When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  “I want to post someone to your house. I think we need to start taking some extra precautions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX / INTUITION

  Sometimes you don’t know what you’re doing while you’re doing it but you understand it afterward. This is not the same thing as the “automatic pilot” of doing laundry or making dinner in the midst of a missing husband, but a different kind of subliminal force altogether. It’s like this: you’re not ready to fully realize something but some part of you goes through certain motions anyway. It’s as if there are two of you — the one taking orders and the one with a much higher security clearance.

  I asked Karen to sit with the kids one more time so I could go out for some groceries and she was happy to oblige. The trooper posted to my house didn’t like it, but I looked into Morse’s eyes with those big curly lashes and said that unless he wanted to do my shopping for me (and if he wouldn’t mind swinging past the drug store to pick up some feminine hygiene products, thanks), he ought to let me go. After he blushed and looked away, I got into the Toyota and took off.

  I never told Ridley about the email. Sure, I was overwhelmed. Finding the gun, hearing about John’s entry into Canada and the first-degree murder charge was a lot to cope with. But I could have said something. I just didn’t. I had other orders.

  And now I’m sitting here outside the hospital, parked beneath an elm tree. Caitlin emerges from the side door. She looks around the parking lot as if she’s Deep Throat before pulling her jacket tight across her nurse’s uniform. I flash the headlights and she trots over.

  “Brrr,” she says, and I can feel the cold air emanating from her, smell her perfume as she warms her hands against the heater. When she faces me I notice that this evening’s earrings are two large crescent moons, each with a dangling star in the gibbous space between the horns. Pretty.

  “So,” Caitlin says, “I talked to them.”

  “Thank you. And?”

  “Well, it wasn’t easy. But, Lorraine Barnes is definitely checked in to Albany Medical Center.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.” Caitlin continues to feather her hands over the vents. “I had to lie, basically.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gives me a sidelong look and a cockeyed smile. “No — I don’t care about that. I love this cloak-and-dagger shit. But what I’m saying is, they wouldn’t go for the straight request. I had to tell them we had an amnesic patient claiming Lorraine Barnes was her daughter and that I needed verifying information.”

  “Who’d you use?”

  “I told them it was Selma Ford.”

  “And they went for it?”

  Her grin widens. “Hey, I know how to work it, baby. Yeah, they went for it.” Her eyes linger on me a moment before she hands over the envelope.

  I called Caitlin the moment Ridley left the house. The papers were faxed just twenty minutes ago — medical information on Lorraine Barnes, suffering from Stage 3 lung cancer, who has known allergies to penicillin and three other antibiotics, who is thirty-eight years of age, Caucasian, with brown hair and brown eyes. Blood type A-positive.

  Same as mine.

  “Holy shit,” I say softly.

  “Did I do good?”

  Unable to take my eyes from the paperwork I reach over and touch the back of Caitlin’s neck and give a light squeeze. “You did great.”

  “So what’s it mean? It’s her blood in John’s car?”

  I swallow over a lump in my throat. A quiet excitement builds inside of me.

  “It could be.”

  * * *

  Ridley is not happy to hear from me. It’s the apogee of her investigation, and I, the unrelenting wife, am back with more questions and concerns, throwing more wrenches into the works.

  She’s also calling me Mrs. Gable again.

  “Mrs. Gable, the notebook is at the lab, still undergoing analysis. We found only your husband’s fingerprints on it so far. Yes, I can get it back and go through it with you.”

  “I’m just confirming that it’s where you found the word Olympia.”

  “You’re just . . . Are you running this investigation, Mrs. Gable? Or am I?”

  Calm, cool Ridley has finally snapped. I’m not trying to upset her. I truly respect her and feel grateful for all she’s done.

  “I’m not running my own investigation,” I say, knowing full well that I am, “I just can’t sleep. I’m sorry. If you could just tell me what else you found . . .”

