by Tim O'Brien
She'd tell him that.
Yes, she would. Which was all she'd ever wanted. Just to be happy.
Kathy nodded to herself and swung the boat west into the channel off Magnuson's Island. The morning was crisp and bright. She was at escape velocity.
Maybe it happened there.
Or maybe a mile ahead, where the channel narrowed. She would've been gazing out on the expanses of pine and blue water, the boat bouncing hard against the whitecaps, and maybe for a few seconds she leaned back and gave herself over to sun and speed. Maybe she never saw the sandbar. Maybe she was imagining how their lives might still be good, how things could change, how they would carry their blankets to the porch and lie in the fog and just talk and talk. There was a shiver at the bottom of the boat—a snapping sound— and for an instant she was free of everything, she was light and high, she was soaring through the glassy roof of the world and breaking out into another, and then the lake was all around her, and soon inside her, and maybe in that way Kathy drowned and was gone.
15. What the Questions Were
County Sheriff Art Lux flew in from Baudette at first light on the morning of September 20. By 7:00 A.M. he had set up a makeshift headquarters in the work bay at Pearson's Texaco station. Within an hour the first bulletins had been issued over marine-band radio, and by 8:30 more than a dozen search boats were out on the lake.
It was just after nine when Lux and Vinny Pearson pulled up outside Wade's cottage in an old Willys jeep. Claude Rasmussen showed them in. They removed their hats, shook hands with Wade, took seats in the living room while Claude and Ruth went out to the kitchen to make coffee. For John Wade, who sat stiffly on the couch, the physical world seemed flimsy and poorly made. He'd slept only in snatches, an hour at most; the fatigue was doing tricks with his vision. He went down inside himself briefly, just gliding, and when he surfaced, the sheriff was saying something about the need to stay patient.
Wade nodded. "Which means no news?"
"Not yet. Not for a while." Lux opened a small spiral notebook. His eyes were pale blue and sympathetic. "Thing is, sir, that's a big piece of lake out there, it'll take time." He hesitated. "Right now, if you don't mind, we've got a few quick questions. Provided you feel up to it."
"Whatever helps," Wade said.
Lux smiled and balanced the notebook on his knee. He was a short, gaunt man in his late fifties, tanned and windburnt, dressed in gray trousers and a soiled gray shirt. More like a dairy farmer, Wade thought, than an officer of the law. The badge on his shirt looked like a toy.
After a moment the man slipped on a pair of half-moon reading glasses.
"Just so you know," he said, "we've already got twelve boats out, plenty more to come. The Provincial Police up in Kenora, they'll be sending out their own patrol units, which helps a lot. By noon we'll have a couple spotter planes. Probably more later in the day. Everything's coordinated through my office—that's standard." He smiled again. "So we've got the buttons punched. Border Patrol, State Police. All kinds of help."
Wade tried to keep his eyes level. He felt like an actor.
"One thing you should keep in mind," Lux said. "A case like this, it's not all that unusual. We run into it six, seven times a year. Lost hunters, lost fishermen. Somehow things turn out happy most often." Lux glanced over at Vinny Pearson, who sat quietly to the side, his eyes half shut. "Almost always. Isn't that right, Vin?"
Pearson made an impatient motion with his hand. "Sure, I guess so. Ask the man why he never—"
"Relax. One thing at a time." The sheriff adjusted his glasses, flattened the notebook against his knee. "Now, sir, we've got the basic story from Mr. Rasmussen—the bare bones, so to speak—but I figure it's best to hear it straight from you. Helps us sort things out." His eyes went warm with concern. "If you don't feel up to it, we can always try later."
"Now's fine," Wade said.
"Mind if I write stuff down?"
Wade shook his head. Out in the kitchen, Claude and Ruth Rasmussen were doing something with cups and saucers, their voices fading in and out, and again he had the slippery sensation of a dream.
The sheriff clicked open a ballpoint pen. "First thing, before I forget, you don't have a picture handy? Your wife, I mean."
