When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  People are always telling me that.

  “All right. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The trooper reaches for the door. “Detective Ridley will call you first thing in the morning.” Then he leaves.

  Melody draws even closer to me as we both press toward the window to watch as the second trooper reaches the police car, talks with the first one, and then opens the rear door for Leland. He steps out and glances in my direction, making me flinch.

  “Mom, who is he?”

  “Nobody, honey.”

  “You think he knows where Dad is?”

  “I don’t know. They’ll keep an eye on him. Let’s try to get some rest, okay?”

  * * *

  Fat chance. If I had trouble sleeping before, it’s now impossible. My stomach gurgles and adrenaline crawls through my blood. I keep thinking about Leland, what he could be up to. Maybe I was wrong to put it past him — maybe he is capable of a kidnapping, taking John off somewhere in a bid for revenge. But it still feels too far-fetched, more likely that Leland is just dumb enough to drop by my house unannounced late at night, a capricious move that’s very much in character.

  And then there’s the file cabinet in John’s office. The top drawer wrenched open, the bottom one still locked. I was in the middle of going through it all when Leland showed up. I need to search every inch of my life if I’m going to understand what happened to my husband.

  So I creep back to the office, like some pathological glutton for punishment. At least Melody has fallen asleep. The sight of my children gives me a hollow feeling, as if the world I knew — what I thought was my life — was just some kind of naïve illusion. As if some ancient and fundamental law of the universe has been upended.

  I need to understand why.

  The stack of files are where I left them in a pile on the floor — mostly those old tax returns. But the file cabinet is not the end of my hacking.

  With the laptop up and running, I try password first, just to see. No dice. I try John’s birthday in all numbers — 41880. Nothing. Russ’s birthday next . . . Melody’s . . . my own. Then names: mine, the kids’. John didn’t have pets growing up, no obvious obsessions over a fictional character. Everything I try fails. In the movies, the person hacking a password is always on the brink of giving up and then lightning strikes. It’s not happening, but my phone is vibrating. Again.

  I dig it out for a look.

  Everything okay???

  I never called Bruce back. I’m okay, I type. Talk tomorrow.

  I set it on John’s desk where it jitters a few seconds later. And then again. Bruce is writing me War and Peace, apparently. He seems relentless, eager to help — and ply his trade.

  Right now he’s one component too many for me.

  On the floor, I continue going through the files. John keeps thorough records of his expenses including printed spreadsheets. It’ll take hours to look at every gas station fill-up, every meal or supply purchased in the service of writing books. Nothing jumps out.

  I think of John as predictable, shy of the outside world. Have I been wrong? I’ve assumed he was home at his desk, doing whatever writers do: typing away or pulling his hair out as he faced the blank page.

  My heart skips a beat when I see a file marked Canada.

  It only takes a few seconds flipping pages before I realize what it is: an application to restore a person’s admissibility. The forms are blank but, as I continue through, I find copies of a completed version, filled out in John’s identifiably messy handwriting. They’re dated slightly under a year ago.

  My mind spins. Trooper Morse theorized that John may have been detained in Canada because of harsher penalties for DUIs. Apparently, a person can restore their admissibility via paperwork and fines. From what I can tell, John has done just that.

  Is that my answer? He left the country? If so, why? Just knowing that he is potentially legal to enter Canada doesn’t mean anything on its own — it only feels significant because of Morse’s theory. And if he went over there to research a book, there’d be records, a meticulous account of his expenses like always.

  Unless it wasn’t about a book but something else, something hidden. With Canada less than an hour away, he would have plenty of time to make surreptitious trips across the border.

  And then destroy the evidence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN / MINDS ARE MADE UP

  Tuesday, March 26th

  Gorski stands in the doorway of the study. “Looks like a little B&E,” she says about the mangled file cabinet. Her delivery is so deadpan that I hiccup a laugh. She nods at the mess. “You did that?”

  “I did. But I think it was already jimmied open — the top drawer. You can see there the little catch has snapped off. I had to use a drill to get the second one free — Ridley said I could look around.”

  “No, I understand that. But it’ll have to go in my report. And I’ll need to see everything you removed or you’ll be withholding evidence.”

  Her tone is like acid on my giddy sense of discovery. “Of course. I would want you to. And you’ll include that the top drawer was already broken open?”

  “I’ll put in that it appeared broken open, yes.”

  She doesn’t look at me, and my heart sinks. I know she’s only doing her job, but she’ll annotate what I’ve said, hopefully.

  There are bigger fish to fry: the application to rehabilitate John’s admissibility into Canada is going to add a layer of complexity. Surely Ridley will seriously consider the idea that my husband has skipped the country. Such evidence may bring in federal investigators, though I’m not sure of that and no one has said so yet.

  Gorski’s gaze falls on the bottle of Jim Beam. A drunken writer alighting for Canada. That must be what she’s thinking now. A drunken writer who hits the trail and his wife starts tearing through his office looking for God knows what: to find evidence of an affair; to get at stolen money; to throw away the drugs — such theories must be going a mile a minute. And yet, still no forensic technicians dusting for prints or shining special lights on things. The cops seem to be phoning it in, minds already made up.

