He walked out and shut the door behind him. Then there was a slight rattle, like he was locking it.
Jules stared at the soup. She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach hurt and was quickly becoming nauseated.
Had she finally lost her mind? Many thought she already had. But as far as she knew, she had a firm grasp on reality. So what was this?
That man at the end of the bed . . . It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She had to have gone crazy. She was in a mental ward, maybe, and her mind was just not able to process it all, so she was escaping to another place.
Jules got up slowly, stumbling through swirling dizziness. She steadied herself with the help of the end of the bed. She was barefoot and the cold floor stung the bottoms of her toes. She noticed, as she looked down, a pair of leather slippers resting on the floor at the corner of the bed.
They felt like pure pleasure when she slipped them on. The air had a chilling bite to it. With quiet footsteps, she walked to the window and carefully pushed the curtains aside. Light glared into the room and she shaded her eyes.
Outside, the sun sparkled against a dusting of snow. Tall, majestic trees enchanted the birds, who chirped cheerfully, their beaks pointed toward the sky. The clean, crisp smell of pine found its way to her, and it almost felt like she was standing right in the forest. A rabbit hopped into view, its ears board straight, its eyes wide and alert. What was this, some kind of twisted fairy tale?
She blinked . . . and remembered suddenly that this was not their first encounter. She’d seen him at the grocery store. She’d reached for a package of pasta but dropped it. When she stood back up after stooping to retrieve it, there he was.
“You’re . . .” She wanted to whisper and shout it at the same time. “You’re Patrick Reagan!”
His face lit in a gracious smile. “I am. And you are?”
She’d gushed about what a big fan she was, what an honor it was to meet him in person.
The memory flashed in and out of her mind, and then she was back at the window, cold and helpless.
Slivers of images winked and glinted inside her thoughts, like pieces of metal buried in sand on a sunny day.
She and Patrick walked on the beach, drinking coffee, the foam of the ocean washing toward their feet.
Then they were on a bench, talking. He wore a fedora and sunglasses. She could see her reflection in them.
But like detached passages from a novel, the scenes were useless in trying to figure out how she ended up being held against her will in a remote cabin.
Jules glanced down at her wrists again, still red and bruised. This was no fairy tale. But why had Patrick Reagan come to usher her into a nightmare?
THE LT. COLONEL WAS known for his rigid and unbreakable habits, and right now, that was making Chris’s job easier. He and Maecoat had worked two traffic accidents, but now they were in town at the only coffeehouse, Perks, a socialization mecca for the retired crowd during the day. The old folks had even managed to run off the younger crowd—which they’d dubbed the Wi-Fis—by literally taking over the place with dominoes and checkers. It was their last claim to stake and they did it robustly, mostly because the fishing industry was hurting. What had been a thriving industry decades ago lacked manpower these days. This generation didn’t want their parents’ jobs. They liked technology. So the old generation decided to take it away, one hot spot at a time.
As they pulled to the curb near Perks, Maecoat sighed. “I don’t have to go in, do I?”
“If you want coffee, you do.”
“You’re not going to bring me one back?”
“Come on, I could use some help with this guy. We’ve got a window here. Afternoon drinking hasn’t started yet.”
“I’m also lying for you. We never stop on break here and you know it.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “I get it. I owe you big-time.”
“I’m talking Boston Bruins tickets big-time.”
“Fine.” Chris started to get out.
“And I want Addy’s famous clam chowder.”
Chris cocked his head. “Seriously.”
“I like when your sister comes into town.”
“I’m not a fool. I know it’s not the clam chowder you dig.”
“Just saying.” Maecoat shrugged, glancing toward the coffee shop. “I don’t work for free.”
“Fine. Hockey tickets. Addy’s clam chowder. But don’t hit on her.”
They walked toward Perks, which was bustling with slow-moving seniors. As they entered, the chime rang and the crowd turned to stare them down.
Chris hoped the Lt. Colonel was still in his same routine, even with his daughter missing. He surveyed the room and quickly spotted him in the corner, nursing a shot of caffeine and what looked like a pretty bad hangover. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a flattop so disheveled.
They approached cautiously. The man never looked up.
“Lt. Colonel.”
His gaze rose, then his head. “Chris.”
“May we sit, sir?”
He glanced at Maecoat, then said, “Just you. Not him.”
Maecoat threw his hands up. “No arguments from me. I’m going to get something frothy.”
Chris slid into the other side of the half-moon booth. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
The Lt. Colonel didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said, “I don’t remember much, but I recall I might’ve paid you a call at an ungodly hour.”
“It’s fine, sir. You’re entitled. It’s your daughter.”
He ran his finger along the bottom of his nose. “She’s kind to me, and she shouldn’t be. I’ve not been the father I should’ve been.” His eyes stayed on his coffee.
“Sir, I just want to help you find Jules.”
“When she was young, I was gone a lot. On the other side of the world. Now I’m still gone, just in a different way.”
“You check on her every day. That’s something.”
“She needed more from me when Jason died. I couldn’t give it. Never been able to, which is why I’m alone.”