  “And you think that’s going to help you sleep? I’ve spent hours — days — following the blind alleys of words and phrases in your husband’s notebook. Olympia was the only salient bit. Unless you think there’s some profound meaning to the words cooking or insurance . . .”

  * * *

  Moments later, I’m back in John’s office, my ears still ringing with those two words as I stare at the framed photograph on the wall. That Ridley missed this is understandable — who studies a silly wedding picture and tries to connect it to words scrawled in a notebook from an abandoned car?

  No one. Maybe not even me, not without Rainey sending me that email: Remember your wedding.

  And even so, now that I’m here, it feels like two steps back instead of one step ahead. I already know about the gun in the floor. What else is Rainey trying to tell me? And why is she reaching out at all? Is it her blood in the Subaru?

  The obvious next move is to call Albany Medical Center and speak to her, but she’s a patient in the midst of surgery. So, then I should tell Ridley. I should tell her about Rainey’s blood type — but there are two problems there. First, maybe the cops already know. They should’ve tested Rainey and Bruce. I was under the impression they had done so. It’s going to make them look bad and cause more trouble for me if they never did. But second, and far more importantly, I’ve done an end-run around the police and asked a member of my nursing staff to do something illegal: solicit private, HIPAA-protected information on a patient. Caitlin could go to jail and so could I. Coming to my senses about turning in a handgun in my husband’s floor was one thing, but inciting a lawsuit against my hospital and staff is something else. Plus, roughly thirty-three percent of the population is A-positive; on its own, it means nothing. Only in conjunction with the email might Ridley and her team think there’s something substantive — and then we’re back to the idea of someone questioning a woman undergoing cancer surgery.

  I look deep into the photo, searching for anything hidden, something Rainey had seen when she was in this room, when she’d studied it herself.

  There’s me, grinning in my wedding dress and holding the sign above my head: He cooks! And then there’s John, his sign at chest-level: She has insurance!

  Behind us is the lake, and part of the house, and just off to the other side, the edge of the storage shed where we keep the watercraft and lawn equipment.

  What are you telling me, Rainey?

  The obvious answer is, again, the gun in the floor. Perhaps, facing her mortality, she’s seen the light. Whatever is going on between John and Bruce, while Bruce may be covering it up, Rainey peeled back a corner to show me what’s underneath.

  But then there’s the notebook itself. When I asked Ridley if the handwriting for cooking and insurance was the same as John’s, she reiterated that it was at the lab and they were looking into it — but I’ll bet my life it’s not his flinty chicken-scratch. Which means if Rainey was in the car, if it’s her blood from some unexpected cuts or scrapes and she jotted those notes on John’s for-the-car writing notepad, then she was working against Bruce from at least that point.

  Bruce.

  Mr. Law Enforcement Wannabe, who hasn’t answered any one of my calls or texts in the past twenty-four hours. Whose phone, when I try him one final time, doesn’t even go to voicemail any more — there’s only an automated message that tells me the cellular number you’re trying to reach has been disconnected . . .

  Bruce.

  What did you do to my h
usband, you son of a bitch? What did you get John into?

  I’ve exhausted all the possibilities here at home. I went over every inch of John’s office before the crime scene technicians got in there. I’ve jumped through all of the hoops — blood and tissue samples, endless questions. I’ve dealt with the media, tried to keep my home a stable environment for my kids despite the turmoil. Now I’ve got a round-the-clock police presence — he’s sitting out there in his cruiser, sweet and simple Trooper Morse who floated the whole idea of John absconding into Canada in the first place because of a missing passport and a half-drunk bottle of liquor. Not bad, Morse. You were in the gym but punching the wrong bag.

  Still peering at the photo, it occurs to me that maybe there’s no hidden message there, nothing to learn from the silly antics of our wedding day because maybe Rainey didn’t even know about the gun in the floor and perhaps it’s not the photo itself she was alluding to.

  Remember your wedding.

