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

by Chris Whitaker

  Jim felt bad for the kid, but there was little point lying to him. Danny Romero was a piece of shit, everybody knew it. He was another Michael Monroe. Still hadn’t grown up since high school. It was easy to see why Elena had fallen for him; teenage girls liked that whole bad-boy thing he’d been working on. He’d got lucky, that’s how he first made his money. He worked in the family restaurant in Brooklyn, inheriting it when his father died. A few months later he got a letter from a developer saying they wanted to buy him out, wanted to bulldoze the restaurant and build a high rise. They owned the rest of the street and his was the last piece of the puzzle for them. Danny hired a lawyer, the smartest move he ever made, and the lawyer nailed the developer’s balls to the wall: took them for two million when they wanted to pay a half. All of sudden Danny Romero and his young family were rich. Not too rich—not by New York standards—but rich enough to start over in a nice town with nice schools and nice friends for Manny. He reinvested his money in real estate just as the boom began, making even more in the process. But Danny wasn’t cut out for small-town life; he missed the hustle too much. So it was no surprise when he took off. If anything Jim was surprised it took him so long. Thalia was the final nail in his suburban coffin. Danny kicked against the lid and broke free. No way he was coming back now. Last Jim heard he was shacked up with some dumb blonde, eager to spend Manny’s college fund on weekends in Vegas and surgical enhancements.

  “I’ve seen some more stuff online about Harry. Said there’s no leads, that the operation is being scaled back since the media lost interest,” Manny said.

  “Lot of bullshit on the Internet.”

  “Don’t suppose you’re any closer are you?”

  Manny looked at Jim and saw something in his eyes. Could’ve been pain, could’ve been fear, Manny didn’t know. He thought back to that day. The day something shifted in the town, some kind of energy or something. It wasn’t like Tall Oaks was some “Leave it to Beaver” town, where people walked around in a cocoon, but it wasn’t the kind of place where kids got taken. People had been wary since. They saw a strange car, they took notice, they made extra sure the windows were locked at night and their kids didn’t leave the yard. He hadn’t slept for weeks after—him, a teenager, because he was listening out for Thalia, making sure she was safe, his mother too. Safe from what he didn’t know—no one did—but there was some sick fuck out there that had taken Harry.

  He often Googled the name, Harry Monroe, lots of kids at school did too. He had lined up with Abe to help search. It felt like the whole town did. And the whole town felt it when they’d turned up nothing. They held their collective breath a few weeks later when Jim called a meeting with the press, and then exhaled a sigh of relief mixed with frustration when he told them they still hadn’t located Harry. And the frustration grew and grew over the subsequent weeks, along with the weight on Jim’s shoulders. And then it began to level off, and as the story slipped from the front pages, as the reporters stopped calling and kids found other things to Google and talk about, the panic and stress was slowly turning into a memory. Because you couldn’t maintain it or else it would swallow you whole, and you’d never breathe clear air again. And when he looked at Jim, and when he saw Jessica Monroe, he knew that’s what was happening to them. And he felt bad for them, but there was nothing anybody could do about it.

  “It’s strange,” Manny said.

  “What is?”

  “I see Jess. I see you. I’m worried about prom, and school, and other shit. And you’re worried about finding a missing child. It’s like we don’t belong together . . . in the same town . . . like we’re not connected in any way.”

  “Everyone has their own shit to deal with.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re all connected, Manny. We’re all people. You know what else?”

  “What?”

  “We’re all fucked-up, in one way or another.”

  Manny smiled. “But how do you do it? You go from looking for Harry, to talking to me about some stupid shit I’ve done.”

  “Sometimes it’s a relief, you know. You can’t stand in the dark all the time, because then you forget that there’s daylight out there. And you can’t forget that. It’s nice to remember the other side of life.”

  Jim stood, flicked his cigarette toward the storm drain.

  He followed Manny’s gaze to the pretty young girl coming out of the house next door.

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Jim?”

  Jim looked back.

  “Thanks for not telling my mom.”

  Jim smiled, then headed back toward Main Street—back toward his shitty Sunday—the weight of his mistakes clouding the clear sky above him.

  “I think we should call Doctor Reid. You’ve been vomiting for days now and I don’t think it’s getting any better,” Roger said.

  Henrietta waved him off. “It’s just a bug. I’m feeling a little better today. I may come and join you by the pool later on, though I think you might be getting too much sun—maybe put the umbrella up today.”

  Roger looked down at his bare chest.

  “You don’t like my color?”

  He looked at over at her, the sunlight streaming through the windows causing him to squint.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were making your bedroom eyes at me,” she said, thinking back to the first time she had seen his bedroom eyes. They had been out for dinner at Mon Plaisir, along the river, and then he had walked her back to her room and kissed her goodnight. Only he hadn’t walked away. He had stood there, one eyebrow raised and both eyes kind of flickering, like he was trying to flutter his lashes at her. For a moment she had thought that he might be having some kind of seizure, but then she’d felt his hand on her ass and she quickly closed her eyes as he kissed her again, desperate to block out the image that she now used to help keep her size-four figure. Every time she wanted to eat something calorie-laden, like one of the double-chocolate fudge cakes in the Tearoom, she forced herself to picture Roger’s bedroom eyes and felt nauseated enough to never eat again.

