Missing

by Adiva Geffen

  “Not even a single sign of her?” she finally asked.

  “A few threads.” I tried to sound encouraging.

  “It’s hard. I fear for my husband. His heart…” she mumbled. Two more tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Sammy offered confidently. Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one traipsing around Yokneam. She wasn’t the one who had to swallow rum babas at Baba Joe’s Cup of Joe or have discussions with Amia, Moria, and the rest of the rhyming daughters of God.

  “If it’s possible, I’d like to take a peek inside Daria’s room,” I said.

  “But of course! That’s what you’re here for,” Eve said and rang the small brass bell that sat near her elbow. A tiny, nimble Filipino girl came in on silent feet and led me up a marble stairway lined on both sides with huge flower vases. At the top, she stopped and pointed at a wooden door that was ajar.

  “This is Daria’s room?” I asked.

  She let out a soft peal of laughter that sounded like it came from another world and said, “Yes, yes.”

  “You work here?” I asked, and she recoiled as if I’d punched her.

  “Yes, yes. Need to go,” she said.

  “Do you know Daria?”

  “Yes, yes. Need to go.”

  “Do you know Alice, Dorothy, and Wendy? How about Jesus, Joseph, and Mary?”

  “Yes, yes. Need to go,” she said and escaped down the stairs. The girl knew nothing.

  Daria’s room was excessively plain. There was nothing that could tell me what she was like. A white bed with a deathly pale sheet stretched on it, a wooden chest, a chair, a green carpet. A calendar hung on the wall, a framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers next to it. A few pieces of clothing were hanging in the walk-in closet; I assumed they were hers. A couple of pairs of cotton pants in bright colors, shirts that were probably all the rage in the previous century, a simple coat.

  Two ceramic birds sat on the windowsill. They looked like they could serve as hiding places for notes or letters. Have I struck gold?

  I picked them up, shook them, looked for hidden slots. Nothing.

  I poked around in the closet, the bathroom cabinet, the chest. I looked in every pocket, every nook and cranny, every smelly shoe and out of fashion bag. I shook the few books in the room. Nothing dropped from between their pages. I looked under the mattress, I removed the picture from the wall, I flipped through the calendar, I climbed the chair and ran my hand around the ceiling fixture. The room was free of information, dust, or any signs of life. I sat on the bed and waited. Sometimes, in moments like this, something that had previously escaped your eye will pop up. I sat. I lay on the bed. I propped up the pillow and leaned against the headboard., I turned on the light. But the room remained the same — blocked.

  Sammy always says that rooms can speak. Listen to them. They safeguard their owners’ secrets and may just whisper them in your ear if you’re patient enough. I sat cross-legged on the bed and listened to the walls, the floor. Perhaps I’d hear something. A sound, a rustle. Perhaps the scent of something. Nothing. There goes Sammy’s theory.

  ◊◊◊

  “Believe me, no one’s ever lived in that room,” I told her on the way back to Tel Aviv.

  “More conspiracy theories?” Sammy snapped.

  “Well, you’re the one who taught me that people always leave something behind — the smell of perspiration, a stain, a hair, a torn shirt, a crumpled piece of paper in a bag, chewing gum wrappers in a winter coat pocket, a melted lipstick, some sort of human trace. Either our girl has never lived in that room, or someone cleaned it with disturbing efficiency just before our visit.”

  12

  Once again, I climbed to the north and turned to the east, crossed hills, streams, and valleys on my way to Yokneam, a city on the rise, waiting for the end of the world.

  At the edge of Yokneam, on a secluded lot overlooking Jezreel Valley, a tall white fence surrounded The House where Daria used to sleep. The taxi stopped by the fence.

  “Are you sure?” I asked the driver before getting out. “The place looks completely deserted.”

  “Sure I’m sure. Here.” He handed me a business card. “If you need a lift, call me. You’ll turn to dust before you see another taxi out here.”

  I pressed the intercom button, said my name and the magic words, “Eve sent me. This is about Daria.” Abracadabra, the gate opened.

  I found myself facing an exact replica of the Garden of Eden. A gigantic garden full of orange, lemon, pecan, and almond trees. Bushes intertwined between the trees and climbed heavenward. Everything was neatly trimmed and free of weeds. I walked slowly among the bushes, aware that I was being watched. From afar, I saw the house door open. A slender young woman beckoned to me. She had an angular face and a pointy nose.

  When I reached her, she shook my hand, welcomed me into the house, and instructed me to wait.

  I stood in the center of a spacious, carpeted room. Colorful, oversized pillows were scattered on the floor. The walls were white and bare, and in spite of the enormous size, there was nothing lavish about it.

  A slight tingle crawled up and down my spine — a sure sign someone was watching me. I took my cell phone out of my pocket, checked my messages, and found a fascinating offer of two diaper packs for the price of one. The young woman returned with a peculiar smile, if you could call the twitch that animated her sharp features a smile, and asked me to follow her upstairs.

  There was a nondescript blue sofa in the main hall on the second floor, full of clothes that had been folded and sorted into neat piles. A long corridor stretched from the main hall, with rows and rows of white doors on both sides.