  Okay, I’ll remember: My wedding was simple. Neither John nor I wanted a big, splashy affair. We invited his parents; Katherine was alive then, and John and Frank were still on speaking terms. My own mother brought Daryl Chase and his son, Leland. My half-siblings were there, too. Melody was three years old; Russ wasn’t yet a twinkle in John’s eye. That was it. The officiator was a woman named Marcy Landaker, her ample bosom pressing against a sharp-looking pantsuit as she stood in the heat, her back to the water, and we exchanged vows that we’d written ourselves. Simple stuff but beautiful in that way, the words still resonating in my heart. We promised to love and to cherish in sickness and in health and I promised to guard my husband’s solitude, and he promised to become a famous author and make us a million bucks. Then he smiled, his eyes reddened and shone as he said, more quietly, he would do everything to support and protect me.

  That was it. Refreshments were light and simple and we spent the rest of the day lounging by the water and grinning at Melody, who was a little dynamo, always on the go, flipping and singing and dancing and managing to be the center of attention at all times.

  Frank and Katherine stayed at a nearby hotel that night. Leland left, as did my half-brother and sister, and only my mother and Daryl remained in the house with Melody. John and I had our brief honeymoon — two nights in Alexandria Bay. Neither one of us could stand to be away from Melody for any longer than that and we were saving money. Two brief but wonderful days walking hand in hand, exploring the Saint Lawrence River and its old castles while planning our lives together.

  Funny to think now, as we rode the ferry along the seaway and could look across to Canada, that John would charter a boat to cross into that country all these years later, that he would re-establish his access, rob and murder a drug dealer, then escape abroad.

  Funny.

  I know my husband. I can read him. I always could. He was more than uncomfortable when the SUV showed up on the highway. He was afraid. And then with Bruce — his reluctance went beyond social angst: he hated it when Bruce was around. And now Rainey’s blood is probably in John’s car, a woman close to death who sent me a message. A warning. A clue.

  My phone rings, displaying an unfamiliar number.

  “Hello?”

  There’s silence for a moment and then, “Jane?” A woman’s voice, but not Rainey’s.

  “Who is this?”

  “We should talk.”

  My stomach clenches as I move to leave the office and notify Trooper Morse, but then I hold firm.

  “About what?”

  “We have mutual interests, for one thing. And I think the time has come to do something about those interests.”

  Though the words are ominous, she has a pleasant voice, almost smoky, like a seasoned actress.

  I repeat my question. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Olympia,” she says.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN / DISCLOSURE

  Thursday, March 28th

  Tonight is Melody’s piano recital. We’re not cancelling, whether Ridley likes it or not. Morse decides the best thing for him to do is stick by the house. He doesn’t say it, but the logic is tacit in his decision — no one is going to come for us in a public place, not even hardened drug dealers. But they might attempt a break-in while we’re away.

  I can’t believe this has become my life.

  And I can’t believe what I’m now planning to do, using Melody’s event as the perfect cover.

  She’s part of a group of five of Colette’s students and she’s billed to play last. We crowd into the small community center that smells of mildew and sweet baked goods. With us are Karen and her two boys. After finding our seats and sitting through the first two timid renderings of Mozart and Chopin, Melody prepares to leave us to go backstage and get herself ready. I hold her against me briefly, whisper into her ear that I love her and am proud of her. Slightly blushing and with downcast eyes, she moves off through the room so she can wait in the dusty stage wing with Colette.

  I tell Karen that I have to go and make a call. She gives me a look like she knows I’m up to something, and watches while I kiss the top of Russ’s head before hurrying away.

  Outside, I text Olympia that I’m ready. Her reply comes back seconds later: You’ll see me. Be there in five.

  My teeth chatter as I wait. I tell myself that until we had police protection, there was nothing to ward off an aggrieved group of drug dealers; if they intended to do something, they would have done it already. I’m safe.

