You Were Here

by Gian Sardar

  A block from her destination, Abby’s phone rings, the chime she’s assigned her mother. She presses Answer, switches to speaker, and balances the phone on her thigh. “I’m driving.”

  “Okay,” Dorothy says, “but wait. Robert said you had one of those old nightmares.”

  Robert said. Her mother and Robert have a connection, a bond formed over Jeopardy!, battling from the couch when Dorothy’s in town and sometimes from the phone when she’s not. Final Jeopardy’s on, here’s the question, what’s your answer? Most likely her mother had called the landline before trying Abby’s cell, but in a way Abby feels told on, as if the return of the dreams is a weakness and a warning has been sounded.

  “Not just one,” Abby says. “Four nights of them. In a row. In one I heard a name over and over.” Up ahead, Candace pulls to a stop in front of a large Craftsman house.

  “A name?”

  The curb Abby pulls alongside has no sidewalk, and bright fuchsia bougainvillea presses against the window, no doubt scratching the car. “Right as I started to choke. Claire Ballantine.”

  The moment she says this, she remembers the dream, the name spoken in her own voice—it started with bougainvillea. A fevered flush of petals, thorns like fangs. She looks away, a heat rising within the car.

  “Claire Ballantine?” her mother repeats, with a short laugh. “You knew Claire.”

  “What?” Abby jerks up the brake, thrown. She wants out, to be in the open air—but she can’t, or Candace will see her and the phone call will end.

  “Well, you never knew her knew her. She was long gone before you were born. She was a friend of your grandmother’s.”

  A friend. The idea that this Claire was real and not just a product of a rebellious and inventive mind has at first confused her, but is now curving into a comfort. An explanation. A chance to be understood. This is good.

  “Your grandmother’s best friend. Her neighbor. At that first house I lived in, in Minneapolis, before my dad left—Lake of the Isles, right on the water. Mrs. Ballantine lived next door. Mother spent all her time with her. A ceramicist—not professionally, of course; those women didn’t have jobs, they had hobbies. I have your grandmother’s old letters. I know she’s mentioned.”

  From inside her purse Abby takes out a pen and the little notebook in which she records the stories. “You have the letters?”

  “With your grandmother’s things. In the basement. I still haven’t gone through it all, if you can believe that. And they had money then, my parents. At one point they were rich. I suppose that means the Ballantines were well-off, too. I always wondered where the money went, to the state?”

  Candace is now out of her car, by the front path to the house, searching the street. A drape flutters in an upper window and Abby watches, waiting to see a face. “I thought the money went because your dad left.”

  “Not them. The Ballantines. Claire Ballantine disappeared, foul play. A robbery gone wrong.”

  Foul play. There it is. A feeling. The name a token, a link, a shining gleam above dark water—there’s more, keep looking.

  “Mr. Ballantine,” her mother continues, “William, it was. He died a while after she disappeared. Suicide. Hanged himself in the basement. Devastated over the loss of his wife. The housekeeper found him on her day off.”

  Now Abby faces the bougainvillea, the piercing flame of color. William, it was.

  “Your grandmother was a mess, yelling at a dead man. She was mad at him, I’ll never forget that. Even later, when she was sick, she talked about it, Mrs. Ballantine’s disappearance. Boy, did she still blame him.”

  “That’s horrible. That he did that. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” But then a pause as her mother gathers her words, a churning of realization. “Abby, maybe you did. She could’ve said something to you. It makes sense. When you were young. Some horrible story about her friend. She talked about it all the time and she had no concept of what was appropriate, the things she’d say to a child. Remember when she had you keep the curtains shut?”

  “No.”

  “The house was a cavern. She told you people were looking for her. This could be it,” her mother says, her words rising with a glide of hope, “and now that you’re having those dreams in L.A., there’s no reason to stay away. Maybe you’ll find something in your grandmother’s things.”

