by Greta Boris
“How does this work?” Art shifted his weight from hip to hip as if loosening his joints, readying himself for action.
“Dogs are smelling machines. We have about six million olfactory receptors in our noses, they have 300 million.” Davy launched into the lecture Olivia had heard from Brian more times than she could count. She knew Davy was calming himself with the familiar recitation. “A drug sniffing dog once found a sealed bag of marijuana submerged inside a can of gasoline. They’re amazing. There are even dogs that can locate cancer cells in people doctors have pronounced well.”
“About 400 stinky kids been walking all over this place today.” Alejandro waved a hand down the corridor. “How’s he going to know which smell belongs to your kid?”
“A huge section of a dog’s brain is devoted to analyzing odors. They may not be as smart as we are, but they have about forty times more horsepower in that department.” Davy scratched Crackers behind his ears. “He hasn’t had much proper search and rescue training. He’s only a pup. But he loves Brian, and we’ve been working on tracking. We figured it was worth a shot.”
Brian was alone, maybe cold, probably afraid. Olivia had a sudden image of a stream of students pouring out through the school doors like blood from a wound, her boy trapped somewhere in the drained building. A draft, like a dying breath, blew past her. She wrapped her arms around herself. “If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.”
“Right,” Davy said. He held the shirt out to Crackers one more time. “Find.”
Crackers, nose to the floor, circled three or four times then zeroed in on an invisible trail. He moved in the direction of the stairwell, tail and ears lifted. The group followed.
The lab stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs as if making a decision, then pulled them past into the left wing of St. Barnabas. Halfway along that corridor, they came to a wall of lockers. Crackers whistled high in his throat, and lunged toward one of them. He sniffed the perimeter of the door, barked once, then sat and looked at Davy.
“Is that Brian’s locker?” Olivia asked.
“It can’t be,” Art said. “Only high school students have lockers. Brian is in elementary school.”
The glimmer of hope Olivia had been nursing went dark and floated away like a wisp of smoke. It was no good. The dog was too young. Too inexperienced. Or, worse, Brian had disappeared and left no trace of himself behind, like he’d never been.
“Good boy.” Davy’s voice held false cheer. He handed two small treats to the dog one after the other and patted his head. He pulled out the t-shirt he’d hung from his pocket, put it under Crackers’s nose again and said, “Find.”
The dog hesitated, confusion filled his luminous brown eyes, but he dutifully put his nose to the floor again. He wandered farther down the hall, slowly zigzagging its length.
He stopped.
He fixated on a spot. His nose locked in place, and he drew in small puffs of air for several seconds. He pivoted, and trotted past the lockers toward the stairwell.
“He’s got it again,” Davy said.
The group jogged up another flight to the third floor. At the top, they made a left, and wound deeper into the labyrinth of student odors. Crackers stopped in front of a classroom door, but after a quick whiff changed his mind and moved on. About three-quarters of the way down the corridor, he halted in front of another room. This time he stayed in place and snuffled with excitement at the door jam.
“This is Tom’s room.” Olivia said, her chest constricting.
“How do we get in?” Davy appeared calm, but Olivia saw a muscle twitching near his jaw, and knew he felt the same anxiety she did.
“I got the master here.” Alejandro detached a wide, metal ring from his belt loop and shuffled through keys. He inserted one into the lock and clicked the door open. Crackers pushed it ajar with his head and strained toward the rear of the room where a gray cabinet stood against the far wall. Davy dropped the leash. The dog ran to the cabinet and let loose three short, sharp volleys.
The metal cupboard had two narrow doors, each with a handle at its center. It was the kind that usually had shelves of supplies running its entire width leaving no room for a person. Still, the sight of it filled Olivia with dread.
She knew she should look inside, but couldn’t make herself move any closer. The others seemed transfixed as well. Even Crackers sat immobile before it.
It was Art who broke the spell. He strode across the room, pushed the dog aside and reached for one of the silver handles. A quick turn, and the left door swung open.
