by Simon Wood
Jenny Kuo, the human resources manager, greeted him with a broad grin, flashing a perfect set of white teeth, albeit one slightly too large for her mouth.
“You must be very excited to be working in a new country,” she said. “I know I was.”
Terry nodded, warming to her enthusiasm.
“Sorry to hear about your wife, though.”
Jenny escorted Terry to her office and proceeded to march him through his terms and conditions and benefits package. The topic of his vacation allowance left a bruise. The ten vacation days were a far cry from the five-week entitlement he had enjoyed as the norm in England. Now he understood why American tour parties blasted through England as part of a five-day whirlwind tour of Europe. Jenny tried to soften the blow with personal days.
“Personal days, what’s that?”
“It’s your sick allowance for you and your family. If you have a sick family member to look after or need a mental health day, then take a day.”
“Mental health day?”
“If work or life is getting you down, you can take a day away from it all—a mental health day.” Jenny beamed, showing more healthy teeth.
Terry thought mental health days were a generous gesture, but they weren’t going to make up for his loss of vacation days. He felt the need for a mental health day just thinking about it.
A review of Genavax’s safety practices ate up the rest of the morning, and they broke for lunch. Jenny pointed out the staff cafeteria to Terry but excused herself from joining him. She had a lunch date elsewhere.
The lunchroom was a rectangle of duck’s-egg-blue blandness. It was small for supporting the hundred or so Genavax employees, but after reviewing the menu, he saw why Genavax didn’t require a larger lunchroom. Snack machines ran along one wall and seemed to be enjoying more fervent business.
Terry bought a tuna sandwich, a yogurt, and a carton of orange juice. He sat at a table by himself. He wasn’t up to the awkward new-guy intros. He spread out his small meal and a newspaper he’d swiped from reception. He hoped this display wouldn’t invite company.
His ploy worked for about five minutes.
“Dude, you the new guy?”
And you must be the surfer, Terry thought. The tie-dyed T-shirted and jeans-clad man was everything the brochure said a Californian surfer should be. His shaggy blond locks and miles of deep tan relayed a “Surf’s up” attitude. The only problem was that the surfer dude was a little too old for the image. He was closer to forty than twenty.
“English, right?”
“Yeah, I’m English,” Terry agreed.
“Cool. Very cool,” he said nodding to himself. “They said a foreign guy was starting.”
“I’m foreign, all right.”
“Jeez, I’m being rude. Kyle Hemple.” Kyle rubbed his palm on the back of his jeans and snapped out a hand.
Terry took it and shook. “Terry Sheffield.”
“D’you mind if I chow down with you?” Kyle indicated to a vacant chair.
“Knock yourself out.”
“Cool.”
Kyle deposited his lunch onto the table—mainly fruit, which rolled across Terry’s stolen newspaper. Apologizing, Kyle shepherded his lunch back to his side of the table. A wide-necked bottle containing a toxic-waste-green concoction caught Terry’s eye. Kyle noticed him looking.
“Wheatgrass,” he said, holding it up.
Kyle didn’t say anything for a while. He just stared at Terry, smiling and bobbing his head.
Terry froze in the middle of a spoonful of yogurt. “What?” he asked.
“You’re my first.”
Terry struggled to hold back one of Kyle’s grins. “First what?”
“You’re my first English guy.”
“Wow, really? I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Huh?”
Terry waved away his failed attempt at humor. “I hope it’s a good experience.”
“So far.” Kyle bobbed his head again. “Just wanted to let you know I have nothing against you and the whole Civil War thing between our two fair nations. In the past. Forgotten.”
“Don’t you mean the War of Independence?”
“Same difference, dude. Peach?” He held out the fruit as a peace offering.
“Thanks,” Terry said and took it, gracious in the honor of its meaning. He took a bite.
“The grapevine is humming with the news that your wife has gone AWOL. True?”
Suddenly, the peach developed a sour edge to it. “True.”
