Gone The Next

by Ben Rehder

  “I wouldn’t know who, but I suppose that’s possible. Anyway, I don’t mean to go on and on — you probably think I’m a terrible busybody — but I saw you parked here and I wanted to be on the safe side. I didn’t mean to come on so strongly. But it’s been wonderful to meet Jim and Beulah’s grandson.”

  She was preparing to leave, but before she left, I needed to make sure she wouldn’t blab to her neighbors about what I was doing down here. Word might eventually get to Pierce, and now, more the ever, it was important that he not know I was watching him. I figured the best way to keep Emma quiet was the actual truth.

  So I said, “Emma, I’ll tell you a secret, if you want to hear it.”

  Hook, line, and sinker, all rolled into one.

  “What’s that?”

  “It is Brian Pierce I’m investigating. See, he claims he injured his arm at the restaurant where he works — and he probably did — but my clients hire me to check those kinds of things out. Make sure everything is on the up and up.”

  To me, this was boring, everyday stuff, but I could tell she thought it was juicy.

  I continued. “What I normally do is follow the person around discreetly and see what they do. See if they take part in some activity that they shouldn’t be able to do because of their injury.”

  She was intrigued, probably because she considered us to be kindred spirits. We both kept tabs on other people. “So you sneak around after them,” she said. There was definitely some amusement in her voice.

  “Well, yeah, but I’m sure you can understand why. When a guy like Pierce commits insurance fraud, the rest of us pay higher costs. Anyway, I felt like you deserved to know what I was doing out here, and why I might be here tomorrow, and maybe for several more days.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “And here I thought you might be a burglar.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Glad I didn’t call the sheriff.”

  “Me, too. And I really need you to do me a favor. I need you to promise that you won’t tell anyone why I’m parked here.”

  Emma Webster made the familiar my-mouth-is-zipped motion and didn’t say another word. I figure, for her, that would be a monumental undertaking. I hoped she could live up to it.

  After she continued on her walk, I stayed parked where I was. The sun fell and the woman in the Jetta never left, and if she had, it probably would have taken me a minute to snap to, because my mind was racing.

  Brian Pierce had been seen with a little blond girl a few months ago. Then he denied it. This was, to put it mildly, a cause for alarm, at least it was for me. Who was the little girl? Where had she come from? I hated to even wonder it, but was Pierce a serial child abductor with a predilection for blond girls?

  I tried to remember any headlines from February or March about a missing girl, but I didn’t recall any. So I jumped online and started searching various news sites. Didn’t take me long to determine that there hadn’t been a case like that in the Austin area. Of course, Pierce could’ve made a road trip, so I cast my net wider and searched a public database of missing children on the website for the Texas Department of Public Safety. They operate a very user-friendly site that allows you to narrow your search by age, gender, height, weight, date of birth, race, and so on. Which means it’s easy to get quick results. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a missing girl in the entire state that matched up with this blond girl Emma Webster had seen.

  I visited Pierce’s Facebook page again and began to scroll downward, back in time. I paid particular attention to his status updates from late winter and early spring. I’d reviewed these postings before, but I wanted to check them again in light of this new information.

  There was only one comment that interested me, but it would be a stretch to say that it was significant. On March 3, Pierce had simply written: Love comes from a lot of unexpected places.

  Kind of odd, considering that none of his other posts were in the least bit philosophical, and considering that he didn’t appear to have a girlfriend or boyfriend, nor did he seem to date regularly.

  Could mean anything. On the other hand, it could be disturbingly creepy. It would be nice to have some context, but none of his updates before or after that one seemed to relate, and none of his friends had commented.

  There weren’t many times when I’d stay on a stakeout all night, but I decided this would be one of those times. I ate a cold ham sandwich, drank a Coke to keep me awake, and along about midnight, my tenacity paid off. No, I didn’t learn anything about Brian Pierce, the blond girl, or the woman in the Jetta.

  What I learned came once again from the media. This time, a talk radio program was reporting that Patrick Hanrahan — Tracy Turner’s stepdad — had agreed to, and failed, a lie-detector test.

  Twice.

  17

  “I feel like I’m on a seesaw,” I said. “One minute I’m sure Brian Pierce had something to do with Tracy Turner’s disappearance, the next minute some strange development happens with the parents.”

  “What about what you said the other day?” Mia asked.

  “My rant about the parents always being the first suspects? Well, the mom ending the interview was one thing, but this...I guess there comes a point when you have to start to wonder.”

  “I’ll be honest. My money’s on the parents. At least one of them, but maybe both.”

  “One covering for the other?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You could be right.”

  “The mom won’t talk and the stepdad is lying to the cops. Something is happening there.”

  We were having brunch in a little café called Cypress Grill in South Austin. Sort of a Louisiana type of place. Saturday morning at eleven. I had managed to remain in the church parking lot on Thomas Springs overnight, until about two hours ago. Nothing had happened. Never saw Pierce. Or the woman in the Jetta. Or a deputy. Or even Emma Webster. Eventually you have to give up and try again later. That’s when you wish you weren’t working solo and that you could trade shifts with someone, because it was easy to feel that I’d wasted the better part of a full day. There were also a couple of times when I dozed off in the wee hours, but I was clever enough to point my video camera at Pierce’s driveway and leave it running, just for those occasions. If someone had come or gone — which, as I said, nobody did — at least I’d have known about it, even if I would’ve missed the chance to follow them.

