A Person Could Disappear Here

by Terri George

  I’m betting the suite Shari’s deputy booked us into costs at least double, even though it has nothing any of the motel rooms we’ve stayed in didn’t have. But the amenities aren’t exactly high on our list of priorities right now.

  Alessandro fires up my laptop as I make us what passes for coffee here. My American FB friends can be very snooty about instant. They think we Brits drink it because we don’t know any better, but that’s a misconception. The first coffee shop opened in London in sixteen-fifty-two, so we’ve been drinking it for over three-hundred and sixty years. Maybe they hate instant because they make coffee so bloody weak over here. And then they smother it with flavoured creamers. There are whole aisles of the stuff in the supermarkets. Anything from vanilla to cinnamon toast and even raspberry and white chocolate. I’m surprised they can even taste the coffee with all that in it.

  Okay, maybe I’m equally as snooty, but I’m a purist. Coffee isn’t to be mucked about with. It should be hot and strong, made from a blend of arabica and robusta beans to give it that hint of bitterness. I am half Italian after all. And Italians know good coffee.

  “Not sure how much we’re going to find without his surname, but here goes,” Alessandro says, typing ‘Jeremiah Jensen’ into Google.

  There are a surprising number of results. A housing website reporter. A KSL sports anchor. The former friend of a bloke who went on a bombing spree in Austin that killed two and left scores injured, before killing himself when he detonated what was to be his last bomb. An Australian artist’s portfolio on Deviant Art. All very interesting, but none of them are our Jeremiah Jensen.

  Jeremiah Jensen. That’s not a name you’d forget in a hurry. I can’t help thinking there’s something familiar about it, but I can’t quite put my finger on why…

  My thoughts must show on my face because Alessandro asks me what’s wrong.

  “Nothing. Just nerves I suppose.”

  “Well it’s not every day you rescue your friend from a kidnapper.”

  “Yeah... Try adding Denver or Nebraska to the search.”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Adding Denver has brought up articles from all sorts of celebrity gossip websites,” Alessandro says as he scans the screen. “Oh, yeah. This sounds like him.”

  “Why, what do they say?”

  “Drunken brawls in nightclubs and bars around the downtown area... Looks like he changes his girlfriend as often as most of us change our underwear… There are lots of kiss-and-tell stories. And not all of them are what you’d call complimentary. More than one girl said he could be ‘rough’. God, he sounds like a right tosser.”

  He also definitely sounds like our Jeremiah Jensen, but none of this helps us much.

  “Seriously, sis, what the hell did Abbey see in this bloke to make her come all the way here to meet him?”

  I have no idea. “Isn’t there anything about his background? His childhood, parents, where he grew up?”

  “I’ll have a look. Hang on.” Alessandro stares at the screen some more and taps away at the keyboard. “Gotya.”

  “Gotya how?”

  “One of the articles had his surname. He’s Jeremiah Jensen Sharrow. Single mum, Betsy was sixteen when he was born. Bet that went down well with her dad – Jensen’s grandfather, the late reverend Joseph Sharrow. A Lutheran preacher, he had a ministry in Scottsbluff and lived in a house on the outskirts of Gering.”

  That niggle is back, like an itch demanding to be scratched.

  Alessandro punches the air. “Yes. And I’ve found a photo of his grandfather’s house. No address though.”

  I walk over to the table Alessandro’s sitting at, so I can see the screen. And I’m staring at another ‘little box’, although this two-storey honey-coloured one isn’t so little. The reverend Sharrow was obviously doing better financially than a lot of people living in the towns we’ve driven around. Clearly there’s money to be made from selling God to the masses. Still the house looks pretty much the same as the others: weather-boarded, porch out the front. Except this is the house where his grandson is holding my best friend against her will.

  I’m snapped out of my thoughts when the picture on the screen changes to a map of western Nebraska, then to the bird’s-eye view of the Google satellite map.

