When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  I can tell it’s hard for her to say the next thing. “Because, Mrs. Gable, it’s still possible that John has simply left. That he’s not suffering any cognitive impairment — aside from perhaps the influence of drinking or whatever else. That he left the vehicle, left his phone and wallet behind because he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “No.”

  She looks away. When our eyes connect again I can feel the rigidity in my spine. It’s either disbelief or denial. I can’t tell yet.

  “There’s one last thing we need to think about,” Ridley says. “We need to think about how public we want to take this.”

  “How public?”

  “Well, in situations like this, where it’s not clear what the intentions of the missing are . . . You have a reputation here in this community. Your children go to school. You need to ask yourself what you want the world to know.”

  “How can we do everything to find him if we’re not being public with it?”

  “That’s your call. We’re going to work with the clearinghouse and John’s picture and information will be out on the state police missing person’s Facebook page. But there is some latitude — we can have a press conference right away or we can wait a little bit and see . . .”

  She’s asking me if I want the world to think my husband is a drunk who left his family. If I want to suffer, publicly, the embarrassment of a wayward husband chasing the muse in a sleazy hotel and passed out in puke. Or worse . . . dead.

  “It’s just . . . it could put a lot of pressure on you,” Ridley says.

  Maybe it’s a test to assess my potential guilt. What do they say? The guilty fall asleep their first night in jail. How do they feel about press conferences? But over the time she’s been in my house I don’t get the sense Ridley is either on my side or convinced I’ve had a hand in John’s disappearance. She feels neutral, unattached to the outcome so long as there is an outcome that allows her to close the book and move on.

  “Let me think about it,” I say.

  She gets up from the table and puts her bag over her shoulder. She asks me to show her to the kids’ rooms.

  “Okay. But, you know . . . I haven’t told them yet.”

  Ridley looks down for a moment then nods. “No, I understand that. I’ll be discreet. I just want to ask about the things they saw.”

  Some small part of me thinks do they need lawyers? But that’s just more protectiveness. My children have nothing to hide. Only, when Ridley asks for privacy and closes the door after introducing herself to Melody, I can’t help but hover outside the room hoping to eavesdrop. Are you mad, Mom? What else did you expect, Mom?

  It’s just nerves.

  Ridley takes ten minutes with Melody, about ten more with Russ. When she leaves Russ’s room she starts straight for the front door. “I’ll be in touch with updates. In the meantime, sit tight. You think of anything, you have my number. Call me anytime. Day or night.”

  “Everything go okay?”

  She holds the door and gives me a look. “You have very lovely children. Very polite.”

  “Did they say anything that . . . Did it help?”

  “I’m taking everything into account.”

  I catch her before she leaves. “Is it okay to go into my husband’s study now? The troopers said I should stay out of there. But nobody has come through yet. No special forensic people, like with the car.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. Trooper Morse . . . well let’s just say he wants to level up, work as an investigator. You should feel free to have a look. You find anything, you let me know, okay?”

  My paranoia acts up again — Ridley wants to see what I’ll do. She’s not telling me what the kids said and she wants to see how I’ll behave in the next few hours, whether I’ve got some evidence to hide.

  She offers a soft smile and goes out of the door. The dusk is settling as I watch her walk to the car, and we’re expected to get a late spring snow shower tonight — I remember hearing that on the news some time during this long, insane day.

  With Ridley driving away, I sit down at the table alone. One by one, the kids wander out of their rooms. Melody dumps her pasta bowl in the sink and sits down in the same seat Ridley was just occupying. I find it hard to look at her. “Everything go okay?”

  “With the policewoman?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah. She was very nice.”

  “Yes she was,” Russ pipes up as he walks in. “But I don’t get why she was even here.”

  Stuck for a moment in indecision, I give Melody a meaningful look and get up from the table. “Let’s get you some juice, honey,” I say to him.

  Melody must hear the tremble in my voice. Before I know it, she’s up and has wrapped her arms around me, Russ joining her a moment later. I fight back tears. I want to ask them more about Ridley, what was discussed, but I’m either too tired or too scared. Russ’s words are muffled against my arm.

  “Hey, Mom? When’s Dad coming home?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN / LIES AND MISDEMEANORS

  After taking a long hot shower I spend some time with the kids. I haven’t decided what to tell Melody but I’ve got a plan for how to broach the subject with Russ.

  I’m going to lie. Again.

  “Dad left to go to a writer’s conference. Do you know what that is?”

  “No . . .”

  A story that John has left town for a few days buys me a little time, and I’ll get Melody to go along with it. Russ seems slightly confused that his father never said goodbye, but it’s better than worrying him over the truth. We read three books and his eyelids are dropping.

  Afterward, I sit beside the lump of covers in Melody’s bed. I know she’s not asleep but she won’t look at me.

  “Mel, honey. Can we talk?”

  “It’s fine.”

  I lean over her and stroke her hair. “Thank you for making dinner.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know, honey, and I appreciate it. But everything’s going to be okay. And you don’t have to worry about keeping it together. Not for me, not for anyone.”