  “The most likely scenario,” I said, “if we’re speculating wildly with no solid evidence at all, is that the stepdad killed Tracy and the mom is in denial. She suspects what happened, but since she didn’t see it with her own eyes...”

  We were both keeping our voices low, because the tables were fairly close together and there were plenty of families scattered around the café. I had caught several of the dads sneaking glances at Mia when they could. I didn’t blame them. I was glad I didn’t have to sneak my glances. I could look all I wanted.

  “Or maybe she knows exactly what happened,” Mia said, “but doesn’t want him to get in trouble. You hear all kinds of twisted stories.”

  That was an understatement. Parents murdering their kids. Or selling them. Locking them in basements for years and using them as breeding stock. Just about any scenario was possible, no matter how horrid and nightmarish. Accidentally or intentionally killing a child, then covering it up — with the full cooperation and participation of the other parent — was becoming an all-too-common phenomenon. But, as much as I wanted to defend the parents, based solely on what I went through myself, it was looking more and more like something along those lines had happened in this case. This morning, the cable news networks were buzzing that Patrick Hanrahan had hired a lawyer, and the lawyer was claiming that Hanrahan hadn’t failed the polygraph tests, but that the results were simply inconclusive. Happens all the time. Doesn’t mean anything. But Mr. Hanrahan didn’t appreciate the insinuations, no sir, so he was joining his wife in no longer speaking to the authorities.“Either w
ay, it wasn’t Pierce,” I said. I took a big bite of my bacon, lettuce, and avocado sandwich. It was what I usually had, and it was always excellent, but it wasn’t quite hitting the spot this morning. Don’t know why. Mia was having French toast, which looked pretty tasty.

  “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” she said.

  “I do?”

  “Yep.”

  Our waiter came by, refilled our mugs, then scooted away.

  I said, “Well, I mean, it is weird, what Emma Webster told me. But it obviously doesn’t have anything to do with Tracy Turner. Maybe Emma didn’t see what she thought she saw.”

  Mia paused with her fork in mid-air. “Wait, now come on. What are the odds that both of you thought you saw Pierce with a little girl, but you’re both mistaken?”

  I groaned. “Don’t do this to me. I’m tired of going back and forth on this.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Well, I’m not saying there’s anything going on with Pierce, other than maybe he’s committing fraud. As far as the little girl, there could be a logical explanation for that. In fact, I’d say there probably is. Probably the little girl you saw is the same one Emma Webster saw. The descriptions match.”

  “Some other little girl. Not Tracy Turner.”

  “Right.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Got me. Doesn’t matter. A friend’s daughter or something. I realize that young, single men don’t usually do a lot of babysitting, but it’s possible. Seems a lot more likely than Pierce being a sicko who has never gotten caught.”

  “I am definitely paying attention to what you are saying,” I said. An intentionally clumsy reference to her remark from Thursday afternoon, since she hadn’t mentioned the apologetic note I’d left for her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Point is, you can follow the process of elimination, right? It doesn’t matter whether Emma Webster saw Pierce with a little girl or not. If there wasn’t a missing little girl matching that description back in February or March, well, that gives you your answer, doesn’t it?”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “But you still seem like you’re waffling.”

  “Waffles, damn it. That’s what I should’ve ordered.”

  “You want the rest of this?” She slid her plate forward. “I’m done anyway.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  So I did. We sat in silence for several moments as I scarfed down the rest of her French toast.

  “I have to be at work in one hour,” she announced.

  She didn’t know it, but I was about to spring something on her — a proposition prompted by what she’d just said. Something that had been running through my mind for quite some time.

  “I have an idea I want to run past you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a big idea, so brace yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m always braced when I talk to you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. First, let me ask you something. You want to work in that bar all your life?”

  She frowned, puzzled, wondering why I was asking. “As a matter of fact, yes. I want to be serving drinks to horny, drunk guys when I’m sixty years old. That’s my life’s dream. By then, my ass will have been groped roughly ten thousand times, so how could I not be fulfilled?”

  “I’ll take that as a no. So here’s a thought. Ready? Come work with me.”

  That definitely caught her off guard. She hadn’t been expecting it. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then finally she said, “Work with you?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I need some help.”

  “Really? But — I’m not qualified at all. I can’t do what you do.”

  “Sure you can. You’re a fast learner. I can teach you a lot of stuff. You’ll pick up the rest.”

  “Don’t you have to be licensed or certified or something?”

  “Nope. Private investigators do, but legal videographers don’t. Any nutcase like me can do it.”

  I was having a tough time gauging her expression, but she appeared to be intrigued — at least a little bit. What I was hoping for.

