by M C Rowley
I have to get home.
It was true—Eleanor would be expecting me. But I was dreading walking through the door. Because today was July 15th. The anniversary.
I started the engine and rolled out of the company premises, into the deserted industrial estate, toward the highway and our house. The digital clock on the dash read 22:00. I’d been thankful for the late meeting, just trying to keep busy today, but Eleanor would think I was avoiding her.
Not that I had to worry about an awkward conversation with my wife. She wouldn’t mention the anniversary, not a chance.
I powered on to the highway and headed for the suburban paradise we had called home for the past year—the last in a long line of high-end rent-a-lifes we’d had since Guatemala City. Once the car reached the speed limit, I leaned back and rested my left foot to the side.
The problem was, I did want to acknowledge the anniversary with Eleanor. I just didn’t know how without triggering the argument, the same one we’d been having for over two decades now. It was too hopeless, too hurtful.
It all came down to this: Eleanor still believed our son was alive. I did not.
After ten minutes on the highway, I took the off ramp and the road morphed into stone slabs lined with coifed bushes and small trees shaped into spheres. I stopped at the security gate and scanned my resident ID card; the barrier rose and I passed on through into the closed neighborhood. Our house was the third identikit mini-mansion on the right, and Eleanor’s BMW SUV was parked in the drive.
I killed the engine and sat in the dim yellow glow from a nearby streetlight. I was still in two minds about whether to say something or not. To mention the giant elephant in the room would open an upsetting line of conversation; to stay nothing would guarantee another twelve months of silence on the matter.
I listened to the crickets rubbing their legs in harmony, getting ready for the nightly downpour, and made up my mind. This year I would say something. Screw it, I thought. Why not? Eleanor couldn’t ignore the truth forever.
I got out of the car, walked to our door and punched in the key code. Inside, the house was cold and quiet. I knew where Eleanor would be. Upstairs.
I dropped my bag and jacket on the hallway chair and wandered through to the kitchen, where I opened one of the twenty cupboards and poured myself a tall tequila. I downed it and poured a second, my resolve growing with every second.
I turned back to the hallway and made my way up the stairs and past the bedrooms to the end of the hall, to the door.
The shrine.
Eleanor hated it when I called it that. I’d said it twice, once here in this house and once at another place. It was always the first room she set up in a new home. The shrine to our lost son, to the hope she clung to every day.
I took another slug of tequila and knocked, and listened to the squeak of a chair and then footsteps. The door opened and Eleanor stood there. Her eyes were red and her hair was a tangle of knots. She was wearing a nightgown that clung to her body. I liked it. I wanted to touch her, but she was never receptive in this room.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re late.”
“Yeah,” I said, following her into the room.
On the walls, hundreds of newspaper cuttings covered every available space. The blind was closed at the window, and the only illumination was the single lamp on Eleanor’s desk, focused on the pile of papers she’d been poring over, probably for the hundredth time. I clocked the half-empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on the desk too.
Eleanor went to the desk and sat down. She spun the chair round to face me and rubbed her eyes.
“You need to sleep,” I said.
She nodded, her face still covered. She knew what was coming.
I stalled for a second and took a sip of my tequila, before nodding at the papers on the desk and saying, “What’re you working on?”
Eleanor looked at me. “You know the answer to that.”
“Yeah, but…you know, what exactly are you working on today?”
“Christ, Scott,” she said. “Do you care?”
Here it comes, I thought.
“You know I do.”
“If you must know,” she said, reaching behind her for a sheet of paper, “I found a newspaper article about the cartel. A new one.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It confirms they’ve all but broken up.”
I said nothing.
Eleanor noticed. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing?”
“It’s just, we knew that already, right?”
“Not for definite,” she said. “Look, Scott, I’m not in the mood, okay? Leave me be. I’m getting into this right now.”
I downed the rest of my tequila. So far the conversation was going exactly as I’d thought it would.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s just ignore the truth for another year, El.”
My words had hit home. Eleanor stood, fire in her eyes. “Ignore the truth? Me? Have a word!”
She always used my British colloquialisms when she was mad. They never sounded right in her New York accent.
“It’s the fifteenth today, El. Twenty-two years. How much longer till you quit and accept that he’s gone?”
Eleanor squared her shoulders and burned me with a look I’d seen too many times before. “Never, Scott. Fucking never.”
“Don’t swear at me,” I said, feeling my temper boiling up.
“I’ll swear all I like,” she said. “Just get out.”
I didn’t move. “You know you have to let this go. One day.”
Eleanor turned her back to me and hunched over her desk.
Still I didn’t leave. I was angry. That she wouldn’t let me grieve. Wouldn’t even let me start the process.
“Our son is dead, El. He’s gone. Okay, I said it. He isn’t coming back, because he’s dead. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two bloody years of this shit.”
I watched as her shoulders heaved up and down and then shuddered with tears that I couldn’t see but felt all the same. Then I turned to leave.
But as my hand grabbed the door handle, I paused.
“All I’m saying”—I looked back at her, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces—“is that we should honor him properly, the right way. His memory.”
