by William Cook
Chloe reached across the table and put her hand over Kaitlynn’s as she saw a tear trickle down her daughter’s cheek.
“Anyway, Dr. Valentine—she says I can call her Val—tells me I’ve got all the classic signs of PTSD, compliments of that monster. She’s started me on sertraline, and I have appointments with her every other week.”
“It’s helping?”
“Yep. So far, so good. Sleeping a little better. She’s planning on doing what she calls some cognitive-behavioral stuff to help me with the bridge.”
Their dinners arrived, and they were silent for a few minutes while they began to eat.
Kaitlynn looked up from her plate. “I called Dad last night and talked to him about it.”
“Oh?” Chloe paused the fork on the way to her mouth, then resumed eating. “How did that go?”
“OK. He’s not a fan of medication, but he heard me out and was pretty supportive.” She took another mouthful of her fried razor clams. “He’s doing well. Happily married. Job is fine.”
“Good for him. I’m glad.”
Kaitlynn put down her fork. “Is it hard for you to say that? Being glad for him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m imagining falling in love myself someday. Getting married to my soul mate. How does all that go wrong? How do you wind up hating somebody you loved so much you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with him? I guess it scares me—getting divorced. Can you trust anything?”
“Those are good questions, Kaitlynn. I don’t hate your father, but let me think a minute.” She raised her glass to her lips to delay her response. “Obviously, nobody gets married thinking it’ll only be temporary. It reminds me of Charley and his poker-playing. When we marry, we go all-in. And just like in poker, sometimes we win real big, and sometimes we lose real big.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know. People grow apart. Our interests change, our likes and dislikes. We can get completely caught up in a job, hobbies, other relationships, and then we begin to forget...”
“Other relationships? Did you ever cheat on Dad?”
“That’s a very private question, honey. But no, I never did. I don’t think your father ever cheated on me either.”
“So what went wrong? I’m trying to understand.”
“Staying married takes work. At first, it’s easy. You’re madly in love, want to spend every minute together. But things settle down. It’s not that you fall out of love exactly. It’s more like the love changes from that initial fire to something warm but calmer.” She paused as if trying to find the right words. “It’s sort of like growing a favorite plant. You have to nurture it. Water it. Fertilize it. Turn it toward the light. After a few years, your father and I stopped doing that. I stopped feeling that I was special to him, really loved by him. I felt criticized all the time, like I could never do anything right. He said he stopped feeling that I respected him. Didn’t feel I honored him.” She sighed.
“What about now?”
“I still regret having to put you through our divorce. I never wanted to hurt you like that.” She shook her head back and forth. “I remember your yelling at me, ‘You and Dad are supposed to grow old together, so I can bring my kids to see their grandparents, to spend overnights in their grandparents’ house. You’ve ruined all that.’ I admit we did. I was really angry with your father at first. Even seeing a car like his driving down the street made me clench my teeth. But I finally realized that if I kept that up, I would only be hurting you worse. And hurting myself.”
“You’re not angry at him anymore?”
“No. I only wish him well. And I wish you well in your relationship with him.”
Kaitlynn sat silently for a moment. “Wow. That’s so different from some of my friends’ parents. Years later and they’re still at each other’s throats.”
“I can only share what’s worked for me.”
“Thanks, I think.” She paused again. “Changing the subject, you remember I’m planning on moving out with Tessa?”
“I know. I’m sure it’s for the best, but I will miss you. The house won’t be the same without you in it.”
“You’re the best, Mom.”
As they finished dinner, Chloe said, “Have you decided what movie you want to see?”
Kaitlynn took her phone from her purse. “Let me check again. I need a romantic comedy. How about you?”
“Amen to that, kiddo. There’s way too much ‘serious’ in our lives right now.”
12. A Celebratory Cup of Coffee
Chiara got to work early on Monday morning. She felt rejuvenated by the weekend and ready to resume her computer search. Facebook had released half a dozen accounts with Mxyztplk in the owner’s name. Only two of them had been closed within the last two months. She started her search there.
