by Alina Adams
Had Craig really done something to Jeremy? Bex found it so hard to believe. The few times she'd seen them together, Craig looked every inch of the devoted dad. But, the man had also obviously snapped recently. If he'd made Bex fear for her own life, who knew what else he might have done?
She was in way over her head on this one. That fact might have been obvious to the casual, visually impaired observer on day one. But, for Bex, it came as a revelation. She couldn't handle this alone. She needed guidance. She needed, God help her, Gretchen.
"I don't know what you expect me to do, Bex," Gretchen's hands fluttered nervously in the air as if she were pushing her way through a wall of sixties-style beading. "The department can't just charge in and start searching Craig Hunt's home."
"Isn't he a suspect in the murder of his wife? Isn't that ample just cause, or whatever you call it, to search the premises?"
"Craig Hunt is not an official suspect."
"But, you told me it's usually the husband—"
"That was off the record."
"His son has disappeared!"
"We don't know that officially, or even for a fact."
"That's where searching the house would be helpful, wouldn't it?"
"Bex..."
"He's a little kid, Gretchen. A little, defenseless kid." Bex wondered if this chat was what, technically, would qualify as hitting below the belt—and right into the uterus. "It's not fair, is it, how some people are lucky enough to have kids, and then they can't even take care of them right? Craig Hunt was supposed to take care of Jeremy, he was supposed to protect him and nurture him and..." Bex was fast becoming in desperate danger of running out of synonyms.
But, as it turned out, she didn't need any more.
Gretchen reached for her phone. She said, "I'll call my husband and see what we can do."
Gretchen’s husband, Travis, turned out to be a detective on the force and, in person, he also turned out to be as nice as he'd appeared in the photo on her desk. Though he towered over both Bex and Gretchen by at least a head and a half, his voice proved so mellifluous it was like he was always whispering. It forced Bex to lean in, focus, shut her own mouth for a change, and pay very careful attention to his every word. Which, she suspected, was the point. (She did wonder how he and Gretchen got along, she with her ongoing monologues about the evils of big city life, and he from the I-never-repeat-myself school.)
Bex soon got her answer.
Gretchen called Travis into her office and, in a flood of words, relayed the entire Craig and Jeremy saga as Bex had earlier conveyed it to her. She used lots of arm flourishes, lots of nodding her head emphatically, and several reiterations of the phrase, "poor little boy."
Travis listened without saying a word. He patiently waited for his wife to finish and, unlike Bex, wasn't fooled the few times she appeared to be done, but was really only taking a break to wind up for the next sequence. At the end of the command performance, Gretchen looked at Travis expectantly. Bex anticipated him asking a few pertinent, police-type follow-up questions, maybe even looking to Bex for clarification. But Travis simply turned toward the door and, in that I-could-not-be-ruffled-if-you-shot-a-grenade-through-my-hair-but-I-strongly-wouldn't-recommend-trying voice of his, said, "Let's go, ladies."
This time, when Craig opened the front door to find Bex on his porch—again—she didn't fear his slamming it shut in her face. Travis's police badge was very helpful in getting them inside with a minimum of fuss or protest. On the other hand, the Craig Hunt who took one look at Travis's badge, shrugged, and opened the door wider without a word of protest was also not the same man Bex had left just a few hours before. For one thing, he'd changed clothes. Out with the wrinkled, makeshift sleepwear, in with a clean pair of jeans and gray turtleneck sweater. He'd stopped ripping his hair out of his head long enough to comb it. And even the gashes on his face had been washed and cleaned out so as to look like a trio of wholesome, practically all-American scratches.
Although, to his credit, the first thing Travis did ask after introducing himself was, "What happened to your face, Mr. Hunt?"
"Cut myself shaving." Craig held out his hands, palms up. Both were visibly trembling. "I'm not exactly my steadiest these days."
