by A. S. French
The other furniture included a pea-green three-piece suite, a large TV on a stand too small for it, and a coffee table. More impressive was the bookcase: Jacques Derrida next to Kant, Nietzsche brushing spines with Germaine Greer, Simone de Beauvoir sharing space with Hannah Arendt. On the bottom row, it looked like the complete works of Agatha Christie.
Grace appeared in the doorway. ‘This was my gran’s house. I haven’t gotten around to changing the furniture and décor since she passed.’
‘What about the books?’
‘They were all hers, but I love to read, as well.’
Astrid reached down and picked out The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
‘This is one of the first things I ever read. Christie was a genius.’ She was seven when she discovered how untrustworthy authors could be, but it was two years before that she realised the same about people. She put the book back and glanced at the stack of records and CDs piled in the corner: most of it was jazz from the 1950s, with the odd sixties American rock album dropped in for good measure. ‘Is the music your gran’s as well?’
‘No, that’s all mine.’ She picked out one by Thelonious Monk. ‘I’ve loved jazz since I was a little girl.’ Astrid put a finger in her mouth and pretended to throw up. Grace shook her head. ‘You obviously have no taste. Come through to the kitchen, and we’ll have our drinks and read this together.’
She held the police report in one hand and the CD in the other. Astrid followed her into the room, hoping she wouldn’t play the disc. As she considered how not to offend her host, she scrutinised a kitchen stuffed with garish ornaments: a six-piece set of tiny chefs stood next to a row of grinning pigs near the window, while a dozen or so novelty salt and pepper pots lined the shelf above the cooker. She took a seat at the table and glanced at the plate of chocolate biscuits in the middle. An aroma of sugar and cocoa drifted off them.
‘They smell freshly baked.’
‘Tuck in,’ Grace said. ‘I can cook a meal later. Just tell me what you want.’
Astrid couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for her. ‘That would be great; thank you.’
She grabbed a biscuit and bit into it, savouring how the chocolate melted in her mouth as Grace pushed a large, steaming mug of coffee towards her. Astrid warmed her hands on the mug while staring at the photos dotted around the kitchen. Grace was in every one of them at various ages, always holding on to an older woman Astrid assumed was her grandmother.
Astrid read through the report. There wasn’t much in it which differed from what Christina Sanchez had told her. What she was interested in was what wasn’t in it. She sipped at the drink and finished scanning the text.
‘What are the statistics for missing kids here?’
Grace pushed the papers to one side. ‘We get perhaps four or five a year. Most of those eventually return because they wanted to sample the bright lights of a big city, but find it’s too much for them and hightail it home.’
‘What about the ones who disappear but are never reported or recorded?’
Grace looked sheepish. ‘How do you know about those?’
Astrid twirled another biscuit through her fingers, rich on the one side, impoverished on the other. ‘I’ve lived on the streets, been to plenty of places where things are seen differently dependent upon whose interests are affected the most, and it works the same everywhere. The authorities can only do so much, and when resources are lacking, or the motivation is missing, certain people fall way down the list of priorities. Does Tanner have any children?’
‘He’s got two daughters, thirteen and fourteen years old.’
‘I guarantee he’d get the National Guard out here in an instant if one of those disappeared.’ Grace nodded in agreement. ‘How many kids do you think go missing from communities similar to where Alex lives?’
‘There’s been a few this year, more than usual.’
‘What number are we talking about?’
Grace held out her hands. ‘Perhaps five or six.’
‘Why haven’t the authorities done anything about that?’
‘The Chief and the Mayor usually put them down as runaways because, well, you know…’
Astrid knew what she meant. ‘Because why would any kid want to live somewhere like that?’ She finished her drink and stood. ‘Can you get a list of those names and dates of when they were last seen?’
‘I’ll try,’ Grace said. ‘The Chief doesn’t usually keep official records if the families don’t report their child missing.’
‘Okay, that’s a start. Now I need you to take me to this youth group Alex supposedly joined.’
‘We might have a problem getting in; they don’t like strangers inside their compound.’
Astrid devoured another biscuit. ‘Well, that’s fine, because you’re not a stranger, Officer Crowley. So go and get changed.’
Grace did as instructed as Astrid considered how far the corruption went in this picturesque religious town.
5 Young Americans
Once they were back in the car and on their way, Astrid asked Grace what the locals thought of Alex’s political activism.
‘Most people ignored her.’ Grace headed into the country. ‘As far as I know, she didn’t have anyone her age supporting her, which is why she travelled into New York to join up with other protestors and demonstrations.’
They entered the rolling countryside. ‘From what little I’ve seen of the town and its people, I’m assuming she didn’t fit in with the consensus.’ They drove past a Christians for Brady billboard as Grace nodded. ‘So did she encounter any problems here because of her activism?’
Grace put her foot down. ‘Some were more aggressive towards her, calling her names, SJW, that sort of thing. Alex took it in her stride; she wouldn’t let anybody intimidate her.’
‘Did she ever get in trouble with the police?’
Grace shook her head. ‘As I said, I don’t think she started or participated in any demonstrations in Angel Springs.’
‘What about any other activities, problems at school, or petty crime?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
They drove past dilapidated farmhouses, which looked like they hadn’t been lived in for years, down by the edge of a great lake and into a large wooded area. Astrid rolled the window down to take in the country air, breathing in fresh flowers. The greens outnumbered the yellows and purples as they left the town behind them, and it wasn’t long before they reached the first sign for the Future Youth Project.
She pointed at it.
‘What do you know about this?’
‘Not a lot. What they promote isn’t my cup of tea.’ Grace scratched at her throat. ‘Senator Brady funds the organisation. I think someone on his staff thought it would be a good idea to have the youth vote behind him.’
‘How old do you have to be to vote in America?’
‘The legal voting age in the US is eighteen, but voter registration and pre-registration rules and ages are different in every state. You can pre-register at sixteen here.’
‘Brady wants to get them in early?’
Grace shrugged. Astrid remembered how disinterested she had been with politics at that age, how all she’d cared about was getting away from those who hurt her. Things only changed when the Agency recruited her. Then she paid attention to what her employers wanted her to do and how those assignments impacted the world.
She wondered what her current worldview was as they stopped outside a walled compound. It reminded her of an old Soviet Block training camp, which became a Russian troll factory. Someone had painted an inviting inscription at the top across the wooden railing: Working for the Future.
Astrid got out of the car and grimaced at the soullessness of the whole thing. Even the mass of flowering trees either side and around the walls couldn’t inject any beauty into its sparse and utilitarian façade; she’d seen the outside of prison blocks which looked better.
‘We stand here in our torpor and delive
r destruction of all human emotion.’
‘What?’ Grace said.
‘Nothing,’ Astrid replied. ‘Just something I wrote in my youth.’
‘You’re a writer?’ Grace pressed the buzzer at the gate.
‘I dabbled in my past life.’ Before Courtney ridiculed her for it, and her father beat it out of her. Then her diaries disappeared the day she went to the law and accused him of beating her for a decade to the same police who employed him. The courage it took her to look into their faces and detail every time he hit her was something that changed Astrid forever. It wasn’t just a family she lost then, but all her fear.
She thought, once she escaped the clutches of the Agency, she might return to her writing, but missing children seemed to be monopolising all of her time.
Grace was about to speak when a shadow appeared from behind the compound. A spotty youth wearing oversized blue glasses stood at the gate. He gazed at the tall policewoman, and then turned his head to Astrid.
‘What do you want, girls?’ He must have been all of sixteen.
Astrid watched Grace bristle as she showed him her badge. ‘Let us inside, kid.’
The boy didn’t budge. Astrid walked up to the gate separating him from her. ‘I like your gegs.’
‘What?’
‘Your specs; they make you look smart, intelligent even. Are you the brains of the outfit?’
He stared at her as if she was from another planet. ‘Are you English?’ he said after much-scrunched concentration.
‘Born and bred in the land of Albion.’ Astrid tried to sound like a member of the Royal Family.
He scrutinised her even more before lifting his finger to his ear when it vibrated. ‘You can come in.’ He opened the gates.
‘We’ll need the car,’ Grace said as she returned to it. She drove into the compound while Astrid followed the boy inside.
All she thought about as they headed towards the buildings were similar facilities she’d seen on the news over the years; Waco and various other cults that’d come to an unpleasant end. Brady’s impressive mansion stood magnificent in the sun, while to the side were several fabricated huts and cabins, which she assumed housed the Future Youth Project. A dozen or so poles lined the path, with the American flag fluttering from all of them.
Grace parked the car and joined Astrid as a group of teenagers with complexions as grey as their clothes greeted them. They projected fake smiles and perfect white teeth. The kids led them through the grounds, past the manicured bushes and water fountain, and into the mansion.
‘Senator Brady lets us use this for all of our meetings and events,’ one of the teenagers stated.
They strode down a large corridor adorned with the heads of many dead animals and the smell of something disagreeable. The teenagers must have noticed Astrid wrinkling her nose in discomfort.
‘We had to have the whole carpet industrially cleaned recently,’ one of their guides said as they ushered Astrid and Grace into a vast library. Globe lamps hung from the ceiling and seemed as out of place as Astrid felt. She recognised Senator Bob Brady’s bulbous features from the billboards and posters as he strode towards them with his hand out.
‘Officer Crowley,’ he bellowed, ‘Roscoe said you’d be coming.’
Everything about him screamed wealth and power. His head was perched at an angle, looking away from Astrid, but she knew he was analysing every part of her, likely based on what Tanner had told him. He wore black leather shoes shined to within an inch of their life, a navy blue suit that must have been tailored for him. He smelt of cologne freshly shipped from Paris while his smile was sculpted into his cheekbones. Grace gave Astrid a quick look and shook his hand.
‘Senator.’
He held on to her fingers for too long before turning to Astrid. ‘And this must be our British visitor; Miz Snow, is it?’ He thrust his hand towards her. She gripped his flesh as if squeezing coal into diamonds. He quickly let go. ‘I hear you’re a bit of a shamus, travelling over land and sea to find one of our errant children.’
She couldn’t tell if he was messing with her or not. ‘Thank you for letting us into your facility.’
‘No problem, little lady. Perhaps you could introduce me to the Queen someday.’ He barked out a laugh which made the windows tremble. ‘So, ladies, how can I help you?’
He looked like someone who smiled for twenty hours a day, maybe more if he got a good night’s sleep. She’d seen it before with politicians, when the face worked through reflex only, while inside the head, their real thoughts crept far too close to the outside world. He would turn the smile on without thinking, and she guessed it was a rare time when he let his guard down. That’s what she aimed for.
‘Can you tell us what Alex Sanchez did while she was here with you, Senator?’
He had the look of a waiter who knew he wasn’t about to get a tip. ‘I never met the girl, Miz Snow. Didn’t the police tell you that?’ He scowled at Grace. ‘I was at a funeral when she was here.’
He’d lost the initial spark from his face as Astrid scrutinised the shade behind his eyes. ‘A funeral?’
Brady moved to the side and poured himself a long glass of ice water. He didn’t offer any to them as the temperature increased, and Astrid imagined she’d swallowed the sun in the last twenty seconds. Heat swept through her chest as she assumed Brady had sent some secret signal to his teenage minions for one of them to turn the heating up in the room. He bit into a piece of ice, and it cracked at the same time as Astrid flexed her fingers.
‘Yes, Miz Snow; I was attending the funeral of a great man when that girl was allegedly here.’ He peered at her and rolled the ice between his lips. ‘As a general rule of thumb, the younger you die, the better the turnout for a funeral. The dream is to expire at the age of ninety-nine with no one at the crematorium apart from a couple of stragglers who have turned up for the wrong person.’ He swallowed the cube and grinned at her. ‘How many do you think will see you off into the next world, Miz Snow?’
She couldn’t decide if it was a veiled threat or not; she hadn’t spent enough time with the man to understand his motives yet. ‘Hopefully, that’ll be long into the future.’
He pulled in his chiselled cheekbones in mock horror. ‘Of course, of course, Miz Snow. But the older I get, the more I find myself thinking about the end of my days. It’s one of the reasons I’m determined to do my best for this town and the people of America. And why I’m fighting to get so many youngsters involved in the running of this great country. I want them to have a better upbringing than I did.’
Astrid was surprised by the implication. ‘This isn’t your family home?’
His laugh was hearty and genuine. ‘I grew up inside a log cabin, surrounded by trees and creatures that skittered and ran and flew. I was fourteen when I first visited the city, overwhelmed by the size of it. Running water and a toilet that flushed were gifts from the gods to me. Before then, my only entertainment came from reading, which morphed into developing my puppet shows with characters from my favourite books.’ He glanced around the library. ‘It wasn’t isolated where I lived; other cabins and families were working the woods and the river, and there was a school with kids my age. It wasn’t long before I was the King of the Puppets for my peers, thrilling and scaring them with tales from the fiction which kept me up at night. The Three Little Pigs metamorphosed into three strangers terrorising the community; Little Red Riding Hood became every child in the school terrified by the Head Teacher. I was slapped on the wrist and made to write a thousand lines when they caught me performing that one.’
The Senator was a man who enjoyed talking. Every time he opened his mouth, even if it was only giving directions, a story flopped out: there was a beginning, middle and end; the beginning being the flowery salutation he greeted you with, whereas the end always left you wanting more. But she didn’t want more of his story; she needed to know what happened to Alex.
‘Is there anyone here, in your organisation, who
can tell us about Alex’s movements with your youth project on that day?’
He picked up a small silver bell and shook his fingers to ring it. Two of the grey squad from earlier scampered into the room.
‘Take these ladies to see Glen.’
With those instructions, he turned without any other acknowledgement of their presence or any goodbye and marched out. The twins stared at Astrid and Grace through glassy eyes.
‘Who’s Glen?’ Astrid said as they returned the way they come. They were shown outside and around the corner to a rusted metal hut which, their guides told them, was the group’s educational facility. Inside was Glen, the organisation’s Strategic Youth Leader.
He wore a skinny tie over a plaid shirt, a painfully short haircut sculpted into a head that reminded her of a wonky apple. He didn’t hold out his hand as he instructed the dozen or so students to close their books. Astrid noted the Pray Your Gay Away title on their reading material as the learners scuttled out of the classroom, and she and Grace stepped in.
‘Senator Brady told us you were the man to speak to regarding Alex Sanchez’s recent visit here.’
He pressed the book to his chest. His lips parted like a cobra, ready to strike. ‘She was only here for a day. This wasn’t the place for her.’
Grace took out the copy of the police report. ‘I thought she stayed for two nights?’
‘No, ma’am; it was only one day, no nights. She caused too much trouble that first day.’
Astrid watched the darkness creep across his face. ‘What kind of trouble?’
He picked up a pencil from the desk and tapped on the wood with it. ‘She kept on saying how we were all wrong, that the Senator was a bad man, and she was here to convert us into the right way of thinking.’ Glen shook his head and looked dismayed. ‘She shouted all the time, screaming that fracking was evil and we weren’t doing enough to protect the planet.’
Astrid pictured Alex and imagined the scene as she scanned the classroom. ‘How did she end up here?’
He dropped the pencil onto the desk, where it rolled away and tumbled to the floor. Astrid picked it up and put it in her jacket.