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “So why were you looking at me like that?”

  He cleared his throat, the way he did before he said something that might embarrass him, the way that she used to find charming but now just found irritating.

  “I was thinking that you looked quite beautiful, despite the sickness.”

  She smiled at him, and then felt the tears welling in her eyes. She was a mess. A kind word from her husband and she was in pieces.

  He sat on the bed and took her hand in his. “What’s the matter, Hen? I know it’s more than just feeling a bit under the weather. Whatever it is, whatever is upsetting you, just tell me and you’ll feel better.”

  For a moment, for one fleeting moment, she wished that she could love him, really love him like he was the man for her. She wished that she didn’t find him so annoying, that she didn’t feel happier when they were apart, and that she didn’t long to go back in time and politely decline him when he’d first asked her out for dinner.

  “It’s just everything . . . Harry.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “I want to help her—Jess—but I don’t know how to. I can’t give her Harry back. And I think that’s all that will help her.”

  Roger let go of her hand. “I think it’s best if you just leave her alone. She knows you’re here for her. Don’t push.”

  She stared out of the window.

  “Seriously, Hen. Just leave her alone.”

  She thought about what she needed to do. She thought about how she was going to do it. And then she vomited again.

  Jared picked up the telephone and dialed, not needing to look up the number. It was the last Sunday of the month, and it was midday. And that meant he had to call her. She would be wa
iting, and even though they rarely had anything to say to each other, she lived for his call.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Jay. You sound so different that sometimes I have to think for a minute who’s calling me. And then I think, who else would call me Mom?”

  She laughed; a sound that brought a lump to his throat.

  “So how are you? How’s the weather there? I looked it up on the Internet. Can you believe that? Your old mother climbing the web?”

  He laughed. “Surfing, Mom. You surf the web.”

  “Well that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  He brought a hand to his mouth and touched the corners of his smile. Then he reached for the knife. His father’s. He hadn’t given it to him, Jared had taken it. He cleaned it every week, sharpening the blade and polishing the handle. They used to use it when they fished the Red Deer River.

  “Okay, surfing the web. I’ll have to remember that. So I looked up where you are and every day has a little sunny face next to it. Is that right? Surely it can’t be hot every day.”

  “It is, Mom. It’s hot every day.”

  He walked over to the window and looked down at the street below, then at the park opposite. He could see the statue, Artemis, the Goddess of the moon. She stood tall. The kids liked to run up to her and wrap their arms around her legs. He watched them do this often, sometimes for hours at a time. He liked the little boys, how they were so fearless, how they tried to climb up and grasp her stone hand.

  “Hot every day. I can’t imagine that. Our summer here only lasts a few weeks and it never gets too hot.”

  “I remember, Mom.”

  “Of course you do. It hasn’t been that long after all.”

  He closed his eyes, trying to picture her face. It had been that long. Eight years, three months and nineteen days since he had left their small town in Canada. He could probably tell her the hours and minutes too.

  “How’s Dad?”

  He could feel her bristle on the other end, feel her eyes dart around and look to see where her husband was. He touched the tip of the knife, then brought it up to his bare chest.

  “You know your father,” she said, her voice noticeably quieter.

  “I don’t suppose he wants to say hello.”

  She sighed, a long deep sigh. “Jay . . .”

  “Forget it.”

  He traced the knife along his skin, just below his nipple. He could see the scars all over—a lifetime of pain, a lifetime of hurting himself.

  “Sometimes I think that he just needs more time.”

  “More time for what?” he asked, sitting down on the brown suede dining chair and then getting straight up again.

  “To forgive you. For what you’ve done.”

  He walked through to the hallway and looked in the mirror. He pressed the knife until it pierced his skin. He wanted to cry out, to beg for help . . . but only for a moment.

  He watched the trail of blood run down to his navel. He could see what he had done, the damage, it was impossible not to, though he saw it mostly in his eyes—they were different somehow. Darker, maybe. He had caused so much pain, it was hard to see anything else. He walked back to the window, stared out at the kids again. He watched them run, saw their carefree smiles as he dragged the knife along his skin, tearing it open. He didn’t feel the pain anymore, not the physical pain. He felt the blood seep from him. He relaxed. He breathed and relaxed.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s not your fault—it’s mine. Just tell him that I’m sorry, that I wish I could make things right again.” Same every time.

  He heard her clear her throat, could imagine her shaking her head. He knew that a subject change was coming.

  “So tell me about your job. How’s it going?”

  He set the knife down, walked through to the kitchen and grabbed a fistful of paper towels. He pressed them against his chest, watched them turn pink, then dark red.

  “Not much to tell really. I sell cars, Mom.”

  “What kind of cars? I wanted to tell your Aunt Mary the other day but couldn’t remember.”

  “Fords.”

  “Oh.”

  He laughed.

  “I thought you’d work construction again, like at the last place. You seemed to like it there.”