It was a brilliant maneuver. Bex almost wanted to stand up and applaud. In one gesture, he'd managed to paint himself both as a grieving widower and as a nonviable murder suspect. After all, a man who can barely hold a razor steady enough to shave without bleeding could hardly be walking around perpetrating other forms of chaos, could he?
Travis said, "Hm."
"What can I do for you, Officer?" Craig asked. Bex noted that, since they'd come in, he had yet to so much as glance at her. Obviously, this performance was strictly for the man in blue, to hell with what Bex thought about his recent personality transplant.
"You know Ms. Levy here, don't you, Mr. Hunt?"
"Oh, yes." Craig still didn't look at her. "I know Ms. Levy very, very well."
"She tells us your son is missing."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Ms. Levy tells us that your thirteen-year-old son, Jeremy, is missing, and yet you refuse to call the police or act in any other, what might be considered appropriate, manner."
"Oh, no," Craig said. "Oh, no. I'm afraid there's been a terrible misunderstanding. Jeremy isn't missing."
"Then where is he?" Bex interrupted. She knew it was probably the wrong thing to do. Travis seemed to be handling this interrogation much better than she ever could. But, then again, why should she let a little thing like that stop her?
"Frankly," Craig finally deigned to address her, even if he did manage to do it without so much as turning his head or torso in her direction, "I don't see why that's any of your business."
"Mr. Hunt," Travis cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we have a bit of a problem, here. The Clear Lake Police Department has received a complaint. And, while I agree with you that Ms. Levy does not, in and of herself, have any business knowing where your son might be, we, the Department, that is, do have an obligation to act upon—"
"Stray gossip brought to you by muckrakers trying to destroy my life and reputation in the interest of a three-minute story for her network?"
Travis didn't blink. "Sometimes."
"That's really protecting and serving, isn't it, Officer?"
For the first time since they'd come in, Bex could visibly see Gretchen's hackles rising. No. Really. While Bex had never seen an actual hackle before, rising or otherwise, she had to assume that Gretchen's back arching, her shoulders narrowing and her tongue pressing against her back teeth in preparation for spitting, feline-style, had to be an honest-to-goodness hackle. And she also had to assume that it was in response to Craig's sarcasm. Gretchen could obviously manage to stand back and be out-of-character quiet while gazing adoringly, not unlike Nancy Reagan (and Felicia Tufts of fifteen years earlier), at her big, strong, non-New York husband doing his job. But, God forbid someone refuse to shower him with the adoration Gretchen thought he deserved. In that case, it was damn the suburbia, full New York attitude ahead.
Travis, obviously, knew all about the situation, raised hackles and all. Because, even as he continued smiling pleasantly at Craig, he also put one arm out behind him, as if to keep Gretchen from charging.
"I understand your anger, Mr. Hunt. No one likes their privacy invaded. However, I feel that I must respectfully ask you to produce your son. I just want to get a look at the boy. Make sure everything is all right."
"He's not here."
"Aha!" Bex said. Sometimes smugness could be warmer than cashmere on a cold day.
"But, he isn't missing." Craig's smile looked more like a grimace to Bex. Or a dog baring its teeth. "I'm afraid Ms. Levy misunderstood me, earlier. When she asked to see Jeremy, I told her that he wasn't here. Ms. Levy took that to mean he was missing. She jumped to a conclusion. I'm afraid she's been doing that quite a bit, lately."
"You said he was missing!" Bex heard the whin
e in her voice. She might as well have been stamping her foot and trilling, "You did, you did, you so totally did."
"You misunderstood," Craig repeated.
"Well, that's just fine, Mr. Hunt. That's fine. Now, where did you say your boy was?"
"He's on a trip. With a family friend. I'm sure you understand why I didn't want him here. After everything that's happened, I just wanted Jeremy safe and away from it all."
"You sent him away before you even buried his mother?" Bex demanded.
"I don't happen to think a funeral is an appropriate place for a child. Is that all right with you, Ms. Levy, or should we call Dr. Spock to issue a final verdict?"
