"Huh," I said. "What does that mean?"
Meredith shrugged. "If you figure it out, please tell me. I don't understand what the moving refers to, and I have no idea who 'he' would be. Maybe it's a note for a plot line in a future episode?" She shrugged again.
I shook my head and tried to hand the note back to her. She waved off my hand. "You keep it," she said. "I sure don't need it."
"Alright, let's refocus on the facts," I said. "So it sounds like the last place anyone saw him was at work. Is that right?"
She nodded again. "He was working late that last night. I think he was the last one to leave."
"Do you know where? Was he in a particular room or... I don't know, area, I guess?"
"Supposedly he was working in the room where we were keeping the puppets for the show. The prop room, or the 'Creature Room' as it is called informally. He's always been obsessive about getting things exactly right, especially on Hornswaggle. That's where he was when I left."
"I'll need to get in to see that room," I said.
"It's been two weeks, do you really think there will be anything to help you? We've moved stuff around. The main puppets have been removed at least once each week day. It may be nothing like the last night he left."
"There may not be anything for me, but if it's the last place he was seen, I want to see it. Maybe I can see something you haven't or maybe it will give me an idea of what he did next." I shrugged. "It's a lead and I don't want to toss it out so easily."
"But it's not like I can just walk you in there," she said. "We're still working on a pilot, so they're a bit paranoid. No guests and all afterhours access is logged and reviewed."
"Are there cameras?" I said with interest. Maybe there was footage of Nick's last night. We just had to figure out how to get it.
Meredith shook her head sadly. "The only cameras I know of are the ones we use to shoot. There's no security footage, unfortunately."
"That's disappointing. I still need to get a look at that room." I thought for a moment. "Who else gets inside? Deliveries? Workmen? Cleaning crew?"
"We just have a single cleaning person, and she never changes. I think she's someone's relative. She comes twice a week. Our deliveries are only by truck and nobody comes inside farther than the loading dock." She frowned, but then had an idea. "We've been looking for a new grip. Our current two are somewhat useless. Maybe I could get you in for a temp job. You look strong. You can lift heavy objects, right?"
I'm six foot one. I'm not naturally muscular, but in a business where you have to climb things and might get punched by a pissed off husband, I keep myself in shape and try to keep a somewhat physically imposing presence. It can help.
"I'm strong enough," I said, "but what the hell is a grip?"
"Technically, they build and support all the camera setups and lighting," she said. "But that's mostly been done since our set is pretty fixed. And even so, the new stuff would be done by the key grip. In practice, you'd be doing a lot of lifting, a lot of carrying, and then grunt work like putting down tape and getting out of people's way. They're also the ones who bring in all the boxes from deliveries."
"And they get coffee?" I suggested.
"Actually, no," she said. "Unless a superior grip asks you for it, the rest of us can't just make you our coffee bitch. Grips have a union."
I thought about the role for a moment. A behind the scenes worker, probably one less noticed. "That would work. Who was the last person to leave before Nick on that last night?"
"I'm not sure," she said. "I might be able to find out. Maybe not."
"Seems like it'd be easy to find out," I said.
"You'd think, but politics," she said with a sad shrug. "Things are not quite as friendly as you'd expect. Not everyone is sad that Nick 'quit'. Some thought he was hard to work with."
"Quit?"
"Yeah," she said. "Since he didn't show up for a week, they considered it job abandonment and so officially it was his unprofessional way of quitting. So stupid!"
"That makes me even more want to get in there," I said. "The job might fit better than sneaking in."
"How do you figure?" she asked.
"Well, if people are happy he's gone, they might have something to do with it."
Her face showed clear disbelief. "John, we're making a children's television show. One based on puppets. We all want it to succeed. We might argue over the vision and how to attain it, but nobody's going to hurt each other over a kid's show."
"I get that. I'm not saying you need to start thinking your coworkers are axe murderers or that they're capable of whatever happened to Nick. But who knows what they are involved in? Maybe they know more about his disappearance than they've said, and have been purposely withholding information. They might not have caused it, but they might not want him found."
"That still makes me a little less comfortable going to work," said Meredith.
"Unless I actually find something, don't worry. It could be nothing. There's no use in you looking over your shoulder until you have reason to. It's just a lead I need to track down." I paused. "How soon can you get me an interview there?"
"Tomorrow, probably," she said. "We've needed a new grip ASAP. I'll let you know. There's not much of an interview for a grip, just making sure they can trust you and you're willing to take the low pay. You might be able to start the same day, but we'll see."
I nodded and made a mental note. Then I went over my checklist in my mind. I needed to check Nick's apartment, check public records, and have Sally cyberstalk him through social media.
"What about family?" I asked. "Parents, siblings, etc?"
"No, none," she said glumly. "His parents died in a car accident when he was in high school. Which was not only a tragedy, but traumatized him more than you'd think. He himself was hit by a car as a kid. He's never quite trusted cars since then. He looks back and forth many times before crossing any street. He doesn't even own one."
I made a mental note of that. You can bike ride and take buses to some parts of Austin, you can take a train from Downtown to Cedar Park, but it's not really a great city to lack a car in. It's limiting. That might help narrow down where he might be.