  A scratching on the glass—the bougainvillea bush that’s pressed against her window is shaking. Something’s inside. Abby tries to see what through the glass, but all that’s there is a dark tangle of woody limbs. Another beat and the branch goes still. Her eyes focus and there it is, a bird and its nest. A deep breath—all is fine.

  “Maybe I will come home,” she says. “If there’s no reason not to.” She grabs her purse and the notepad and it’s then that she sees she’d been writing on the paper. The name, William Ballantine, surrounded by a gradient of ovals.

  She looks up, and at last the door to the Craftsman house swings open. An old man’s lined face peers into the afternoon. And though it makes no sense, Abby’s struck with the irrational feeling that she’d been waiting for someone else.

  The river is a steady gleam. Go, take a lunch, Schultz had said. Clear your head. But Aidan went straight to the woods. His run was needed, missed in these last few days of recanvassing crime scenes, interviewing friends at the ICU and neighbors on lawns, and developing a victimology that’s left him staring at emails and bank transactions until he actually felt the worry of Sarah Breining’s bounced check, a deposit made a hair too late. Sleep would be nice, on something other than one of the cots in the station’s lounge, but the run was what he needed.

  Now he rests at the water, trying to hear only the sound—the harmony of a small portion of Makade Falls that hits a jut of rocks before falling once again, almost lost to the muscled force that rounds the crest and plummets fifty feet. Sprays of water, a roiling pool. The meshed sound of those two currents is a soundtrack to the past. His old life, easy.

  St. Paul was where things changed. Everything had been taking shape, honing, streamlining, leading to a point, the pinnacle that was the future Aidan Mackenzie. He would be detective—under a year away, if he’d had to guess—and he’d live in a little brick house with a wife whose hips would take on a bit too much padding and whose threshold for worry would be off the charts. They’d have kids, and now and then he’d pull up a chair to help them with homework only to realize he’d forgotten just about everything from those pencil-scented years of schooling. But for the present, his memory would be scalding and accurate and he’d pour tall drinks to wash away the day’s grit, and in no time his wife would tire of waking him when he shook in his sleep. The kids would grow up; he’d retire. Time-shares would be had. One of his sons, he was sure, would end up a cop, and Aidan would then spend his brittle years listening to how things had changed, how they’d morphed from what he could never understand into something that was simply unfathomable.

  That was his life and it was as clear to him as if someone had shown him the album. And most of that was fine—it went with the territory. Until one day, a year and a half ago, the newspaper that covered a basement window in the Frogtown neighborhood in St. Paul came loose. The neighbor passing by couldn’t resist a look—then stumbled back to his house, voice shaking as he called for help. Aidan was on patrol with his partner, Leon Haakstad, and when they arrived, he at first thought the walls of the basement were painted black. Despite the smell, his mind couldn’t fathom that it was feces, smeared upon the ground as well.

  No one who went into that room or saw the child came out the same. Aidan took leave. Haakstad took leave. Soon both had returned to their respective hometowns, each with his own excuses. Haakstad’s wife was never happy in St. Paul, he complained to anyone who would listen, she missed her mother in Marshall. Aidan claimed he dated different versions of the same girls in the
Cities and just wanted to settle down with someone nice back where he could buy a house near the river that he missed. No one questioned them. Good-bye parties were had. Fake gold watches as gag gifts.

  Once in Makade, Aidan stuck to his story. It occurred to him he might not be cut out for what he wanted to do, but he told himself Makade was different. He wanted to be a detective, but he wanted to do so in a place lacking the kind of crime that could reduce a ten-year-old boy to twenty-four pounds, stuck in a room that was only dark. No, there was bad and then there was bad. Not being up for the latter meant nothing. Aidan still tells himself this. Doubt, however, is like an old injury, flaring and burdensome.