Eleanor turned to face me, her eyes soaked in tears. “What memory?”
I didn’t answer, just closed the door behind me.
I was heading back downstairs to pour a third tequila when the phone in my pocket started up again. What was this guy’s problem?
I took it out, and once in the kitchen and out of Eleanor’s earshot, I answered.
“What is it?”
Jason’s tone was matey, as always. “Hey, man. Look, I’m sorry. I honestly hate to keep bothering you like this. Mr. Reynolds will be delighted with the work you’ve done. Great job.”
I rubbed my eyes and sighed. “Thanks. But it’s late, Jason. I have to get some sleep. I’ll email the info in the morning. They’re screwed. It’s done.”
“That’s great. Look, man, I know today is a hard day for you. And your wife.”
I froze. I’d never mentioned the abduction to anybody outside of my marriage, and Eleanor and I hadn’t discussed it with the authorities since our son had officially been declared dead ten years ago.
“What did you say?”
Jason remained quiet.
I asked, “How did you know about that?”
“We research our employees thoroughly, Dyce. You must know that. We know what went down in Guatemala City.”
“For God’s sake,” I said.
“Mr. Reynolds wants to help you.”
I poured the third tequila and downed it. “Oh yeah? How would that work?”
I was tired and Jason was now seriously getting on my nerves.
“You need to get into your wife’s laptop. Into her hidden documents.”
My heart started pounding in my chest. It was a violation. Mr.
Reynolds had never demanded more from me than the already risky work I did stealing information and sabotaging companies. This was a step too far into the realm of the personal.
“What?”
Jason said, “You need to check her files, man. She’s hiding things from you.”
I couldn’t speak. The thought of it. The confusion rattling around my head made everything go cloudy. I couldn’t see straight. I backed into one of the bar stools at the counter and sat down.
“Just do it,” said Jason. “You’re gonna find quite the surprise.”
And he hung up.
Chapter Two
The sofa had provided a less-than-adequate night’s sleep and I felt cranky as hell as I left the house the next morning—early, to avoid Eleanor. I was still angry. Seething, in fact. Which helped with the guilt, at least, over the secrets I kept from her. She wasn’t stupid. The job I did for expat companies in Mexico commanded a certain inflated salary, but not the level of money I’d been making for years now. We had an unspoken agreement: Don’t ask questions about her trying to locate our lost son, and I wouldn’t get questions about the late-night phone calls I took or the constant changing of jobs, not to mention the money.
I got to work before anyone else, besides the cleaners, and went straight to my office. Using an encrypted email program, I wrote Mr. Reynolds a message outlining the company’s plan to fake having capital for the buyout. Once it was sent, I deleted all remnants of it and shut down the program.
By late morning, the managers were in a jubilant mood, having got a stay of execution from the board, who’d agreed to the fake capital show to push the acquisition through. Little did they know that my email had signed the company’s death warrant. Mr. Reynolds’ people would be readying to release the information I’d leaked to ensure a low, low buying price. Then, I’d be reassigned, and the people I left behind at this company…well, that part of the scheme wasn’t enjoyable. It always left me feeling rotten inside.
At lunch, I avoided the other managers and slipped out to a local joint I often frequented. It had good mole verde and served cold beers. Better still, its customers were mainly traveling salesmen from Mexico City and so no one knew me in there. I ordered a Corona and a medium mole with rice, and as I waited for my meal, I thought about Jason’s call.
Why did Mr. Reynolds care about my personal life all of a sudden? And what did he know—what was this surprise? An affair? A secret gambling addiction? What the hell was Eleanor keeping from me?
There was only one thing to do: Break into her computer. It was a good job that stealing information from those close to me was my specialty.
The afternoon crawled by, and the seasonal downpour began at around six p.m. I watched as my colleagues left and then followed suit. I got wet just jogging to the Volvo, and minutes later the sky turned apocalyptic, which made the driving slow and laborious—for me, at least; the folk of Mexico City still sped past at a menacing 140 kilometers per hour.
I got home at 6:45 and saw Eleanor’s car in the driveway. We never let an argument spill into the next day. I knew the drill: Don’t mention our son, or the shrine, or her work, and we’d be all good. I punched the code in at the door, trying to cover myself against the downpour, and walked in. Miles Davis was playing softly downstairs. A good sign. It meant Eleanor was winding down.
I walked through to the showroom kitchen, where the oven still had the instructions inside and the grill sparkled. Eleanor was sitting at the breakfast bar, a glass of red wine nestled between her palms. Her hair was tied back tightly and she’d recently showered; I could smell the guayaba and watermelon from the door. She looked beautiful. I loved that when she did slow down, she really slowed down. She enjoyed her own company. No phone screen, no TV. Just some wine and Miles.
She looked up at me and smiled, mouth closed.
“Hey,” I said and went for the kiss. She raised her head and met my lips and put her arms around me. This would have been the moment to insert a “sorry,” but I knew better.
“Drink?”
Pretending it was my first of the day, I said, “Definitely.”
We’d met young, and we’d always drunk together. These days, we drank too much.
