WHEN HE VANISHED
A TOTALLY ADDICTIVE THRILLER WITH A BREATHTAKING TWIST
T.J. BREARTON
First published 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either 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. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
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©T. J. Brearton
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE / THE STRANGER
CHAPTER TWO / THE PAST
CHAPTER THREE / PARANOIA
CHAPTER FOUR / THE DINNER
CHAPTER FIVE / THE WARD
CHAPTER SIX / THE DISAPPEARANCE
CHAPTER SEVEN / PANIC
CHAPTER EIGHT / SEARCHING
CHAPTER NINE / CRITICAL TIME
CHAPTER TEN / THE POLICE
CHAPTER ELEVEN / BRUCE BARNES
CHAPTER TWELVE / THE CAR
CHAPTER THIRTEEN / BIG QUESTIONS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN / FUGUE STATE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN / LIES AND MISDEMEANORS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN / BREAK-IN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN / LELAND
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN / MINDS ARE MADE UP
CHAPTER NINETEEN / TROUBLING REVELATIONS
CHAPTER TWENTY / A CONFRONTATION
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE / BLOOD
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO / PANIC
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE / THE BODY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR / THE GUN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE / THE JIG IS UP
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX / INTUITION
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN / DISCLOSURE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT / MY ALTER EGO
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE / AFTERSHOCKS
CHAPTER THIRTY / THEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE / ALL HELL
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO / MARRIAGE
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY T.J. BREARTON
Acknowledgements
For my mother
(But don’t read too much into it, haha)
PROLOGUE
We’re alone on the highway except for the headlights trailing far behind us as we pass alongside a frozen lake, silver in the moonlight. Beyond it are dark mountains, stars hanging above their jagged peaks.
“Sometimes I think I’m afraid to feel good.” John holds the steering wheel with one hand. It’s the first thing he’s said in ten minutes, but the silence has been comfortable. If we’re having a problem in our marriage, at least right now everything feels distant and manageable.
“We all have that.” I pick at something lodged in my teeth and can still smell the garlic and cilantro from our dinner date. “You know, it’s called something. A negativity bias.”
“I tell myself if I feel good — let my guard down, you know — bad things will happen.”
I reach out and touch his hand. “You should feel good. We’re doing okay. Right? This is it. This is life.”
He doesn’t say any more.
After eight years of marriage I’ve come to accept that John isn’t going to change much. He’s a kid from North Country poverty, a troubled home, and considers stoicism part of his success — if you don’t talk too much about your problems, maybe they’ll just go away.
“Is there any gum?” I ask.
“Glove box.”
As I load a piece of spearmint gum into my mouth I can just see the steep rocky face of Poke-O-Moonshine in the dim light. A few houses — cabins, really — occupy the private land between the road and the state-owned mountain. Their lights flicker behind the evergreens, smoke snakes from their chimneys. Winter wants to stick around for a few more weeks.
We crest a rise on the southbound side of the interstate and after a few seconds the vehicle behind us does, too. There’s not much to this area; it’s a protected wilderness ranging six million acres — a lot of beauty and solitude, just the way John likes it.
“So do we want to do this or not?” I ask.
“Spring break?”
“Yeah — but you tell me. You’re the one who’s been doing all the work on it.”
“It’s good, yeah.” He seems distracted for a moment, then he says, “The snow’s gone over there — buds are popping on the trees.”
“And if we’re not going to Arizona . . .”
“We’re not going to Arizona,” he says with finality.
“All right. I guess it’s settled.”
John takes the wheel in both hands and grows pensive. I start thinking about our dinner, about all of the things we discussed — and the things I didn’t quite dare to. But I’m bolder now, maybe because I’m thinking of visiting the lake house for the kids’ spring break — how happy they’ll be — and maybe I can see it: a chance at our own real happiness. And I want to go for it.
“John?”
“What.”
“I don’t want you to get upset at me. But I think, you know, baby—”
“I know what you’re going to say, but I’m not depressed. I don’t feel depressed.”
“Honey, it’s not a bad thing. It doesn’t mean you’re weak or anything. To see somebody. If you wanted. Obviously something’s going on. It would be just to talk . . .”
He doesn’t seem to be listening, like he’s tuned me out, which is frustrating. Then I notice that the vehicle behind us is closing the gap, and at a good clip. I have to raise a hand to shield my eyes from the headlights glaring off the mirror.
We’ve been traveling at the same speed for some time and haven’t slowed up any. I know this from my habit of checking the speedometer, which stems from my mother and her lead foot; I’ve always been a bit of a backseat driver. And we’re in the slower traffic lane.
“You ever get this idea you’re not who you think you are?” John asks.
The question distracts me from the gaining vehicle. John has a restless mind, but maybe it’s not as random as it seems. Maybe he’s still talking about how he feels, digging at something, trying to get to the bottom of it.