“That sucks, man. I liked her.”
“Excuse me?”
“A real looker, dude. You did well. I hope she’s okay.”
“What do you mean, you liked her?”
Kyle raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, man. Terry, dude, I wasn’t trying to hit on her. I was just saying she’s good-looking. Don’t blow a gasket. Hey, you English are hot-blooded puppies.”
Terry shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I haven’t met anyone who’s seen her since I came to America. I mean, do you know her? Have you seen her?”
“No. I just met her here once.”
“When?”
“A couple of months back, I think. She came to check out the place or something. Oh, I remember, she brought in some paperwork.”
Terry recalled Sarah had delivered the signed contract he’d mailed to her with some other documents. That was about six weeks ago, after final job negotiations.
“Did you speak to her?”
“I think I said hi, but that was about it. But she spoke to several of us. She came in here and had lunch. She was sounding out the joint to make sure the job was worth taking. She was cool.”
Terry zoned out, taking a moment to get over his initial excitement at the notion of a recent sighting of Sarah. His disappointment at the false alarm took just as long to recover from. When he tuned Kyle back in, he was an annoying buzzing in his head and he didn’t understand what the sun-bronzed man was saying until after he had said it.
“Hey, back up a minute. What do you mean fuss? What did she do?”
“Dude, that’s what I’m saying. It was so cool what she said to the Ice Maiden. I love your wife.”
“The Ice Maiden?”
“Pamela Dawson. Your boss.”
“What happened?”
“This was so sweet, you’ve gotta understand.”
“I get it. What happened?”
“Well, Pam storms in, zeroing in on us jawing with your old lady. She’s pissed and tells your wife”—Kyle snapped his fingers—“I forget her name.”
“Sarah.”
“Yeah, Sarah. Well, Pam tells Sarah she has no business being in here and asks her to leave. And Sarah gives it to her both barrels, man. It was cool.”
This was like pulling teeth. Terry was losing his patience. “What did she say?”
Kyle’s inane grin slipped a few inches. “Have to wait, dude. Lunch is over. Five-O.”
“What?”
Kyle indicated with his eyes at the entrance. Pamela Dawson strode into the cafeteria accompanied by Luke Frazer—a tall, stick-thin man with a grey pallor whom Terry had met earlier. He was the lead scientist in the Quality Department and Pamela’s right-hand man. She frowned in their direction. Kyle jumped to his feet, his chair scraping on the vinyl flooring.
“Hey, where you going? Finish your story.”
“Later, man.”
“Kyle,” Terry whined.
“Don’t worry, newbie. We’ll talk. Stay cool.”
Terry finished his first day at Genavax without getting the chance to press Kyle further. He drove home, frustration gnawing at him. What had Sarah fought over with Pamela? It certainly explained Pamela’s lack of compassion toward Sarah’s disappearance.
When Terry got home, he had a message waiting for him on the answering machine. He hit PLAY. It was a brief message from Sheriff Holman telling him to come see him if he got the message before seven. It was 6:20. Terry had just snatch
ed up his keys to leave when the phone rang.
“Hello,” Terry said.
“Hello to you.” The caller was a man, his words slow and confused. It was obvious he wasn’t expecting Terry to answer. “Is Sarah there?”
“No.” The hairs on Terry’s arms and neck bristled. Somehow, he didn’t feel he was talking to a friend. “She’s not here right now.”
“Huh.”
“Can I help you?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Sarah’s husband.”
“Husband? I didn’t know she was married.”
“Are you a friend?”
“Mmm, more of an acquaintance.”
“Can I tell her who called?” Terry asked, fishing for a name.
“When will she be back?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think she’ll be long.” Maybe Terry was being paranoid, but the caller sounded like he was on a fishing expedition and Terry wasn’t about to give up any information. “Can I get a number from you, er…?”
“I don’t think you have any idea when she’ll be coming back,” the caller accused.