  Maybe I’m a fool. I could tell Ridley right now what I’ve done and let the chips fall where they may. I don’t have to implicate Caitlin or say anything about Rainey’s blood type — I can make something up. Anyway, what do I think Olympia has to offer? If she’s who I think she is — if she’s connected to Dixon and the dark forces behind him — what’s she going to do? Offer me my husband in exchange for information I don’t have?

  But I can’t convince myself to talk to Ridley. I can’t believe that my husband murdered someone and left the country. Something happened to him and I’m going to find out what.

  * * *

  The SUV pulls off the road fifty yards from the social center. Unsure of what to do next, I start walking. I’ve got my phone in my right hand, my thumb hovering over the Call button, Ridley’s number on the screen.

  I cross the road and walk along the shoulder, close enough now to see the woman behind the wheel. She jerks her head, indicating that I come up along the passenger side.

  As I do, a dump truck rumbles past, followed by a blue sedan. My eyes connect with the sedan driver — he’s a potential witness to this moment.

  The woman behind the wheel lowers the window on the passenger side. She’s blonde and supremely attractive, like someone from a movie — I had it right with the voice. And now I have sudden visions of her and John rolling together in a hotel bed.

  This isn’t a person who’s connected to Carl Dixon; this is someone else entirely — a mistress, a lover. Possibly the woman Russ saw at our house. She looks strong; I can imagine her throwing a frying pan when things get tense. I can imagine that, after a stormy few months, John tells her they have to end it. She gets upset, won’t let it go, sends him angry texts and emails, maybe launches a couple of those frying pans at his head.

  She’s emotionally unstable — she toys with us as we drive home from dinner one night — can’t stand the sight of him with his wife, the “other woman.” She’s so volatile and unrelenting that he has to disappear, wipe his hard drives of all traces of her, make it look like he’s dead, just in order to be free.

  The entire scenario passes through my mind in about two seconds.

  “I have the police on standby on my phone,” I tell her.

  She’s wearing jeans and a sleek leather jacket with clean lines that hangs to her thighs. She’s got her hands sitting atop the steering wheel, palms out, as if to demonstrate she’s unarmed.

  She looked like a superhero, Russ said. I heard them talking in the driveway when I
was in my bed. Dad and the lady.

  “Do what you got to do.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. She’s more beautiful the longer I look and it tiptoes across my thoughts: she’s out of John’s league. A ridiculous thing to think, but it’s there nonetheless. John is handsome, intelligent — this woman looks like she could command an audience of thousands.

  “Why have you been following me?”

  She dips her head and looks up at me with big blue eyes. “I know how it must seem. And after the other night — seeing me down the road from your house—”

  “And outside the grocery store.”

  “I’ve been watching you, yeah.” She glances at the community center. The music of the third student drifts out, the discordant notes tinkling through the night.

  “Why? Who are you?”

  Keeping one hand in the air, she pulls a wallet from an inside jacket pocket and lets it drop open to reveal an ID. “I’m out of Jacksonville, Florida. And I’ve got power of attorney to arrest Bruce Barnes, who jumped bail down there two weeks ago. I’m a bounty hunter.”

  There is something sincere in her voice, but the past week has been so twisted, so scary, I’ve layered on the emotional armor. “How do I know that’s true?”

  “Take it. Have a closer look.” She sets the wallet on the passenger seat.

  Like a child warned not to get into the stranger’s car, I stand my ground. “I’m fine right here.”

  She shrugs and returns the wallet to her inner pocket. “Suit yourself. I believe Mr. Barnes has used your husband to escape the country — to travel into Canada under a stolen identity: your husband’s.”

  I’m too stunned to speak and dimly aware my phone is vibrating in my hand. I turn it over to see Karen’s number.

  “That the investigator on your husband’s missing person’s case?”

  “No.”

  My hand shakes as I consider taking Karen’s call. But I just need another minute.

  “Bruce used John’s passport to get into Canada. He got away with it because he traveled by boat.”