by Greg Jolley
“Hey big guy,” Israel said quietly and firmly. “Going to take Karen surfing?”
“Think so. She messaged me a few hours ago.”
“Nice. Great.”
Israel ignored Brian’s loopy grin and asked, “Where were you last night?”
“Right here,” he told Israel.
“Right here? Here at the hotel?”
Brian offered Israel his boyish frown and shook his head. He pointed to the interior of the Expedition. Israel stepped forward and saw that the second and third row seats folded down. On the cranberry colored carpet, there was a pillow and a big black blanket laid out on an air mattress.
“By yourself?”
“Well, yes. I mean, of course.” Brian looked confused by the question.
“What was wrong with the motel pool?”
“Huh? Oh. The pool was fine. Nice. But I was told I couldn’t sleep in it.”
Israel looked away chewing his cheek. Brian turned back to the tubs and selected two full-sized wetsuits. He then began scrounging for booties and gloves for himself and Karen.
“When was the last time you saw Paula Tue?” Israel asked.
Brian turned around. “I’m sorry?”
“What?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
Israel frowned impatiently.
“The stage manager. Designer. Whatever.”
“The woman who built the family room and garage? I liked that. Reminds me of where I…”
“Yeah, yeah. Did you see her last night? Were you at the show?”
Brian looked befuddled. “One at a time. Please.”
“Sorry,” Israel offered.
Brian twisted one side of his mouth and looked down. “I don’t think I saw her last night.”
“And?”
“And? Oh, right. I wasn’t at the show.”
“Were you here by yourself?”
“Well, yeah. Of course.”
One of Paula Tue’s assistants approached. She looked frazzled and like she might have slept in a car. She was talking on her cell.
Israel was surprised to see her, assuming that the stage crew had gone forward with the others.
“Find her?” he called over.
Brian stepped around him with his arms full of wetsuits and climbed up into the RV. Israel frowned at the open back door of the Expedition and closed it. The frown became deeper when the woman with the cell lowered it and said, “Not yet.”
Israel looked at her cell.
“She’s not answering,” she added.
“You’ve called ahead?” he asked.
“Of course. Israel, can I call you that? Never mind, just did. No one knows where she is. No one has seen her since just after the first intermission.”
When Israel didn’t reply, she turned away.
Her cell rang and she answered. A hushed argument began.
Israel heard, “Sod that. She hates secrecy.”
The RV driver stepped down and walked past, saying, “Dude’s changing. I want breakfast.”
Israel turned back to Paula’s aide.
“Just dialed 911. I’m on hold. With 911. I tell you, this country,” she said.
Israel reached inside his jacket, took out his billfold, and removed a card. He extended it.
“Try this. It’s Zack. The cop who’s been asking about the kidnapping—abductions.”
“What abductions?” the woman asked.
“Zack’s looking into a series of fan disappearances at Wyde concerts. The women did reappear. They were found heavily tranq’d or drugged. With no recall.”
The woman ended the 911 call and typed the number on the card.
“Someone’s pinching Karen fans?” she asked.
“No. Well. The assumption is that some lunatic might be following Wyde.”
“Assumption,” she repeated bitterly.
“I agree. However—”
Brian and Karen climbed from the RV wearing wetsuits and carrying their gloves and booties. They walked around Israel and the woman over to the Expedition. Brian took the boards off the roof, handed the shorter one to Karen, and the two of them walked away heading for the beach access on the other side of the road. Brian was chatting, and Karen was nodding and looking refreshed and pale as always. As the two disappeared down the stairs to the beach, the cell call was answered.
“This is Weather,” the aide said and turned away.
Israel heard Zack’s voice on the other end. The overcast was burning off as the evening’s sun lowered. Israel waited for his turn to talk to the officer, staring at the top of the beach stairs. Down on the beach that he couldn’t see, he pictured Brian out in the sea alone with Karen.
