Tall Oaks: A gripping missing child thriller with a devastating twist

by Chris Whitaker

  “You ever buy a Ford?”

  She looked up at him, shook her head. “Why?”

  “You ever go to the Ford dealership, maybe to get the car serviced?”

  “No.”

  “Did Michael?”

  “Michael drives a Range Rover,” she said, certain he knew that already. “Why?”

  “Just checking something out, probably nothing.”

  She inched toward him, sitting on the edge of her chair.

  “Did you find something?” she said, wondering what it could be.

  “No, nothing. Forget about it.”

  They sat in silence for a long while, the sun beating down on them.

  He lit a cigarette. She bummed one.

  She looked at Jim and thought about Michael. The two were cut from the same perfect mold. All flawless skin and long eyelashes, smiles that made women push their tits out and suck their stomachs in. Michael wore his gift like a second skin, well aware of his effect on the opposite sex and never afraid to use it. Jim tried to dress it down. He kept his hair close-cropped, his face unshaven. Like he didn’t want people to think he gave the slightest shit about his appearance.

  “Why’d you become a cop? I know you went to Harvard, studied law. Was it because of your father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That simple?”

  “I guess so. I still look at the job like it’s noble or something. People used to look up to him. He deserved that—he was a good man. People came to our house and talked over their problems with him, even if it was nothing to do with the law. And he always listened. They left feeling better, because they had someone to go to when things got tough and they needed help. That’s why I studied law. I wanted to be one of those do-gooder lawyers, standing up for the people and all that bullshit. A pillar of the community, like my old man.”

  She crossed her legs, smoothed the hair from her eye. “So what changed?”

  “There were too many other people with the same ideals. That cheapened it for me. Sounds stupid I know. But I wanted to really make a difference, change someone’s life for the better or something. But then I met a hundred other people like me and saw the way they changed. By the end of the course ninety-nine of them went on to big-city law firms to collect their fat salaries and work twenty hours a day.”

  “What happened to the other one?”

  Jim laughed. “He dropped out.”

  “So you came home again, took over from your father?”

  “Not straight away. I joined the Boston PD for a couple of years, worked some of the nastiest cases you could imagine, shit that still haunts me now. I wasn’t cut out for it though. I grew up around here and Boston started to kill me. The parts I liked about myself, they were getting lost. The last case I worked was a double murder, two ten-year-old girls. We got the guy, the stepfather of one of them, had him all wrapped up and ready to send to Cedar Junction. We got to court and I saw one of the guys I used to room with at college—he’s not arguing, but he’s sitting at the defense table making up the numbers.”

  “So what happened?”

  “They walked him: got some of the evidence thrown out on a technicality, and the judge ordered the jury to find him not guilty. The stepfather smiled at me as he walked out—a real shit-eating grin that I can still see now, clear as you are in front of me.”

  “So you packed up and left?”

  “Something like that,” he said, watching the smoke from his cigarette swirl up toward the sky.

  “And you thought you were done with all the tough cases. Then Harry.”

  She felt strange saying his name. Like the collection of letters no longer fit together.

  “Everything felt different when I got back. My father was old, my mother too. The neighbors, people that I had grown up knowing, were dying off, making way for the children. They weren’t bad kids, not around here, but values changed, lies came easier. My father’s generation wore their honesty like a badge, like it was something to be proud of.”

  “Maybe it was you that changed.”

  “Maybe it was. I couldn’t see it anymore.”

  “What?”

  “The good. The thing you need to see, especially in my line of work. I think of those lawyers. They’ll do what it takes to get a murderer off because if they do then they get a bonus, or a promotion, or a pat on the back from a partner. What’s noble about that? What’s to be proud of?”

  “They do what they’re told. That’s what most people do.”

  “No questions asked. Just close your eyes to the outside world.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What a mess. What a big fucking mess.”

  “Well, I’m glad you came round to cheer me up.”

  He laughed then.