  Alessandro zooms in on the area surrounding Gering. “I wonder how many people realise anyone can see an up-close-and-personal satellite image of their home online. Doesn’t that contravene some sort of privacy law?”

  “It’s not a live picture, so what’s to see really? Besides, they probably have different rules over here. If the US government wants to spy on you it will.”

  “Google maps does work world-wide you know, not just here. And it’s probably the same all over. I bet MI5 can get any information they want on anyone.”

  For a lot of people, reality and fiction gets blurred by TV shows, and Alessandro is no exception.

  “You do realise Spooks wasn’t a true reflection of MI5, don’t you? It’s not all high-speed car chases through the streets of London. And if they want to phone tap or bug someone you can bet there are shed-loads of forms to fill out to get approval from their ultimate boss, the Home Secretary. You know how Britain loves its red tape.”

  Bureaucracy may be a pain in the arse that slows everything up, but in this case it’s probably a good thing because it keeps the secret services accountable.

  “Thanks for spoiling it for me.”

  “Aww, changed your mind about becoming a spook have you, now you know it’s probably bugger all like TV or James Bond movies?”

  “I doubt I have the skill-set they’re looking for anyway. Not much call for graphic artists in MI5.”

  I don’t know. Alessandro’s bright, honest, loyal, patient, is the polar opposite of me being pretty much unflappable along with having an enquiring mind. All attributes MI5 probably rate highly. But we’re getting off topic.

  “Maybe, but rather than pondering your employment prospects with the intelligence services, right now we need to find that house.”

  “It’s a shame the satellite view is an aerial shot. You can’t tell what colour the houses are.”

  It doesn’t show us much, but maybe all isn’t lost. “I’m not sure how much help seeing the colour would be anyway. Abbey said the house is beige, but in that photo it’s more of a light caramel colour.”

  Alessandro clicks back onto the photo of the house. “It could have been repainted. And this is an old photo. Look at that car.”

  To me it’s just a car: long and sleek. Something you’d expect the Men in Black to drive. “Looks like your typical American gas guzzler to me.”

  “Only the thirsty muscle cars they make these days look nothing like this. They’re more curvy. This one doesn’t have fins so it’s later than the fifties or sixties, but it doesn’t have the boxy look of American cars in the late eighties or early nineties. So my educated guess would be it’s from the seventies.”

  Plus, the photo does have that old-time look to it. Sort of like when you know you’re watching something on TV that was made in the eighties or nineties, which is probably down to the type of film they used back then.

  “You know, there are times when your geekiness really pays off. If the photo was taken in the seventies that would explain the colour of the house changing from honey to beige. Decades of sunshine.”

  “Great, but all that means we still don’t have much to go on. Didn’t Abbey say anything about the house other than it’s beige?”

  “She said it has a barn or garage out the back and it’s ‘surrounded by corn fields’, so it’s isolated. Oh, and she also said they turned left off the main road shortly before they got to it.”

  The Google satellite map shows there aren’t many roads west of Gering, but neither are there many houses that look what you’d call isolated. I’m just about to give up all hope of us finding it when Alessandro scrolls up the image. With no other houses close by and a smaller building to the rear of it, the
house we’re looking at must be the one. At least I hope it is.

  My cautious joy is interrupted by a knock on the hotel room’s door.

  There’s only one person we’re expecting, still, I take a look through the peephole, then motion Alessandro to close the laptop. He quickly shuts the lid and moves to sit on one of the beds. Then I open the door.

  Strongly built and well over six feet, the man who comes in with Shari exudes authority. There’s a confidence that borders on arrogance in his stride and the sureness of his gaze that I get the feeling is due only in part to his uniform, and the gun in the holster on his hip.

  Or maybe my guilt, knowing Alessandro and I are planning to ignore any advice he or Shari are bound to give us about staying put in the hotel, is what’s making me feel overawed. Although his mere presence is intimidating.

  “This is sheriff Strub. Eugene, this is Cristina, and her brother Alessandro.” Shari’s gaze flicks between Alessandro and me. “Sheriff Strub has been liaising with the Scottsbluff police department. He’ll appraise you of our plan.”

  Sheriff Strub puffs out his chest and juts out his chin. “Police chief Hux has declined my request for a SWAT team to be deployed,”

  Ooh, I get the feeling he’s more than a little put out about that.

  “However, he has offered regular police officers to assist with the mission. I’m confident that between my deputies and the Scottsbluff PD, we can bring this situation to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  Which hopefully means the same thing to him as it does to me: Abbey safe and uninjured, Jensen in custody.

  Sheriff Strub looks directly at me. “I know you’re concerned about your friend, but let’s get this straight. You and your brother are to stay here, understand?”

  I understand I’m almost having second thoughts and I’m tempted to leave Abbey’s rescue up to him. Intimidation will do that to me.

  “My first priority is the safety of my men and I can’t have civilians getting in the way.”

  I would have thought the prime concern was rescuing Abbey, safely, in one piece, as in uninjured, but I’m not about to argue the point.

  “Are we clear on this, Miss Caputo?”

  We’re clear on that’s what you want. “Yes.”

  “You too?”

  Alessandro returns the sheriff’s stare with a wide-eyed look and nods.

  Sheriff Strub holds his gaze on Alessandro for a beat then turns his attention to Shari. “Okay, we need to get over to police headquarters.”

  “Give me a couple minutes. I’ll catch up with you,” she says.

  Sheriff Strub looks less than happy. “Make sure it is only two minutes. Time is of the essence.”

  There’s a definite deflating once Sheriff Strub is gone, like he’s taken all the energy out of the room with him, leaving a Strub-shaped black-hole vacuum of nothingness in his place.

  Alessandro stares open-mouthed and lets out a disbelieving exhale. “Bloody hell, is he for real? It was like he was addressing his troops.”

  “I know sheriff Strub can be a bit… But he’s a take charge kinda guy. He’s in his third term as sheriff here and it is his territory, so we all need to respect his authority.”

  I’m not entirely sure if Shari’s little speech is for our benefit or hers. She started the investigation into Abbey’s disappearance, but sheriff Strub has definitely taken over.

  Shari stares at me. “Right?”

  Do I respect his authority? “Of course.”

  “Good. I’ll call you when there’s anything to report. Meanwhile, you two sit tight. It’s probably pointless saying this but try not to worry. We will get Abbey back.”

  “Okay. Thanks. We really do appreciate everything you’re doing for us.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  I watch Shari walk down the hotel corridor then close the door.

  Alessandro sips his coffee even though it must be cold by now. “So, that’s two US sheriffs that have warned us to stay put in the hotel. Are we going to?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Something beginning with C.”

  I know Alessandro’s only making me play the game we amused ourselves with as kids on trips to the coast in summer to keep me from fixating on where we’re going, so I play along. “I don’t know, crows?”

  “Nope.”

  “Err… Corn?”

  “As if I’d choose something that easy.”

  If I don’t keep guessing, Alessandro will only make me find something he has to… “Church.”

  “There you go. Third time lucky.”

  I wouldn’t call it luck. We’ve passed quite a few since we left the hotel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Lutheran church at home. Lots of C of E obviously and Catholic, a few Baptist and the occasional Happy Clappy church, but the sect must be big around here seeing as two of the three we passed in the last five minutes were Lutheran and within a mile of each other. No wonder Jensen’s grandfather set up his ministry around here. This is God-fearing country.

  “Okay, it should be the next turn on the right. Pacific Drive.”

  Well I suppose it’s more imaginative than what whoever was given the task of naming the gridded roads in Scottsbluff came up with. The across roads are numbered streets and the up and downs are mostly alphabetical avenues. He or she couldn’t even be bothered to think of a full name so they’re just the letters. But I suppose they’re easy to remember. “Pacific? Blimey, how far from the west coast are we?”