  “Dikla?” I heard a feminine voice calling me.

  “Here am I,” I answered. The place had put me in a biblical mood.

  “Up here,” the voice directed me. “One more flight.”

  At the top of the stairway, I finally met the owner of the mystery voice. She walked toward me, or rather glided toward me with little, airy steps.

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m Ada.” I smiled with relief to hear her name, but she immediately corrected herself. “But you should call me Adia. Come with me, please.” She looked fiftyish, with a smooth, elegant face, and lovely gray hair. Rescued from her striped robe and apron, she’d be considered extremely attractive.

  She led me to a room that looked like an office. A white, painted wood desk, two chairs, an intercom on the wall, and an old rotary phone even my great-grandfather wouldn’t know how to use.

  “Eve told me you’d be coming. What can I do to help you?” she said and motioned for me to sit across from her.

  “You know that I’m—”

  “Looking for Daria, yes. A troubling and infuriating case. It might prove to have a harmful, negative influence on us all.”

  “Infuriating? What do you mean? It’s a cause for concern, isn’t it? After all, you can’t know what happened to her,” I said and examined her face. “You know Eve and Barak, her parents, they’re going out of their minds with worry.”

  “Of course, they are concerned for all of us.”

  “Concerned for their daughter,” I corrected her.

  Her face flushed bubblegum pink. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said in a muted voice, “Of course, her parents, all of us… Since she left, Deborah constantly meditates to try and connect with her.”

  “I just have a few questions.”

  “Go ahead, I’m here to help.”

  “Thank you. To start with, could you please explain what this place is all about. Is this a boarding school? A guest house? A hotel? What exactly goes on here?”

  Her beautiful face hardened. “How is this related to your investigation?”

  “Everything is related to my investigation,” I insisted t
hen changed to a more conciliatory tone. “I understand Daria used to live here.”

  “Not exactly. She had only begun her path with us. She occasionally stayed overnight.”

  “Did she have a room here?”

  “You could say so. Other girls would use it sometimes…but yes, she had a place of her own.”

  “Could I see the room?”

  She flinched as if I’d slapped her. Then she picked up the receiver of the Stone Age phone and asked if she could get the key to the temporary girls’ room. Meanwhile, she answered more questions for me. No, Daria didn’t seem depressed, didn’t tell anyone she intended to leave, didn’t have a boyfriend, suitor, or close friends she might have shared her plans with. And yes, she was a bit odd. Unreliable. Not one of the elect. It wasn’t even settled that she fit in.

  “The elect?”

  “Yes, she was only starting on her way, this is why Eve and Barak are so…so concerned for her.”

  “They’re Daria’s parents, aren’t they?”

  “Of course,” she answered nervously. “Why would you ask that?”

  She spoke as if she were crossing a minefield, but I didn’t think too much of it. People often get hostile and suspicious when I start snooping around.

  “Here, you can visit the room,” she said when hatchet face entered the office and handed her a key. “Room 302, that’s our guest room.”

  ◊◊◊

  Room 302 was at the very end of the corridor. Pointy nose accompanied me and remained by the door, eyes fixed on the floor.

  I listened, perhaps this room would tell me something about Daria. Nothing.

  I examined the room quickly. Two beds covered by snow-white sheets, two white wooden dressers, a gray wool carpet, and a door that opened to a small, sterile bathroom. Again, nothing to indicate anyone had ever lived there. No forgotten comb, no toothbrush, no spots on the mirror.

  As I opened one of the dresser drawers, certain it’d be empty, my phone meowed frantically, and a name from my very distant past appeared on the screen. Cooper. I froze for a moment, then pressed the green button.

  “Yes?” I said indifferently, as if I didn’t give a damn. My racing heart put the lie to that.

  “Hi, Dikla, it’s me. Please don’t hang up. Can I talk to you?”

  “No,” I said, but I stayed on the line.

  “Dickie…” The voice on the phone turned warm and gentle.

  My keeper tapped my shoulder, agitated. Her face was grim and disapproving, as if I’d just peed all over her carpet. “I’m sorry, but you can’t use your cell phone in here.”

  “Sorry.” I hung up. My hands were shaking.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked and looked at me curiously.

  “Wrong number,” I mumbled. “What do you think happened to Daria?”

  “You’re asking for my opinion?” She sounded surprised. “I think she’s been kidnapped.”

  “Who could have kidnapped her?”

  She shrugged. “Hard to say. There’s a lot of evil in the world, and evil draws you like honey, it’s a trap. But she’d never leave willingly. Someone is controlling her, holding her for something.”

  “Holding Daria?”

  “That’s what Deborah told us in the meeting, and I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

  I felt tense and nervous. Maybe because of the call from Cooper, maybe because this room, just like the one in her parents’ house, was completely silent. Either way, I decided to get out of there and look for Alice or any other information that might be useful.

  Before saying goodbye, Adia offered the use of the preschool van. I accepted and ended up driving to downtown Yokneam with Gidi, the Magidal Preschool Network’s driver.