  But now, here. Never did he think that violence in Makade could reach that level, and yet the briefing the other day has proven otherwise. It all started three and a half years ago in Marshall, with a young woman raped at home. Cut-and-dried. Woken from a dead sleep, gagged with a sock from her drawer, blindfolded, then bound. A good girl, managed a retail store, people liked her, even in a book club with her mother, whom she still lived with. An organized offender, Schultz said. Nothing this guy did was spontaneous. Gloves, felt like leather. Some trace evidence, fibers, car upholstery, rug. Six weeks later, another one. This one a student, worked in the college library, lived at home, blindfolded and gagged—this time only momentarily—then bound.

  “Difference was,” Schultz said, “he brought ketamine, what veterinarians use, gets stolen. Date-rape drug. Ketamine’s got a quick onset, quick offset. He injected the muscle. She’d have been under in about forty-five seconds. Dissociated state. Dreamy, trancelike. People say it’s like being out of body. And hallucinations can be intense, depending on dosage. A heavy dose, though, you can’t move. So he does this on the second girl, and he sews her mouth shut.” A pause. “Some theorized that with her mouth shut, her muffled screams sounded like moans.”

  Around Aidan, officers shifted in their chairs and a clock ticked louder than before. The linkage was strong, Schultz continued, definitely the same guy. And though Aidan listened, he couldn’t stop his mind from returning to the fact that the woman was awake. Not able to move. Maybe not understanding, but eyes open as a needle hooked into her lips, skin pulled tight.

  When Schultz stopped for a swig of water, Aidan raised his hand. “But she could scream? While under?”

  “No. He waited till the drug wore off. About twenty minutes. Then he raped her.” A pause. “The awareness, he wanted that. A few weeks later, another one. Forensic pathologist said the sewing was done while she was under, again—something about the way her lips tore when she could move.”

  Forensic pathologist said. No one in the room spoke.

  “With that third victim,” Schultz continued, “he cut out her tongue. Severed her lingual artery. Then sewed her lips together. Technically she drowned.”

  For this now to be happening in Makade felt like rain from the sun. It just didn’t make sense. Aidan listened to Schultz continue—going on to detail the first rape here in Makade, Lila McCale, cut-and-dried, and then the second, Sarah Breining, with ketamine and the sewn lips, the same pattern as in Marshall—and the entire time felt as if something fundamental had been broken. What waited for the third victim, as of yet unclaimed, was unspeakable.

  “The store manager in Marshall,” Schultz said, as he pinned photos up on the board. “She was the first one, that’s often different. The other four were students, living at home to save money—not in campus housing, he didn’t take that risk. Everything was planned out, most likely casing for a while, getting the lay of the land, noting sleep habits. All around two, three AM, most people are asleep anyhow, but these were heavy sleepers or long halls. He knew what he could get away with. All teens to early twenties, dark hair. In Marshall they had a theory he first saw them in the school library. Could be—these weren’t partiers, they were homebodies. We obviously need to loop in nearby colleges, our community college, talk to employees, campus security. It’s summer, but no telling when he found them, how long he’s been watching. Profile from before said he was not a student, just that he’s got a type. And that helps. Take a look.”

  Photos of the victims. One postmortem. Aidan studied the board, something within him stoked into a breath, taunted back to life. A tinge of his old intensity.

  “So,” Schultz said after a while, “the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension will provide help as needed from their nearest field office, and the BCA’s crime lab in St. Paul’s got everything on a rush, testing it against the Marshall evidence. Expect we’ll get a hit, and Marshall will send someone. But this is us. So wrap up your cases or put ’em on hold. Everyone’s on this now.”

  Now a movement catches Aidan’s eye. A man he sees here all the time, fishing the eddy downriver, always with an orange tackle box on a rock beside him. The patience of a priest. His ability to sit still, to just watch his line, it’s something admirable. These spots they’re in—Aidan close to the falls, the man down by a bend in the river—this is where they always are. A shared routine, a common love of the water. River Man, Aidan’s nicknamed the guy.