  Maybe they’re right. Not about me, but about John. Maybe it’s time I faced up to that at last. My husband isn’t gone because of some halfwit stepbrother of mine seeking payback. He’s gone because, like my daughter has indicated, I haven’t been paying close enough attention. I’ve been phoning it in, too, while my husband lived a double life.

  Russ is in the other room asking Morse about his gun. I couldn’t send Russ to school believing his father is away at a writer’s conference. It required another lie — not to the school, who understand the situation and are willing to excuse his absence — but to Russ. “Spring Break starts today,” I told him. “They changed it.” I could have said we were at nuclear war and he would have been just as thrilled, bounding off down the hallway with his hands in the air singing the praises of no school. He hasn’t even questioned why there are police in the house again. That I’m getting better at lying makes me ill.

  “Okay . . .” Gorski pulls a pair of latex gloves from her back pocket and gives me a sidelong look. “Are there any chemicals in here, any drugs, anything I should know about besides the bottle of liquor? I don’t want to find something that means I have to get CCSERT down here.”

  Please. Get people down here. Check everything. “No, there’s no chemicals.”

  “How about firearms.”

  “We don’t own any weapons. I mean, he may have a knife or something, but I doubt there’s anything like that in here.”

  She’s just looking at me now, like she wants to ask something else. Then her eyes clear and she goes for the laptop, slips it into a large clear evidence bag.

  “So what kind of stuff does your husband write about?”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s a writer, I thought.” She snaps open a smaller bag and picks up my husband’s phone like someone would pick up a dog turd and drops it in.

&nbs
p; “Yes. Um . . . crime fiction.”

  “That’s interesting, huh?”

  I’m not sure how to respond. Bags in hand, Gorski gives me a wan smile. “So, this should be it for now. Oh, Ridley said something about the taxes?”

  “In that box right there. I put everything in there for the past six years. My husband keeps things longer than most.”

  “Let me send Trooper Morse in for those.”

  I watch Gorski move down the hall and listen to her speaking quietly to Morse. When he gives me a funny look, I realize I’m just standing there in the doorway, wringing my hands. I get out of his way and point out the file box. He grunts as he hefts it. As he’s passing back out of the room he shows me a little concern. “You seem tired. Probably hard to sleep. You should try to get some rest.”

  “Do you handle a lot of missing person cases?”

  “A few, yeah.”

  “How is this one? Is this how it typically goes?”

  He considers it. “Most missing persons have some mental health issues, and, you know, they don’t have family, don’t have friends looking for them. In some cases people don’t even remember their names or where they came from. Your husband has you.”

  * * *

  The rest of the morning passes in a dreamy haze. Ridley calls around noon, not “first thing” like I was told, and Bruce’s words echo in my thoughts: There’s nothing solid, and they’re just not going to care enough.

  “So,” Ridley says, “you had a bit of a scare last night.”

  “It was unexpected. I guess I panicked.”

  “I’m glad you made the emergency call. I did speak to Mr. Chase earlier today. At the moment he has an alibi for your husband’s disappearance — he was miles away at his home in Cohoes, as corroborated by his live-in boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend. I had no idea.

  “But it’s still probably the right thing to be careful of him.”

  “What about Bruce Barnes?”

  “I’ve spoken with him, too.”

  “And he told you John was worried that he was being watched?”

  “He said something along those lines. But the impression I got was that he feels your husband was unraveling. I think that’s how he put it.”

  “And what about Mr. Barnes himself being involved? Maybe having something to do with when they were younger?”

  “You’re talking about a motive? He claims he doesn’t harbor any resentment from anything that happened. But I’m going to look at it — any police reports from back then. I’ll talk to people. See if I can turn up anything. In the meantime, I want to talk a minute about the paperwork — the application for Canadian admission. What did you know about it?”

  “He never mentioned it.”

  “Did he have any plans to leave the country?”

  “No.” I’m frustrated. “Not that I know of.”

  “Can you think of a reason? Work, maybe?”

  “Work would be all I could think of. That he was working on a new book and needed to do some research.”

  “But he never told you. If he was traveling into Canada at any recent time, he didn’t tell you about it.”

  “He did not.”

  “And this doesn’t line up with what you’ve told me about your relationship with John, the openness of communication . . .”

  I swallow my pride. “It doesn’t line up, no.”

  “Also, I wanted you to know we have the tip-line going. And there’s going to be a press conference this afternoon.”

  “I thought we still needed to decide about that?”

  “The press conference is a must-do. But I can email you the statement beforehand, see what you think. It’ll just stick to the basics . . . when he was last seen, that he has no known mental health issues, that his vehicle was found. We’re not going to talk about the blood at this time — we’re still waiting for a few things with that.”

  “Okay . . . yeah, that sounds okay to me.”

  “Would you like to be at the press conference? Say a few words?”

  “I don’t want to leave the kids and I don’t want them there for that.”