ISRAEL OPENED THE REAR door of the Expedition. The inside of the car reeked of coconut-scented surf wax and the sea. In the stir of blankets, he spotted Brian’s zip-lock bag. He started to climb in for it, then circled and opened the passenger side door. There was a shoebox holding more zip-locks, resting beside the pillow. Israel put his cell in his shirt pocket and picked up the box.
Uncle Tim was at his desk in the RV working with pencil and ink on tracing paper laid across the glow of his tablet. Israel sat down on the couch before him with the shoebox. He sorted through the zip-locks, which were hand labeled by year, putting them in chronological order. After placing four quick calls, he had his staff working on a Paula Tue status and travel logistics. His second in command, Emma, climbed aboard.
“Please make espresso and clean up my phone,” he asked. “I want an hour with these letters,” Israel added.
Emma made the coffee before she took Israel’s cell phone.
“Israel? You have twenty-two voicemails,” she said, sitting down at the galley table. “And your email ... Oh my.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
Emma played the oldest message twice before writing it up on the cell’s notepad. She reduced the messages to a single line requiring Israel to check a ‘Y’ or ‘N’.
Israel opened the earliest zip-lock, a collection of letters and drawings.
After reading for ten minutes, Israel came to the last page of the second year of documents.
“Timmy?” he said, not looking up. “Your family is a collection of lunatics. I like their compulsions—nice contrast to real life. It’s like a circus, except these people are not performers. More like a boatload of Looney Tunes.”
Uncle Tim nodded to his design. His client wanted to be able to swim channels of warm fresh water throughout a home not yet constructed. He was focused on water circulation, ensuring that no eddies formed where moths and flotsam could gather. He was doing this by adjusting water flow angles. His design fed the wave pool that the client required. Wave pools were one of his company’s specialties. Fresh water surf was a fad among the obscenely rich. The home itself was no more than a sketch on the CAD display; the architect was waiting for Uncle Tim’s final draft.
“Good thing your family has that retreat,” Israel said to Uncle Tim, who didn’t look up. “In the jungle by the sea? What, a safe and remote playpen? Guess that beats medication and shrinks.”
“Uh-huh.” Uncle Tim spoke to the glowing tracing paper.
“Israel. So you know,” Emma piped in, “I told Spin webzine to go fuck poodles.”
Israel didn’t reply and that was fine because Emma wasn’t expecting one.
Israel’s cell rang and Emma answered it. “Yello.”
Flipping forward through the zip-locks, Israel opened the 2015 bag. It was the thinnest collection.
“Carl again,” he observed. “He manages the resort, right? Been there through all of the craziness. Watched Brian grow up there.”
Uncle Tim looked up from his pens and paper. He smiled and nodded to Israel, who didn’t notice—he was back within the letters.
“Looks like I’m going shopping,” Emma said to no one. “Karen texted last night. Has some new ideas and needs.”
“Shoes for once?” Israel asked. “Just kidding.�
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“Beat-up running shoes, actually. She’d like whitish-gray.”
Israel looked Emma square in the eyes with his head tilted to the side.
A cell rang and vibrated. It was Uncle Tim’s. He tapped the speaker icon.
“Take me off of speaker,” the woman on the line told him. Uncle Tim tapped the cell again and raised it to his ear. He began shaking his head in cadence with the caller’s voice.
“This one reads like Mr. Carl is bonking our big boy on the noggin,” Israel said. “I’ll paraphrase: get a life. Find your wife. Discover your son. Get a real life. Sleep in your marriage bed. ‘Real Life’ is in all caps.”
Emma finished transcribing the voicemails and opened Israel’s backlogged email.
Israel looked to Uncle Tim. He put the letters down and stared. Uncle Tim was looking sad. Very sad.
Uncle Tim stood from behind the desk. He started to the front of the RV listening and nodding to his phone. “I’m on my way,” he said as he opened the door.
“Karen?” Israel called.
“No,” Uncle Tim replied, and left the RV.
