M.I.A.

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  M.I.A.

  Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2008 by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition January 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-507-0

  Also by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  The Fall

  Caleb & Thinnes Mysteries

  The Man Who Understood Cats

  The Death of Blue Mountain Cat

  Incendiary Designs

  The Feline Friendship

  White Tiger

  For Richard A. Schaefer

  My dad died the spring I was seventeen.

  Mickey Fahey was a state cop. It was a rainy Monday and he was directing traffic around an earlier accident when some moron in a Suburban lost it on the rain-slick road. They don’t suspend the laws of physics just ’cause you got four-wheel drive. Two tons of vehicle doing fifty versus two hundred pounds of cop standing still. You do the math.

  The cops do funerals right. A couple hundred showed up in uniform. Chicago sent a troop of bagpipers in kilts. After it was over my mom and I were left with a flag and a big hole in our lives. She lost her husband. I lost my best friend.

  —from the journal of J. W. Fahey

  Rhiann

  “Mrs. Fahey?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Assistant Principal Lodge at the high school. Your son didn’t come to school today.”

  I felt my world disintegrate. Again. I said, “I know. I’m sorry. I was supposed to call. He’s ill.” That last word sounded so alien. But honest. Not a lie, like “He’s sick”; Jimmy wasn’t sick except at heart. Heartsick. Not physically disabled. Psychically.

  I said, “We’ve all been a little off since his dad died.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. It sounded mechanical. “Have you considered having him see our psychologist?”

  “Not your fault,” I said. I let her question go unanswered.

  There was a long pause. Like when someone says something so out of line no one knows what to say.

  She finally managed, “Well, thanks for calling.” I didn’t bother to remind her that I hadn’t.

  I called home as soon as I hung up. There was no answer. I left a message: “Jimmy, we have to talk. If you’re not there when I get home, I’ll have to report you missing.”

  He knew I would. Mickey had hit on that method when Jimmy was fourteen and inclined to disappear. Mickey would call all the numbers we’d collected from Jimmy’s friends and ask if they’d seen Jimmy. None had, of course. But Mickey would ask them to pass along a message: If we didn’t find him soon, we’d have to report his absence to the police.

  Usually, Jimmy would call home before Mickey got to the bottom of the list. After a while, Jimmy stopped disappearing.

  He was in the family room when I got home from work, lying on the couch upside down, with his knees hooked over the couch back. “Hi ya, Ma,” he said.

  There was a half-empty Jack Daniel’s bottle on the floor. Yesterday, it had been nearly full.

  He waited upside down. I just stood and stared. Finally, he said, “Aren’t you gonna bitch me out?”

  “You’ll have a doozy of a hangover. That ought to be enough.”

  He groaned and shifted to a horizontal position, dangling his left arm on the floor.

  “Why do you have to be so…? So…?”

  “Reasonable?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shook my head and went across to the kitchen to dump the whiskey down the drain. The family room is sort of an extension of the kitchen, separated from it by a large counter we sometimes use as a table. I went to the liquor cabinet, gathered up all the bottles, and emptied them as well.

  Jimmy rolled on his side and put his head on his arm. “I could get more.”

  “Will that help?”

  I could see the tears come. He buried his face.

  “Jimmy, what is it you want?”

  “I want Dad.” He started sobbing. He jumped up and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door.

  I sat on the couch and fought my own tears. I wanted Mickey, too.

  “Ma, tell me about my first dad.” He was over the heaves and had cleaned himself up. He was lying on the couch again with his head on my lap.

  I stroked his hair. “He was a good man. Brave. Loyal.”

  “You always say that. I need details.”

  “I didn’t know him well.”

  Jimmy put his arm over his eyes. “I thought you grew up together.”

  “We weren’t grown-up. I was younger than you when we married. I didn’t know myself, much less Billy. And he was only eighteen.”

  “So why did you?” He raised his arm just enough to look at me for an answer.

  “He was going to war. We were more idealistic than smart. We were going to live forever. Together. But we never talked about what that meant.” I shrugged. “I think we also knew he might not come back. We never talked about that, either.”

  Jimmy was dozing, still on the couch, and I was halfway through making dinner, chopping parsley for tabbouleh salad, when the back doorbell rang. I looked out the kitchen window at the drive that runs from the street to the garage behind our house. There was a sheriff’s police cruiser parked there.

  Rory Sinter was at the back door, hat in hand. “Afternoon, Rhiann,” he said through the screen door. He was Mickey’s buddy. Had been. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral.

  I nodded at him. “Rory.”

  He was almost as tall as Mickey, six feet at least. One of those blond men who’s always unnaturally red because he’s too macho to wear sunscreen. He stepped close enough to the screen to brush it with his duty belt. He tried the doorknob even before asking, “Can I come in?” The door was locked.

  “What brings you up this way?” I asked.

