The Herd

by Andrea Bartz

  Kalamazoo had winters like this, bell-clear and frigid. Katie had loved playing outside when we were kids, even when temperatures were in the single digits, and one winter we’d dragged a bunch of lawn furniture into a clearing in the woods behind our house, then sculpted the snow that fell on them into a kind of roof. Wearing long johns and snowsuits, we’d sit for hours in the series of protected ovals and rectangles underneath, and I’d boss Katie around as she fixed snow slides and tunnels. Katie must be wondering where I was. I should text her.

  At home I hesitated in the living room, phone in hand—I should check in with Mikki, I should try to contact Stephanie in her fancy beach hut in Goa. I should call Mom; Katie had sent me a screenshot of Mom telling her to tell me to call her, a literal game of telephone. But Mom would inevitably find a way to make me feel even worse. Even when something positive had happened and I’d rushed to Mom for approval, she’d found a way to twist it. When I got into Harvard: “Well there goes the cottage in Escanaba we were saving up for.” When I got scholarships and took on my own debt: “You better hope you find a good enough job when you graduate to stay on top of that.” Going to her with good news was foolish; calling her with bad news was unthinkable.

  Instead I went to my call list and tapped on one from last night.

  “Hello?” He sounded suspicious.

  “Gary? It’s Hana.”

  “Hana! I thought you were one of those damn telemahketers.” More quietly: “Karen, it’s Hana!”

  Some fumbling and clicking, then Karen’s voice: “Hana, hello!” She attempted to sound cheery, but I could tell it was forced. Then, suddenly tense: “What is it, do you have bad news?”

  “Not at all! I’m just calling to see how you’re doing.” I sank into the couch. “I know I was pretty frantic on the phone last night.”

  “We’re just waiting to hear anything,” Karen said. “You know, trying to stay positive. We feel so out of the loop about what’s going on down there.”

  “We talked to Daniel last night, he gave us a call,” Gary said. There was a quaver in his voice, though he was trying so hard to sound like his usual jolly self. “Asked if we’d heard anything, obviously, and we asked him the same. The whole thing is bizarre. We’re just telling ourselves, I don’t know—she must’ve decided to get away for a few days.”

  “They said her laptop, phone, wallet, she took all that with her,” Karen added, almost manically. “So she had to have left by choice—right?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I can’t bring myself to imagine the worst-case scenario.” Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. “I just can’t.”

  “Of course. I’m sure the detectives have got it under control. They assured us they’d take this seriously.”

  “We got a call from that detective last night. Ratcliff.”

  “Ratliff,” Karen corrected.

  “Just wanted to know when we’d last heard from Eleanor. We decided it was Thanksgiving. Hard to believe it’s been that long, but, you know—you blink, and it’s almost Christmas.”

  “I know, I’ve been meaning to call home for too long too.” I gazed up at the ceiling; there was a small moon near the wall—a water spot? “How did Eleanor seem, back then?”

  “Oh, fine, just normal,” Gary said. “She spent Thanksgiving with Daniel’s family, so she called that day to just chat. Said they were having a nice time in Peekskill. Daniel had a cold, and apparently her mother-in-law had burned the turkey.”

  “And we went over plans for Christmas—she and Daniel are coming up on the twenty-third. It should be cozy, just the four of us.”

  Their use of present tense, their dogged confidence that she’d be there in one week—it unnerved me. Did they have some reason to think Eleanor was safe, off taking care of something but about to reappear?

  “Are you heading home to Minnesota?” Karen asked.

  “Er—Michigan, yes. My sister and I are flying that same day, the twenty-third.” I cleared my throat. “I’m sure you guys will have a nice holiday.”

  “Eleanor is fine,” Karen cut in, her voice a squeak. I winced, brought my hand to my collarbone. “She has to be.”

  Gary let out what I think was an uncomfortable laugh, but it sounded more like a sob, and he cleared his throat to cover it. “What my wife means is that of course we’re worried sick. We hung up the phone with Daniel last night, and we looked at each other and swore—swore—we’d be strong. How else could—what else could we—?” He trailed off.

