by Alan Spencer
Chapter Three
Morty smoked because he couldn’t sleep. It was something to do to keep him occupied. He watched the sun turn the night into purple, red, then orange. Morty should’ve been tired, but he was shaking. He knew he’d crash at some point later that day. What did somebody do in this position? Did they lose their minds with worry?
He ran through the previous day, how him and Glenda were both facing a full weekend off of work. Glenda was a nurse who worked in the ICU. She had three days off in a row. It was her weekend to pick out where they went out to eat on Saturday night. They talked about normal couple stuff the other day. The kind of things two people who’d been together for several decades talked about.
What if he didn’t ever find out what happened to Glenda? She would be one of those people who disappeared one night, and the mystery would only deepen as the days, weeks and months ticked by. How could he live not knowing what happened to her?
Morty didn’t pray. He wasn’t religious. But the way he prayed recently, it was more like begging and hoping God might hear him. He prayed out loud that this was only some stupid misunderstanding. Morty wouldn’t be mad. He’d hug his wife, hold her close, and maybe he wouldn’t ever let go of her ever again. It would be his turn to be the overbearing partner. Call me when you…/check in when you…/let me know when you…/don’t forget to let me know if you end up doing…/if you stay out late, please…
Nothing was bad between them. He told himself that for the hundredth time. They loved each other. Nothing was wrong. They weren’t fighting. Furthering his argument, none of Glenda’s things were packed. Her jewelry, family heirlooms, even her purse (her purse!) were all in the house. That solved the mystery. Glenda didn’t leave him, or go off somewhere to escape her husband.
That was a small consolation.
Glenda was still unaccounted for.
It was worse that her possessions were still here. Maybe it would be better if her things were packed. Morty pictured every dresser drawer empty of her things. Her side of the closet being cleared out, leaving his simple button-up shirts and T-shirts and pants. It would mean she left on her own accord. She was safe. She could be won over. Glenda could return home.
Someone forced her out of the house. He knew it. That gut feeling. Nothing was right in this house.
And the smell suddenly returned.
The doorway.
Smells he couldn’t identify caused the house to reek. Morty tried to hold his breath against it. There was no use trying. The smell was so intense everything in the house stank, including his own skin.
Morty was afraid to enter the bedroom. He was compelled because he didn’t understand what was happening. It was clear the two cops hadn’t seen the doorway and the charcoal tracings.
He stood in front of the doorway in challenge. Morty’s body quivered. His heart was on speed. What was he supposed to do now? The black tracings around the doorway, who, or what, put them there?
Stress. It had to be stress. People acted different when under extreme duress. Morty was imagining the doorway and the smells. That had to be it. His imagination was at work.
Morty stepped up slowly to the doorway. He touched one of the vertical lines. It crumbled, coming apart like greasy chalk. New smells were kicked up, ones he could only describe as burnt wood, maybe burnt meat. When he crushed the piece of black between two fingers, he uncovered an insect’s exoskeleton.
“What is this?”
It disgusted him, causing him to run into the bathroom and wash and scrub his hands under such hot water his skin turned bright pink.
Somebody’s messing with me.
I’m going crazy.
Morty was on the verge of breaking down into tears, when a surge of white-hot anger burned in him.
One thing I do know, those markings are gone!
Morty stomped into the kitchen, reached under the sink for a plastic bucket and filled it with liquid dish soap and water. He grabbed a Brill-O pad, and if it tore the wallpaper, Morty didn’t care. He didn’t want those nasty markings on his walls.
Returning to the bedroom, Morty was scrubbing the walls wearing yellow dish gloves. He wouldn’t touch that infernal black shit ever again! He furiously dipped the Brill-O pad into the soapy, burning hot water. Morty rubbed the rough side against the wall. He was gritting his teeth, sweat was rolling into his eyes and he was cursing, muttering things unconsciously, and feeling his skin burn red. Flicking bubbles and splashes of water onto the wood floors, he was making fast progress. The outline of the door was almost erased completely. The soapy water in the bucket was a nasty gray and black, the color of tar and fresh asphalt, and just as hot, or was he imagining the black owned a heat?
The doorbell was going off. How many times had it rung before he heard it? Pounding against the front door could be heard between the doorbell rings.
“Dad? Dad, are you home? Dad? Dad!”
The floor surrounding him was soaked in sudsy water. His pants were covered in bubbles and soaked through wet. Parts of the wallpaper were scratched up to the bare grain. Only water and soap dripped down. There was no black. No mess. Only soap water. Morty was sobbing as the doorbell kept ringing and his daughter called out for her father, who was possibly losing his mind.
Chapter Four
What a mess Cheyenne had walked into, Morty thought while taking a shower. Cheyenne told him she would clean up the mess in the bedroom. She asked what he was doing, and all he could do was cry and say, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Morty could only apologize. Cheyenne said don’t worry about it. No need to explain. He’d had a bad night. And Morty knew he wasn’t much to look at, with his teary eyes and body covered in soapy water, trying to tell her why he was covered in soapy water and only crying harder because he couldn’t tell her because the reason was insane. He didn’t dare tell her about the markings around the doorway. Morty could’ve slipped headfirst into that torturous world of self-pity and helpless desperation if it weren’t for his beautiful daughter.
Thank God for Cheyenne, he kept thinking. She’ll see me through this bad situation.
Cleaned up and dressed, Morty met his daughter in the kitchen. She had made him breakfast. It was a nice spread of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. Morty knew she was doing something just to be doing something. He understood that. What else could they do? They both picked at the food, drank coffee and hashed out the situation. Looking at his daughter, who was already in her thirties, had two little girls (Cindy and Jessica) and was enjoying a career as a tax auditor, he knew she was just as much of a mess about Glenda as he was, because in reality, things weren’t looking good. They could lie, inject false hope into their conversations, but something was seriously wrong here. Glenda should be home. She shouldn’t be somewhere else. Glenda was in danger.
Cheyenne asked this question after rehashing Morty’s conversation last night with the police: “Then what should we do next? What do people do in these situations?”
“I never thought I’d go through something like this,” Morty said. “It’s hard to answer that question. Your mother’s always been a straight arrow. I’ve been the bad one. The guy who goes out and drinks and stays out too late when he should be home with his wife, making sure nothing bad happens to her.”
“Dad, no.” Cheyenne moved across the table and hugged him. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t live life like bad things are going to happen constantly. People go out on Friday nights. There’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t blame yourself, Dad. I’m your daughter. I grew up with you, and I know you, Dad. You were great to Mom. I have a lot of friends who can say a lot of bad shit about their parents, but you two were great. I’m a lucky girl to have a father like you. We’re going to figure this out together. Everything is going to be okay.”
“What about your kids? And your husband? I bet he’s worried sick.”
“I’
ve taken care of everything. Dane is out of town on business, and the kids are being watched by Dane’s mother. They’ll be okay. I’m here, Dad. So what’s our next move?”
The next move was checking in with the police. Nothing had turned up, they told Morty over the phone, and he was told to keep waiting. A detective was being assigned the case, and the investigation into the disappearance of Glenda Saggs would be underway very soon.
The investigation into the disappearance of Glenda Saggs.
The sound of it hit Morty the wrong way.
The food he ate, what little, wasn’t staying down.
“Excuse me, Cheyenne.”
He rushed to the bathroom and puked up the breakfast. The process left his midsection in pain. Morty rested his head against the rim of the toilet, closed his eyes and tried to collect himself.
You have to be strong for Glenda. Do everything you can to find her. Break down later, fall apart later, blame yourself when all else fails later, but not now. Glenda needs you right now.
Another thought bothered Morty. The way the police assigned a detective so quickly to the case. It was less than twenty-four hours, and they were already treating this like a murder. Things were happening so fast, and Morty questioned if he had it in him to take everything on.
Cheyenne tapped on the bathroom door.
“Dad, you okay in there?”
Morty got up off the floor, rinsed out his mouth with tap water, and looked at his haggard face. He had graying hair on both sides of his head with no hair on top. A bird’s nest, as they called it. His eyes were heavy, every feature sagging a little from lack of sleep and hard emotions. If he didn’t find his wife soon, Morty hated to think how he’d look in the future.
“Yeah, honey. I’ll be okay.”
After he came out of the bathroom, the phone rang. Morty rushed to the phone, hoping it was Glenda.
It wasn’t Glenda.
It was a man named Detective Larson. He asked Morty if he wanted to come down to the station for a talk. Morty said he did. Cheyenne drove him, the two of them eying every house, stretch of highway and building with extra scrutiny. Morty imagined seeing Glenda laid out on a patch of grass, or being pulled into a car as she screamed and attempted to escape the clutches of some evil criminal or pervert, or worse, her body sprawled out in a vacant lot.
People die when they disappear.
You have to be prepared.
You have to be realistic.
“…Dad?”
Morty snapped out of it. “Yes, honey.”
“Who was the last person to see Glenda last night?”
“Three of her friends came over to the house to play board games and drink wine.”
“So between you leaving for the bar, and Glenda having friends come over, she’s unaccounted for.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“And no signs of a break-in, or a struggle inside, or anything suspicious?”
They’d been through this before, but Morty didn’t mind going through it again. What else were they going to talk about?
“That’s what confuses me. Glenda didn’t up and leave. I don’t see how with the car and her belongings still here. And it doesn’t look like anybody got into the house. I don’t know, Cheyenne. I wish I did. I’d give anything to know where your mom is.”
“I know you would, Dad.”
Father and daughter were quiet for the rest of the way down to the police station.
Chapter Five
Hannah, Glenda’s best friend, was standing outside Detective Larson’s office. She had talked to the detective ten minutes before Morty’s arrival. Hannah worked with Glenda, both women being nurses in the ICU. They were inseparable since they were friends in grade school. Hannah told Morty and Cheyenne how she kept calling the station demanding they take action, and Morty thanked her for it.