"For what? She's not—"
"No particular reason. Just in case."
"In case she's damp," Vinny Pearson said. "In case the lady turns up wet."
"For chrissakes, Vinny."
"The guy asked."
Wade turned and looked into Pearson's eyes, locking on, and for an instant something important seemed to pass between them. An acknowledgment of certain possibilities. Wade nodded at him and pulled a small photograph from his wallet. The snapshot was nearly four years old, cracked and grainy, but the sheriff studied it with appreciation.
"Gorgeous," he said. "Very pretty. And what about the vitals, sir? Weight, height, all that."
"You've got the photo there. Five-six, hundred eighteen pounds. She'll be thirty-nine in February."
"Identifying marks? Scars or anything?"
"No."
"Medical trouble?"
"No."
The sheriff looked at the snapshot again, slipped it into his breast pocket, and carefully buttoned the flap.
"Now what we should do," he said, "we should get a handle on the basic chronology. How things happened, more or less." He gave Vinny Pearson a cautionary glance. "Your wife apparently took off sometime yesterday?"
"That's right."
"Yesterday morning?"
"Right."
"And what time would that be?"
"I don't know," Wade said. "Early, I suppose. She was gone when I got up."
"Which was when?"
"Sorry?"
"When you woke up, sir—the time?"
"I just told you, I'm not sure. Maybe eleven, maybe noon."
"You're a late sleeper then?"
"Not usually," Wade said. "It's a vacation."
The sheriff nodded pleasantly. "Well, sure, I should've figured that. Terrific vacation country." He took a moment to consider this. "So if I understand right, your wife could've still been here up until noon or so. Yesterday's noon."
"She could've."
"And the last time you actually saw her?"
Wade thought about it. Recent events seemed fluid and insubstantial. "A little after midnight," he said. "I got up at one point, made myself some tea. She was still here."
"Asleep?"
"Sure. Asleep."
"Nothing unusual?"
"Not at all."
"All right then. But just so I'm clear, that gives us a twelve-hour time frame. Midnight to noon. Which is when she would've taken off?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And you didn't see—"
"I didn't see anything," Wade said sharply. "I woke up, she was gone. It's that simple."
"All this was yesterday?"
"Right. Yesterday."
Lux took notes in a slow, painstaking hand, underlining phrases here and there. He looked up. "Good, we're getting somewhere. And when did you first decide there might be a problem? Things out of the ordinary?"
"I'm not sure. Pretty quick, I guess."
"Quick?"
"Well, yes. Sort of." Wade was conscious of his own voice, the tone and language. "I mean it bothered me right away, but I didn't think—you know—I didn't think it was anything serious. She could've been anywhere. Out for a hike."
"Your wife's a hiker?"
"Sometimes."
"So you waited around?"
"Yes."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
Vinny Pearson grunted under his breath. "Waited," he said, then took out a fingernail clipper and went to work peeling the grime from under a thumbnail. The man's skin had a smooth, almost colorless quality, pallid and sickly. Not an albino, Wade decided, but close enough. Like a huge white fetus. Wade made himself look away.
"So you waited," Lux said. "How lo
ng?"
"Quite a while, I guess. All day."
"Doing what?"
"Just things. Housework, cleaning up. I can't see how it matters."
"Oh, hell, it probably doesn't. Except you never know—it's a funny world—sometimes a stupid little detail can jump up and wiggle its ass and turn awful damn smart." The sheriff looked down at his notepad. "Anyhow, I guess you finally decided there was a problem."
Wade nodded. "It got dark, she wasn't back."
"So you went looking?"
"Yes."
"We're talking when? Pitch dark?"
"Not at first. Must've been around dusk, sometime after seven. I took a quick walk up the road—hoped I'd stumble into her, it was all I could think of. Then I walked on back and kept waiting."
"Just waited?"
"Naturally. What else?"
Lux smiled politely. "Maybe you needed to relax. Knocked back a drink or two. Nerves and all."