  “Eleanor is fine,” she said again. “And we feel even better knowing you’re helping look for her.”

  “Of course. Daniel, Mikki, Cameron—everyone’s eager to do whatever we can.” I waited for them to jump in about Cameron, how he was down here helping out, but they didn’t take the bait. I ran into Cameron today was almost out of my throat when I realized it would be strange to say I was poking around Eleanor’s personal effects on my own, for reasons mysterious even to me. “It’s really too bad Daniel wasn’t home Monday night, right?” Surely he hadn’t told them about his, er, extracurricular activities?

  “Horrible. Some luck, spending the night in your office that night, of all nights.” Gary seemed grateful for the change of subject. “But you know Daniel. A workaholic, just like our Eleanor.”

  I pulled at the toe of my sock. “Did Daniel say anything else?”

  “Oh, the detectives had just left and so he kinda filled us in,” he replied. “Have you seen him today? I’m worried about him.”

  “No, but I called him this morning. He was back at work.”

  “See? What’d I tell ya. A workaholic.”

  “It’s true,” I said. More silence. All these people, normally so skilled in the art of conversation, fumbling around for the right thing to say. “Well, I’m sure he’ll keep you posted, but I just wanted to check in. Call me if you need anything, okay? I’m happy to be your eyes and ears down here.”

  “Thanks so much, sweetheart,” Karen said, and Gary echoed her. “We’ll do that.”

  * * *

  —

  Work consumed the afternoon, a welcome distraction from my own maudlin imagination, an endless reel that made my stomach wrench: Eleanor locked in a basement, Eleanor chained up in a fallout shelter, Eleanor bound in the back of a speeding truck. I played Whac-A-Mole with journalists seeking updates and had about forty ninety-second-long calls with Stephanie in India, the reception ducking and weaving like Cosmo when I try to get him into his carrier. She was trying to move up her flight, but holiday bookings left her with few options. She was fine with leaving Aurelia, the head member relations coordinator, in charge until her return.

  Finally I slammed my laptop closed and tossed my phone onto the rug. Eleanor’s bookshelf…I kept seeing it, the rainbow of spines, colors and words, matte and glossy. The royal-blue hardcover with the gold and silver lettering. I pictured myself pulling it out, flipping through. Her fingerprints on the pages smudging under mine.

  The idea bloomed in my skull as if someone else had whispered it to me. My lips popped open, mouthed the words, Oh my God.

  I lunged for my phone, Googled two words and two numbers. The split second between hitting Enter and seeing my results fattened and stretched, and then words swamped the screen. The ones at the top told me everything I needed to know.

  Of course. Of course. It was so obvious I let out a little laughing scream. I brought my hand to my forehead, alarmed by how stupid I’d been.

  I wasn’t sure whom to call first, so I sent a group text to Katie and Mikki: “Guys, I think I know where Eleanor is.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Katie

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 11:40 A.M.

  I dropped my phone, theatrically, like a mime demonstrating shock. It slid off my knee and clattered to the floor, bounced once before settling.

>   Mikki looked alarmed: “Everything okay?”

  I grabbed it and reread the text: So it seems Eleanor’s out of commission, hmm?

  “What is it?” Mikki prompted again.

  My fingers and jaw had gone cold, as if someone had propped open the door to the rooftop above us. I looked into her eyes and decided it was safe to share.

  “Please don’t tell Hana,” I said, “or anyone, okay? But I’ve been—I was thinking about pitching an article about the Herd, a business profile timed to the Fort Greene location opening.” A ham-fisted lie, but it’d do. “And I reached out to the guy who filed that stupid discrimination suit earlier this year, since I thought it was relevant—talking to the people who basically show why the Herd needs to exist, right?”

  Mikki nodded.

  “We didn’t even end up talking—he flaked on our interview. But he just sent me this.” I handed her my phone and she gasped.

  “How does he know this?”

