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

by Chris Whitaker

  “Waitress. My good friend and I would like to try the thirty-year-old single malt,” the Colonel said, loudly enough for the team of McDermott accountants on the next table to flinch.

  Before the waitress returned, a large gong sounded and a man in a red jacket announced that everyone should make their way onto the lawn for the fireworks display.

  Elena held onto Jared, more to steady him than anything else. They walked out of the marquee and into the warm evening air.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, French? You seem a little down.” Elena asked again.

  French John nodded and smiled at her. “The fireworks should be good. Hung is running the show.”

  “Hung from the pharmacy?”

  “How many Hungs do you know?”

  “Just the one, sadly.”

  Jared laughed, loudly.

  “You need somebody to run them? Don’t you just light the fuse?” Elena said.

  “It’s a blend of fireworks and performance art.”

  “Put on by a pharmacist.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you ever think Tall Oaks is full of oddballs?” Elena said.

  “I do,” Jared slurred.

  Hung bounced on the spot. His jumpsuit was white, covered with a thousand sequins, each hand-sewn by his wife, Luli, and unzipped to the navel, mainly because he couldn’t get it over his stomach.

  While the guests stood chatting to one another, Hung, who was standing a good 100 feet from them, raised his thumb and index finger high above his head and then pulled an imaginary trigger.

  The explosion was loud, so loud that there were gasps from the crowd.

  The floodlights cut out, and the lawn was plunged into darkness.

  Hung pressed a button tucked into the waistband of his underpants and the jumpsuit lit up. And then the music started, and the crowd turned to face him.

  Hung moved toward them slowly, savoring the attention.

  He nodded to his right and six rockets lit up the sky in tandem.

  He nodded to his left and another six went up.

  And then his shoulder started to twitch in time with the heavy base line.

  He fired his imaginary gun again and felt a tremor pass through his body when the explosion rocked the crowd.

  Thirty minutes, and $200,000 later, Hung was lost in a world of smoke and color. The music came loud and fast and he gyrated and shook to every single note, winding down to the ground when the Aerial Shells exploded, thrusting his crotch back and forth in time with the Dragons Eggs.

  Rockets were released with the twitch of his fingers, ice fountains erupted with the shake of his hips. His team, all twenty of them, were perfectly in tune with his every desire.

  And then, just as the music reached its crescendo, and the rockets lit up the whole of Tall Oaks, just as the guests were about to applaud and cheer, Hung dropped to his knees and raised his hands toward the sky. A perfect circle of fountains surrounded him and he disappeared under their sparks.

  And when the music finally stopped, and the fountains fell away in unison, the applause erupted, and Hung was nowhere to be seen.

  All that remained in the center of the circle was a single red rose, and the rich smell of potassium nitrate that filled the air.

  Henrietta, long since bored of the display, turned to see Roger applauding furiously, lost in the show, tears falling down his cheeks without a hint of embarrassment.

  He turned to her and slowly shook his head.

  There were no words needed.

  It was magic. Pure magic.

  “See, the Japs know how to put on a show,” the Colonel said, when they made it back to their table.

  “He’s actually from China,” French John said.

  “You say potato.”

  “That’s kind of racist.”

  He turned to look for Elena, but she had disappeared somewhere with Jared.

  “It was a joke,” the Colonel said.

  Barbara laughed, her makeup cracking under the movement.

  “You guys are too sensitive.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The Colonel downed the rest of his Scotch and signaled to the waitress to bring him another.

  French John stared at him. On any other day, at any other time, he might have pressed him on it. He might have stood his ground, because he was quick with his words, and he would know exactly what to say to the Colonel to really cut him down. But not tonight. Not when he felt so low. So sad.

  “I think you’ve had enough to drink now,” Roger said, quietly.

  The Colonel glared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I said you’ve had quite enough to drink, and you’re being offensive.”

  The Colonel stood up.

  Roger stood up.

  They stared at one another.

  The Colonel might have expected to see fear in the smaller man’s eyes, might have expected him to apologize and sit back down, not say another word.

  Instead, Roger continued to stare.

  Guests from the tables either side looked on.

  Hen tugged at Roger’s hand, but he stood his ground.

  Another gong sounded.

  Barbara grasped the Colonel’s hand and led him toward the bar. He glanced back over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Roger breathed again.

  “I was about to teach that pig a lesson,” Roger said, a waver in his voice.

  “I’m glad he walked away. He looked like he was going to hit you,” Henrietta said.

  “He could have tried.”

  “He’s much bigger than you, darling.”

  “Yes, but I used to practice that martial art . . . origami.”

  “That’s paper-folding.”

  “Oregano.”

  “That’s a herb, Roger.”

  “Well, what were those classes I took with my mother, at the church hall, after she got diagnosed?”

  “Tai chi.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you some more coffee?” Elena said.

  Jared shook his head.