  She continues to show me her back. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “No, that’s my job. I’ll keep us together. But I’m sorry this is all happening right now, right around your special time.”

  “It’s not special.” The resignation in her voice pierces my heart.

  “Of course it’s special, baby. And so are you. You are the best daugh—”

  “Mom. Stop it.”

  “I’m just . . . I’m telling you that—”

  “Please stop. Just don’t. Don’t try to do anything else.”

  It sparks me a little. “What did I do? I’m dealing with this thing the best I can. I’m not the one who’s not home.” I regret it the second it slips out.

  “See?” She sits up in bed and stares at me in the dim lighting. “You are mad. You think it’s all his fault.”

  I take her hand. “Honey, I don’t mean it’s his fault. We don’t know what’s happened. I’m just saying I’m trying to keep our family together and things are hard right now. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t even know why he’s gone. You don’t even understand.” The last word dies wet in her throat, her eyes growing red.

  “What do you mean? I’m trying to—”

  “You’re in your own world. And then you guys are fighting and you’re angry at Dad . . .”

  “Mel, what are you talking about? That we sometimes argue? Honey, all married couples argue — about their kids, about money, whatever. It’s natural. And your father and I get along really well.”

  But she yanks her hand from me and buries herself in the covers. All that’s visible is her honey-colored hair fanned out over the pillow.

  An idea is forming in the back of my mind that I’m afraid to allow full shape. But when Melody continues to give me the silent treatment, it rounds out: maybe the best thing is to send Russ and Melody to John’s dad. Pu
t them on a plane to Arizona where they’ll be far away from this — I won’t have to keep lying to Russ and Melody won’t be riding this roller coaster. She resents me for John’s disappearance because there’s no place else for her emotions to go.

  And it might get worse. If John was intoxicated, maybe he hit his head and wandered off. The nights have been near or below freezing. If he’s confused, in a fugue, managed to hitch a ride, there’s no telling what could become of him without any ID or money or a phone. And the best case scenario? It’s actually what Ridley suggested: that he left us. That, in a proper state of mind, he decided to go out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never returned.

  I could ask his father and Delores to come and take over daily operations; that’s another option. I can’t accomplish much with the kids around. For one thing, I never followed up with RJ the bartender, and the police haven’t said anything about him. That could mean they spoke to him and nothing came of it or they haven’t yet. Ridley has her hands full. If I don’t do something I’m going to lose my mind.

  I have an address. I can drive over and talk to RJ early in the morning.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think Dad committed suicide?”

  I lean down and hug her and speak softly in her ear. “Absolutely not. Your father and I are happy.”

  I’m not depressed. I have joy in my life.

  It’s true — I know it is. Despite common struggles, we’re blessed to get along and share a loving household. Something happened. I’ve got to stop turning it over in my mind. John didn’t run from us. He didn’t intentionally disappear like that.

  Her voice is muffled by the bedding, plaintive. “Then what’s happened?”

  “I don’t know, baby. But we’ll find out.”

  I can smell the apple shampoo in her hair, feel the delicateness of her shoulders and bones. Sleep is going to be hard, if not impossible. There’s so much to do. I’m going to have to contact the hospital and help reconfigure the schedule for the next week because I’m not going to be working.

  “But what if it’s because of what you said to him? How can you be sure?”

  I feel the feet of something cold pound across my gut. “Honey, what do you think you heard me say to your father?”

  “You said if . . . You said that if Dad didn’t like what was happening, then he could just leave, that it probably would be for the best for him just to disappear.”

  “What? Melody I never said that.” But my mind is searching, scanning.

  “I heard you.”

  “When? When did you hear me?”

  “The other night. At dinner.”

  “At dinner?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice is just a whisper.

  “Melody, I don’t know what you think you heard but I never said that to your father.”

  She huddles in deeper under the covers.

  “Mel? You believe me right?”

  But she won’t respond.

  * * *

  At just before eleven o’clock, I’m standing in the door of John’s study.

  It’s cooler in here because when it was remodeled it had its own heating system installed: baseboard electric that operates on a separate thermostat. I check the gauge on the wall, set for 65 degrees, but it feels colder than that, like the room is becoming a crypt.

  John has one set of high shelves that holds mostly books, plus a row of DVDs and Blu-rays. We watch a variety of TV shows and movies together, usually my choice, but left to his own he likes his cop flicks and westerns.

  Among his books are popular bestsellers from crime fiction authors, mostly hardcover, and there is a shelf of non-fiction: Into the Kill Zone, Ghost, Making the Grade. I know a lot of his research happens online, but occasionally he’ll go somewhere, spend a few hours in a location he’s writing about. Once, years ago in Troy, he did a ride-along with the local police.

  Beside his laptop is a list of handwritten names. I recognize three of them as other popular authors: Paula Hawkins, Ernest Cline, Andy Weir.

  His laptop is closed on the desk. Ridley said she’s apt to go through it tomorrow. Like his phone, it’s password protected. I lean forward and push around some of the other papers on his desk. None of it makes much sense and John’s handwriting is messy — what little I can decipher is gibberish without context.