  “I understand. It’s not necessary, just check the statement and hit me back with any questions or concerns. Have you spoken to John’s family?”

  “I called Frank this morning. The conversation lasted about two minutes.”

  “I spoke to him, too. He says he hasn’t heard from your husband in six months.”

  “Like I said, they’re not close.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m all right.”

  Ridley says, “Mmhmm,” like she’s been through this a hundred times, though I doubt she has. “It’s a waiting game. You need to pace yourself. Your husband’s laptop and phone are en route to the FIC in Albany so the techs can work on them, bypass security.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “They’re pretty good. And I’m going to keep the tax returns here and be going over them myself.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mrs. Gable, the best thing you can do at this point—”

  “Sit tight. I know.”

  “I was going to say keep yourself up. In these situations it’s easy to forget your own needs. Get plenty to eat and drink. Do your best to sleep. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, a depression falls so swift and fast I feel almost bullied by it. After a chaotic couple of days with everything at full speed, things have ground to a halt. All the activity that kept the dread at bay is gone. The depression seeks to settle in, wrap around my brain like a thick wet cloth.

  I need to get a little sun on my face, so I step outside, but it’s lost behind gray clouds. Karen texts and asks if I need anything. I can’t leave the kids for the press conference. And I’m afraid I’d fall apart in front of all those cameras. Karen says she’s coming over anyway; she won’t take no for an answer.

  Depression is unfamiliar to me. I used to be a happy person, giving people the benefit of the doubt, seeing the good in them. Now I don’t know who anyone is or what they’re after. I don’t know if my husband fell victim to foul play or left us voluntarily. But we’ve been marooned in this strange land, outside the boundaries of normal life, where the lack of routine and familiarity reveals the utter frailty of our human condition.

  The tears come and I search the sky for the sun, willing it to appear. It doesn’t. Time to go back inside. Maybe take a glass down and fill it with some of John’s bourbon.

  Then I see it.

  Pulled off the road and about 200 yards away is the SUV.

  Not Leland’s SUV, but the SUV, black with a brown stripe and tinted windows.

  It’s pointed towards me but almost hidden there against the trees, the gray light destroying shadows and depth, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s the one I’ve been seeing and I start toward the road as I pull out my cell phone.

  The SUV jerks into motion as I fumble to get my phone into camera mode. I glance back at the house but Melody and Russ aren’t near any of the windows. No one else is coming down the road at this point; it’s after 1 p.m. on a Tuesday in March and everyone else is at work or school.

  “Hey,” I say, getting louder. “Hey! Hey!”

  The SUV completes the turn — at this distance I’ll be lucky to get much of anything but I take a few pictures as it gets up to speed, then it rounds the bend and retreats out of sight.

  I check the pictures I’ve just taken, use my thumb and forefinger to zoom in. Dammit. The license plate is just a blur when magnified. Maybe Ridley’s people have the means to enhance it.

  As I’m standing there at the end of my driveway, another vehicle approaches: Karen’s green car. She pulls in a moment later, giving me a curious look from behind the wheel as she rolls down the window.

  “Whatcha doing?” She glances at my phone.

  “Losing my mind.”

  I tell her about the SUV. The times I’ve seen it,
that I’ve told the cops about it and that nothing has turned up. Just like John thought he was being watched, now I’m under surveillance, too.

  I show Karen the picture and ask if she’s seen anything like that around town.

  “I can’t say that I . . . well, I mean, the Everetts have a vehicle like that.”

  I look up the road, where my neighbors live, the corrections officer and his wife, just around the bend and out of sight. “The Everetts?”

  “Think so.” She gives me a look. “What do you want to do? You want to go up there? I’ll stay with the kids.”

  “Maybe it was just one of them and they left something at home, turned around.”

  Karen keeps her eyes on me, similar to the other day in the kitchen, like I’m someone too timid to face my demons. I see shopping bags sitting on her passenger seat, full of food and drink. “Just a few things,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d need a hot meal. There’s a meatloaf in here — wait, do you eat meat?”

  “This is very nice of you, Karen.”

  “Not a problem.” She frowns. “I need to get it inside, so . . .”

  “I’ll help you.”

  She doesn’t hide her disappointment well. Sighing, she opens the door and I step back out of her way.

  “I’m going to go talk to RJ, from the Trailhead. On my way I’ll stop at the Everetts’ and have a look at their car.”

  “Good girl,” she says. I help her carry the bags into the house.

  Inside, we set the items on the counter. Karen has also brought a dish of mashed potatoes and one of steamed carrots together with milk, bread and eggs. “Just the basics,” she says.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Happy to do it.” Then she blushes. “Well, I mean, I’m not happy . . .”

  “Stop. I understand what you mean.”

  She takes a seat at the island and pulls a bottle of wine from a brown paper bag. “I also brought this — I don’t know if it’s appropriate . . .”

  I must look uneasy because Karen suddenly slips it back into the bag. “I’m sorry. Probably a bad idea.”

  I hold her wrist and pull the bottle gently back out. “You know what? Let’s have a glass right now. Middle of the day. Some liquid courage before I play private detective.”