  She said, “Okay, the first thing that pops into my head: I’m not sure I could handle being your employee. We’re friends, Roy, and I don’t want to — ”

  “Partners, Mia. That’s what I’m talking about. Fifty-fifty. I don’t want to be your boss. Hell, you’re smarter than I am. I couldn’t be your boss.”

  She was too surprised to even offer a snappy comeback agreeing with my assessment. “What brings this on? The Pierce case?”

  “Well, yes and no. I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of months, actually. Business has been really good and I don’t see why it won’t continue. I’m spread thin. I need a partner. Someone who is competent and smart. Also, it doesn’t hurt that you have the attributes to make guys like Wally Crouch lift car batteries out of trunks. But that’s just a bonus.”

  She smirked. “Attributes?”

  “Your ankles. Ankles like that can drive a man wild.”

  She already knew the details of the job: The long hours. The boredom, punctuated by occasional excitement. The risk that one of your targets might get angry and flatten your tires. She’d heard it all.

  The waiter brought the check and I handed him a credit card. I said to Mia, “Even better, we’ll be able to write these meals off. Think of the satisfaction of dodging the IRS. Legally, of course.”

  “When would I start?”

  “Whenever you’re ready. Tomorrow. Next week. A month from now.”

  “Full time?”

  “That’s what I’m looking for, but hey, if you want to try it part-time for awhile, that’s fine with me. We can work something out. However you want to arrange it, I’m up for it.”

  “What about all your gear? Your laptop, your cameras, all that stuff? I don’t have any of that equipment.”

  “We’ll share at first, and then we’ll buy some more stuff. The van can be our rolling office. We can just pass the keys off and everything you need would be inside. I’ll buy another car for myself.”

  “I don’t know how to use any of the equipment.”

  “You’ll learn. It’s easy.”

  She shook her head. “You have put some thought into this, haven’t you?”

  “A lot.”

  She was quiet for a minute.

  I said, “You don’t have to decide right now, obviously. Mull it over. Ponder it. Ruminate. I’m sure you’ll have other questions, and I’m fully prepared to make up bullshit answers.”

  “What I said earlier, about being friends. I meant that. You know what they say about doing business with friends. If we were to do this, and if it began to affect our friendship — ”

  “The friendship is way more important. No question.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Mia, I’m going to say this without getting all sappy. You’re the best person I know. My best friend. I mean that.”

  She didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but she did have a look of skepticism on her face. “Roy, that’s very sweet, but if that’s the case, you really need to expand your circle of friends.”

  18

  On the third day, his nerves began to settle. He was not being watched. He had overreacted. That was obvious now. So he let himself begin to relax. To let his guard down occasionally, as he knew he’d have to eventually. But then a new source of anxiety arose.

  “I don’t feel good.”

  That’s what Emily said when he went to get her out of bed. He felt her forehead and she was burning up. Out came the thermometer. Her temperature was one hundred and two. This was a cause for concern. He let her sleep for an hour, then he checked on her again. Her fever was unchanged. He hadn’t planned on this sort of problem. He gave her half an aspirin, but beyond that, there wasn’t much he could do
.

  By mid-morning, she began to throw up. Not just once, but multiple times. Violently, and with great force. He kept a trash can beside the bed, but she couldn’t always reach it in time, because her nausea would come on so suddenly. The bed linens were a mess very quickly. Now he began to wonder if giving her the aspirin was a mistake. Was she allergic? Well, too late now.

  He knew he had to keep her hydrated, to replenish the fluids she was losing, but should he feed her? He didn’t know. He asked if she was hungry, and she said she wasn’t, not even a little bit. How about some soup? Just a little? She shook her head. But she did want the Gatorade — the fruit punch flavor — and she quickly drank a very large glass of it. Moments later, it all came right back up. Red vomit that would almost certainly stain the bedspread.

  His worry grew. Taking her to a doctor, even one of those minor emergency clinics, was out of the question, of course. So he went online to do some research. Found a useful page written by a pediatrician.

  The first thing he learned was that he shouldn’t have given her the Gatorade so quickly, because a sick child would simply vomit it right back up, as Emily had done. Better to wait thirty minutes, or even an hour, then start giving it in small sips. Slow and steady. Not all at once, even if they ask for it.

  The web page said that it was probably a virus that was making her sick. There was no cure for it, but it would pass in time. This doctor didn’t say anything about a fever. That was stupid. The information was incomplete. Worthless.

  He kept surfing and found another page on the site of a major hospital. According to this page, the vomiting could be caused by a virus, motion sickness, overeating, or food poisoning. It could also be the result of a concussion, encephalitis, meningitis, intestinal blockage, appendicitis...

  He began to investigate meningitis, which was a mistake, because now he became convinced that Emily had it. She had many of the symptoms. Yes, the vomiting and the fever, as well as agitation, irritability, rapid breathing, fast heart rate. Meningitis could be viral, bacterial, or fungal, with the bacterial kind — the most dangerous kind — requiring antibiotics. As quickly as possible. The text said treatment with antibiotics should reduce the risk of dying to less than 15%. Without the antibiotics, Emily could be facing a buildup of fluid between the skull and the brain, possibly resulting in neurological damage or death.