by Stash (v5)
Come on. This was even less likely than her being abducted. Not that Gwen or any other adult wasn’t capable of carrying on an affair—just look in the mirror, buddy, and think about Teresa, whom you rejected yet knew that if he had been more attracted to her, if he had been a tad weaker, if he had wanted to get back at Gwen, it might have gone the other way. At least it fell within the realm of possibility. And for Gwen? He believed their marriage was strong, but knew the flesh was weak.
But the facts didn’t add up. If Gwen had been plotting a liaison with Gates, she would have made up a different story to cover for the other night. She would not have told Brian she ran into Gates at the market or been so tense about it. And she would have planned the deed for back in Morrissey, when the kids were at school and he at work and Gwen had time to herself.
He ran through remaining possibilities: she met a neighbor while walking and stopped to visit, she left the road and walked in the woods, she was hit by a car and tossed into a ditch on the side of the road.
Or the most likely possibility: she’d be at the house when they got back.
Only she wasn’t.
The note remained where he’d left it on the counter. Her purse and sweater on a chair. Her hiking boots by the door. Wherever she was going she hadn’t planned to be gone for long. He turned on his phone to see if she’d called. He had five messages—all of them from work. He skipped them without listening. Nothing from Gwen. He tried calling her number and got voice mail. He called again. Same thing.
He hid his distress and explained to the kids that Mom wanted some time to herself and went for a long hike. But now the sky had turned uniformly gray and a faint rain began to fall.
The house was well stocked with games and books. Brian occupied the kids playing checkers and Life and cards and reading from a book of fairy tales. He made two bags of popcorn. He mixed lemonade. The rest of the afternoon passed and evening came, and with it a steadier rain. Brian decided to call the county sheriff. He took his phone upstairs so the kids wouldn’t hear.
He called directory assistance for the nonemergency number and spoke to a deputy named Clay McAllister. He explained that his wife had been missing since before noon when she went out for a walk and he suspected she might be in trouble.
“What’s your wife’s name, sir?”
“Gwen Raine.”
“What kind of trouble, sir? Do you mean that she’s lost?”
“She could be lost, but it could be more than that. She …” He started to break down and couldn’t get his words out. He began again. “There’s a possibility my wife has been abducted,” he told the deputy.
“Why do you think that?”
He lowered his voice further and tried to explain. He could see Nora at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him, her face a replica of Gwen’s when stressed.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up, sir. Are you on a cell phone?”
“My children are right here. My wife is missing and may be in danger.”
Deputy McAllister told Brian he would send someone out to the house.
Brian started to protest but there was no point. The kids were already spooked. He took the stairs down two at a time and put on a cheerleader face and said, “Hey, we haven’t had dinner yet, how about Daddy grills the chicken?”
“I’m not hungry,” said Nate.
“Where’s Mommy?” Nora asked.
“We have to eat dinner,” Brian said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“When’s Mommy coming home?”
He sat with them on the couch, one in each arm, and explained that, number one, Mommy might have gotten lost on her walk and the police were going to help find her and, two, everything was going to be fine. The police help find lost people all the time.
“Did she walk for twenty miles?” Nate asked.
“I’m not sure how far she walked,” Brian said.
“Is she walking in the rain?”
“We don’t know, but Mommy is very smart. If she got lost, she’ll find a dry place to stay until the rain stops.”
As if on cue, the rain intensified at that moment, drumming on the porch roof and gurgling through the gutter and downspout.
The person Deputy Sheriff Clay McAllister sent over was himself, an officer of the law who looked all of twenty-two years old to Brian and fresh from the academy. Brian wished they had a TV to distract the kids while he spoke with McAllister; instead he gave them each a bowl of Lucky Charms and told them it was very important they play quietly or look at books while he spoke with the police officer.
He stepped out on the porch and the first thing McAllister said was that if Brian wanted to file a missing persons report he would have to wait at least twenty-four hours from the time he’d last seen his wife.
“I just want to tell you what’s going on, and maybe you can help me decide what to do,” Brian said.
“The sheriff’s department is here to help in any way we can, sir,” McAllister said. Straight out of a textbook of standard responses.
Brian recounted the story of Gwen buying a small bag of marijuana—he was embarrassed telling it—from this Jude Gates, who his wife claimed was an old friend. She was later arrested with the marijuana in her possession and coerced—not coerced, persuaded—to tell the police where she’d gotten it because the police in Morrissey were motivated to investigate sources. Then, just today, she ran into Jude Gates at the market in Adams Station and admitted to him that she gave the police in Morrissey his name.
McAllister looked surprised at this last detail. “Why would she do that?
“I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That it just came out. I think she felt guilty. Like I said, she considers him an old friend.”
“But he’s a drug dealer?”
All Brian really knew was that his wife had gotten marijuana from him on two occasions, in both cases small amounts. Who knows who deals drugs these days?