It wasn’t long before her shriek of joy echoed in the little office. She looked at the clock. It would be another fifteen minutes before her bosses arrived. She got up and prepared the coffee pot with the special mix of ground coffee Sammy had made for her. It was a treat having a boyfriend who was a coffee gourmand. Once a month, he made the pilgrimage to a little shop in Portland, where he purchased green coffee beans from all over the world. Then he concocted his own proprietary mixture and roasted them himself in the little machine he had splurged on two years before. After he had allowed the roasted beans to rest for three days “to release their gases and oils,” he ground them slowly so they wouldn’t burn. The resulting beverage they produced was what he called “God’s Brew.” And today, a celebratory cup of coffee was certainly required.
She looked back at her computer screen. There it was—the ad they had been looking for, the bait for the trap that had captured Patricia Carmody. Is she still alive? she wondered. If she is, has she given up all hope of rescue? Then she asked herself the question that she knew was gnawing at Charley’s subconscious, the question he didn’t dare utter aloud in Tony’s presence, for fear of being accused again of “writing novels instead of doing real police work.” Is there any connection between her disappearance and the murder of the crabbing crew?
She was still basking in her success when both policemen walked through the door.
“You look like Hemingway posing before his Greater Kudu,” said Whitehorse.
“What?” She thought she was getting accustomed to his occasional literary references, but this one threw her.
“You know. Pleased with yourself after a successful hunt. He wrote The Green Hills of Africa as an experiment—to see if a true story could compete with a work of the imagination. You look like I’m guessing he felt—satisfied at last with the trophy that had eluded him for so long.”
Esperanza was shaking his head. “Whew! Where do you get this stuff, man?”
Whitehorse lowered his gaze. “I think I’ve told you before. I was a…a disappointment to my father. Not the strong Native son he wanted. Didn’t fit in at home. Didn’t fit in at school. So I buried myself in books. Read everything I could get my hands on.” He raised his head. “Made me who I am,” he declared with a smile. “The Tracker you know and love.”
“Yeah, well, come back from left field.” Esperanza was chuckling. “Whatcha got for us, Chiara?”
“Behold,” she said with a flourish. “Meet Mxyztplk.” She pointed to her screen. “Actually, it’s ‘Mr. Mxyztplk 000001.’ Account closed December 28th.”
There it was—a picture of an empty director’s chair with the initials S.S. embossed on the back. Beneath it was the siren call.
Oscar-winning director seeking women 19-25 for a modern retelling of Lysistrata, to be filmed on the Oregon coast. Have you dreamed of being an actor? Do you have experience in high school, college, or community playhouse? Do you have the talent (and the courage!) to work with an obsessive director who demands nothing less than perfection? Click on the link to learn how one day you may walk down the red carpet in Hollywood! Newsslysistratamovie.com
&nb
sp; “Holy shit!” said Esperanza.
“That’s not all.” Chiara blew a lock of orange hair out of her eyes. “Look what happens when you click the link.”
Pages of application forms popped up on the screen, including requests for high school and college transcripts, an exhaustive bio, an in-depth statement about why the applicant wanted to be an actor, a resume of school and employment, contact information, and three personal photographs from different angles.
Esperanza whistled. “It looks totally legit.”
Whitehorse nodded. “Agreed. Except there were never any auditions held here by ‘Oscar-winning S.S.’ Word about such a big deal would have leaked out. We would have heard about it.”
Chiara looked at her bosses. “Why do you suppose Mxyztplk didn’t close down the web site?”
“I’m guessing he thought it wasn’t worth the trouble after closing his Facebook account,” said Whitehorse. “Or maybe he plans on using it again if he was pleased with the results this time.” He smiled. “In about three months.”
“Geez, man. There you go again making your leaps of logic. So, you’re tying all those coast disappearances together even though there isn’t a shred of evidence to connect them?” Esperanza was shaking his head back and forth.