Israel looked out the window. Uncle Tim was opening the Expedition’s driver side door. Israel put the 2015 letters inside their zip-lock, gathered them into the shoebox, and followed. Uncle Tim was starting the vehicle. Israel opened the back passenger door, and set the box in next to the pillow and blanket on the air mattress. The Expedition started to roll. Israel stepped back and swung the door closed. He called to Uncle Tim, who didn’t respond. He watched his good friend steer across to the hotel entrance, where Weather was waiting. She climbed in, and Uncle Tim drove away at a serious clip.
From the theatre balcony high above, the seating below looked like rows of maroon waves frozen in place. The soundboard and crew were set up in the mezzanine like an island in the sea of orderly waiting chairs. The stage front resembled a sea wall where later that day waves would break. Up on the hard plank stage, crews were assembling the kitchen, family room, and garage.
Weather came onto the balcony and took the seat beside Uncle Tim. He was sitting in the glow of his tablet, ignoring it in favor of the theatre view. She nudged his shoulder.
“Thank you again,” she said.
“How is she?”
“Sound asleep now. Spacey when awake.”
The band members were appearing on the stage, wandering among the props along with sound techs and assistants plugging them in and chatting. Karen was not among them.
The instrument tech walked out from stage right holding Karen’s violin by the neck. He didn’t have her bow so he plucked a few notes in various areas of the family room and kitchen, nodding and talking into his headset. The drummer worked his way inside his drum kit set up amidst the tools and clutter in the garage. Sej sat at the upright and tinkled low and high melody wisps. The bass player pounded the theatre flooring and walls with deep notes. He sat down on the couch to tune the instrument.
Uncle Tim watched Israel practice getting in and out of the prop car smoothly and weaving through the kitchen to the door beyond Karen’s chair. He looked to be studying his feet; his path was marked with two-inch glow tape. Israel did four takes. Emma was offering caustic comments and laughter, standing at the faux wall between the garage and the family room. Her black dress was marred by errant spray marks of bone white.
“Will she be okay?” Uncle Tim asked.
“Should be. She says so. You saw the meds they gave her in the ER. Police will be talking to her when she wakes up. I’m Weather, by the way.”
“Heather?”
“No. Weather. As in, well you get it.”
“Interesting.”
“I think so. Child of the seventies.”
Uncle Tim turned to her. “I’m glad I could help. I want to ask—why me?”
“When Paula finally answered, she mentioned you—well, Karen’s dad. And you’re having a big fast car.”
Two lush chords strummed out from a twelve-string guitar. Weather and Uncle Tim looked. Kendal was playing at center stage facing the family room. The second chord was resounding, and he was pointing to a tech and then to the guitar. Before the last chord faded, he played the two again.
“Will she be here tonight?”
Weather’s non-response answered that foolish question.
“Have you contacted her family? A husband?”
Silence again.
Israel left a conversation with Emma and climbed down off the stage. He joined the crew at the mixing board in the mezzanine. Uncle Tim picked out Brian seated among the crew of four sound techs and watched Israel take a seat beside him. They talked for a minute before standing and moving to seats over at the far side of the theatre.
“I’m supposed to be having that conversation,” Uncle Tim frowned to the view. Weather looked to him and his sad expression.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “So I’ll leave you to that. I’ve gotta go. Get Paula settled somewhere for a few days.”
Uncle Tim watched Israel and Brian, who looked calm and attentive.
“What does she need?” he asked.
“Some quiet. Somewhere quiet. Near her crew. Her friends.”
Israel’s arm went around Brian’s not-so-little back. Brian responded by shrugging the arm off, standing and waddle walking along the narrow seats to the aisle. Israel called after him. Brian walked down the decline of carpet. He raised his hand and shook his head before disappearing through the curtained exit.
Israel turned and looked up to Uncle Tim across the purple rows of seats. He appeared to grimace as he raised both hands.
“There’s a spare room on the bus,” Uncle Tim said to Weather.