“How does your wife know Mr. Gates?”
“She worked in a restaurant he used to manage, years ago, before we were married.”
“And they stayed in touch since then?”
“Not that I know of. I think just recently, when she was looking for … a place to buy something.” Brian leaned against the door and crossed his arms.
“I see. Is she involved with him, on a personal level?”
“No.”
“In a romantic way.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Not as sure as he wanted to be, but Brian did not want that line of reasoning pursued; he didn’t see the benefit. If the police thought Gwen was having an affair, they’d lose interest, thinking she had run off with Gates, leaving a cuckold to wring his hands and call the police about his missing wife.
McAllister nodded, as if wiser than his years. “Do you have any idea why Mr. Gates would be here in Tear Lake?”
“My wife said he has a place in the mountains somewhere around here. I don’t know where. And he knows we have a house on Tear Lake.”
“How does he know that?”
Brian stared at the rain dripping from the edge of the porch roof.
McAllister continued. “And you say she left around noon to go for a walk and you haven’t seen or heard from her since?”
“That’s right.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir.”
McAllister stepped down from the porch and walked to his cruiser. He’d left the headlights on and engine running, the wipers slapping back and forth on intermittent setting.
Brian glanced through the door to check on the kids. They had finished their cereal and were sitting together on the floor in front of a bookcase, paging through books together. They looked so sweet right now, close together, bodies touching, and he felt horrible for having exposed them to this. And what had he prov
ided for a healthy dinner to nurture them? Lucky Charms.
McAllister came back to the porch. Raindrops spotted his gray Mountie-style hat and the epaulets on his shoulders. He told Brian that no properties in the county were deeded to the name of Jude Gates.
“Sir, did your wife say anything about Mr. Gates acting aggressive or threatening her?”
“No, nothing. But she did say when she drove away from the market that he was behind her for a while and she thought at first he was following her and she got scared, but then he turned off at 186.”
“And your wife was alone all through this?”
“No, my son, Nathaniel, was with her.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“Nate? Why?”
“Maybe he heard or noticed something that could be helpful.”
Brian opened the door and invited the deputy sheriff in. The kids turned and stared at him. Brian told Nate that Sheriff McAllister would like to ask him a few questions about being with Mommy at the market today.
Nate stood and approached, wary of the uniformed man towering over him. Nora stayed back by the books on the floor. McAllister removed his hat and introduced himself. He asked if Nate had been with his mother when she was talking to a man outside the market today.
Nate nodded that he had.
“Did you hear what they were talking about?”
Nate looked down at the floor.
Brian held his breath. What had Gwen said in front of Nate?
“It’s okay, buddy, you can tell us,” Brian said.
“Mom yelled at me for picking bugs off the truck.”
“Picking bugs?” Brian said.
“Dead ones.”
“Which truck?”
“It was a van, but not a minivan like ours,” Nate said. “It had a lot of dead bugs on the front.”
“What do mean, not like ours? What did it look like?”
“CR74642,” Nate said.
“Excuse me?” said McAllister.
Nate repeated the sequence.
“What does that mean?” McAllister asked.
“Is that the license plate number?” Brian asked.
Nate nodded yes.
“He noted the license plate number?” McAllister asked, looking doubtfully from Nate to Brian.
Nora piped in from her spot on the floor. “He’s better at math and I’m better at reading.”
“Thank you very much,” McAllister said. He asked Nate if he’d heard anything else, but the boy shook his head. McAllister motioned for Brian to come back out on the porch.
“I’ll be right back,” Brian said to the kids.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a mountain night chill. Brian shivered. McAllister said he would run the plate to see if in fact it was a correct number and to find out the name on the vehicle registration, but beyond that there wasn’t a lot they could do, at least not until twenty-four hours had passed since Mrs. Raine had been missing, at which time Brian would have the option of filing a missing persons report.
“Can’t you look for the van? Put an APB out for it or something?” Brian wondered whether there even was such a thing as an all points bulletin, or was that just from TV.
“If the vehicle does belong to Mr. Gates, I could have it flagged in the state database to alert police departments in the event the van happened to be stopped.”
“But you won’t proactively search for it?”
McAllister apologized. At this point, no. He suggested Brian call Mercy County Hospital in Tupper Lake and Placid Memorial Hospital to see if any unidentified woman fitting his wife’s description had been admitted. You said she doesn’t have any identification on her?
She didn’t have her wallet, it was right here in her purse. She might have her phone, which he had tried calling.
McAllister said that in these cases the missing person usually wants to be missing, and that Brian would likely hear from her soon enough.
“In these cases?” Brian said. McAllister was playing the runaway/affair angle again. “Are you speaking from your years of experience?”
“I’m just going by the statistics, sir.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Give us a call tomorrow if you want to file a report,” McAllister reminded him.