Eleanor nudged the stool next to her with a foot. “Long day?”
“The usual,” I said. “I think this job’s wrapping up soon.”
Eleanor nodded. She was used to the constant displacement.
“I ordered pizza,” she said.
“Nice.”
The room went quiet. That was fine. We weren’t the chatty, fill-the-silence-at-all-costs types. But after a minute, I realized that an opportunity had been presented to me: The local pizza delivery was notoriously slow.
“I’m going to get changed,” I said.
“Sure,” she said, seemingly absorbed by one of Mile’s rampant deviations from the band’s rhythm.
I walked upstairs to our room, and into the walk-in closet, where I quickly changed into jogging pants and a tee. Then I crept back out and along to the shrine, Eleanor’s office.
I stopped at the door and listened. I heard no movement on the stairs. The house was big, though, and made from solid concrete. Almost no sounds passed from one floor to the other. Which was an advantage and a disadvantage in my present predicament.
I tried the handle and it moved. I opened the door slowly and peeked inside. There, on the desk, was her HP laptop, in sleep mode. I stalled, and just as I was about to run to it, the doorbell rang.
“Pizza’s here,” called Eleanor, her voice muffled.
Damn it, I thought.
I shut the door again and hurried to the top of the stairs before calling back, “I’m coming.”
We ate the pizza, then watched a Hitchcock movie on the smart TV. I went to the bathroom, thinking I could grab a few minutes alone upstairs, but Eleanor paused the movie and waited on me. The more time that passed, the more the door to the shrine seemed to mock me—until finally Eleanor announced she was off to bed.
“I’m going to watch the news for a bit,” I told her casually.
Eleanor touched my head as she walked around the sofa. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“No, goodnight.”
And she left.
I watched the news for thirty minutes. Some scandal involving Mexico’s president was unraveling. Probably a dagger-in-the-back operation to take him down, I thought.
When the piece finished, I turned off the TV and tiptoed upstairs. I got to our room and leant against the frame. Eleanor was lying on the bed, facing away from me, unmoving. I turned to the hallway and the door to the shrine. This was my chance.
I’d taken two steps toward the door when Eleanor called from the bedroom, “Can you bring water?”
Damn it again, I thought.
“Sure.”
My chance was gone. I had no choice but to abort and get into bed. I lay awake for a long time, watching the rain hitting the window and thinking about how and why my wife would keep something from me. Probably for the same reason I kept stuff from her, I guessed.
I was awoken by vibrations, short and fast, like a pulse. I opened my eyes in the darkness but didn’t move. It was neither of my phones. I knew the silent alerts of those devices only too well. It was Eleanor’s.
She stirred, slowly at first, before the realization that it was her phone clearly hit her, and I heard her swoop for it and click it off.
I lay still as Eleanor rolled over and her feet hit the floor.
What was this? More secrets? No one ever called her this late.
She walked out of the room and I heard her go downstairs. I strained my ears to pick up her voice, but all was quiet. Then I heard the French doors to the back garden open and close again. She’d gone outside.
I launched myself out of the bed.
As I hustled to the shrine, I made a decision. Whatever I found or didn’t find, I’d have it out with Eleanor. We had a fight in store. And I was ready. I didn’t care. I w
anted the truth.
I made it to the door and swung it open and went directly to the desk. I opened up Eleanor’s laptop and was confronted with a password prompt. I’d given this some thought. People usually chose something they thought about a lot: a kid’s date of birth, a wedding anniversary, a parent’s name. I was pretty sure Eleanor would have set a password to do with our son’s abduction.
My first try was wrong—the date of the abduction in digits: 150792.
I tried the American version: 071592. Negative.
I tried our wedding date. Nope.
I combined the date of the abduction and our wedding date. Access denied.
I tried the abduction date written out in Spanish. Nada.
Time was ticking. How long had it been? She could be back upstairs any minute.
I went to the door and listened out. Nothing.
And then it hit me: Guatemala.
I sat down and typed it out: g-u-a-t-e-m-a-l-a. The screen went green and the desktop flashed up.
I was in.
I started in the “Recent Files” folder and found documents about the abduction. Scanned newspaper articles. Police reports in Spanish. I found the legal documentation for the foundation Eleanor had set up years back dedicated to finding missing children in Latin America. But nothing suspicious.
I opened her browser and went through the history. Nothing of interest. A lot of research. Extensive research. What I had always known in my heart to be true was staring me in the face: that her grief had never got past the denial stage and had instead transformed into obsession. I felt a jolt of guilt and sadness go right through me. Maybe if I’d supported her more. Maybe if I hadn’t given up on finding him. Would it have helped?
I went back to the door three more times during my search. I heard nothing.
About to give up, I went to the Gmail “Switch Accounts” button and clicked.
There it was. Eleanor had another email account. No name, just numbers: [email protected]. I clicked it. An inbox opened to reveal one solitary thread, between Eleanor and another email address of only numbers.
I opened it. The messages were stacked in historical order. The most recent, at the top, was from the other email. In Spanish, it read: