by Scott Blade
The drugstore had a drive-through window, but the window was closed and dark inside and the lane to drive through it had been roped off with extensions.
I walked the downtown. I looked around for store clerks, attendants, cleaners, anyone who held a blue-collar job. I wanted people who made less money than everyone else, people who might be in a more talkative mood than the others. I wanted to ask them if they had seen a young black woman a week ago. I found a few townspeople who fit the bill. So I inquired about Faye’s whereabouts, but no one had seen her.
They hadn’t lied to me. Generally, no one ever lied to me. Most people had the common sense to tell me the information that I required and to do it quickly. Even if I acted polite, which usually I was, they told me fast. Most people didn’t want to risk being discovered in a lie. Not by me. And not about something as serious as a missing woman.
Later in the morning, I came across one lady who walked a French poodle. An older lady, grandmotherly. She was as sweet as could be.
I asked, “Ma’am, do you know anything about a young black woman who came to town last week? She is missing.”
The old lady replied, “Oh, dear. Missing. Oh, dear.”
I said, “Ma’am, have you seen her?”
She shook her head in an early Exorcist movie kind of way, like it was about to start spinning around and around, but it didn’t. Instead, she said, “I heard about that poor fellow who’s looking for her, but I haven’t seen her. I hope that it works out. Poor thing.”
I nodded. She was telling the truth. She hadn’t seen Faye or Chris. She knew nothing. Just gossip. The old birds probably had some sort of phone tree. One would call another one and spread the latest rumors. That sort of thing.
I didn’t want to be one of those rumors. I didn’t want to lose the element of surprise on whoever had Faye. So I didn’t push her any farther. I shrugged, thanked her, and moved on.
I neared one of the churches, the one with the short steeple. A bell sounded from inside. I looked at the shadows on the ground. It was noon.
I had run out of places to search.
There was still the rest of the lake, which looked to just be houses and neighborhoods. I figured that I could spend the rest of the day retracing the Matlinds’ hike around the lake and I could end at the rednecks’ compound. That way I could take my time, make sure that there were no other places for answers, and by the time I reached the fork at the southwest side and the redneck compound, it would be dark.
That was where I shined—in the dark.
Chapter 16
Before I set out to trek around the lake, I needed to eat something. I thought about going back for Matlind, but eight days without sleep, the guy deserved to sleep the day away, so I walked toward the diner. I wanted to eat and I kept thinking about this guacamole steak burger that I’d seen on the menu. I wanted to try it, but the diner was located at the center of town and was surrounded by buildings. Before I went to eat, I wanted to get a look from the lake’s shore and plan out my route, so I decided to walk two blocks to the lake and then head to the diner.
It only took three minutes and 53 seconds for me to reach the lake. I stopped and stood near the edge. The lake was full of boats and fishermen and there were a couple of Jet Skiers chasing each other in a wide circle.
On the little stony beach, kids played and parents fished and drank beer with the labels covered by bottle koozies.
I ignored all of that and scanned the shoreline. I followed it from left to right. Most of the eastern side seemed to be residential, lake houses, woods, and not much else.
It was a lot of area to cover, a lot of area for a new bride to go missing in, and a lot of area to hide a body. Then there was the lake itself. I wasn’t familiar with the depths that it went, but it looked deep enough to sink a body. If it was deep enough, it could be years before it resurfaced.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about her as dead. The clock ticked away, but I had the right perspective. Right now this was a rescue mission, not a recovery. To think of it as a recovery was to give up hope that Faye was alive and that would condemn her to death, if she was still alive.
I turned and left the shoreline behind me.
I walked the two blocks past the Eckhart Medical Center and to the corner in front of the drugstore, where I stopped. My animal brain switched on and my primal instincts surfaced because at that moment, that exact second, I stood on the sidewalk and watched a normal and frequent, daily occurrence take place, one that pissed me off.
A man was hitting on a woman and she rejected his advances, but he continued.
She rejected him again and again, making it obvious from where I stood that she was clearly uncomfortable and wanted to leave.
I saw her just as she stepped out of the drugstore, a small bag in her hand and a purse on her arm, and then I saw the man. First he was cruising in his car down the street with his head hanging out of the driver’s side window. He rubbernecked at her and then he pulled over into the parking lot, left his car running, and got out. He went over to her and stopped her by just standing dead in her way.
He kept on hitting on her and she kept on rejecting him. She tried to walk around him, but he followed her to her vehicle and continued to harass her.
She continued to reject him and she even started raising her voice to him.
He ignored her rejections, and in a rural accent, like one of those fat rednecks, he taunted her.
This was a common everyday occurrence in America, around the world. A man hit on a woman. She rejected him. He harassed her. Typical everyday situation. Nothing new about that. Normally I would’ve already intervened when the guy had gone too far, which this guy clearly had done. Normally I would’ve strongly encouraged the guy to apologize and to move along, but this everyday situation was anything but normal because the woman who was being harassed was the beautiful woman that I had met yesterday morning, the one who jogged around the lake. And the guy was armed. He had a Glock 22 holstered in a plain, brown side holster on his belt. But far worse than that was the fact that this guy was a sheriff’s deputy in full uniform.
Chapter 17
The deputy leaned against Sheldon’s car door, hindering her from getting in and driving away.
Staying on the sidelines, doing nothing, ignoring an injustice wasn’t in my nature. I had generations of cop genes flowing through my blood and bones. So I crossed the street and walked straight up behind the cop.
A flash of recognition came across Sheldon’s face.
I stood four feet from the guy before he heard me. Not good situational awareness.
Uniform or no uniform, cop or no cop, I talked to him like he was just another guy.
I said, “The lady said that she isn’t interested in talking to you. She made that clear.”
The guy turned to face me. He was startled.
Some kind of cop training or ancient predatory urge to defend an imaginary territory came over him because he immediately reached for his gun. He left it holstered. He rested his hand on the butt. It probably made him feel safer. Whatever.
He wasn’t going to draw on me. Not here. Not in front of witnesses on a relatively busy cross section of street in broad daylight. Just then several customers left the drugstore behind him. A mother with her three young kids walked to their car from a shoe store in the plaza. No way was he going to draw, not when he was the one who was in the wrong.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he let out a word, I smelled his breath. He smelled like he had bathed in alcohol. I detected vodka and whiskey and probably beer on his breath. Everyone had gone to the party.
The guy must’ve been up all night doing shots. He probably never went to bed.
He wasn’t wasted. Not completely. Buzzed bad, but mostly coherent.
He asked, “Who the HELL are you!”
I said, “Me? I’m nobody. I’m a passerby.”
He looked puzzled, like he hadn’t been at the top of his class.
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I said, “But you. You’re a cop. A sheriff’s deputy by the look of your uniform. You’re supposed to uphold the law. You’re supposed to always make your department look good.
“Right now I’d say that you are failing. Miserably.”
The cop looked at me with fury in his eyes.
He said, “I’m talking to this lady. She is not your concern. I’m gonna let you walk away now before you get hurt.”
“Hurt?” I asked. “I agree. One of us will get hurt. But it won’t be her and it certainly won’t be me. And that only leaves you. You could pull that gun on a couple of innocent people. And you could slip and the gun could come out of your hand. It could go off and hit you in the leg or the arm and then you’d have to go to the hospital. And explain how this happened.”
He asked, “Are you threat’nin’ me?”
He gripped the gun’s handle. He didn’t brandish it, just grabbed it like a gunslinger waiting for the count of three.
He said, “Threat’nin’ an officer of the law is illegal here.”
I said, “Harassing a citizen, especially sexually harassing a female one, is illegal everywhere.
“Now. Get your hand off your gun. As of right now, we are just a couple of guys talking. Having a verbal dispute. A disagreement.”
My hands hung harmlessly by my sides. No sudden action. No threatening motions. I knew all of the signals that cops were trained to look for and at that moment I displayed none of them.
Still I stayed within grabbing distance of the deputy in case I needed to take the Glock from him before he hurt someone with it.
I said, “Two guys having a verbal disagreement are just that—two guys. Not friends. Not enemies. Just two guys.
“If you pull that gun out then we’ll be enemies. And you don’t want to be my enemy. Trust me.”
The cop stayed quiet. He stood there frozen. He wanted to pull out his Glock and arrest me. I saw it in his eyes, but he didn’t.
With witnesses everywhere, he’d never be able to charge me with anything that would stick. Whatever bogus charge he came up with would get dismissed in court and he’d be suspended for sure. Probably lose his job whenever Sheldon’s testimony came up.
The guy moved his hand away from his gun as he looked around the parking lot and realized that I was right.
I smiled and took a glance at his nameplate. Gemson.
Strange name. Stranger than mine even.
I said, “Good call. Why don’t we just keep this between us?”
He nodded, slowly.
I said, “And in the future why don’t you just steer clear of this woman. Now if I were you, I’d leave your squad car parked where it is, take the keys out of the ignition and get on your cell phone or radio. Call the dispatcher. Tell her that you have suddenly come down with a stomach bug and then walk or call a cab and go home. Get some sleep and sober up.”
Gemson said, “I will see you again.”
He said nothing else, just looked around to see if anyone had paid close attention to what had happened. No one seemed to have picked up on it.
Satisfied, he walked away. Not fast. Not slow. He used a normal speed until he was lost to sight.
I walked over to the cop car, reached in through the window, pressed the gear to neutral, and then I gripped the roof and the side of the car and pushed it over near the curb. It was a fire lane, but, hey, this was an emergency vehicle. Then I popped the lever back to park and reached down and turned off the ignition. I tossed the keys onto the seat, didn’t much care if someone came along and stole the car. Not my business.
Chapter 18
I hadn’t noticed before but Sheldon had dropped her grocery bag while trying to get away from Gemson. Her purchases had spilled out all over the ground. She bent over and began recovering them.
I walked back up the drive to the parking lot, reached her, knelt down beside her, and began helping her pick up the spilled contents.
I put my hand on a box marked Salbutamol, a medication for mild to severe asthma. There were various other pharmaceutical items. One box marked Elavil, an antidepressant, and Ambien, a sleep aid. There were a couple of boxes of Norflex and Flexeril, both muscle relaxers, and there were various other medications that I had never heard of and gauze and other medical supplies.
I said, “That’s a lot of medications. And Salbutamol, that’s for asthmatics. You don’t have asthma. No way. Not the way that you run and the shape that you’re in. Are you a drug dealer or something?”
She scooped up the boxes of pills quickly and then smiled.
She said, “No. And what do you mean about the shape that I’m in?”
I shrugged and then I said, “Your body is immaculate. I’m guessing that you don’t have an ounce of fat on you. No way does someone with severe asthma work out and run as much as you do.”
She smiled, nodded, and then said, “I work at the clinic. This is a supply run.”
I nodded and smiled back.
She stood up and straightened out the bottom of her romper. It looked new. It had a tribal pattern. The bottom was short, well below her fingertips, if she had reached them down by her sides. The back had a “V” shape cut down from her neckline. Her hair was long and blond. She wore it down. The breeze scooped it up and blew it slowly behind her.
She looked comfortable and magnificent all at the same time.
I said, “You don’t dress like someone who works in a clinic.”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”
“Nothing. You look good. Really good. Is it your day off?”
She said, “No. I have clothes at the clinic. We have lockers. I have my scrubs there.”
I nodded.
She smiled at me.
She said, “Nice seeing you again. Very nice.”
She looked me over.
I said, “I know that you have to bring all that stuff in, but would you like to have lunch with me?”
She paused a beat and looked down at a slim wristwatch that hung from her left arm. Then she frowned at the time.
She said, “I really can’t. I’m sorry. I have to get to the clinic. Rain check?”
I nodded. Stayed quiet.
She said, “You can find me at the clinic.”
I smiled and said, “Give me your phone number.”
She told me the digits. I didn’t write them down, just spoke them. I memorized them. She pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her purse and slid them onto her face, pushing the top all the way up on the bridge of her nose. They were big, bulky things like the kind actresses wear.
She got into a new model BMW, started the engine, and pulled away. I watched as she turned the corner and was gone. I thought nothing more of it. It was time to grab a bite to eat, so I headed off toward the diner.
Chapter 19
Starbucks is a company that has grown exponentially, from a single coffee bean to the largest coffee empire in the world. There is more than one reason for its success. First, coffee is addictive. Second, Starbucks provides a place for people to get together. Whatever the reason, Starbucks all over the world are hubs for people to gather, to talk, to read, and to work on whatever it is that people do on their laptops.
Black Rock didn’t have a Starbucks. In this case, the place that served as a hub was the diner, and that was where I was.
I sat in the same booth as before. Hazel was my waitress. The place was busy. Middle of the day and the lunch crowd was here; hell, the whole town was here. The place was filled with restaurant sounds: the clinking of plates, the tinging of silverware, and the humming from the ovens in the kitchen.
I drank a glass of milk and devoured a grilled chicken sandwich.
The diner was full of fishermen in from a morning on the lake, swapping stories of their catches, and gloating over those who had caught nothing. In the corner across from me sat a group of firemen. They wore blue t-shirts with the town of Black Rock’s crest on the front and Fire Department written in big bold lette
rs on the top.
One of them looked kind of old to be a fireman, but I doubted that they saw much action here. So I figured that the townspeople were safe, for now.
At another table sat a pair of office types and across from them, nearer to the bathrooms, there was a blind guy with a younger man and a well-behaved golden retriever, a service animal.
I took the people in the booth next to me to be city officials of some sort. They wore suits and talked about town ordinances and spoke ill of the public by making the occasional joke about some lady who apparently had filed the wrong forms.
I decided to google the Matlinds again and see what else I could find out.
I took my cell phone out of my pocket and checked the Internet. I googled both Matlind and Dr. Matlind. No results and then I typed in Faye’s name. Nothing.
I searched combinations of their names and the word “married.” Nothing.
I checked a website related to local arrests and crimes. There was nothing about Faye, nothing about Chris. There was a good bit about the missing girls, but nothing new to me. The cops were baffled before and still were today. They suspected that the girls were targeted because they had traveled alone on lonely highways and interstates.
The only thing that caught my attention was one website that had posted pictures of the missing girls, which was good because I could memorize their faces. Most were young. Some were white. Some black. Some Hispanic. The only thing that jumped out at me about them was that they were all beautiful. I don’t mean simply attractive. I mean beautiful like a model is in real life. They were drop-dead gorgeous. Really top-quality-looking young women.
The website also mentioned the missing teenage girl from Grange Town, which was about 40 miles south of the lake. Her name was Ann Gables. There was a picture of her on the website with an amber alert. She was a minor. She was black and stunningly beautiful.