Brian composed himself before going back inside. He put on his brightest face and told the kids that the police were going to help and Mommy should be back very soon.
“But where is she?” Nora asked.
“We don’t know exactly.”
“I want Mommy.”
“I want Mommy too.”
And they looked at each other and started to cry and Brian wanted to cry, too, and he wanted to smash something and he wanted to shake Gwen by the shoulders and snuggle against her warm neck. He settled for maintaining his composure and getting the kids ready for bed. He sat on the floor between their beds and read book after book until eventually he heard first Nate breathing heavy and steady and a few minutes after that, Nora.
Ticket to the Concert
Dana took the back while Heidi sat up front with Chuck. It was only a twenty-minute ride to Potsdam. Dana dug out her phone. She called her father, who didn’t pick up, because it was Friday night and the bar would be full.
“I’m not racing tomorrow, so don’t come to Plattsburgh,” she said in her message. She explained her knee hadn’t healed and the cortisone helped but not enough and she could miss more than just this week. Dana expected the words to stick in her throat, as if delivering news of death or disaster, but it was easy, almost a relief. She experienced an unexpected sense of freedom and spontaneity. After, she scrolled up and down the contacts listed on her phone. At the beginning of the list she saw Aaron’s name. He was the guy she’d met in the kitchen at Gull when she’d gone out back to get her sweater from the car. He’d been standing by the back door, plate in hands near his chin, forking in food like a starving refugee. He hadn’t noticed her until she was almost upon him.
Why are you eating back here? she asked him.
He swallowed what was in his mouth. I’m sorry, am I in the way?
Um—no, but the party is out front.
There’s a party?
Who are you? she asked.
He was just making a delivery and heading out. Grabbing a bite to eat first. Jude said it was okay.
He looked for a place to set down his plate, and put it on the top of a laundry hamper near the door. He looked out the back again.
What’s out there?
Nothing. You want to smoke a bowl?
No thank you.
He wore a baseball cap that cast a shadow across a dent in the top part of his cheek. Some of the bone must have been missing because it looked like an inch of his face had caved in under his eye.
He caught her staring. You must get a lot of that, too, he said.
Sorry. Yeah, I do. All my life I’ve had this.
I’m still getting used to it.
Where are you from? Dana asked.
And that’s when they exchanged numbers: he lived not far from where she was going to school in Canton. It would be cool to get together. Maybe they’d call each other. Neither had.
Until now. Dana pressed his number. He didn’t pick up and she was about to hang up but when she heard his message—“Talk”—she started to ramble, Hi, Aaron, this is Dana, we met at Gull and I wanted you to know I’m going to be in Potsdam tonight to see a concert at Clarkson, I don’t have a ticket yet but I heard you can get them out front and I thought if you aren’t doing anything maybe you can meet me there, if you like music, anyway give me a call if you want, but you’re probably not around, so anyway …
“Who’s that?” Heidi asked from the front seat.
“This guy I know.”
“Do you have a boyfriend you’ve been keeping secret from us?”
“I just met him before I came up. He lives around here.”
Chuck dropped them off at the Student Center in Clarkso
n and they followed the crowd making its way to Fander Hall. The plan was to meet Steve and the others near the front door, once Dana got her ticket.
“Do you see anyone selling tickets?”
“Let’s look around,” Heidi said. “How much money have you got?”
“Enough.” She still had the three one-hundred-dollar bills her father had given her and had brought them along, although she’d never need that much.
At first they mulled around near the front doors and then walked farther out to a plaza of concrete planters and benches. Too bad it was raining now. Dana put up the hood on her jacket and walked with Heidi, waiting for a scalper to announce tickets.
They didn’t have to wait long. A guy in a Clarkson jacket walked past, repeating over and over: “Tickets. Who needs tickets. Tickets. Who needs tickets.”
“I do,” Dana said.
The guy stopped and showed two tickets. “One-fifty for two. Tenth row.”
They were better seats than the balcony seats her friends had.
“I only need one.”
“You gotta buy both.”
“Okay,” she said, thinking she’d get one for Aaron, too. If he showed up. If he got her message. If he cared.
After meeting up with Steve and the others, Dana followed them to the bleachers and never went to her ticketed seat. She parked herself in the aisle next to Heidi’s seat on the end and once the concert started it didn’t matter anyway because everyone got to their feet and danced. Someone passed a leather flask down the line and it ended up with Dana. She smelled the alcohol—some kind of mixed cocktail, she thought—and started to hand it back but remembered she wasn’t running tomorrow. She took a small sip that stuck in her throat like a hot ember. No wonder she wasn’t much of a drinker. No one would mistake her for a campus party girl, which seemed to be her father’s worst fear. She didn’t even stay out late; if she were running tomorrow, she’d already be in bed asleep.