“I mean, like, you have an image of yourself — a mental projection. This is me, what I’m like, who I am. You forget your flaws. You’re trying to do the right thing, but you have these . . . limitations you’re not always aware of.”
“That’s what makes a good person,” I remind him. “We all have flaws. A good person tries to do the right thing anyway.”
“What’s the thing that poet says? You can’t touch your own fingertips.”
“That’s what you have a wife for,” I say, and the smile feels twitchy on my face. But I give him another pat on the arm, thinking it’s not unusual to have one of these what-does-it-all-mean seminars with my husband. I know John is haunted, that he’s seen too much of the world, seen too much in people, and the knowing makes him nervous. But if I’m honest, he’s been going through something more acute for weeks, now. When I tried to pick through it at dinner his answers were shallow, lacking detail.
“What is he doing?” John says, glancing at the rearview mirror.
The lights behind us are brighter. My hand’s been hovering to shield their reflection, but they’ve moved out of range because the vehicle is closer.
“G
o around me,” John says into the mirror. “Why’s he riding my bumper?”
I get my bearings: we’re between off-ramps, at least ten miles of nothing between Exits 33 and 32. “Maybe he’s having a problem.”
“Okay — now I think he’s backing off.”
The lights blasting in seem to dim a little at the same time they reappear in the mirror on my side of the car.
“Weird,” I say, quietly.
After a moment, John says, “Listen. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m sorry I said anything.”
I forget the other vehicle and face my husband. “Don’t be sorry you said anything. That’s not how it works. But it’s a two-way street — you say something and then I might say something, and if it’s not exactly what you want to hear it shouldn’t make you sorry.”
“So you think I need to go see a therapist because I’m afraid to feel good? You said everyone feels that way.”
“I said it’s negativity bias. But the trick is to get right with it.”
“I was being figurative. I didn’t mean . . .”
I glance in the mirror then turn around. The vehicle behind us has drawn closer again — dangerously so, cruising along just one or two car lengths back. “What is this guy doing? Really, John — maybe he’s having trouble.”
“If there was a problem he’d flash his lights, not tailgate me.”
Once more, I raise my hand against the reflection and peer into the night, hoping to see signs for our exit. Nothing yet. Maybe two or three miles to go.
“What the hell . . .” John sounds as worried as he is angry, adding to my anxiety. “He’s fucking with us!”
“Maybe he’s drunk . . .”
John takes a hand from the wheel and gestures. “He’s got a whole open lane. He can go around us.”
“Is it police?”
“Those aren’t cop headlights. I don’t — no, it’s not a cop.”
The whole thing is souring the enjoyable dinner we just had. “Let’s just get home. Okay?”
“That’s the plan.”
It pisses me off a little. John and I don’t get much time alone and we really needed tonight. Something is up with him — up with us — and we were just starting to get at it. Mid-life crisis? A belated seven-year itch? I rub the back of my neck and watch the lights in the mirror, then close my eyes.
Maybe the tension lately is normal — nearly a decade of marriage, two full-time careers, two kids, a house, bills, everything that happened with John’s family — it adds up. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s more. Something hidden, lurking in the distance he keeps.
Our car suddenly goes dark. No more glaring lights behind. Nothing.
John risks a glance backward. “Where did he go?”
I twist around, too. The vehicle is no longer behind us.
Then I see it still cruising along; it hasn’t gone off the road, it’s just faded back a ways and the lights are off. It’s an SUV, something big. “Maybe he lost power or something? Could be an alternator thing.” I’m chatty because I’m nervous. “Remember that little Volkswagen I showed you pictures of? That happened when I was—”
“I think he’s getting closer again. God, how does he see anything?”
“Probably because of our lights in front of him. And there’s a little bit of moon.”
“Not much. Jesus — what is the deal?” There’s real fear in his voice now, something rare.
Maybe it’s a game. If not someone drunk then probably a couple of kids, daring each other to drive without lights.
John stomps the gas suddenly and the Subaru lurches forward.
“John . . .” I watch the gauge as our speed climbs. The SUV seems to be keeping pace. My temperature drops, muscles tense. “John . . . John — he’s keeping up with us so he can see. It’s a couple of kids or something. Maybe you should slow down.” We’re doing ninety.
My husband ignores me.
Ninety-five. “John! Slow down!”
A road sign informs us our exit is in one mile. The SUV is running in time with us, matching our acceleration, keeping to our lane, driving blind.
The headlights blast on again. I flinch at their reflection and stare ahead at the oncoming highway, praying that we reach our destination safely — come on, come on, come on — but I can’t stop myself from imagining the sudden wreck as John loses control of the Subaru, which veers into a series of flips, tossing us around inside like stuffed animals until John’s skull cracks against the glass and my legs snap in the twisting metal, everything thundering and shattering and scudding along until we grind to a halt, engulfed in flames.