  “Yeah, well. It didn’t work out after all. I like it in Tall Oaks now. I didn’t at first, I didn’t think I’d stay. Everyone seems so different. But now I’ve made friends. It’s expensive though. There’re houses for sale here for five million dollars.”

  It would have been easier to disappear in a big city, though he felt more at home in a small town.

  “Five million dollars? I don’t believe it. Must be as big as palaces. Wait until I tell your Aunt Mary. She won’t believe it either. My Jay, rubbing shoulders with millionaires.”

  He laughed again. He wondered if it was his real laugh, his old laugh. He didn’t know anymore, he’d been acting for so long. He wondered if his mother could tell. He wouldn’t ask, he couldn’t ask. He wanted to tell her about Elena—he wasn’t sure why—but he knew that would lead to too many other questions; questions he wasn’t prepared to answer yet.

  “How much is your rent? Are you managing okay?”

  “I have all that money Uncle Frank left me, so I’m doing okay. I’m thinking of buying somewhere with it, once I know for sure where I want to settle.”

  He breathed deeply, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

  “Mom, are you still there?”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything, but your father doesn’t think you should keep that money.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t he say something at the time?”

  “You know how he is. Bottles things up and then it all comes out.”

  Another long silence.

  He could hear her breathing.

  “Jay?”

  “Uncle Frank left it for me. I would have come home for the funeral but you said not to.” He walked into the kitchen and stared at the small chicken defrosting in the sink. That was the worst thing about being alone—he hated cooking a meal, and sitting down to eat alone. Sundays growing up had been the day when his cousins would come round and they’d all play ball, even though his mother used to worry about him getting hurt, seeing as he’d been so much smaller than the others. And then they’d go in and wash up and he would help his mother lay the table and then watch his father carve the meat. Then they’d sit down and say grace, and he’d open his eyes and peek at his father, who’d be peeking back, pulling faces and trying to get him to laugh. But now Sundays were days spent alone. He still cooked a big meal, but he sat down in his shiny kitchen, on his brown suede chair, at his solid oak table, and he ate alone. And he practiced his act—the way he ate, the way he drank. He practiced and practiced.

  “Your father said if Uncle Frank had known what you did then he wouldn’t have wanted to give you all that money.”

  “And what do you think?”

  She sighed again. “I don’t know, Jay. You know Uncle Frank. Even though he didn’t have any kids of his own he doted on you, thought the sun shined out of your keester. But he would have been disappointed in you. Maybe not as angry as your father was, but still. Anyway, I don’t know. Legally it’s yours to keep so you do what you feel is right. I should probably go now, I’ve got a chicken to cook and your cousins are coming over to watch the game. I’ll speak to you soon.”

  He stood up again, suddenly feeling tired. He looked at the chicken and felt a sadness wash over him. He bit his bottom lip and swallowed down a cry, trying desperately not to let it escape.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  But she was already gone.

  He picked up the knife, and walked back to the mirror.

  19

  A Ruthless Summer

  “I thought it was good,” Furat said.

  Manny wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “My biceps are go
od. My mother’s enchiladas are good. Rocky II is a fucking masterpiece.”

  The weekly movie, always of Manny’s choosing, had become something of a ritual for French John since he’d moved to Tall Oaks. He yawned—a long, exaggerated, stretched-out yawn.

  Manny looked over, then pointed a finger at him. “You got something to say?”

  “I fell asleep halfway through, missed the end. Did the black guy win? He looked in much better shape.”

  Manny scowled. “You closed your eyes ’cause you were starting to get hard during the training montage. Didn’t want to scare us with it. And you know that Balboa won in the end. I’ve shown you this film four times now. I’ve seen you well up too—same part I do—where Adrienne says, ‘Win, Rocky, win.’ ”

  “I really don’t think I did well up. Maybe you were hoping that I did, so you wouldn’t be the only person crying in the room.”

  “You’d have to be dead inside not to cry at that. She nearly fucking died. And they got a new kid just been born all small and pink, and she’s petrified he’s going to get hurt in the ring and then she’ll be a single mother, and nobody in their right mind wants to be a single mother. It’s so fucking lonely and you get all desperate and shit.”

  “Thanks, Manny,” Elena called, from the kitchen.

  “But as much as she’s scared, and even though she’s still all groggy from the coma, she sees it in his eyes—the need to win, because he’s a fucking winner. And she knows that he needs her support to win, because they’re a team. And that scene is why Rocky II might just be the greatest movie ever made.”

  “But it didn’t win an Oscar,” French John said, pulling a cushion close to his chest, for protection.

  “Fucking Rocky I won an Oscar. They don’t give you that shit twice. Stallone should have been given one just for his fucking abs alone. Not to mention his guns, and his traps. I’d like to see Jack Nicholson get ripped like that.”

  “He’s too busy acting,” French John said, the cushion now joined by another.

  Manny rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. “Stallone’s portrayal of Rocky Balboa proves that he’s one of the greatest actors of his generation. And he still found the time to get ripped up in the process. So, fuck Jack Nicholson, and fuck you too.”