"It just seems pretty strange…." Bex mumbled, no longer quite as afraid of being murdered on the spot, but definitely at risk of death by embarrassment.
Travis looked at them both as if the entire exchange hadn't happened. And then he picked up right where he'd left off. Bex had to hand it to him. The man had class.
"So, if I could just speak to Jeremy, Mr. Hunt, by telephone would be fine, I'm sure we could straighten this all out without any more fuss. Wouldn't want anyone to strain a sarcasm muscle now, would we?" To his credit, Travis's homespun, deadpan expression didn't change, even as he verbally smacked both Bex and Craig upside the head.
"Well..." Craig looked around nervously. Good. It was about time the bastard felt nervous. Where was the guy so racked by grief earlier that he could barely keep it together? Bex liked that guy a lot better. Not in a potentially homicidal way, of course, but in the way where he tended to blurt things out before thinking them through. An in-control Craig was really a lot less useful than the edgy one. "Jeremy is actually traveling right now, so I don't know if we could reach him.”
"Aha!" Bex almost said again, but decided to let Travis take the lead on this one.
"Well, then, Mr. Hunt, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station with me. Maybe, if we put our heads together, we can figure out how to reach Jeremy without—"
"But, wait, here, I have an idea." Craig moved over to his telephone answering machine. "How about this? Will this do?"
He pushed the Messages button, and, after a beep, Bex clearly heard the same voice that was recorded back on her own voicemail at the 24/7 office. Only this time, the voice was saying, "Dad? Dad, are you there? Okay, well, anyway. My skates. I totally forgot them. I really wanted to show Aunt Felicia my new long program and she says there'll be a rink next to the hotel, so could you do me a favor and put them in the mail for me? Oh, and my music tape, too? Overnight, please? Pretty please? She said you've got the address. Thanks. See you when I get back!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bex had to hop desperately down the porch steps two at a time to keep up with Gretchen and Travis as they, following a tight-lipped apology, stormed out of Craig's home.
"Wait," she called, only catching up with the couple once they'd reached their car. "Wait, I'm sorry. He told me Jeremy was missing, really he did. I was worried."
"Bex," Gretchen plopped her hands on her hips while Travis walked around to unlock the driver's side door. "You are not a police officer."
"I know that. Really."
"And, to be honest, your snooping around, without any authority, I might add, is really not appropriate or appreciated. I was willing to bend some of our established rules for you, because I understand what kind of merciless pressure you're under, working for a heartless New York media corporation and all. But, honestly, I thought I could trust you to be honest with me, and not just use Travis and me as a plot point to spice up this imaginary story of yours!"
"It's not imaginary!" Bex gave up and resorted to full-fledged whining. She figured if Gretchen was going to treat her like a child, then it was the same as offering her implicit permission to act like one. "I spoke to Craig earlier and he told me that Jeremy was missing."
“Telling you the boy isn't there isn't the same as saying he's missing, Bex."
"He told me he didn't know where Jeremy was."
"I'm sure he meant, at that particular moment. What I think we have here, Bex, if you're saying that it isn't deliberate subterfuge on your part—"
"It's not. Of course it's not. What would I have to gain from lying to you?"
"Then, what I think we have here is a real deficit in productive listening skills on your part. I know that what sometimes happens with young, ambitious, pressured women who are as bright and articulate as we are, is that we tend to do a lot more talking than listening."
"But—"
"And then we jump to erroneous conclusions based on what we wanted to hear, rather than on what was actually said. It's a very dangerous habit, Bex. I suggest you work on it."
"Yes, I will. Okay, thanks. But, see, it wasn't just what Craig said. I got this message from Jeremy on my work phone last night." Bex fumbled in her canvas bag for her cell phone. All she had to do was dial into her messages, let Travis and Gretchen listen to Jeremy's cryptic plea, and they would have to realize that she wasn't making things up, that something very strange was, in fact, going on at the Hunt household. And then they both would be properly sorry for doubting her. Not that the latter was Bex's primary concern, of course.