Olivia could see three shelves descending from the top and a large plastic tub jammed underneath them. This side of the cupboard was packed, but what about the other side? Only the top half was lined with shelves. Crackers whined. Art pushed open the second door.
Nothing.
An empty space gaped to the right of the tub, a space big enough to hold a ten-year-old boy. Especially if the ten-year-old was small for his age.
***
Nobody said anything for a long moment, then everyone spoke at once. “He must have crawled in there,” Davy said.
“Why would he do that?” Alejandro threw up his hands.
Art shook his head. “No offense, but I think the dog needs more training.”
They were in Tom’s classroom. The coincidence sent a chill through Olivia. “Maybe Tom scared him, and he hid.” She didn’t want to believe Brian had been shoved inside.
Art shrugged. “Crackers didn’t get the locker right. This has got to be a miss too.”
Davy dragged a hand through his hair leaving it standing on end. “There’s something we haven’t told you.” He opened his mouth to explain, but his phone rang. “Dad, hi. Any word?” Davy walked out of the room, the cell to his ear.
“What’s he talking about?” Art looked at Olivia.
“It’s a long, strange story. We were going to tell you about it when we had more facts. Mike, Davy’s dad, has been looking into it.”
“Into what?”
“Someone was in here.” Alejandro, who’d kneeled by the cabinet, reached in, took something from the back corner, and handed it to Art.
It was a phone. Brian’s phone.
Olivia covered her mouth with a hand to keep herself from crying out. Although she’d believed Crackers’s nose hadn’t lied, that Brian had been in the classroom, this was stark proof. The theory had become fact.
“Olivia, I need to know what’s going on.” Art crossed his arms over his chest.
Before she could organize her thoughts, Davy rushed into the room. “Dad has got a lead. A woman. She’s the sister of the first boy who died. I told him we’d meet them at her home. He’s there now.” He stopped short when he saw Olivia’s face. “What?”
“Brian’s phone.” She pointed to the object in Art’s hand.
“The dog was right,” Art said.
Davy closed his eyes for a second, then reopened them. “I’ll call the police on our way.”
“Where are we going?” Although she knew it was unreasonable, Olivia didn’t want to leave this room. Brian had left his scent on its floor, burrowed into the cupboard against its wall, lost his phone in its corner. She felt the ghost of his presence here.
“Tom’s place.” The words echoed from the hallway Davy was already charging through. She shook off her resistance and followed, Art close on her heels.
“I’ll wait for the police and show them where we found the phone,” Alejandro called after them.
They climbed into Davy’s sedan, Olivia in the front passenger seat and Art and Crackers in the back. Davy called the police while they drove and told the dispatcher about finding Brian’s phone. “They’re sending a squad car to the school now,” Davy said when he hung up. “How do we get to Tom’s?”
Olivia gave him directions. Art sat quiet and tense in the backseat. Olivia knew he was anxious for information, but he was patient. He understood better than anyone what they were going through. Eight mo
nths ago, someone he loved disappeared. He had experienced this same fear. A fear that roared through you, flattening everything that stood between you and what you’ve lost.
They’d reached Tom’s neighborhood. Davy parked around the corner from the house. Art brought Crackers out of the rear seat and handed the leash to him. He gave the dog Brian’s t-shirt to smell, and the group waited.
Crackers sniffed the blacktop with little interest. Davy began walking in the direction of Tom’s place. Crackers trotted beside him, nose in the air, tail waving. It was apparent the dog wasn’t picking up Brian’s scent. “If he took Brian to his house, he wouldn’t have parked a block away and walked. Crackers might get something when we reach the property,” Davy said.
Olivia took a small measure of comfort from his words. They turned the corner onto Tom’s street. His house was dark, and the driveway was empty. “Doesn’t look like he’s home,” Art said.
“He parks in the garage.” Olivia remembered how surprised she’d been by the organized, spotless condition of it. Most people she knew used their garages for storage or game rooms.