“Not to the exact minute, but…”
The caller had hung up.
Besides Holman, the sheriff’s station was deserted when Terry walked in. He welcomed Terry with a smile.
“Mr. Sheffield, you got my message?”
“Yes.” Terry stopped at the front desk and leaned on the counter. “Do you have any news?”
“Terry—I hope you don’t mind me calling you Terry?”
Terry shook his head.
“What you have to understand, Terry, is that the first twenty-four hours are the most crucial of any missing persons investigation and with every hour that follows, the task becomes increasingly more difficult. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Sheriff, can you get to the point?”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I don’t want a coffee. I don’t want a cookie. I’ve been in this country less than a week and my wife’s been missing the whole time. I just want to know what the hell is going on. So please tell me.”
“Mr. Sheffield, I understand your frustration. But let’s keep things calm. Okay?”
Terry took a moment then nodded. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Okay, I’ve circulated her details with the local hospitals and morgues.”
Terry’s throat tightened. Air struggled to make it into his lungs.
“No one with your wife’s name or fitting her description has been admitted.”
Terry breathed easy again. “Good.”
“But we don’t know if she’s remained local. In the time she’s been missing, she could be a lot farther afield, so I’m spreading my search.”
“She could be out of the country by now.”
“No. That’s something I do know. SFO, Oakland, San Jose, and Sacramento report not having had a Sarah Sheffield or Morton go through their gates. So I’m going to assume she’s not flying.”
Holman had pacified Terry’s fear to a certain extent. He’d wondered if the sheriff would do a proper job, but he seemed to be making all the right noises.
“I now have a copy of Sarah’s driver’s license, courtesy of the DMV, and I also know what car she drives.”
“What is it?”
“A two-tone, white-and-gray Subaru Outback.”
“She had a Toyota the last time I was here.”
Holman nodded. “Well, I have something to look for now.”
Holman proceeded to catalog a list of investigative dead ends, and Terry’s heart sank. He was getting the feeling that Sarah would never be found.
“I’ll keep trying, Terry, but you’re going to have to be patient, unless you’ve got anything new for me to go on. Did you remember anything that could be of help?”
“Well, yes. A couple of strange things happened today.”
“Oh, yeah?” Holman dragged a pad across the counter toward him and took a pen out of his shirt pocket.
“I started my new job.”
“Where’s that?”
“Genavax. Do you know it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“At lunch, one of the guys said my wife had gotten into an argument with my new boss in the staff lunchroom about six weeks ago. It was very public and very heated.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Dropping off my contract.”
“So why was she in the staff lunchroom?”
“I don’t know. I suppose she just stopped for something to eat.”
“Okay.” Holman scribbled notes. “What was the argument about?”
“Don’t know. I never got that far.”
“Hmm. So what are you saying?” Holman stopped writing and put his pen down. “That your new boss abducted your wife, is that it?”
That had been Terry’s thought and it seemed like a good one in his head, but hearing Holman say it out loud, the thought sounded ridiculous. Obviously their confrontation meant something, but whether it had anything to do with Sarah’s disappearance seemed unlikely. Terry let the idea go.
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” he conceded. “Just that it was odd. I shouldn’t be listening to gossip, I suppose.”
“Okay. And what’s the second thing?”
“Yeah. A man called asking for Sarah.”
“A friend?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t know about us being married.”
“So he might not be a close friend.”
“This guy was peculiar.”
“Peculiar, how?”
“He gave me the creeps. I don’t know how to say it better.”
“Okay. He wasn’t a friend, so what’s your guess?”
His guess was an ex-boyfriend, but his fear was a not-so-ex-boyfriend. He didn’t have much stock in either theory. They were just products of a neurotic imagination.
“I wondered if he’s involved with Sarah’s disappearance.”
“If he had abducted Sarah, he wouldn’t be calling asking for her. Would he now?”
“I suppose not.”
“Terry, listen to me. You’re worried, and nobody can blame you, but stop trying to make three and two equal four. Let me do my job. Okay?”