"Bex," Travis had already leaned over to let Gretchen in on the passenger side. He started his engine, so his words were tossed in Bex's direction through Gretchen's open window and over the hum of his warming-up car. "This isn't a game we're playing here. It's not a TV show. This is a real murder investigation with a real dead body and a real suspect. Now, whether or not Craig Hunt is a suspect is none of your business. But, I can tell you this. Stunts like this make it harder and harder for the department to turn in a clean, uncorrupted case to the District Attorney. It also clues in various people who have no need to be clued in, about what we're thinking and planning. And it makes us look like idiots. That last one, Bex? That last one was really unnecessary."
And then he pulled away from the curb. Leaving Bex standing there, a doughnut of "but... but... buts" stuck in her throat, her cell phone dangling from one outstretched arm, it's message playing impotently into the empty street. Bex closed it and severed the connection. And then she thought of something even more horrible.
She'd come to Craig's in the backseat of Travis and Gretchen's car. Her own vehicle was still parked back at the police station. She was now officially alone and abandoned in the middle of nowhere in particular. It was getting cold again. And dark.
Oh, yes, and one more thing.
Craig Hunt was coming her way.
Bex froze.
She watched him open his front door, clearly waiting to step outside until after Gretchen and Travis pulled away from the curb. And then she watched him amble down the steps, heading in her direction.
Bex looked around. Every house on the block had its doors tightly shut. The few windows that reflected lights, also reflected no people in them. In a community this affluent, Bex bet they all had fancy soundproof windows. In a neighborhood where the annual income was more than a hundred thousand dollars, could anyone hear you scream? And, even if they did, would they give a damn?
Bex supposed that, with half a block still between her and an approaching Craig, she could always run. The question, of course, was, where could she run to? Down the cul-de-sac? That seemed less than productive. Bex had a mental image of herself being whipped around like a pinball straight into Craig's waiting mania.
Could she run in the opposite direction? Wouldn't that just lead her to another cul-de-sac?
Should she try darting behind the houses and onto the currently snow-free ski slopes? Oh, yes, tumbling down a tree-and-other-obstacle-strewn hill just as it was getting too dark to see was definitely the way to go. If you were suicidal, that is. The plethora of options was why, in the end, Bex ruefully decided that the devil she did know was still safer than the one she didn't. And so she stayed rooted to the spot, letting Craig come to her.
In the twilight and half-shadow, sh
e couldn't make out the expression on his face. He might have been smirking. He also might have been surrendering. Apparently there was now a rather fine line between the two. Who knew?
He said, "Looks like you've got a problem."
"Oh, I'll just add it to the list."
Craig sighed. "I have a problem, too."
"Yes. And I daresay, it's even bigger than mine."
"I was thinking." He turned toward his house, the front door still open in what, under other circumstances, might even have seemed a warm and inviting manner. "Maybe we could help each other out?"
Bex instinctively asked a most familiar question most politely. "Are you insane?"
“Truth?" He rubbed the gash on the right side of his face. "I'm not so sure anymore."
"Well, that's a ringing endorsement."
"Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?"
And here, ladies and gentlemen, was her problem. Bex did not want to die. She did not want to be beaten or strangled or bludgeoned to death and left outside in the park for the Clear Lake Police to find and puzzle over. The above had already happened to the last woman in Craig Hunt's orbit. And he had even claimed to love that woman. Bex was pretty certain his feelings for her were not quite in the same league. That being said, Bex's most logical course of action, at this point, was clearly to stay away from Craig Hunt—with screaming hysterically a close second.
Except they had a problem. Because Bex really did want to hear what he had to say. By this point, she figured she deserved it.
Bex asked, "You want my help?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're smart."
"I was smart this morning. You didn't want my help then."
"Actually, this morning you were more of a smart-ass. Not unlike now."
"So why are you talking to me now?"
"Because. You know things. You've been snooping around and asking questions and getting information that, quite frankly, I believe could help me. I think you know more than you think you do. And I think you can help me find Jeremy."