"Maybe. So what?"
"Nothing." The man's smile brightened. "Reason I ask, Mr. Rasmussen says you seemed a wee bit tipsy. Later on that night, I mean."
"Oh, Christ."
"He's mistaken, then?"
"No, I had a couple." Wade felt something sour rise up in his throat, a faint cabbage taste. "I mean, Jesus, this is weird. Kathy's lost out there, stranded probably, and we sit here talking about how many goddamn drinks I had."
"Which was how many?"
"The number?"
"Numbers help."
"Five or six," Wade said. "Not enough."
Vinny Pearson looked up from his fingernail clipper. "The boat," he said. "Ask how come he never once looked to see if—"
"Vin, clam up."
"But the man never—"
"Just ease off," Lux said, and turned toward Wade with an amused little grin. "No offense, that's Vinny's way. Swedish blood. What he's driving at, he's wondering why this whole time—while you're waiting for your wife—why you apparently didn't think to check out the boathouse. Most people, they'd say it's a logical place to start."
"No reason," Wade said. "It didn't occur to me. Not until later."
"At what point was that?"
"Late. Midnight or so."
"Which is when you finally went for help? After you found the boat was gone?"
"That's right."
"Twelve hours after you first missed her?"
"Correct."
Lux studied his notepad, the smile sliding away. He seemed displeased with his own handwriting.
"Well, see, here's the thing," he said. "This boat business doesn't quite figure. The whole problem with noise, for instance. An outboard kicks in, it's something you'd hear."
"Not necessarily. I was asleep."
Lux nodded thoughtfully. "I understand that. But those old Evinrudes, they make one bitch of a racket. Wake up the dead, so to speak." He paused and frowned. "Maybe you wear earplugs?"
"I don't."
"A deep sleeper, then?"
Vinny Pearson chuckled and said, "Amazing deep."
The air in the room had a tightly packed feel, dense and brittle. It was a welcome distraction when Ruth Rasmussen walked in with a pot of coffee and a large plate of muffins. She gave Wade an encouraging smile, filled their cups, and turned back to the kitchen. For a moment Wade felt himself tumbling through a crack in reality. Kathy's scent filled the cottage, a mix of perfumes and lotions; he could sense her passage through the air, the draw of her body.
"Mr. Wade?"
"Sorry, I wasn't—"
"No sweat. What I was wondering, sir, it's one of those questions I hate to ask." The sheriff tested another smile. "You and your wife. There wasn't any trouble?"
"I don't follow."
"Domestic problems. Disagreements or whatnot."
"No."
"Any stresses?"
"Well, come on, you read the papers, don't you?" Wade felt his face heat up. "Christ, yes, there was stress."
"The primary?"
"The primary."
Lux nodded. "Hard thing to deal with, I imagine. Losing like that, it can't be fun. And the Vietnam mess too. TV and newspapers, the media boys, I guess you could say they gave you a pretty firm going-over. Made for some rough sledding, I bet."
"We were handling it," Wade said.
"Even so. Not one of your polite elections." Lux paused. "Vinny here, he's another Nam type. Marines."
Pearson frowned without looking up. "Didn't kill no babies."
"Wonderful," Wade said. "Swell for you."
"Yeah, man, swell."
"So anyway," the sheriff said, "I figure there had to be some bad feeling. Tension or whatever."
"I don't get the point."
"No exact point," Lux said. "Background."
Vinny Pearson made a light scoffing noise. "Forget background, get to the juicy stuff. Ask about what Myra told us."
"Vin, I wish to fuck in heaven you'd please shut up."
"So ask."
Almost invisibly, the two men exchanged glances, then the sheriff's eyes swept across the living room floor. "The girl down at the Mini-Mart—Myra Shaw—you might remember her. Chubby thing, about eighteen."
"She ain't chubby," Vinny Pearson said. "She's my cousin, she's hog-fat."