  It was the first time that she had heard him really laugh. And it was a nice laugh, the kind of laugh that made her want to laugh too, and she very nearly did. And then she thought of Harry. She rubbed her eyes. She felt her arms beginning to burn, the sun too fierce above.

  “You okay?” Jim said.

  She nodded.

  “We’ll find him, Jess. We will.”

  “Go get a slice, doll, and don’t worry about the tab. By the time we’re done we’ll own a piece of this place.”

  Furat ignored Manny and sat on the wooden bench by the door, watching the parking lot and wondering what she was going to wear to prom. She shouldn’t even be going really, seeing as she was a full year younger than the seniors and wasn’t due to start at Tall Oaks High School until the new semester began. But Manny said that it would be fine, and besides, she wanted to go, and wanted to go with him. After all, one thing was certain, they’d have fun.

  She watched a family walk in, smiling at the little girls holding hands. She thought of her sister. She wasn’t allowed to call her or even write to her. With only two years separating them, they were close. Her sister was smart, smarter than her. She was going to be a veterinarian. Now she was going to be a mother.

  She turned as a harried-looking man came out from the kitchen and ushered Manny and Abe to an empty table in the corner of the room.

  Manny looked at the guy in front of him. His name tag said STAN and that he was the general manager of the Tall Oaks Pizza Hut. He looked tired, as if the constant noise of the kids’ parties, and the groups of teenagers that shared a small pizza and a small Coke just to have somewhere to hang out, were starting to wear him down. Tired, but wired too. Maybe too much coffee—he was jumpy and twitchy.

  “Stan. I’m M. This is my associate, Skinny.”

  Stan looked at Abe. “I know your father. We used to play Pontoon down at the club. How the hell is old Mort? Still a card?”

  Manny saw Abe tense up as he looked around the Hut nervously. He knew Abe was fighting the urge to get up and bolt out the door. He’d been nervous as soon as they entered the parking lot. He could see the sweat beginning to run down Abe’s head, heard Abe’s stomach churn.

  Manny watched a young girl come out of the kitchen door carrying a Meat Feast with rubbery cheese spilling out of the crust. Then he turned back to Abe and watched him lay his head on the wooden table. He knew what was coming.

  Abe vomited.

  It was a silent vomit—no coughing, no retching, just the appearance of a thick layer of it on Stan’s newly polished table.

  Stan groaned.

  “Jesus, are you okay? If it’s some kind of bug I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises. I can’t have a hygiene scare in here. We barely turn a profit as it is. Head Office is all over me.”

  Abe turned to Manny, his head dipped in shame. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Manny shook his head and followed Stan to another table.

  Fucking chicken shit Abe.

  “Must have had a heavy night. I told him to lay off the ’Buca,” Manny said.

  “So what can I do for you, M? Nice hat by the way. Is that a bandage underneath?”

  Manny nodded yes, a fucking bandage. “I’m here to
offer you my services. A lot of shit has been going down around here lately. Graffiti, trash cans being turned over, cars being scratched. Real bad for business.”

  “We haven’t noticed anything,” Stan said, eyeing the parking lot nervously.

  Manny frowned, realizing he had forgotten to tip the trash cans over the previous night. Thalia had asked him to help her build a fort. He’d gotten too involved, ending up collecting wood from Furat’s yard. He’d used his father’s nail gun, then spent the best part of an hour trying to manipulate it into fitting onto his gun belt.

  “Well, you heard about that camera that got stolen from PhotoMax? The Hasselblad? Expensive shit.”

  Stan leaned forward. “I tell you what. I have noticed some kids smoking the odd reefer down at the end of the parking lot.”

  Manny tried to suppress a smile.

  “And you want that shit to stop, right, Stan? Imagine some poor little kid arrives for her birthday party and some fucking dirty pothead offers her a toke. The next thing you know, you got a fucking screaming parent saying you got her eight-year-old daughter high, calling the fucking cops. Probably end up on the local news. Pizza Hut manager gets eight-year-old girl high.”