Chris wished he had a cup of coffee to wrap his fidgeting fingers around. “Look, I went to Jules’s house again and noticed something. The day she disappeared was their anniversary.”
The Lt. Colonel looked up. “Their anniversary?”
“I saw the date on a framed picture of them.”
He looked pathetically guilty. “I should know these things. But I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”
“Since it was their anniversary, maybe she did go off to be by herself for a while. Wouldn’t that make sense? Maybe went to a place they enjoyed together?”
“No. That doesn’t sound like her. Besides, every anniversary they stayed home and Juliet fixed him one of his favorite dishes. That was their tradition, as best I understood it. They’d go walk on the beach before dinner.”
“How do you know this?”
“That blog she writes. Puts a lot of personal stuff on it. I don’t agree with it. Have told her that. But it has been her passion. She likes to write. Guess people are interested in that stuff. I think she’s got some real literary talent myself, but she doesn’t listen to me.” He lowered his gaze again. “Sometimes I don’t know my daughter unless I read all that blog junk. I try, but there’s always this wall between us. Guess my drinking doesn’t help.”
“Does she use Facebook or Twitter a lot?”
“Son, I don’t know what any of that means. It’s all I could do to figure out how to read her blog. I read it because she’s my daughter, not because I like it. I think all this technology is ruining everything about our society. But don’t get me started.” He sipped his coffee, kept his eyes low. “What’s your gut telling you?”
Chris sighed, glanced toward Maecoat, who was hitting on the barista. “That we don’t have enough evidence of foul play. But I don’t think there is evidence she took off somewhere either. There didn’t seem to be clothes missing from her closet, and her suitcases were still there. Grant
ed, neither of those things are proof. She could’ve used another bag and just taken a few items. But I’m going to keep looking.”
“She’s all I got left.” His bottom lip quivered.
“I know. I promise I will do everything I can to find her. I . . .” The words caught in his throat. “I made a promise to Jason that I would watch out for her.”
The Lt. Colonel crushed the paper coffee cup in his hand. “I guess we’ve both failed, then.”
“The grocery store? Now?” Maecoat said, clawing at his cheek. While flirting with the barista, he’d managed to down four espressos and something with caramel. “I say we drive around and look for those teenagers who’ve been vandalizing the bridge. Get a good foot chase going.”
“This won’t take long,” Chris said, parking the car. “Stay here if you—”
“Can’t. Feel like walking.”
“Fine.”
“Why are we here again?”
“The Lt. Colonel said she always went to the store on Tuesdays. He also said for their anniversary she always cooked Jason his favorite meal. So I think it stands a chance that she might’ve come here.”
“I am pretty sure the captain would be having a cow right now if he—”
“I need you to give me a break and stop complaining,” Chris said, snapping his gaze sideways toward his partner. He liked Maecoat, but the dude could be awfully self-absorbed. Jason would’ve never whined like this.
“I just don’t get the urgency.”
“I know you don’t. It’s personal for me, okay? So let’s leave it there.”
They walked in and Chris took a photo out of his pocket of Jason and Jules. He talked to a couple of cashiers, but neither of them remembered if Jules had come in. They knew her to be a regular but didn’t know when they’d last seen her. Maecoat went to question the guys in produce and the meat department.
After talking to the last cashier and the manager, to no avail, Chris noticed a teenager wearing a black shirt and pants staring at him from the far corner of the store. When Chris put his full attention on him, the kid quickly turned away.
Chris approached him. “What’s your name?”
The kid looked up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and swayed back and forth.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Seth Steven Moreman.”
There was something off about him. Why wasn’t he making eye contact? “Am I making you nervous?” Chris asked, stepping closer.
“Everyone makes me nervous.” He looked at Chris’s gun. “I like your gun. It’s a Glock 22.”
“You like guns, do you?”
“Yes. I can name every gun made just by seeing a picture. I can also tell you what kind of bullet each uses. The earliest known English breech-loading rifle was made in 1689, and the entire English army was equipped with flintlocks by 1690. The first patent for a single trigger lock was registered by James Templeman. The patent number was 1707.”
If Jules were a gun, this kid might be helpful.
“Why are you here?” Seth asked.
Chris pulled out his picture. “I’m looking for this woman.”
“She was here on Tuesday at 10:47 a.m.”
Chris held the picture closer. “You’re sure? Her?”
“Yes. Positive. She comes every Tuesday.”
“But I’m concerned only with this last Tuesday.”
“She was here.”
Now Chris was concerned about why he knew so much about Jules’s grocery store habits. “What makes you sure that you’re right?”
“I’m right.”
“How do I know you haven’t mixed up the dates?”
“I never mix up dates.” The boy finally made eye contact, looking highly offended.
“Maybe you’re remembering wrong.”
“I am not,” the boy said emphatically.
“What was she wearing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know she was here, down to the minute, but don’t know what she was wearing?”
“I don’t like clothes. Colors bother me. I try not to look at them.”
Chris took a deep breath. “Did you talk to her?”
“I don’t talk to customers. I only sack their groceries, and we don’t offer plastic, so their only choice is paper. I don’t have to ask them which they want.”