  I shook my head. “He could just mean that she wasn’t at the event last night—‘family emergency’—and she hasn’t been on social or anything since then. He’s probably mildly obsessed with her.”

  “Do you think he’s a stalker?”

  “No idea. In my research, I didn’t see a restraining order or anything.” I flipped the phone’s volume button on and off. “Did anyone mention him to the cops? Like, as a possible enemy? He has—bad blood, certainly.”

  “Motive.” Mikki frowned. “I don’t think anyone did. The lawsuit went nowhere. But you should probably let that detective know.” She reached for her bag. “Do you still have her card?”

  I left Ratliff a voicemail, then texted Carl back: “What do you mean?” No response.

  And not much time to worry about it, because around noon, Fatima arrived. I scurried to the front desk, where her jaw was shuddering from the continued cold snap; it felt appropriate somehow, the outside providing that same teeth-chattering discomfort I felt whenever I thought of Eleanor’s absence. Again, I pushed down the anxiety like someone sitting on an overstuffed suitcase to zip it: I can solve this.

  I settled Fatima into a corner sofa and set my laptop on the cushion between us. The whole thing felt a bit like sorcery: Fatima typed an IP address into my browser and entered the router info Ted had provided, and then the screen flooded with ugly raw data.

  Fatima gestured with a flourish: “This is it. It’s way less than I thought there’d be. Apparently it only has the history going back to…” She squinted at the screen. “The thirteenth. What is that, Friday?”

  “Yeah, Friday night. They just reset the router.” I frowned, remembering. “There were only three of us here that night, and Eleanor was the last one using it.”

  She scrolled, clicked, then pointed. “That’s her, then. I’ll pull it into its own file.”

  “You’re a wizard.”

  “I prefer ‘goddess.’ ” She handed the laptop back over. “I gotta bounce, but I should have those Click profiles for you soon.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and nodded toward my screen. “Hope you find something helpful in there. And, you know. I’m praying for your friend.” I thanked her and waved, the kind words reigniting the alarm I’d been suppressing.

  I looked back at the words and numbers swimming across my screen. Eleanor. AKA IP address 95.246.174.28. On Friday night, before we left to drink Prosecco, Eleanor was on Gmail for a few minutes. I almost dismissed this, then remembered that I’d seen the email client on her work computer: Outlook, her domain @theherd.com. I, for one, had no record of a Gmail account belonging to Eleanor.

  She was back in the office on Saturday, the last warmish day before the cold descended, while Hana and I were out looking at window displays and arguing over whether or not I’d sell secrets like some shady back-alley salesman. Eleanor had read the Times, clicked around on The Gaze, looked at Twitter, and somehow spent just three minutes on an inordinate number of views of White Plains, New York, in Google Maps. She passed a few minutes online banking at HSBC, which I almost disregarded—but wait, she banked with Chase.

  I was pulling out my folder with printouts of her bank statements when Detective Ratliff called. I told her about my sudden, creepy text from Carl, carefully repeating the line about my surreptitious article research. She asked for a screenshot and my copy of the court filing.

  I tugged at my earlobe. “If you question him, then he’ll know she’s really missing, right?”

  “I can’t imagine we’ll tell him. Right now we think it’s best to not release any information to the public. But we’ll follow up on this and get in touch with Mr….Berkowski if we feel it necessary.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your time.” Why does thank you so often throw on a suit and stand in for fuck you?

  I hung up and wandered over to the snack bar. I ordered an artichoke hummus platter, then gazed at the beige mush and realized I had never been less hungry. As I pushed cucumbers around on my plate, I looked again at the Chase bank statements. There were an awful lot of ATM withdrawals, come to think of it. Not easy to spot—they were at different locations, round numbers with the fee tacked on, $123.50 from a Duane Reade in Hell’s Kitchen and $182 from a restaurant in DUMBO. Three or four times a week, another wad of cash withdrawn—and of course, Eleanor was a cashless Millennial, whipping out cards or paying for a round with her phone. Why was she squirreling away wads of bills?

  “Katie.”