  Elena put her hand on his shoulder. They had quietly slipped away after the firework show, and now they found themselves sitting on a bench facing a large, man-made lake. There was a small island in the middle, and strategically placed lights hidden among the trees. The overall effect, much like everything else hidden behind the gates of the McDermott house, was breathtaking.

  “I feel like such an idiot.” He laughed as he said it.

  “It’s a wedding, people are supposed to get drunk. And you couldn’t let the Colonel drink you under the table. You’d never live it down.”

  “You’re right. I don’t feel too hot right now though.”

  “Well, you still look hot, so don’t worry about it too much.”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes glassy. “You’re too good for me, much too good.”

  “Yeah, a single mom with a teenage son and a three year old too: every man’s dream.”

  “No, I mean it. You’re lovely, Elena, really lovely. When I look at you . . . I see it.”

  “See what?”

  “See how ugly I am by comparison. See that it’s all bullshit, everything that I say and do. And it all looks so much worse when I stand next to you, because you’re so honest—there’s nothing hidden.”

  “I think we should go and get you some coffee.”

  He stared at her, through her. “You don’t get it. Nobody gets it.”

  “Get what? What are you trying to say, Jared?”

  He tried to laugh.

  “Jared. Jared. Jared. I thought it sounded like a cool name. But now it just sounds wrong too.”

  “So Jared’s not your real name?”

  “No, it is my real name. At least I think it is. But I’ve spent so long running that I’m not even sure anymore. What’s real, what’s not, who knows?”

  “You’re not making any sense now. I think we should go back inside,” she said, glancing back t
oward the marquee.

  He reached out and took her hand in his.

  “Will you just sit with me for a while? Just a little while, and then we’ll go back.”

  “Of course, but will you tell me what the matter is? Why are you so . . .”

  “I knew you could see it. With the others I had my doubts, but you, you could always see through me, see through my act, even though it’s a good act. Well it ought to be, it’s been a lifetime in the making. My parents could see through it too, my old act that is. They could see through it ever since I was a little kid, but they ignored it. They pretended they couldn’t see anything at all, especially my father . . . he hates me. My father hates me. Can you believe that?”

  “I’m sure that he doesn’t hate you.”

  “How can you be sure? You don’t know what I did to him; to my mother too. My mother still speaks to me though, because mothers have to. It’s like they don’t have a choice, no matter how bad their sons fuck things up, they always forgive.”

  She rubbed his hand. “I don’t know what you’ve done, Jared, and you don’t need to tell me, not now, but when I look into your eyes I see good in them—you’re a good man. Everybody’s done stuff they’re not proud of, everybody makes mistakes. I know I have. But I don’t look back too much, because then you might miss something that’s right in front of you. Like us, sitting here now. This is happening now. Something you can control. But the stuff in your past, it’s gone. And all the will in the world won’t bring it back.”

  He kissed her then, and it took her by surprise, so she pulled away, just a little, but enough for him to notice.

  And then he was on his feet.

  She called after him.

  But then he was running, and her voice grew softer as the lights grew brighter.

  It was dark by the time Jim made it to Riverstone, a gated community on the edge of Echo Bay. There was a gatehouse at the end of the street, though it appeared unmanned and there were no barriers stopping him driving through. The street was wide, a line of palms dotted the sidewalk.

  He drove slowly, looking for signs of life. The lots were well spaced, the houses stucco-fronted and painted in a variety of pastel shades.

  Jared rented number nine.

  Jim passed by once, then reached the end of the street and doubled back. He wondered how many were occupied, how many had got their fingers burned during the recession. Tall Oaks hadn’t suffered—the prices hadn’t fallen a cent.

  He parked on the driveway, certain that no one was home.

  He could see Burt’s realtor signs hammered into the front yards on either side. He wondered who’d want to live here, so far away from everyone. Burt said they were heading out of the slump, enquiries were up and house-building starting up again. They had big plans for Echo Bay, a regeneration that would get people back into work and the market moving again. Jim had his doubts.

  He stood on the driveway and stared up at the house. It was imposing, though most of the front was taken up by a garage door so it wasn’t particularly attractive. The roof tiles were terracotta. Jim could spot a couple that had worked loose and were on the verge of sliding off.

  He walked up the pathway and pressed the doorbell, hearing it chime.

  He pressed his face to the glass, but could see nothing but darkness inside.

  He unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped inside, switching the lights on.

  The entrance hall was wide, smartly furnished but somewhat sanitary: an impersonation of a life; the model home.

  He noticed the shattered mirror first. He looked down and saw shards on the polished wood floor.

  He walked through slowly, taking everything in. It appeared untouched, much too neat, no sign that anyone had ever lived in it. He walked into the kitchen and ran a finger along the granite countertop. The dust was thick, a heavy covering dulling the shine. He noticed a fruit bowl, still with plastic fruit inside.

  He tried to see signs of Jared—a magazine, a dish left in the basin, anything.

  He opened a door to the bathroom and walked in. He heard crunching beneath his feet. He switched the light on, saw another broken mirror.