  Stan rubbed his temples. “If Head Office visit and there’s a pothead in the parking lot they’ll be even further up my ass.”

  Manny nodded, solemnly. “They’ll crawl up inside your asshole and pitch a fucking tent. Probably send out for pizza from in there too, and then they’ll taste the shit that you serve, all that fucking salt to keep the kids paying for drinks, and they’ll know this place needs a new manager, someone that has the foresight to keep the junkies away.”

  “So you can do that?”

  “I can. I know people. Once the potheads find out M is running this shit-hole they’ll back the fuck off.”

  “How much will this cost us?”

  Manny reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, then slid it across the table.

  Stan glanced at it.

  “I can’t authorize any expenditure over fifty dollars. You’ll have to speak with Andre Shelton. He’s the area manager, covers six Huts. Real hot stuff too. Drives a Mitsubishi with HUT1 vanity plates.”

  “Nice . . . committed.”

  “Company pay for the fuel too, and not in Hut vouchers like they did my last bonus. Cold hard cash . . . by way of bank transfer of course.”

  “Of course. And how do I reach Andre Shelton?”

  “You’ll have to put the proposal in writing, make it formal. Have you got a company? It should be on headed paper. Maybe copy in Head Office. Have you got access to a fax machine? Are you registered for sales tax?”

  “Shit, Stan. I can’t make it all legit. I’m offering a back-street service here. I only deal in cash.”

  Stan shook his head. “I’m sorry, M. I’ll have to decline your services; I’ll take my chances with the potheads.”

  “You sure about that, Stan?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Manny stood, looking Stan in the eye. “That your Pinto outside?”

  Stan nodded.

  “I heard about those cars. The gas tank can rupture easily. Used to call it the rolling bomb. Take care, Stan.”

  Stan watched him leave, and, when he was certain that the canary-yellow Fiesta had left the parking lot, he telephoned the police.

  14

  Skanks and Skunks

  “We agree that Michael’s hiding something,” Jim said.

  “Yeah,” Adam said.

  Adam had joined the Tall Oaks Police Department straight from high school and had started out working the front desk before slowly climbing the, admittedly short, ladder. He was now a fully fledged police officer, and a competent one too. His quiet demeanor sat well with Jim, who had had grown to like him over their five years working together.

  “And we agree that he’s an asshole.”

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “But he’s got an alibi.”

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t do something. Might not have done it himself, but he could have planned something. And that sighting . . . Aurora Springs. He used to take Cindy Collins there.”

  Jim stood and walked to the window, opened the blind and peered out. He could see part of Main Street, the American flag waving in the summer breeze, and a line of cars parked at an angle facing the stores. The sidewalks were spotless, the roads newly painted. There was a new store just opened up, sold organic produce. It was popular already. He could see a short line forming outside. He’d stopped by, said hello to the owner, a wire-thin lady with waist-length hair and a dream catcher hanging from each ear.

  “Why?” Adam said.

  “Why do something to his own kid?”

  “Yeah. I mean, the kid already lives with the mother, he doesn’t make much effort to see him, he doesn’t seem bothered enough.”

  “Money.” Jim said, without conviction.

  “Kidnap his own kid?”

  Jim shrugged.

  “There’s been no ransom call.”

  “Maybe it went wrong.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe he took Harry, wanted to keep him holed up in Aurora Springs until Jessica’s family paid up. Maybe Cindy Collins was in on it. Maybe she got cold feet and made the call to us.”

  “Lot of maybes. And we didn’t find anything. Not a trace. And Michael had an alibi for that night too.”

  “His alibi was Cindy.”

  “We talked to her and got nowhere.”

  “Yeah, got nowhere because she brought along Michael’s cocksucker lawyer.”

  Jim sighed, opened the window.

  “I just don’t see Michael Monroe for this. He’s too . . . smart. I mean the guy’s a dick, don’t get me wrong, and it’s not that he doesn’t deserve it, all this shit. The press . . . all those ladies . . . they’ve savaged the guy. But I just don’t see it. And the Clown mask, it’s fucked up.”