"So have you checked the hospitals?" I asked. "I know you went to the police, but what if he was hit by a car again or some other accident?"
Meredith frowned but nodded. "It was something I considered. Unfortunately, I called around, but there was no one by his name."
"Hmm, could still be a John Doe somewhere, I'll check on that."
"Possible," she said, "but after his history with car accidents, he has become a little neurotic about them. He's got a medical bracelet, a medical dog tag, his name on his underwear, extra ID in his shoes - everything. I really don't think the EMS or hospital would have trouble identifying him."
"Very paranoid," I said.
"True, but like I said, he wouldn't want to disappear. And he's kind of weird about that very fact. He's more afraid of people forgetting him than he would want to get away."
"Understood," I said, scribbling down a note to myself on the napkin. "Anything else I need to know?"
"Not off the top of my head, but I'll let you know."
"Got a picture of him?" I said.
"Many," she said. "Here."
She handed me her phone. On it was a picture of Meredith and Nick, one arm around each other. She wore a burnt orange University of Texas jersey while Nick wore a more understated gray TEXAS shirt. It must have been at a football game or something. Meredith was beaming, probably from a sports victory. Nick had a smile, but it seemed half on, as if it'd fall off his face if someone jostled him too hard. I guessed by how she looked that this was within the past two years.
I stared right at Nick, trying to glean something from the nervous eyes and the uncertain smile. Was there a clue to his location here? Or some fact to tell me who he was? Nick, where are you?
Meredith headed back to work, promising to email me more pictures of Nic
k and let me know about the grip job. We had discussed my fee and how the per diem worked. She only half listened to this, since I knew from a followup with Morty that her rich father was footing the bill. Her father wanted Meredith less mopey, but actually couldn't care less about Nick. I'd soon find out that such an opinion was common about Nick Cavalos.
Before I left Starbucks, I called Sally. Kirstie Manheim had left the office already. Mrs. Manheim had been of course shocked. She had immediately become tense and closed, but we had suspected that might be the reaction. She didn't yell, she didn't lash out, she just closed up. Before she left, Sally had managed to get a check from her, so that was a big win. It also meant I was buying lunch.
Arriving at the office with lunch in styrofoam takeout containers from the nearby Americanized Chinese food place, I set Sally on cyberstalking Nick on social media. I'm pretty good with computers myself, but never underestimate the resourcefulness of a college student at finding someone on social media, especially in this case where the subject was near her age.
"He's cute, in a weird way," said Sally, looking at his pictures on social media. "Needs to stand up straighter and smile more." That seemed to define Nick.
I focused on the public records search. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything useful. I could confirm Nick had never been arrested, never been married, never been divorced, never died, never been evicted, and never been bankrupt. He was also not a sex offender, which was probably a good thing. I confirmed that he had outstanding student loans from college and that he had $150 in uncollected money from an old paycheck. I really wished I could run his credit cards to find out if he had spent money in the past two weeks and where, but to do it extensively or legally, you have to be either law enforcement or have permission from the card holder or one of their cosigners (or cosigner's estates, technically). That was not a quagmire I wanted to deal with.
Sally confirmed that he hadn't tweeted, facebooked, instagrammed, or whatever else the new thing was at any time in the past two weeks, and barely anything before that. Nothing of note in the past few months except about the pilot. That meant he had either purposefully dropped off the grid or was unable to access social media. Sally reminded me that he could have his posts protected or be using other accounts, so it was not a solid No Access, just nothing she could find. Some people are real lazy about social media, but others are very good at covering their tracks.
I wasn't surprised we had found nothing, since all those were obvious things Meredith probably tried, but I wouldn't have minded getting a hit somewhere. I always hope for an easy job, even if I'm getting paid per day. Only an idiot wants things to be difficult when they're getting paid. For the half million I got, the Vanders Incident still wasn't worth it.
My next lead was Nick's apartment. Braving the late afternoon traffic down to north central Austin, I checked out his apartment. On Red River north of campus, it was a short bike ride or a reasonable walk from PBS's Studio Austin around 40th and I35. It was smack dab in the center of overpriced student housing, but it made sense for a guy with car issues. It allowed him to walk to work and limited the amount of streets he had to cross.
His apartment building was a similar to ones in its area: small and sort of run down without being run down in any obvious way you could put a finger on. Like most Austin apartments, Nick's front door was external to the building. As I walked up the stairs I glanced at the windows. The venetian blinds were all shut. No lights on inside. None were a good height to climb in easily and they were probably all locked - if Nick ever even opened them. Pretty much every apartment in Austin has central air. Some people never open their windows.
In the alcove for his door, there was a mess of random flyers. Enough people had come to the door dropping off coupons for local restaurants, pizza, wings, Chinese delivery, housekeeping services, and political campaigns that his welcome mat was littered with random junk. His door faced another apartment's door, which had no flyers.