  “Mickey was my best friend.” He tried the knob again. “I’d be a hell of a pal if I didn’t look in on his widow now’n then.”

  I remembered asking Mickey what he saw in Rory. Mickey had said, “He doesn’t have any other friends.” He did have a wife.

  He pushed the door handle again. Reluctantly, I unlatched the door, then retreated behind the counter to resume chopping. I was using the big French chef’s knife I gave Mickey last Christmas.

  Rory walked over to the counter and watched me for a while. As I brushed the parsley into a bowl and reached for a tomato, he said, “If there’s anything you need…”

  “I need Mickey.” As soon as I said it, I was sorry.

  “I know I’m not Mickey—”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He didn’t get it. “But if you need someone to talk to…” The way he said it let me know he was offering more than conversation.

  “I’m not lonely. I’ve got Jimmy.” I looked pointedly at the couch where my son slept fitfully.

  Rory must have realized for the first time that I wasn’t alone. He seemed embarrassed. He edged toward the door. “Well, you got my number if you need anything.”

  “I do. Thanks.” I stood there, holding the knife on the cutting board until he closed the door behind him.

  A week later, I was weeding around my ro
sebushes when the real estate company’s handyman came by to mow the lawn next door. The house and the rehabbed barn that served as a garage, to the west of ours, were all that remained of a farm subdivided years earlier. More recent owners had changed the siding, replaced the windows, added a dormer and veranda, and relandscaped around the house and the five-hundred-year-old oaks surrounding it. But it was still a fairly ugly structure that stood out among the surrounding homes like a cow at a dog show. Whitewashing the barn hadn’t changed that, either.

  The property had been for sale since March, the owners long since moved away. They’d made a deal with the realtor to maintain the place until it sold. The handyman and I had established a nodding acquaintance. When he was finished cutting the grass, he hung a CONTRACT PENDING notice under the company’s FOR SALE sign.

  “Who’d they sell it to?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Some guy got more money than sense. I heard he paid the asking price. Coulda got it for a whole lot less if he’d just held out a while.”

  The new neighbor moved in May first. He arrived in a twenty-four-foot U-Haul truck, towing a beat-up Jeep. I was sitting on the front porch, skimming the paper, when he curbed the U-Haul next door and jumped out to unhitch the Jeep. He was tall and tan and very thin. His beard and hair were nearly white—prematurely, I’d say, because he moved like a much younger man. He was dressed to work—navy T-shirt, ratty Levi’s, and scuffed work boots. He left the Jeep at the curb and backed the truck into and down the drive on the first try.

  The driver jumped out, and a twenty-something kid joined him from the other side. They opened the barn doors, and the man backed the truck far enough inside so that I couldn’t see what they unloaded—lots of stuff, apparently. It was half an hour before the man pulled the truck up to the veranda steps of the house, and the kid closed the barn.

  It took longer for them to get the furniture inside. Everything looked like the good stuff, mostly wood and heavy. Expensive. There wasn’t a whole lot—dressers, disassembled beds, tables, chairs, a broad modern desk—but they had to maneuver it up the porch steps. Presumably, some of it had to go up the narrow stairs and around corners to be distributed among the upper rooms.

  Then there were boxes, grocery-store giveaways by the labels—the kind you packed the contents of your drawers and shelves in, and your kitchen equipment. Some of the boxes seemed heavy—books perhaps. There was the large black-spotted white carton of a Gateway computer. The printer and stereo equipment were easy to identify—no packaging at all.

  All in all it seemed like hot work for just two men. I went inside and put together a tray—plastic tumblers, ice bucket, assorted pops, and a pitcher of iced tea.

  I got to the foot of the veranda steps just as the movers were coming out for more boxes, the elder in the lead. He stopped when he noticed me. He seemed startled.

  Up close, he didn’t look any older than me, despite deep furrows over his brows, extensive crow’s-feet, and the snow-white hair. It was off his collar and ears, but long enough to hang over his forehead, like Elvis. His beard—what would’ve been termed a goatee if it were longer—was neatly trimmed. The skin on his arms was pocked with tiny white scars, dozens of them; crown-of-thorns tattoos circled his biceps, showing below his sleeves like heavy dark lace.

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m Rhiann Fahey. Next door. Could you use something cold?”

  “Sure could,” the man said. He stepped quickly down the steps to take the tray from me. He handed it to the boy, and lifted a box down from the back of the truck. He put the box on the veranda; the boy balanced the tray on top.

  The man offered me his hand. “I’m John Devlin, your new neighbor.”

  I shook his hand; he had a warm, firm grip. He said, “This is Davey, Mrs. Fahey, my assistant.”

  I wondered how he knew I was Mrs., but as quickly remembered my wedding ring.

  Davey nodded and said, “Pleased to meet you.” He was my height and stocky, with crew-cut blond hair and green eyes. He was dressed in the same uniform as his boss, sans tattoos. He looked longingly at the pop cans.

  “Please, help yourself,” I told him.