  Yes, he’d heard that one of the teachers had gone missing, but he hadn’t seen anything strange, and he didn’t know anything. Yes, he vaguely remembered Daria. All he knew was that she had been a new resident, a little isolated. Stayed in The House only now and then.

  “What goes on in that house?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” said Gidi. “I think they help girls who have gotten themselves into trouble.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I see different girls coming here, they all look miserable, with the same sad puppy faces. Take my word for it, they’re good people here, doing good deeds, giving these girls hope.”

  “Do you know Galia, by any chance?”

  “Joe’s daughter? The waitress?”

  “Sure…Joe’s daughter,” I echoed him.

  “It’s been a while.”

  Joe’s daughter. That’s why Rohik had acted like a drug smuggler. Joe’s daughter. I suddenly saw lots and lots of rum babas in my not too distant future.

  13

  Once again, I was on a stakeout, watching Magidal Preschool from across the road. But this time, I’d come properly equipped. A hat, a water bottle, a few sandwiches — I even had an umbrella in my bag, just in case the stubborn clouds finally yielded and gave us some rain.

  At 5:20, the complex emptied out again: The parents finished their pickup rounds and the teachers boarded Gidi’s van for home. Silence enveloped the entire area. Then I noticed a truck bearing the logo Sharabi Office Supplies and Cleaning Materials stopping at the preschool gate. Just like a genuine detective, I copied the phone number under the logo and waited. The driver spoke with the guard through the gate.

  My detective’s soul woke up at once. Could this have been Daria’s escape plan?

  The gate opened, and the truck entered the complex. If the driver was just delivering supplies, then he’d leave the complex soon and continue to his next destination. All right, I thought, what would Sammy tell me? If Daria hadn’t wanted them to know where she’d gone and how she’d gotten there, getting on that truck or one like it would be the perfect way to do it.

  Fifteen minutes later, the truck exited the complex. I was already standing on the road, ready and able, and I flagged down the driver. With a screech of tires, the truck stopped about sixty feet from me.

  “Thanks! Are you going to Tel Aviv?” I shouted at the driver, who sat way up in the cab. He poked his head out the window and looked at me, considering his answer. “I can get you as far as Netanya.”

  “That’d be great, thanks.”

  The door opened, and I quickly climbed up to the roomy cab. By the third mile, I knew his name was Avner, he was named after his grandfather, was married to Atara, a clerk at an insurance company, had two charming daughters, and was a partner in a company that sold cleaning materials and office supplies to the entire northern area. He asked, so I told him my name was Dikla, named after my great-grandfather’s ex-girlfriend. He shook his head and laughed a little.

  “And what is Dikla doing in life?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said, and he responded with a low whistle.

  Then his brow furrowed, and his face darkened. He asked me if the whole hitchhiker bit was just a setup, because he’d actually been pretty faithful to his wife lately. I asked if he was afraid something might happen to make him unfaithful again. He shook his head and laughed. I laughed too, and the atmosphere improved dramatically. Then he asked what a private investigator might be doing next to a preschool in Yokneam. An excellent question.

  “This is what I’m doing.” I took out Daria’s photo and showed it to him.

  “You’re a photographer too?”

  “I’m looking for this girl. She used to work here, in the preschool, her name’s Daria. Take a good look. Do you know her?”

  He touched the photo as if meeting an old acquaintance. “Poor child.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “A little.” He sounded embarrassed. Hallelujah. Here comes my first lead.

  “How little?”

  “She rode with me once. Stood o
n the road not far from where you did and asked for a ride. I took her all the way to Tel Aviv. Why?”

  “She’s missing.”

  He gazed in the rearview mirror. “Really? I hadn’t heard.”

  “Understand, her parents are worried sick. They haven’t heard from her for over a week. Where exactly did you drop her off?”

  “Next to my warehouse in south Tel Aviv. She said thanks and took off. I have three warehouse workers who can testify they saw her leave healthy and smiling. She even waved goodbye. Am I in trouble?”

  “Of course not.” I calmed him down. “Do you remember if she said anything that sounded bizarre or troubling? Maybe she acted strange, said something that may have hinted at her intentions?”

  “Nope.” He continued staring at the road.

  He knew something, I had no doubt about it. How do I make him sing? No point in using Bender. I’d lose the truck driver to the police. So I simply emitted a heart-wrenching whimper and doubled over on the seat as if I were grief-stricken. I knew he was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  We drove two more miles in silence. “There was something,” he said at the third mile. “She asked me about a job. Said she could work in a daycare or a nursing home, even work with handicapped people, said she’s good at that. She thought I might help her ’cause I go to a lot of places with my truck. But it never crossed my mind she was running away or something.”

  “And…?”

  “I told her to talk to my sister, Sarah. She’s a woman with a big heart, and she knows everyone in town.”

  “And did Daria contact her?”

  “Yes.” He gave me the number. “Tell her I told you to call. She’s a saint, you’ll see.”

  “Is there anything else you can remember?”

  “Look, I don’t want to steer you wrong,” he said. “Maybe it’s all in my head, but I got the feeling she was a little…unsettled. She kept looking back to see if anyone was following us, and she sat on the edge of her seat like she was ready to jump out at a moment’s notice.”