Davy moved ahead when they reached the house. “Wait here.”
Olivia and Art stopped in the shadows outside the reach of the streetlights and watched as Davy and Crackers crossed the lawn. Davy edged along the stucco to one of the front windows, angled himself so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside and peered through. He stayed in that position so long, it was all Olivia could do to keep from running up to see for herself.
Davy dodged past the other front window and onto the driveway. He gave Crackers another whiff of Brian’s t-shirt and said, “Find.” They walked the length of the roll-up door without any results. Davy and the dog then rounded some shrubbery and disappeared through a gate at the far side of the house.
Olivia’s neck locked into a knot. She fisted her hands so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms. She embraced the discomfort. It helped her to keep from screaming.
An eternity later, Davy returned. He trudged toward them with shoulders slumped, all stealth gone from his gait. “No one’s here.” He spoke in normal tones, no longer bothering to keep his voice lowered. Disappointment, as miserable as a wave of nausea, washed over Olivia. “Let’s go meet my dad,” Davy said.
“Where are the police? Why aren’t they here? Why aren’t they searching his house?” Her voice was laced with hysteria.
“I’m sure they’ll come.” Art put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
They got into Davy’s car and turned toward the Los Rios district. No one spoke for several long minutes. Olivia broke the silence. “We need to find Brian. How is ancient history going to help us do that?”
“I don’t know,” Davy said. “But I know my dad. He was one of the best investigators the Sheriff’s department ever had. If he thinks this is important, it’s important.”
A moan escaped her lips. She dropped her face into her hands. She was beyond words. She didn’t care about Mike’s record. She didn’t care about anonymous women from Tom’s past. She only cared about Brian.
Davy placed a hand on her knee. “Maybe this woman can help us find him. It’s all we’ve got right now. I can’t do nothing.” Olivia lifted her face and looked at Davy’s profile. She saw her pain and fear mirrored there. He was as desperate to find their son as she was. He was all she had right now.
“Can someone, please, fill me in while we drive?” Art said from the rear. Olivia started. She’d forgotten he was there for a moment.
Davy began at the beginning, from the first article she’d found on her windshield. As she listened to the saga of her failure, guilt draped over her like a dusty shroud. She was the one who’d put her son at risk. Her desire for the man she’d believed Tom to be had blinded her to the truth. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
For years she’d nursed bitterness and anger at her mother for not shielding her from Proctor, for not being there when Olivia needed her. She’d accused her mother of selfishness, accused her of making a romantic relationship more important than the needs of her child. But Sarah had been deceived, Olivia realized, just as she had been.
Olivia was as culpable as her mother, worse really. Brian’s life was at risk. Olivia’s innocence, self-worth, maybe even sanity had been in jeopardy, but not her life.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7TH, 1992
THE FUNERAL WASN’T crowded. My parents, Clarice and her family, old friends from Providence Insurance. Doug’s brothers flew out from Michigan, but Doug’s mother was too old and broken to make the trip. After the service, the mourners adjourned to the patio of Doug’s favorite Mexican restaurant in downtown San Juan Capistrano.
“Doug paid for the model car, grabbed my hand and hauled me home to Mom. He never told her, but I was more afraid of what he’d do to me anyway,” Sam, the youngest of the brothers, said to the group seated around the long table.
“Lord, me too. Mom was a pushover compared to Doug.” Chris said. “Once when I was, I don’t know, twelve maybe, I got in a fight with Bobby Ryczkowski.”
“He was a such a putz,” Sam said.
“Yeah. Anyway, Doug dragged us apart, made me apologize to Mister and Missus Ryczkowski, promise it would never happen again. Then, two nights later, he helped me t.p. their house. He taught me the art of subtle revenge.”
I knew they were only talking about toilet papering, but hearing the word revenge in connection to Doug made me nervous. I glanced around the patio. Most of the town still believed he’d somehow engineered Scottie’s bike accident.