I gripped the handle for his door. Locked. I wasn't surprised, but figured I'd check for something so stupidly obvious. I could break in, but with the tools I had with me, I didn't want to risk it. If I went quick I'd probably break the lock doing so. If I went slow, I felt like I'd get seen, being as this was the middle of the afternoon. Instead, I looked for the spare key. You'd be surprised how many people stash a spare key for themselves or a friend, as if nobody's ever heard the idea before. I looked in the typical places: under the welcome mat, above the door frame and around the exterior light fixture, but it seemed Nick was not so foolish. I did notice a strange little doll, plastic, about keychain size, propped up in the light fixture, as if it was guarding the door. It reminded me of the one Meredith had clipped onto her purse.
I would have done more with the door, but I heard footsteps behind me. I quickly made a very obvious show of knocking on Nick's door, trying to avoid looking suspicious. Around the corner came a college aged girl - Asian, dark hair, sweatpants, little makeup - carrying a bag of groceries. She started up the stairs, which led only to Nick's apartment and the one across from it, which was probably her's. She paused on the stairs when she saw me, probably evaluating whether I was dangerous in the small space in front of the two apartments. I must have passed whatever evaluation as she started up the stairs again, though cautious enough to not get too close to me. She took out a key and started unlocking the door of the other apartment.
"Hey, you wouldn't have seen Nick around, have you?" I said casually.
She turned and gave me a sidelong glance while she kept unlocking her door. "Is Nick the guy who lives there?"
"Yeah, you know him? I don't know where he's been."
"No, I don't know him," she said, opening her door, stepping inside and turning to face me. "Haven't seen him recently, for what it's worth - not that I've ever seen him much."
"Th-" I started to say, but the door closed immediately. "Thanks," I finished softly. Nobody was Nick's friend, it seemed.
I looked back to Nick's door. Now I definitely wasn't breaking in. His neighbor had seen me. Any forced entry now and I'd be the suspect. Whether Nick showed up or not, eventually the apartment manager would notice the damage. They'd ask around and the girl would remember me. I'm not that distinctive looking, but I didn't want to get arrested if I needed to come back here. It was too early in the case to salt the earth of his apartment. So for now I had to go without breaking in Nick's apartment.
I had no other leads that night, so I went down to my car. I had fortunately found a space across from Nick's apartment. I got in the car and hunkered down, watching the apartment building. I doubted Nick was going to come home, but I wanted to spend a few hours to see what turned up.
Nick, where are you? What the hell happened? Were you kidnapped? Or did you run?
Three
I was running again. Through flickering halls; I was back in Bellingham. Of course it was a dream, but in the moment, I didn't recognize it as such. I just ran, chased by an unknown figure through endless hallways. Who was chasing me this time? Max? His monstrous father? Or the nurses? My anxiety spiked as my unknown pursuer grabbed me and threw me into a room. As the door slammed closed, I noticed it was a patient room, much like the one I found Katie in. I looked down and saw that I was wearing the cheap pajamas and slippers of a patient. Had I ever left the hospital?
I shot straight up in bed, sweat sticking to me. My cat, Mr. Smith, jumped off the bed, annoyed at the disruption. He slunk off to see if his food bowl had magically refilled itself in the middle of the night. It always took a few seconds to remember that I did get out of the hospital and have never gone back. The place had fallen down around me, but Katie and I were pulled out of the rubble by the military. She was taken away, but I came home.
It was getting to be that the dream was nearly every night. I had it often right after we escaped Bellingham while I was in recovery for back injury, then it tapered off to every so often. But recently it had come back with a high frequency. I hate
d that I had the dream. Why was I still dreaming about that place? I thought I was over that. And why was my subconscious having so much trouble remembering that I had escaped?
There was no going back to sleep so I stayed up and tried to hunt down Nick on the internet. I hit the same stumbling blocks, but at least it was something to do. I had a message from Meredith confirming I could interview for the grip position. She thought it would be an easy interview, but I still spent some early morning time researching the typical bullshit interview questions: Where do you see yourself in five years? Have you ever had a conflict with a coworker? If so, how did you resolve it? How much of this bullshit can you listen to with a smile before you tell the emperor he has no clothes?
When it was finally a reasonable hour, I showered and got ready for the day. I dropped by the bank to deposit the Manheim check into the company account, then dropped by the office. I sat at the computer for a while, trying to find more on Nick. Sally was in class, so it was just me.
I had run down most of the internet leads on Nick. I had no new facts, so I was mostly idling. On a lark, I decided to type "he moves through images" into a search engine. I expected nothing, and that's basically what I got. Some poetry, scans of history books, and the engine suggesting I misspelled the phrase. The only thing of substance was an article about an artist in a murder-almost-suicide, but that was from fifteen years ago. That hardly seemed relevant.
Finding no more leads, I realized it was time to go. I psychologically composed myself. Time to pretend to be someone else.
I showed up at the PBS Studio Austin building a little early. At 40th street near I35, it was a modest building. Only a single floor, it was converted office space. It was remarkably lacking in outside windows, though you'd expect this type of building to have them. Of course, windows are problems at a studio where you need controlled environments. The blank looking building had a simple PBS logo; nothing ostentatious, just a simple designation. It wasn't broadcasting its identity to the locals, but you could find it if you were looking for it.
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