Terry nodded.
“Let’s put things in perspective,” Holman said. “She’s missing, but on the positive side, no news is good news. She’s not in a hospital, so she’s probably still okay.”
Unless she’s dead in a ditch and no one’s found her yet, Terry thought but kept it to himself. If he didn’t say it, maybe it wouldn’t come true.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I think it’s dead, buddy,” Oscar said.
“Huh?” Terry grunted.
Terry was standing over the Gold Rush’s Dumpster. He stopped smashing the broom down on the overpacked Dumpster. The last trash bag that had gone on top of the others had burst from the repeated blows. Soda cups littered the trash enclosure, leaking out various soda-colored fluids. Strewn paper napkins turned the spill into a pulpy mess. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead in the evening heat.
“You killed that trash bag, all right.”
“Sorry,” Terry said.
“If I wanted a mindless thug to smash the joint up, I could have gotten someone doing community service,” Oscar said without any rancor. “I thought a little evening work would keep you sane.”
Since the weekend, Terry had been helping Oscar close up the Gold Rush, which meant emptying the trash, mopping out the toilets, sweeping the floors, and generally making the amusement center shipshape for a new day. The plan had worked up until tonight, but now Sarah and his sad situation was back on his mind. The innocent Dumpster had just gotten in the way.
“Sorry,” Terry said again.
“Do you want get down from there before you do someone some damage?”
Terry hopped down from the Dumpster and helped Oscar pick up th
e spilled trash. Oscar held open a new trash bag he had tucked into a back pocket and Terry filled it. Oscar tied off the bag and tossed it against the side of the overstuffed Dumpster.
“Okay, let’s get you inside and cool off.”
Oscar walked Terry inside the Gold Rush and filled two cups from the soda fountain.
“Air hockey?” Oscar asked.
“Okay,” Terry said.
Terry took the drinks over to the nearest air-hockey table and placed them on the edge while Oscar pumped a handful of quarters into the machine. With all the other arcade machines switched off, the hum of the air hissing through the holes in the metal plate was surprisingly loud. The puck popped out and Oscar guided it back toward him.
“Interesting mood swing you were having out there,” Oscar said and faced off. “Wanna tell me about it?”
Terry blocked Oscar’s shot. “It was nothing. Just relieving a little of the daily stress.”
Oscar stopped the puck dead with his hand. “Terry, I know we haven’t known each other long, but I know you weren’t just venting. You were pissed off, and I think I know at whom.”
“Can’t we just play?”
“You saw Holman today, didn’t you?”
Oscar fired the puck across the table. Terry didn’t react fast enough to prevent it from disappearing into the mail slot of a goal in front of him. A new puck dropped onto the table. Neither of them made a grab for the plastic disc.
“Yeah. I wanted to see how he was getting on. I haven’t heard anything from him.”
Oscar tapped the puck over to Terry. “What did he say?”
“Not a lot. He doesn’t seem to be any further forward than he was when I filed the report.”
Terry hated badgering Holman like some lovesick teenager chasing after a girl. He knew how pathetic it looked. Holman’s progress amounted to a “We’re doing our best” and a pat on the head. Terry had stormed out before he lost his temper.
Terry was equally frustrated by how little else he’d learned about Sarah’s encounter with Pamela. He’d become persona non grata at work, at least when it came to Kyle. He’d tried talking to him several times since their lunch meeting, and Kyle had practically run in the other direction.
If Terry were honest, he wasn’t just angry with Holman or Kyle, but with himself. Cracks were appearing in his faith. Maybe Sarah hadn’t been abducted. She’d left the house under her own accord, albeit in a hurry. A belief was forming and even though it didn’t make sense, the belief grew—she’d run out on him. Suddenly, Holman’s words trampled through his mind. “You don’t seem to know squat about your wife.” Terry was starting to think he was right. All he wanted was to be wrong.