“I gotta say, it was rich watching Tommy Ryczkowski picking little bits of wet toilet paper off his mother’s prize rose bushes with a tweezer.” Chris laughed and wiped tears from his eyes with his napkin.
“He must have been out there all weekend,” Sam said, shaking his head.
“Doug was a master of subtlety.” Chris’s voice thick.
Doug was the oldest of the three brothers. Their father was rarely home, and when he was, he was generally drunk. Doug had taken his role as head of the house seriously. He’d also taken most of his father’s abuse to protect his two younger siblings. I was glad they hadn’t seen him after the accident, after he’d stopped being Doug.
Lunch was a blur. I forced down a fish taco, listened to Chris and Sam reminisce, and watched Tomas and Lily push food around their plates. I was relieved when my father looked at his watch and announced they’d better get going.
“Do you want me to come stay with you?” Clarice took my arm as we walked away from the table.
“No. I’m fine.” I appreciated the offer, but I was done. I hadn’t been out of the house much since Doug’s death, and all the social interactions of the past few days had exhausted me.
“Do you want me to take the kids then?”
“I think they want to be in their own home, but thanks.”
“I wish you’d let me do something for you.” Clarice’s eyes filled with sympathy.
“You are. You do. You’ve been great.”
“When are Chris and Sam leaving?”
“Mom and Dad are taking them to John Wayne Airport. Their flight is in an hour and a half.”
As we walked out through the restaurant, my eyes stopped at a table on the far wall. Doug and I had sat there on our second date, sipping margaritas and flirting. To the right, under the window, was the spot where he’d laughed when I told him I was pregnant with Tomas. Outside, under the fairy lights, Doug told me about the new job he’d landed at Providence.
Memories I’d hardened my heart against came flooding back. The burial today had put to rest the tortured man I’d brought home from the hospital. Now my husband was free to walk with me again and whisper the stories of our life together in my ear. I thought I might cry tonight for the first time since he’d woken up from the coma.
The sky was a livid purple when Tomas, Lily, and I arrived home—the bruises of the day finally visible. “Why don’t you get re
ady for bed. You can watch a movie in your PJs,” I said. The kids disappeared into their bedrooms without the usual show of enthusiasm at an announcement of this kind. When they were tucked up with throws and pillows and popcorn, I walked out into the garden.
It was dark now. A sliver of the moon crested the horizon. A soft breeze kissed my cheek and with it came the overwhelming scent of angel’s trumpet.
Doug’s autopsy had shown traces of scopolamine, atropine, and hyoscyamine, the toxic alkaloids of that vine. No actual plant parts were found in his digestive tract, so it was believed he must have ingested the poison as tea. The tea, dangerous enough alone, interacted with his antidepressants and the St. John’s Wort I’d been giving him. He’d died within hours.
The stories about his demise were varied. Some thought Paul and Molly had killed him. Most, including the M.E., chalked his death up to suicide over guilt for what he’d done to the Travers family. A handful were sure I’d done it. Very few believed it was an accident. After all, how did someone go to all the trouble of brewing a potent tea from the seeds of brugmansia by mistake?
I crossed the damp grass to the far side of the garden. When the kids were small, I’d thought about taking out the plant. I knew, of course, it was dangerous, but so many plants are. Not many people knew the poinsettias they piled on their front stoops every holiday season, the oleander that grew along their fences, or the lovely spikes of larkspur in their flower beds were all potentially deadly. Even the sago palm that had almost killed poor Pepe was a common enough landscape shrub.
Instead of destroying the elegant old vine, I did what my grandmother had done when I was small. I taught my children about the plants in the garden, the ones that cured, and the ones that harmed.
I fingered the pendulous, white blooms that had given the vine its name. Officer Rodriguez had asked me if Tomas could have brought me some of its seeds by mistake when he brought me the ginkgo biloba leaves. I’d told the police about the herbal remedy I’d been giving Doug. The angel’s trumpet and the ginkgo biloba tree were near each other, maybe too near. As the plants had aged the space between them had grown smaller.