“I feel like I’m falling apart. I’m worthless.” Morty fell into a bout of tears. “I looked for her in the neighborhood last night. I searched people’s yards. I even drove out to Hillsdale Lake shouting her name. I swear I’m going crazy. It doesn’t feel right without Glenda in the house. I’m so busy feeling sorry for myself I should be doing more.”
Hannah grabbed Morty by both arms.
“No, Morty. You’re upset, and you have every right to be. I kept calling the station last night, and they wanted to shrug me off and tell me to wait. I’m not waiting another second. Glenda was happy last night. She even said she was looking forward to her big lug of a husband barreling through the door. I talked to that Detective Larson asshole in there, and he had the audacity to question you, Morty. I’ve known Glenda practically my whole life. Everything was good between you guys. How dare he even whisper an accusation your way.”
“He thinks maybe I had something to do with it?”
“Okay, maybe he didn’t directly say you could’ve done something. The detective just asked a ton of questions about your relationship with Glenda. He was implying things, and I didn’t like it.”
Cheyenne stepped in and gave Hannah a hug. “Thank you for helping, Hannah.” Cheyenne and Hannah knew each other well. When Cheyenne was growing up, Hannah often babysat her. “The police are only doing what they can to put everything together. They know Dad didn’t do anything. It’s only procedure.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I still don’t like how he kept asking questions about you, Morty. The guy rubs me the wrong way.”
Morty tried to calm Hannah even though he enjoyed her command of the situation.
“But it makes sense, thinking like a detective. Between you and the girls leaving the house and me showing up last night, Glenda vanished. Why not question me? If it gets Glenda home again, accuse me of anything. As long as I get her back, none of that matters.”
“Just don’t let that detective bully you around. If he gets to grilling you too hard, ask for a lawyer. These detectives only want to solve their cases and move on. They don’t love Glenda like we do.
“Speaking of, would you help me drive around town putting out flyers, Cheyenne? I ordered the print shop in town to make a bundle. We’ll go around town posting them. I have to keep doing something, or I’ll go out of my mind. After that, I want to go door-to-door and ask everybody in the neighborhood if they saw anything last night. We have to do this as fast as possible. The more time passes, the more details people forget.”
Cheyenne agreed. Dad said he’d call them after he was done talking to the detective and meet up somewhere. The three of them agreed today would be dedicated to Glenda.
Detective Larson stepped out of his office. The man was in his early fifties, his face peppered gray and black from not shaving. He had a sizeable gut but his hard face said he was far from lazy.
The detective shook Morty’s hand. “Good morning, Mr. Saggs. I’m Detective Larson.”
Cheyenne and Hannah left him and the detective alone. Morty entered the detective’s office. It was a cramped room with steel filing cabinets, a computer covered in sticky notes and pages and files stacked on his desk.
“Have a seat, Mr. Saggs. This is going to be easy today. I only want to run through a few things.”
The detective asked about the details about last night up to and after Glenda’s disappearance. The expected questions: Was she upset about anything? Would she leave for any reason? Did you guys have any arguments?
Morty gave him the answers.
“Hannah pretty much gave me the same details,” the detective said when Morty was finished talking. “It appears Glenda had no reason to leave. Everything was good in her life. So her disappearance is confusing. I’m sure this must be hard for you.”
“It has been, Detective. I never thought I’d be in this situation.”
“Nobody does.”
The detective opened a file, read it over and suddenly remembered something
he wanted to say.
“Oh yes, I read the report from last night written by one of the officers on the scene. They said nothing was out of place, except for you.”
“Except for me?”
Morty didn’t like the way he said “except for you”.
Hannah’s warning was ringing true.
This detective could turn out to be a serious asshole.
If this joker grills you too hard, mention getting a lawyer.
Morty had nothing to hide, but the way the detective was looking at him with question marks in his eyes, he felt anything but reassured.
“I’m sorry, Morty. I’m making you feel uncomfortable. I meant to say one of the officers said you were in an especially distressed state. Care to explain why that may be?”
“It’s simple really. My wife is missing. She wasn’t home when I came home. Glenda never does this. Ever. I was frantic. I lost control over myself. What else can I say?”
The detective eyed Morty for ten agonizingly long seconds.
“Any husband would feel that way. In the report, it states you didn’t answer the summons at your door. The officers had to come in, and when they did, they heard you making strange noises. Like you were scared of something. ‘Terrified’ was the word used in the report. You were up against the wall pointing at a door. Care to share what was going on in your mind? Honestly, that’s my only concern. Your state of mind that night, Morty, raises questions. I’m sure you can clear things up for me. Please don’t take this the wrong way.”
Detective Larson didn’t like Morty’s shift of expression, because Morty was angry.
“Now hold on, Mr. Saggs. I’m not accusing you of anything. Everything I know will help me in this investigation. Anything, and I mean anything at all, that stands out in reports, I have to follow up on. It’s my job. I’m only doing this to find your wife. Answering the question will only allow me to move on to something more pertinent to the case. Please, Morty, what was on your mind when the officers came onto the scene?”