  Alessandro consults his mobile. “One-thousand-four-hundred miles, give or take, but who’s counting?”

  “Ha ha. Maybe you should have done English at uni rather than art. You clearly don’t know a rhetorical question when you hear it.”

  Pacific Drive looks like it’s definitely the right road. After the small cluster of houses at the junction with the main road there’s nothing until we get five miles further down the road.

  And there it is. What we’ve spent the last nine days searching for. A creamy beige, weather-boarded house with a smaller building in the back yard, and a red BMW convertible parked out the front.

  I slam the car into reverse and back up several feet.

  Alessandro looks confused. “What are you doing?”

  “If we park right outside he could see us and we lose the element of surprise, but there’s only a small upstairs window on this side of the house so there’s less chance of us being seen.”

  “Element of surprise, eh? You know, I’m beginning to think maybe we should wait for Shari and the scary sheriff Strub.”

  Wuss. “Yeah well, you think too much.”

  Despite his new-found reservations, Alessandro gets out of the car too. “Wait up, sis. What are you planning on doing?”

  “I just want to have a look.”

  Trying to ignore the rapid thumping of my heart and how my legs feel strangely wobbly, I sneak up on the house as quietly as I can.

  The handle of the metal outer front door doesn’t yield, so no way in there. I peak into what turns out to be the dining room. Dark wood furniture, gilt framed landscapes, rug in front of the fire, but it’s empty of people. Ditto the living room and what I can see of the adjoining kitchen beyond. “Let’s see if there’s a way in round the back.”

  Alessandro opens his mouth to object but is halted by the buzzing of my phone. Not being some silly girlie in a movie whose mobile rings, giving away where she is to the bad guy, I set it to vibrate. Of course I know who it is – who else would be calling me? “Hi Shari.”

  “Hi. Just a quick update to let you know we’re almost at the house.”

  “That’s great.”

  The suspicion is her voice makes me think Shari already knows the answer, but she asks anyway. “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because we’re outside the house.”

  “Jesus, Cristina. How do you even know where it is?”

  “You have your ways of finding stuff out, we have ours.”

  “Goddamn
it. I told you to wait at the hotel.”

  “I know, but Abbey’s my best friend.”

  “I get it Cristina, I really do. We’re five minutes away, max. Do not approach the house. Do you understand? Wait for us to get there.”

  “Well hurry up then.”

  I can’t help hoping Shari’s estimated time of arrival really is less than five minutes as we make our way round the side of the house.

  I’m about to try the back door to see if it too is locked when I hear something that has my attention switching to the outbuilding: a leathery thwacking, followed by a whimpered plea to stop.

  Alessandro and I race across the back yard, coming to a screeching halt at the outbuilding’s open door, momentarily frozen as we try to make sense of the scene inside.

  Hand tools hanging from a hole-punched board and scattered on a work bench, garden forks and rakes, piles of boxes stacked three high, a woodpile in the corner. All the usual things you’d expect to find in a garage or whatever this building is. What doesn’t fit the picture is a sobbing Abbey, bent over the bench, skirt hitched up, exposing her bare arse that Jensen is slapping with his belt.

  “You’re saying stop, but I think you like it. Don’t you, slut?”

  “Get your hands off her.”

  Jensen stares at Alessandro. “What the–? Get the fuck outta here!”

  Alessandro advances on Jensen. “I said, get your hands off her.”

  Jensen laughs. “Oh man, have you got this wrong. It’s just a game. She–”

  He doesn’t get to finish what he’s saying as Alessandro rams his fist into his face. Jensen drops the belt as the force of Alessandro’s punch sends him staggering backwards, his expression changing from amusement to rage in an instant.

  Abbey and I watch helplessly as Alessandro and Jensen crash around the room trading blows. I know from the online articles Jensen is used to brawling, but I don’t think my brother has ever hit anyone before. Even so, he’s more than holding his own. They smash into the neatly stacked wood pile, sending logs rolling on the concrete floor.