"Right. So this girl says you and your wife stopped in the other day, had a little dispute at the counter. Pretty warm discussion, she says."
Wade shook his head. "It was nothing."
"You're saying it didn't happen?"
"No, I'm saying it's ridiculous. Couple of words, maybe, it barely lasted a minute." Wade pushed to his feet and crossed over to the living room window. A dazzling autumn day, almost too bright, and it was hard to fit the sunlight with what was happening inside him.
"There was no fight," he said quietly. "A disagreement, that's all it was."
"I understand completely."
"You make it sound—"
Lux wagged his head. "That wasn't my intention. You say it's nothing, it's nothing." Again there was sympathy in his eyes. He leaned back and crossed his legs. "All I meant was, the strain and so on, it might explain your wife's state of mind. Maybe she needed a breather, just went off by herself for a while."
"Went where?" Wade said.
"There's the question. She doesn't have friends in the area?"
"None."
"Relatives?"
"Not here. A sister down in Minneapolis."
The sheriff's smile returned. "Well, hey, it's worth a try. Get on the phone, see if your wife's been in touch with ... I didn't catch the name. The sister."
"Pat. Patricia Hood."
"That's a married name?"
"Yes—divorced."
"And no other family to alert?"
Wade shook his head. "No one close. Both parents are dead."
"What I'd suggest then," Lux said, "I recommend you contact anybody you can think of. Acquaintances and so on. What happens sometimes, people get this hankering to take off—bang, they're gone—then after a week or two they'll show up again. I've seen it happen." He removed his glasses and looked up. "She ever run off before, sir?"
"Not like this."
"Like what?"
Wade felt a sudden deep fatigue. There were matters he did not want to discuss. "Like nothing. Now and then she'd pop away for a while. A few hours at most."
"Nobody else in the picture?"
"Sorry?"
"Another man."
"Not a chance," Wade said.
"You sound positive."
"I am. I'm positive." Briefly, the image of a dentist came to mind. "Forget it."
"All right, sure. Will do." The sheriff sighed and glanced down at his wristwatch. "One last item. Mr. Rasmussen says there was a problem with your phone last night. Apparently you had some trouble locating it?"
"Is that illegal?"
"No, sir. Except it was under the sink, I believe. Wrapped in a dish towel."
Wade's mouth filled with the sour cabbage taste. His own breathing
seemed unfamiliar.
"Well, look, it's just one of those things people do. Like a symbol or something. The telephone, it hooks up with the outside world, all the crap out there—the election. I just unplugged the thing and put it away and forgot about it. A symbol, you know?"
"Symbol," Lux said. "I'll write that down."
"Do that."
"And the houseplants? Those were symbols too?"
There was a short silence. Vinny Pearson laughed.
"No, I didn't—" Wade stopped himself. "It's not all that complicated. Kathy's out there. Everything else is pure bullshit."
A small muscle moved at Lux's jaw.
"Bullshit," he murmured.
He closed his notebook, stood up, made a motion at Vinny Pearson.
His eyes shifted toward the window. "Mr. Wade, you're an important guy. Politics and all that, it's way out of my league, so you'll have to be tolerant. I'm just a hayseed cop. Vinny here, he's worse. Pumps gas for a living, pulls in some part-time deputy pay. Couple of rubes, for sure, but I'll tell you what, we'll do our best to find the lady. Drain the lake if we have to. Bulldoze those woods, pry up the goddamn floorboards." He smiled generously. "That's not bullshit, sir, that's a guarantee in gold."
The two men put on their hats and walked to the door.
"Give it a few hours," Lux said. "I'll be in touch. Don't forget those phone calls."
When they were gone, Wade stood for a few minutes at the living room window. What he needed was sleep. Something kept revolving behind his eyes, a shiny black stone. He could feel the weight in his forehead. It required some concentration to pick up the coffee cups and carry them out to the kitchen. Claude sat on a stool at the counter, Ruth was cracking eggs over a frypan.