  “So what do you think?”

  Adam swallowed, then looked down at the file.

  “Adam?”

  “Someone planned it: watched the kid, knew the house, knew they didn’t lock the back door.”

  “No one locks their doors in Tall Oaks.”

  “They do now.”

  “Yeah, they do now.”

  “Why the mask?” Jim said, running his hand along the window edge, sweeping the fallen leaves from it and watching them float to the ground.

  “Nut job. Gets off on scaring kids, the mothers too. Luke Conway, 1996. Killed four kids before they caught him. Used to paint his face yellow with a big fucking smiley face. I still get the creeps when I read about that guy.”

  “Yeah, but there’s nothing anywhere else about a clown mask. We searched.”

  “Maybe Harry’s the first.”

  Jim rubbed his eyes. The case was taking its toll—the guesswork, the fact they were sitting in his office talking about Harry as if he weren’t real, as if he were nothing more than a problem that needed solving. Jim picked up the photograph, one of the thirty or so that Jess kept dropping by. She thought they’d forget about Harry—that they needed constant reminding. That might have been the case in the city, where serious crimes rained down relentlessly. But not in Tall Oaks.

  “If Harry’s the first . . .”

  “I know,” Adam said.

  “Shit.” Jim said, crushing his paper cup and throwing it into the trash can. “Okay. So this guy, the Clown, he grabs the kid, then what? Jess called us, we got the roadblocks set up quickly.”

  “Not quick enough. Could’ve been long gone by then.”

  “Let’s say he didn’t have a car. No one heard anything.”

  Adam shrugged. “You saying someone would’ve heard a car engine over the storm?”

  “Let’s just suppose. He’s got the kid. Then what?”

  “My best guess would be that he headed for the Black Lake.”

  Jim nodded. “Mine too. But we searched.”

  “Fifty
thousand acres.”

  “The dogs didn’t pick up a scent.”

  “You’re assuming Harry’s still there,” Adam said.

  “So he’s not?”

  “You know the woods. There’s a million ways out. He could’ve left a car parked on the other side, on the East Ridge maybe. And from there he could’ve headed west.”

  “To Aurora Springs.”

  Adam shrugged.

  “Guesswork,” Jim said.

  Adam nodded.

  Jim turned back to the window. The organic store had opened up and he could see people through the window, sifting through dates, and chard, and handmade pies, scratching their heads as they tried to work out what the fuck was in the aloe cocktails that cost ten bucks a bottle.

  “We could try and bring Michael in again, see if he’ll talk to us?” Adam said.

  “He won’t.”

  “You could speak with Judge Abraham. See if he’ll give us a warrant.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “He likes you. Wants you to take his daughter out.”

  Jim laughed.

  “Throw her a pity date, for the greater good. I know she’s big, but you don’t have to take her out to eat, just to the movies or something.”

  Jim glanced at the photo again and stopped laughing. He kept the photographs everywhere: in his office, in the hallways, in his car, in his apartment. Harry’s was the last face he saw at night, the first in the morning. He had one of Harry and Jess together—they were on vacation somewhere. Harry was younger, his hair shorter and his skin lighter. He tanned easy, that’s what Jess said. He only had to look at the sun and he started to brown. He liked dolphins; she’d wanted to take him to swim with them. Jim liked it when she talked about Harry, it was the only time she forgot to frown, to hunch her shoulders and drum her fingers. When she spoke about Harry she changed. She got lost in him, in the things he said, the things he did. She’d shown him a card Harry had made her once, when she was feeling low. It was a mess of color, some glitter glue stopped it from opening. She carried it in her bag.

  “Anything on that camera, the Hasselblad?” Jim said.

  “No. Fucking Max is a ball-buster. He forgets to set the alarm and now he’s got shit with the insurance company. He calls every day. He did even at the start, when Harry had just been taken. What sort of guy does that? I mean, I get that it’s an expensive camera, but once he’d reported it to us and the insurance, there was nothing else to be done.”