EMMA SAVORED HER ASSIGNED one-hour hiatus from the business day. Standing on the course tawny canvas with the door closed to the little room, she took up her airbrush and started the compressor. She considered her canvas briefly because she pretty much knew how she wanted to start the painting.
She had read up on the sugary, vitamin paint mist. After test firing the airbrush toward the tarp, Emma painted a long flow down from the center of the neck across to the shoulder. Her next stroke was downward to the lower back. She painted the other shoulder to the hips with one deft sure stroke. Next, the arms, again with long smooth spraying to the underarms and ribs. Then she painted the lovely rear and two long legs, making sure to get the underside of both feet.
Voices passed in the hall. She glanced at the door and recalled locking it. She changed the airbrush tip and began painting the front of the nude. The bone white mist covered the delightfully small rounded breasts, nipples, and belly button. She squatted and painted the lower tummy and mound.
She was careful not to paint the fingertips and changed tips for the face, careful not to color the border of bunted up hair. When she was done, she silenced the compressor and admired her efforts.
As the bone white paint dried, she turned to the clothing she had purchased. She and Karen had texted back and forth about that night’s look. Emma dressed Karen in a new Salvation Army dress: a cream-colored flour sack fabric with tiny green palm trees. No shoes—Karen had changed her mind about the beat-up running joggers.
Karen typed song notes to Sej on her laptop on the narrow worktable while Emma adjusted her clothing. She released Karen’s newly dyed black hair from the bunt and let it fall to the collar of the shirt. Karen breathed from her bar of surf wax between typing, as though testing the next phrase before committing it to the keyboard. Emma kissed Karen’s temple and received a smile and a distracted glance. She cleaned up, stored her painting supplies, and left the room quietly, leaving Karen to her surf wax and keystrokes.
Israel climbed smoothly from the pastiche automobile, chewed out the drummer, and stomped through the family room, chasing him across the kitchen and out the back door. Kendal and Karen were standing in front of the couch facing each other and talking softly, their mics muted, ignoring the scene going on behind them. That night’s audi
ence was applauding the song just completed. The stage crew appeared, relieved them of their instruments, and handed them new ones. Kendal sat down on the couch, and Karen returned to the kitchen. The errant drummer reappeared on stage through the front door of the house, and he and Sej, the bassist and the piano player, began to play.
Like the past three songs, the night’s musical pace was restrained and acoustic. Wyde’s special guest that night entered the set through the garage door. He took up the percussion array and focused on vibes, the hanging glass bottles, plates, and congas.
It was a night of dreamy, sad, and melancholy songs. A soothing performance for the audience and a creative and calming one for the band.
AFTER THE SHOW, THE band and crews started a sedate and playful party at the long makeshift dining table. Talk was soft and random with laughter, wit, and banter. Karen and Sej sat in a corner, the piano player talking, and Karen listening and eating melon wedges. Uncle Tim and Brian carried dessert plates to empty chairs back from the post show gathering. Uncle Tim talked pool business while Brian ate cake and gelato.
Israel was by the exit door with the security team discussing the departure of the audience.
“It is too early to be sure,” the security lead said, “but it seems we’ve gotten through a second show without a disappearance.”
Uncle Tim and Brian finished and stood up, Brian nearly spilling the two pool business binders. He accepted Uncle Tim’s good-bye handshake as Karen approached and nudged up against Brian’s chest. He handed Uncle Tim the binders and gently pulled Karen close. She spoke softly in his ear. Brian was smiling and nodding when he walked to the backstage exit. Karen wandered off with Emma, and Uncle Tim stood with two dessert plates in his hands. Weather entered backstage from the hall to the green rooms. She walked straight to Uncle Tim, ignoring the party. When she was two strides away, she released a smile that brightened her lively, intelligent eyes.
“You’ve got a new bus-mate,” she said, closing the distance. “All settled in; and thank you.”
Uncle Tim looked down to the floor with a smile.