“Humor me, Tony. I’m just looking for patterns.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a diagnosis for finding patterns that aren’t there, buddy. Please don’t become one of those delusional conspiracy theorists. God knows we’ve got enough of them crawling out of the woodwork.”
“I promise. But while we’re at it, remind me of what you found when you went out to the Forty-Fifth Parallel the other day.”
“A whole lotta nothing. Tiny apartment. Typical young person’s hangout—no offense, Chiara. Unmade bed. Dirty dishes in the sink. A row of empty beer and wine bottles on the counter, along with a three-quarter’s full bottle of vodka and a mostly full bottle of dry vermouth. I sent fingerprint and DNA samples to Newport for analysis but haven’t heard anything back yet.”
“And what about our other case—the Johnny B. Goode?”
“There is no other case. Remember?”
Chiara could hear a definite note of frustration in Esperanza’s voice. She stood up and got between them, diverting their attention before an argument developed. “Hey! You guys gotta try the coffee I brought in this morning. Sammy’s Special.”
“It smells fabulous.” Whitehorse reached for two mugs and handed one to his partner. He poured the dark liquid into Esperanza’s first and then into his own. As he raised the cup to his lips, his eyes went round with surprise. “Holy mackerel! That is the smoothest, richest coffee I have ever tasted. It’s delicious.”
“She’s a witch, Charley. I’m telling you. She’s got us under a spell. Nobody can make coffee this good. Next she’ll have us emptying our bank accounts and handing over our life savings to her and Sammy for a wedding present.”
Chiara’s smile lit up the small office. “Thanks, guys. I’ll tell Sammy you really liked it.”
“Please do,” chimed in both of them.
The smile left Whitehorse’s face as swiftly as it had emerged. He put his cup down on the desk. “I don’t mean to be a downer, but do you see what’s missing from the website?”
“What?” Esperanza sounded disappointed that the celebratory mood had dissipated so quickly.
“An address. Where were the auditions to be held? Mr. M must have given Carmody that info over the phone.”
“Crap.” Esperanza frowned. “Well, we know it was supposed to be in a warehouse in Depoe Bay. That’s what her mother told me. She sent us a good picture of the girl, too. I guess that’s not a lot to go on.”
“But Depoe Bay is a little town, smaller than Driftwood. How many warehouses can there be?”
“All kinds of businesses use warehouses, Charley. Big ones, small ones. You suggesting we check them all?”
“You got a better idea?”
Esperanza sighed. “Man, you’re like a dog with a bone.” He patted his stomach. “I guess I need the exercise. Wanna go now?”
“How about you guys take two cars?” Chiara was thinking ahead. “That way, if I get a call that needs a response, one of you can keep looking while the other takes the call.”
“Sounds good.” Whitehorse was already reaching for his coat.
Chiara starting typing furiously on her keyboard. “Google’s not looking too helpful. I keep getting ads for warehouses to buy or lease. I’m just guessing Mr. M wants to hold on to his place and wouldn’t want anyone else looking it over.”
Whitehorse turned to her. “Hey! Can you pull up a zoning map? That way we’ll know where to find the commercial and industrial properties. Narrow our search.”
A few deft keystrokes and the printer began to purr. “There it is now.”
As the policeman picked up the page, he looked at his partner. “Nothing too close to any major road. Mr. M wouldn’t want anybody seeing a pretty girl like Carmody knocking on the door of his shop.”
“Sheesh, Charley. 101 is the only ‘major road’ in that little burg. It’s a fly speck on the map.”
“ ‘Home of the World’s Smallest Harbor,’ ” Whitehorse said with a grin. “And the Spouting Horn, its own take on Old Faithful.”
Esperanza was chuckling in spite of himself. “You are a piece of work, man. Let’s do this before I change my mind.”
As an afterthought, Whitehorse stopped at the door and swung back to their receptionist. “Would you please call the Mayor for me and see if I can get an appointment with her later this afternoon? Have her let Legal know what’s going on.”