“So she bought groceries?”
“Yes.”
“What did she buy?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m still having a hard time understanding how you remember this,” Chris said pointedly.
“I have a memory of her for two reasons. First, she is nice. She always says hello to me even though I don’t say hello back.”
“And the second?”
“It was the day that he came in.”
“Who?”
“Patrick Reagan.”
“The writer?”
“Of course. He’s one of the most brilliant writers our country has to offer. He was raised on a farm in Pennsylvania. His mother was a seamstress. His father worked the mines. He’s sold over ten million books, though his critics believe he sold out to commercialism. Before that, he won a Pulitzer for fiction when he was only twenty-eight.”
“That’s grand. I don’t read his stuff.”
“You should.”
“So let me get this straight. You remember that Juliet Belleno came in on Tuesday at 10:47 a.m. because it was the same day that author Patrick Reagan came in.”
“The same time, too.”
“Okay.”
“It was unusual that he was here in the winter. He does not live here in the winter. He has a cabin up in the mountains somewhere.”
“Let’s get back to Juliet. Do you remember her leaving the store?”
“Yes.”
“Did she seem distraught?”
“No.”
“Did she talk to anyone while she was here?”
“I don’t know. Not while she was checking out.”
“Okay. Thank you for your help.”
Chris turned to find Maecoat walking toward him, a small sack in his hands.
“What? It’s a snack for later. Find out anything useful?”
“Yeah. She was definitely here on Tuesday, according to Seth over there.”
“Well, we know they don’t have surveillance footage. None of these stores are equipped for it,” Maecoat said. And it was true. Much of the town had not caught up to the technology that would greatly help the police department. And liked it that way. Some of the lobster boats weren’t even equipped with GPS, much to the frustration of the Coast Guard.
“At least we know she was here. That’s where we start trying to figure out what happened.”
“Where to next?”
“The beach.”
“I was hoping you’d say the speed trap.”
IT WAS THE SAME DAY, she assumed, when Jules woke again. By peering out the window, she could tell the approximate time. The sun’s light was warmer and softly hued. She’d been sleepy all day, napping on and off as if it were a lazy Sunday and she had a paper to read. But there was nothing to do but lie on the bed and try to figure out her circumstances.
She’d concluded a while back that she was not dreaming. There was something extremely tangible about it all, her dizzy head notwithstanding. More than anything, it was the vivid smells around her that caused her to believe this was all real. The soup was the most fragrant she’d ever smelled, like it had cooked for hours. She could taste the fresh herbs in it. The cream was divine. Despite her lack of appetite earlier, she’d eaten heartily, crackers and all.
She’d not seen Patrick Reagan again, however. She listened for sound outside her door, but it was very quiet.
Anxiety was starting to overcome her as the dizziness in her head faded. She sat on the edge of the bed and chewed through her fingernails, eyeing the door. She’d already tried the window. It was locked down and the glass looked thick.
As the
once-bright sunlight dimmed outside the window, she planted her feet firmly on the ground, without the slippers, and stomped across the cold wood floor. She hadn’t checked to see if the door was really locked. She firmly grasped the handle but it didn’t budge. She made a fist and began pounding. It felt good. Released some of the aggression she was feeling.
“Hey!” She put her face close to the door. “Hey! You! Let me out of here! Do you understand me? You can’t hold me here! You can’t do this!” It sounded so ridiculous coming out of her mouth. First of all, he obviously could, or she wouldn’t be here. Secondly, she was yelling through a thick wooden door at her favorite author, who had kidnapped her. Between the shouts, she’d take a breath and wonder if she was really losing her mind. Maybe, just maybe, it had fractured.
But along with the smell of the soup, she’d smelled him when he’d delivered it. It wasn’t cologne—too light for that. But there was a certain scent that reminded her of a walk in the woods. Or Christmas. Pine, maybe? Musk?
“Heeeeyyyyy!” Her voice had risen to a screeching pitch.
Then, footsteps.
Jules breathed hard. Stepped back a little.
Silence.
“Listen to me! I want you to let me out right now!” She stepped forward again. “Now! Right now! Now!”
Another sound. A key in the door. She took several steps back, put her hands on her hips, waited.
As the door slowly opened, she wished her chest wasn’t moving up and down so rapidly. She planned to take a stand or defend herself if he attacked her, and she had enough adrenaline for either, but it was showing itself a bit too early.
Patrick Reagan regarded her for a moment, and she regarded him. His hair, just like in the picture on the back of his books, was soft brown and wavy, flowing back like a tidal wave. He didn’t wear a particular expression as he looked at her.
Jules tried to find a few words, but nothing came out. As usual.
He stepped into the room and then looked her up and down. “Why are you still in your nightclothes?”
She glanced down at the luxurious pajamas she’d found herself in when she’d first awoken. “Maybe I should be asking you how this happened?” she growled, gesturing wildly at herself.
“You dressed yourself,” he said. “I suggest you do it again. I don’t serve supper to people in their pajamas.”
Misery Loves Company Page 4