  A wave, recognition—then they’re back to themselves.

  What he should do is end things with Ashley. Use this one moment of silence to sever ties. Tell her she’ll make someone a great wife, just not him. Ultimately she’s the current installation of the same girl he’s always dated—so much for finding someone different—but still, when his phone rings, he glances at it to make sure it’s not her before answering. Haakstad, from Marshall. “Was meaning to call you,” Aidan says. “How’s Marshall?”

  “Crickets in the station. Guys have taken up knitting. Catch you at a bad time?”

  “On a run. Taking a break.”

  “Surprised you have time.”

  “I don’t. Sarge thought I needed a lunch.”

  “Your vic’s still critical?”

  “That she is.”

  A deep breath. “Heard you guys are bringing in help.”

  “We needed patrol. Got everyone in neighboring jurisdictions on extended shifts.”

  “And you got Hardt. Lucky you.”

  Detective Hardt, from Marshall. Arrived this morning when they got a positive link with fiber samples to the older cases. The second the man saw the chaos of the station—not one clear desk, stacks of paper by computer monitors, a printer on the floor—he determined his work would be better performed at his hotel. Mark my words, Harris said, he’s making calls from the pool.

  “Seems fine, from what I’ve seen of him. What’s your gut on this?”

  “Mine? No one cares what I think.”

  “Still.”

  There’s a pause, a raspy breath, and Haakstad says, “This isn’t Ted Bundy—not some good-looking guy with social skills. My guess is he makes people uneasy, spends time alone.”

  “Alone’s okay.”

  “I know. You’re at the river, alone. This is different. Guy probably lives outside town—couldn’t handle neighbors. He’d be paranoid, convinced they’re watching him.”

  Call-waiting clicks, and Aidan looks at the ID. Harris. A bad feeling just from the readout. He tells Haakstad he’s gotta take this, and hits End.

  “She didn’t make it,” Harris says. “Sarah Breining.”

  Somehow he’d thought this wouldn’t happen. As if there should be a correlation between their efforts and her health, her ability to pull through.

  On his phone he’s got a list.

  MARSHALL VICTIMS

  Jessica Hall. Rape.

  Megan Mitchell. Ketamine. Lips. Rape. 6 weeks later.

  Courtney Thatcher. Ketamine. Tongue. Lips. Rape. 3 weeks later. X

  MAKADE VICTIMS

  Lila McCale. Rape.

  Sarah Breining. Ketamine. Lips. Rape. 2 weeks later.

  ?

  —

  He star
es at Sarah Breining’s name for a moment and then adds an X. Just like that.

  Harris continues. “I’m waiting for the other call, you know, that it’s happened again. It’s a lot faster than in Marshall. My bet’s within the week.”

  Aidan looks up at the falls, the crest of white water like a veil, plummeting into a dark, almost black shaded pool. Makade, the Ojibwe word for this color: a starless night sky, a world of slate and coal. Now he looks downriver, the shine of water gleaming like Saran Wrap in the sun. River Man’s got a fish struggling in a net but within seconds has it by the gills and placed on a rock. Its body arcs into the air, scales shimmering in the sun.

  Without even a pause, he bashes its head with his fist, and the fish lies still.

  4

  Then

  ON EVA’S DESK is a Singer Featherweight sewing machine, over ten years old, polished and sleek, the gold leaf on the edges complete, the most precious thing she’s ever owned. The pattern for a “Siren Sundress”—a backless bodice and a full skirt she’ll take up a few inches—sits alongside, a few notes written in pencil on potential fabric. The second she saw the pattern she’d actually felt William’s hand on the small of her back, thumb on her bare skin as he’d lead her from his car into a cinema in Rochester, just as she then felt the stares of men in her hometown, the women clucking and fanning themselves a bit faster, gazes aimed skyward. It’s amazing, she thinks, how one dress—or one person—can be received in different worlds, as if the very air changes what’s seen.