  He took a Coke, popped it open, and drank most of it down in one long gulp. Then he swallowed a belch and nodded appreciatively.

  John helped himself to a tumbler and handed one to me. He pointed to the tray and waved his finger back and forth at it, raising his eyebrows.

  “Iced tea,” I told him.

  He filled my tumbler, then his own. We helped ourselves to ice cubes. I held up my drink. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  John said, “Thanks.” He took a drink and added, “This hits the spot.”

  I had the strongest feeling of déjà vu. “Have we met before?”

  He gave me a dazzling smile that vanished before he said, “Maybe in a former life.”

  John

  I have always hated spring. In the spring of 1987, I decided I would change my attitude. New house, new neighborhood, new neighbors. Maybe I could muster a new feeling about the season.

  The house on Cemetery Road was “a charming traditional farmhouse” according to the real estate agent, an eyesore, as far as I could see. But it was situated on an acre lot and had the most essential features: Location. Location. Location.

  The place came with neighbors: Rhiann Fahey and her son. She was widowed, the real estate agent said. She had a melancholy expression when she thought no one was looking. Up close, she was exquisite—Black Irish with pale skin and raven hair, intensely blue eyes. Made me want to grab my camera or a sketchpad.

  When she came over with iced tea and sodas, she solved the problem of how to introduce myself. I wondered how long she’d grieve for her dead husband. And if she’d notice me when she was done.

  Jimmy

  “Did you ever wonder if you were adopted?” I asked Finn one day. Finn and I have been best friends since the seventh grade. We were hanging out in the McDonald’s parking lot, leaning on the hood of my ’77 Chevy.

  “No,” Finn said. He ran his fingers through his carrot-colored hair. “I look just like my dad. All I gotta do is look in the mirror.” He stared at me. “Why’d ya ask? You know you were adopted.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Since Dad died, I’ve been wondering about my birth father. When I ask Ma about him, she gets real vague.”

  “Maybe they didn’t get along.”

  “She said they did.”

  Finn shrugged. “Anyway, why do you have to get it from her?”

  “’Cause he’s been MIA eighteen years. I’m not gonna find out anything from him.”

  “He wasn’t MIA before he went missing, was he? I mean, he was born on this planet, wasn’t he?”

  “Finding that out could be more work than a term paper.”

  Finn’s always been better in school than me. Research is a game for him. He grinned. “How bad do you want to know?” He pulled out his Camels. “I bet if you were trying to find out what your mom got you for Christmas, you wouldn’t have a problem.” He shook one halfway out of the pack, holding it out.

  I waved it away. “No, thanks, man.”

  He shrugged. He grabbed the cigarette with his lips and pulled it free, then put the pack away and lit up.

  I waited while he took a long drag and blew the smoke out in rings. “Those things’ll stunt your growth, man.”

  Finn laughed. He’s already six inches taller than me. “Like I gotta worry. You ever ask your dad about your birth father?”

  “Nah. I was afraid he’d think—I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “I hear ya. But I bet he would’ve told you if you asked.”

  I just shrugged. Too late now.

  “Too bad your ma’s such a dickhead about it.”

  I put my fists up. “You calling my ma a dickhead?”

  He shoved his cig in his mouth and held up his open hands. “No, man. You got the coolest ma in the state, or maybe the whole country. Just…” He dropped his hands and to
ok a long drag on his cigarette. “It’d be easier if she’d just tell you.”

  “She’s probably got her reasons.”

  Finn blew a huge smoke ring. “That doesn’t mean you can’t do a little detecting.”

  “Where do I even start?”

  “Doesn’t your ma have some old albums or love letters?”

  “Love letters?”

  “Yeah. My ma used to.” He took another drag and dropped the cigarette, then crushed it underfoot.

  “Used to?”

  Finn shrugged. “She burned them after she caught me reading them. Pretty hot stuff.”

  “Gross!”

  He laughed. “There’s always your birth certificate.”

  “What’ll that tell me—besides that I was born?”

  “Where you were born.”

  “I know that.”

  “Where your folks were born. Which could lead to your birth father’s parents. Get creative. I’m not gonna do everything for you. Besides, I gotta be home for dinner in fifteen minutes. And you’re gonna give me a ride—if you can get that heap started.”

  Rhiann

  I arrived at work the next morning to find a semi tractor with a forty-eight-foot trailer blocking the drive and the front door of the office. It was still there after I parked my car. The driver had left it running, so I got in and drove it to the far end of the back lot—two blocks away. By the time I hitched a ride back with Squirrel, the yard man, the trucker had come back and was on the verge of a meltdown. Frank was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “Hey!” I yelled at the trucker. When he finally looked at me, I tossed the keys to him and said, “Relax.”

  It took him about ten seconds to realize what he was holding. “Where’s my truck?”

  I pointed to the NO PARKING, TOW ZONE sign that had been hidden by his rig.