  I ease away from the desk and stand up, mindful of my back. It’s better, but I have to be careful.

  The wall hosts several framed pictures including a black and white from our wedding. In it, the lake is behind us, the sun setting, and John holds me in his arms in a classic carry-the-bride-over-the-threshold pose. There’s also a framed receipt from Juno’s, the restaurant where we shared our first date. And another framed receipt of his first royalty payment, the humble sum of $900.

  He loves you.

  Selma’s words have floated up from the depths of my mind.

  We’ve been doing all right financially, haven’t we? John handles most of the bills, but the last time I checked in, we still had plenty in savings. When was that, though? Maybe half a year ago, maybe longer. And according to Marty, Edge of Night didn’t sell very well.

  But I make a decent living as a nurse practitioner. Even if John’s latest book underperformed, we should be okay.

  But then there’s our hefty mortgage, our massive student loans, insurance and monthly payments for two cars, taxes. Like a lot of people, our expenses have risen to meet our income: braces for Melody, remodeling the office, and John sunk quite a bit of dough into my mother’s camp on Lake Ontario.

  She could have sold the place when she needed money for her legal defense, but she didn’t. Instead, she kept hold of it, and it’s all still in her name. My half-brother and half-sister don’t visit the place often enough to invest in it and Leland has no claim to it as the son of a man who violently abused her.

  I glance beneath the long countertop desk. I’ve gone through everything in the room except the metal file cabinet wedged under the farthest end of the counter.

  The first drawer sticks then opens with a slight squeal. I finger-walk through files containing the children’s birth certificates, the deed on the house, Melody’s adoption papers, and a file for our passports. I yank the passport file and go through it. My passport is there, but not John’s. The hairs stiffen on the back of my neck.

  The bottom drawer won’t open. I squat down to get better leverage and give it a tug, muscles tightening in my back. No go. It’s like the bottom drawer is still locked, even though the file cabinet has one mechanism for both drawers. The place for the key is in the upper right corner of the unit. It turns a rod or something that either holds the drawers shut or allows them to slide freely along their tracks.

  There are bric-a-brac holders in the office: a coffee can with paperclips and a mini-flashlight; a small cigarillo tin atop the shelves with some screws and thumb tacks — but no file cabinet key. I feel along the edge of the cabinet in case one is taped against it. I shine the mini-flashlight between the back of the cabinet and the wall with no luck.

  Fine. You want to play dirty? Let’s play dirty.

  John’s got a small crowbar in the basement and I bring it back to the study. I’m trying to jam the sharp end behind the lip of the bottom drawer but I’m not having any luck, so I go back for a hammer and give the crowbar a couple of whacks on the curled end, but the sharp end just glances off.

  I’m making a lot of noise but unable to break the connection: that metal rod in place that keeps the bottom drawer from sliding out. Winded, I sit back on the floor and brush hair out of my face. So how come the top drawer is free?

  And then it’s clear: a key was never used on the cabinet. The last time the top drawer was opened it was forced by someone much stronger than me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN / BREAK-IN

  Enough is enough. I can’t sleep and it’s a long way off before I can expect answers from Ridley.

  A drill and a jigsaw
should do it.

  After scrounging around in John’s toolbox for metal bits, I grab a coiled extension cord and take everything upstairs.

  Melody is leaning against the wall outside her bedroom. “Mom, what are you doing?”

  I’m still not sure I want to tell her, but I realize I can’t do this alone, not with my back the way it is. “I need your help.”

  She’s eager to get in on it. “What’s up?”

  We go to work shimmying the cabinet side to side until I can get my fingers around behind and pull. I touch the drill to the metal and press the trigger. The drill bit squeals on the metal and slides off. “Close Dad’s door,” I say to Mel. The second attempt is better — the bit catches and little pieces of metal shavings are flying as I make a hole next to the locking catch. I’m getting the hang of it and make three more holes, forming four points of a square. No idea what I’m doing, really, but it seems to be working. I can feel the vibration of the jigsaw in my teeth and smell hot metal as it squeals to connect the dots — the holes I’ve just made. Now the catch is free of the rod. When I pull on the handle, the drawer issues a wrenching scream, a small pop, and then—

  “Bingo. We’re in.”

  Melody laughs, a bright and genuine sound that flutters through me. “I feel like we’re robbing a safe or something,” she says. “What are we looking for?”

  “I don’t really know.” As I pull out the files, my cat-burglar sense of accomplishment fades. John is a pack rat who holds onto tax returns for years before letting them go. Why would he lock them up? We file jointly so I already know what’s there.

  Melody yawns after I’ve flipped through a couple recent years. I glance up at her. “Why don’t you go to bed, honey.”

  “Am I going to school tomorrow?”

  I look over the scattered papers and then lift my arm. Melody helps me to my feet and into John’s chair. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I want to help you find Dad.”

  The tears are quick and unexpected, but I don’t try to hide them. I stroke her cheek, tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I know you do.”