  He climbed the stairs slowly, flipping the lights on as he went. There were paintings on the walls—stock stuff, landscapes and some modern splashes. The fixings were smart, the furnishings light and fresh, despite the dust.

  He stepped into the master. It was a mess. Drawers hung open; clothes were strewn all over the floor. He opened the closets and saw a couple of shirts hanging inside. There was a lamp lying on the carpet, knocked from the nightstand. The sheets were balled at the foot of the bed.

  He stood still, surveying it all carefully. It didn’t fit. None of it fit.

  It was then that he noticed the light creeping from beneath the bathroom door. He drew his gun, silently, and moved toward it.

  “Jared,” he said, calmly.

  He raised his foot and gently pushed the door open, his gun trained in front of him.

  He stepped inside, and then he gasped.

  The blood was everywhere. Dry, dark.

  It covered the tub, the walls and most of the floor.

  A lot of blood.

  He saw towels on the floor. Bloody towels.

  And then he looked up and saw the mirror, the shattered glass.

  He thought of Harry. He swallowed.

  He reached for his cell phone and called Adam.

  He told him to bring Jared Martin in.

  25

  The Long Day Is Over

  Though he was drunk he had driven home. He was lucky he hadn’t been stopped as he’d swerved all over the street and left his car parked halfway up the sidewalk.

  He shrugged his jacket off and dropped it to the floor. He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  As he sat on the soft rug, in front of the open fireplace, he picked up the phone.

  It was over now. His act was over. The drape had come down, the audience had long since departed. The reviews were in, and they didn’t look good.

  He put his beer down and rubbed his eyes.

  He wasn’t even mad at himself anymore. He was just tired, exhausted. There was nothing left to do but face up.

  He held the knife in his hand, like he always did, but then he put it down when he heard the voice on the other end.

  “Hello.”

  The voice was different, familiar but different. But that must have been because he hadn’t heard it for so long. His father wouldn’t have changed—it wasn’t in his nature.

  “Dad. It’s me.”

  There was silence for a long time.

  He could hear his father’s breath, the ticking of the clock on their kitchen wall, the soft white noise of the television in the background.

  “I’ll get your mother.”

  “Dad, wait. I don’t want to speak to her. I want to speak to you.”

  He heard his father close the door to the kitchen. His mother would be in bed by now, but his father sat up late watching sports network. He’d watch anything: tennis, football, soccer. It didn’t matter, as long as it was competitive.

  “Say what you need to.”

  He sounded hard, and he was hard: an outdoorsman, simple in his pleasures, unforgiving of those who were more complex.

  “I transferred the money to you, from Uncle Frank, what’s left of it. I’ll pay you back the rest when I can. And what I owe you. Every dollar.”

  “You expect me to thank you?”

  “No. I just . . . I wanted you to know that.”

  Silence again. Long and painful. Jared reached for his beer but didn’t drink it.

  “I barely recognize your voice.”

  Jared laughed, softly. “Yeah, it’s been a long time.”

  “You keeping okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay,” Jared said, holding the receiver away from him as his voice broke.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else.”

  “I want to come home, Dad. Can I come home? I
don’t like it on my own anymore. I want to come home.”

  He tried to stop his voice from wavering.

  “I could leave in the morning. I could sleep in my old room again.”

  “And who would be coming home?”

  “Just me. Jared. Your son. I need you, Dad. I really need you.”

  He heard his father draw a breath. He heard the soft patter of his slippered feet as he walked around the kitchen, probably looking out of the window at the old swing set that he had once pushed him on.

  Jared smiled at his reflection in the television set. It was going to be okay. Everything would be okay. He’d enjoy the long drive home. He’d need to make a stop first, in Echo Bay. He’d been putting it off. But that was okay. He could face it, because he was ready now, and because he needed them. He needed them to tell him that they still loved him, and that even though he had messed up it wasn’t that bad. It was forgivable. And most of all because, even though he was thirty-five, he still needed his parents.

  “I have no son.”

  The line went dead.

  French John left with Elena. He’d seen the look on her face, the concern in her eyes. He hadn’t wanted to stay anyway. So they had jumped into one of the waiting cars, a black Mercedes, with a driver under strict orders to keep his eyes on the road and his mouth shut.

  “How do you know where he lives?”

  “He told me, on our first date. We were talking about real-estate prices.”

  “Sounds like a fun first date.”

  She didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile—she was too worried.

  French John held her hand tightly.

  “He’s probably fine, just needs to sleep it off.”

  “No. He was really upset, I think he was crying. He kept talking about his act and his parents.”

  “His act?”

  She nodded.

  “And he drove off in his car. He was way over the limit.”

  They pulled up in front of a smart mansion block on Palmwood Drive and Elena jumped out. French John followed her.

  “He said he lived on the top floor.”

  They found the street door open, the mat caught under the hinge.

  They took the elevator to the third floor and saw that there was only one door, the penthouse, and it was wide open.