“You got it, Boss.”
13. Long Blonde Breadcrumbs
The storm that had been predicted on the early morning news hit with the ferocity of a minor hurricane. Winds began gusting to 50 miles per hour, and the heavens unleashed a deluge. In minutes, the streets looked as though the spillway from a dam had opened. The police cars hadn’t gotten out of Driftwood before Chiara’s voice sounded over their radios.
“Sorry, guys, but there’s been a pretty big accident over by the outlet malls. We need at least one of you.”
“I’ll cover it,” Esperanza volunteered. “These warehouses are your baby, anyway, Charley. Go track ’em down.”
“OK. I’ll keep you posted.”
Whitehorse drove in silence, but for the pounding of the rain on the roof of the cruiser. He had known that his partner’s heart wasn’t into this part of the investigation. Guessing that most of the warehouses in the little burg would be devoted to the fishing industry, Esperanza had expressed his fear that Whitehorse would try to establish some link between the missing girl and the dead crabbers. “Not enough to go on,” he’d insisted. “A waste of time and taxpayers’ money.”
Why am I so gung-ho? Why am I so hopeful that I’ll find something? Is it just my guilt that I wasn’t able to prevent Kaitlynn’s kidnapping two years ago? That we almost lost her to that monster because I wasn’t quick enough to pick up on all the clues?
“No!” he said aloud, as he slammed the steering wheel with his right palm. “I did all I could.”
But what happens when ‘all I can’ isn’t enough? Is Patricia Carmody still alive—out there somewhere, in pain and fear, hoping against hope that a miracle will happen? That I’ll come riding in on my white horse to save the day?
The wipers on their highest setting were barely keeping up with the onslaught of wind and water. The car shivered as a gust of rain-laden wind smacked it like a fist. It reminded him of the day he went knocking door-to-door on the cliffs above the sea in Driftwood, desperate for any information about the woman in white, lost to a sneaker wave a year ago this month.
Is this a policeman’s legacy? To be trapped in doubt and assailed by myriad what-ifs and if-onlys? He finally turned on the radio to distract himself.
By the time he reached Depoe Bay, the rain had lessened marginally. He pulled over to study the
city zoning map he had laid out on the passenger seat. He identified the commercial and industrial areas and set out for the nearest one.
The first warehouse he came upon had a sign over the large, garage-style door. PACIFIC FISH AND WHALE COMPANY it proclaimed in bold red letters. The structure was a featureless gray with a corrugated steel roof. Several small windows were set high on the walls. A small office door was situated at the left corner. Whitehorse knocked and was surprised when someone answered right away.
A tall man dressed in a heavy flannel shirt opened the door. A large gray beard hung almost to his waist. “Can I help you?” His voice had a too-many-cigarettes kind of rasp to it.
“I’m Officer Whitehorse from the Driftwood PD.” He extended his hand.
“Colin Mackey,” the man responded, grasping the offered hand in his own, rough with callouses like scales.
“I’m checking local warehouses for a missing young woman. Maybe you heard about the case on the news?”
“Yeah. Sure did. Ain’t seen no girl like that around here.”
“May I come in out of the rain for a moment?”
“Sure. Sure. C’mon in.”
When Whitehorse entered, he could hear the sound of an electric sander. Smells of new paint competed with old fish to make an unpleasant combination. In the center of the warehouse, a crabbing boat was in dry dock and several men were scurrying around it.
“That’s the Molly Sue. Gotta get her seaworthy again while the season’s still young.”
“Is that what you use the warehouse for?”
“Yeah. We repair our boats in here out of the weather. We store stuff, too. There’s a bunch of old crab pots over in the corner. They kinda stink. Got a room full of spare engine parts and another full of marine paint. Got nets and buoys down there. We run a fishing business, but we also do some whale-watching in the tourist season. Feel free to look around if you like.”