John slows finally, but he’s not turning on the blinker. The green sign for Exit 32 floats toward us. It’s getting close, then closer, then the exit lane opens up.
“John . . .”
At the last possible moment he hits the brakes and jerks the wheel and we swerve into the exit lane. The SUV goes rocketing past and I let out a pent-up breath. There will be no violent car wreck ending our lives and orphaning our two children.
John celebrates with a whoop of excitement. “There! There you go, baby! There you go!”
He slows to a stop at the end of the exit ramp. From our spot I can see the interstate continuing south and the red taillights come into view beneath the bridge spanning the road. The SUV keeps barreling along, cones of headlights stabbing the darkness. The next exit is another long distance away, at least ten more miles. Unless the driver decides to make an illegal U-turn at one of those crossover places, it isn’t coming back.
“Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with us,” I say, but my heart is pounding.
John gets going with a right turn. He’s not saying anything, just driving and checking the mirrors.
The tension seems to dissipate as we pass the Department of Public Safety where the county jail and sheriff’s office are located. “That was crazy,” he says at last. Then he looks at me and wags his eyebrows. “I always did know how to show you a good time on a date, though, right?”
I try to keep a straight face but the relief is strong. I don’t know whether I’m mad at him, the SUV or myself for getting so riled up. Probably all three.
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You all right?”
“I just want to get home.”
He nods. “I’m sorry.”
After another deep breath, I feel myself calming. John’s no adrenaline junky, but all the excitement took the focus off of his own issues and, in that way, he’s probably grateful for it.
A gas station and truck stop roll past and then there’s nothing but trees again. We travel the last five miles home theorizing a bit more about the mysterious driver and in the end we agree that wild kids are the best explanation. People do random things. You get used to your life, the daily humdrum and routine, but, at any moment, something can always happen.
* * *
We should’ve called the police. That’s what’s on my mind the moment I blink awake in the middle of the night. Even if it was nothing more sinister than a couple of kids, it was still dangerous. The driver could’ve hurt someone — if only himself and any passengers. But neither John nor I got a look at the license plate, and dark SUVs are common.
Eventually I worry myself enough to get out of bed, drink a glass of water and check on our children. They’re older now, well past the point where a mother worries about sleeping babies, but it comforts me to hear their soft sounds, to see the glowing stars still stuck to Russ’s wall from when he was placed in the Science Fair. Melody’s room smells like her new perfume, something we got at the mall in Plattsburgh. Since I’m up, I pee, and only after another half an hour staring at the dark ceiling do I manage to find sleep again.
It’s the last good sleep I’ll get for days.
CHAPTER ONE / THE STRANGER
Saturday, March 23rd
“It’s the menstruation crustacean,” my seven-year-old says. His dark bangs hang in his eyes and he tilts his head back and forth
and repeats the odd phrase in an off-key song. “It’s the men-strayshunnn crust-ayshunnn . . .”
“Russ!” Melody snaps. “Knock it off!”
They’re at the breakfast table, Russ with a giant bowl of cereal, my preteen daughter with uneaten toast and a reddening face.
“Why is it in the girls’ bathroom?” Russ asks.
“Mom . . .”
I’m about to intervene when someone knocks on the front door. It’s early, so my first guess is the guy who comes around every spring hoping to blacktop our driveway. Or it could be the solar panel people, who’ve been making the rounds, picking up where Jehovah’s Witnesses left off.
A red pickup sits in our driveway and an unfamiliar man stands on our small front porch. He sees me standing in the window and raises a hand in greeting. He’s middle-aged, with a short crew cut and pockmarked skin. He gives me a big smile and I open the door a few inches.
“Hello?”
“Hi — sorry to just drop in on you. I’m Bruce Barnes. I’m John’s friend from way back. You must be his wife, Jane?” He sticks out a hand.
I give the truck a more careful look, then open up the rest of the way and talk over the quick handshake. “That’s right. Come on in.”
Bruce Barnes scrapes off his boots on the welcome mat and steps into the house. The kids fall silent at the breakfast table and stare openly.
He waves at them and grins. “Hi, guys.”
Melody offers a weak smile and focuses on her toast. Russ waves back at the man and keeps watching us.
“John’s just working,” I say, closing the door. “I’ll go get him. Here, let me take your coat.”
He shrugs off the winter parka and hands it to me with a concerned frown. “I hope I’m not interrupting him. Does he write in the mornings? He probably writes in the morning, doesn’t he? I should’ve known.”
“Most mornings, yeah. But don’t worry about it. We interrupt him all the time.”
Bruce’s eyes are electric blue — though he’s excited to be here he seems genuinely contrite. I find myself warming to him right away, but then I typically warm to most people.
When He Vanished Page 1