  I jumped and my head shot up. Aurelia, the glossy-haired member relations coordinator, was standing over me, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

  “Aurelia. Hi.” I closed the file folder, all casual.

  “There’s a detective here. Ratliff.” She jerked her head toward the front desk. “She’s going to look through Eleanor’s office. She said we can watch as long as we don’t touch anything. Hana…” She shrugged. “She suggested I have you there. What with your investigative journalist instincts and everything.”

  Hana had interacted with Aurelia today, but not me? “Of course.”

  Ratliff said hello stoically; I couldn’t tell if she realized we’d talked on the phone less than an hour earlier. She stepped inside Eleanor’s now-unlocked office while the three of us—Mikki, too—clustered in the door. The room, with its rectangle of sun and bursts of happy green, somehow seemed sinister now. The chairs in the corner looked mocking in their emptiness; the spider plants seemed to sag.

  It was neat—impeccably so. Eleanor’s broad computer monitor sat on the desk, taunting us. Ratliff snapped on gloves and moved to turn it on, but Mikki mumbled something about how it wouldn’t do anything without a computer hooked up to it; sure enough, the screen blinked to life, then coldly demanded an input.

  From then on, it was exactly as excruciating as standing motionless as a TSA employee attempts to repack your bag. I pointed to Eleanor’s small golden trash can and said something about checking it. Ratliff ignored me and fumbled with the pashmina and sweater draped on the coat rack, checking pockets. Then she tugged at the mint-green file cabinet rolled under the desk and thumbed through hanging index folders.

  “I know she keeps Herd applications in there,” Aurelia called. “And stuff related to the Fort Greene site.” Ratliff nodded, then pulled out large clear bags and loaded the folders inside.

  “Uh, some of those are original documents,” Mikki said. “Permits and stuff.”

  “You can have them back once we know they’re not pertinent,” Ratliff replied without looking up. My stomach twisted—the invasion of Eleanor’s personal space felt creepy and wrong. Ratliff was rifling casually, as if the owner wouldn’t be back, as if these were a dead woman’s things. At the shelving units, she picked up the first leather notebook on the stack and flipped through it—empty, I guessed, because she set it back. Same with the three below it.

  “Didn’t Eleanor carry around a notebook?”
I asked.

  “I think she kept it in her purse,” Mikki said, crossing her arms. “We still don’t know what happened to her purse or laptop.”

  “That’s what we hoped to find here,” Ratliff cut in. She ran a finger across the glass shelf. “When was the cleaner last here?”

  “Monday night,” Aurelia replied. “Probably around five. She couldn’t clean yesterday because it was locked, obviously.”

  Ratliff nodded and then leaned forward, inspecting the little knife. “And can anyone tell me about this?”

  “I’ve asked her about it before—the handle is so beautiful.” Mikki pressed a hand against the doorframe. “She brought it back from Mexico City at some point. She’s had it for a long time—since she started Gleam, at least.”

  Ratliff loaded the blade and its holder into an evidence bag as well. Finally, she fished in the trash can and bagged two tiny receipts (ATM withdrawals? Credit card slips from delis?) and a subway card. She stuck her hands on her knees and stood. “Is there anything else you think I should see here?”

  We looked at each other blankly.

  “Is there anything else you want to see?” Aurelia finally asked.

  Ratliff shook her head. “You have my number if you think of anything.” We bumbled out of the doorway and accompanied her out.

  Aurelia floated back to the front desk, and Mikki and I exchanged a look. “What the hell kind of search was that?” I demanded.

  “She barely even looked around,” Mikki said. She turned and marched back toward Eleanor’s office. “If she won’t look properly, I will.”

  I hurried after her and closed us inside. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

  Mikki was already cross-legged in front of the shelves, yanking at books that lined the bottom two rows. “No idea,” she replied.

  The door swung open and Aurelia appeared. Without a word, she plopped down next to Mikki, who was shaking books by the covers so the pages lolled.

  “What did she want to talk to you about?” Mikki asked.