single new lead. Initially, there was a hopeful tie-in with Stanley Leuvekamp’s convenience store and the jumbo candy cane witnesses saw Gabriel Wheeler eating before the play. Unfortunately, the elderly storekeeper admitted to short sightedness so severe he qualifies as legally blind and the camera in his store was a dummy he hadn’t supplied with a tape. Both Romy and Ben Kiknicky saw the back of a man who purchased a jumbo candy cane immediately after Romy, but neither saw his face. There was also the sighting of a green or gray car by Romy and Ben that came to nothing.
Harvey jots the name Helena Kiknicky on his list of loose ends to tie up. Despite two attempts by Harvey to interview the child, and one by a female colleague, Helena has refused to cooperate with police. Harvey doubts Helena saw anything from behind her camel mask the night of Gabriel’s disappearance, a doubt shared by both Romy and Ben. Even so, Harvey won’t be content until the completed interview is on file.
As Harvey sorts the stacks for filing, he wishes he knew if he missed something or if cold is just cold. He doesn’t want to admit cold might be warm if the Fenny Police Department had an on-going Missing Person Unit. With the outside support now gone all they have are a handful of overworked officers stretched too thin, the goodwill of the community, and dwindling su
pport from outside organizations.
There are some questions Harvey resists asking himself. He doesn’t want to know if he believes he can still find Gabriel. He’s torn between hoping the boy’s alive and hoping… Harvey can’t think the rest for fear his words will make it true.
The Fenny Times is in the recycling bin under his desk. He resists the compulsion to pull it out and read Celine Wheeler’s interview a fifth time. A hooker has looked at Harvey’s soul and found him wanting. It’s true Harvey was distracted the night Celine’s “poor little angel” went missing because of his own “domestic drama.” It’s true he has drunk to excess, though not for years. And it’s true for one split second Celine had reason to fear him.
His cell rings, dragging him away from the sting of guilt and the desire for revenge. A social worker at a distant hospital introduces herself. She explains that there has been a fatal automobile accident. Ben Kiknicky did not survive his injuries.
Romy? The children?” Harvey asks.
“Romy and Helena are in hospital. Both are in critical condition. Little Mark is with me now. He’s fine, but he’ll need a place to stay until his mother’s discharge.”
“How long?”
“Weeks for sure. Maybe months.”
The request is reasonable and in line with the verbal agreement Romy and Ben made with Harvey and Pam: If anything bad ever happened to one couple, the other would step in. Except now there is no couple on Harvey’s side. There is only a bachelor working long hours.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Kiknicky’s brother,” the social worker says. “He can’t take Mark in because of his daughter’s severe disabilities. He said I should speak to you.”
“I want to help,” Harvey says.
“Then do,” the woman says. “Help. Otherwise Mark will have to go to strangers.”
All That Remains (A Missing and Exploited Suspense Novel Book 1) Page 10