Hollow Man

by Mark Pryor

  “There's no way,” he said. “You're the last person to be calling the cops. What will you tell them?”

  “It's the only way. The trick is to control the situation. If you let others take control or leave it to fate, then you're screwed. If I'm with Michelle and we call, then I'll know what she tells them and I'll be able to tell them I know nothing. Much better than having them snoop around and catch us by surprise with questions when we're not expecting them.”

  “They won't talk to me. I don't know the guy.”

  “Which is why I'll be the one going to see Michelle. Look, I know how it works. Some patrol guy will roll up an hour after the call, eyeball this pretty housewife, see me there being all supportive, and figure it's a love triangle, which he wants nothing to do with. He'll take a report, enter it into the system, and that's that. If I'm not there, the hot housewife is a little more alluring, and in the interest of staying longer the cop asks more questions. We don't want that.”

  “That's for damn sure.”

  “So sit tight and I'll check in later.”

  “Do you really think he might have taken off with our money? I mean, you know him best.”

  “I sincerely doubt it. More likely he got rolled in an alley and has a headache and bad memory in a hospital bed somewhere. Or he's banging some groupie chick who likes the way he sings.”

  “I hope so.”

  I feigned awkwardness, shifting from foot to foot. “Hey, I don't mean to be a jerk or anything, but I'd like to put the storage-facility thing to rest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought maybe I could drive by there on my way to see Michelle.”

  “My unit?” He chewed his lip. “And what, look inside?”

  “Just so I can tell Otto I did. Make him realize he's being an idiot.”

  “Why not just tell him you did?”

  “I don't know, I don't want to lie. He's a cop, they're good at spotting that.”

  “You know why this pisses me off so much?”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “Because I've gone out of my way to look out for him, and you. I told you before, you left some stuff on your computer, and I went on and cleared it. Didn't tell you, didn't make a big deal, I was just looking out for you. For us. And this is my thanks.”

  “Wow, I didn't know that. Thank you, Tristan, really. And look, I'm trying to do the same as you, keep us together and safe. It's just that reassuring Otto has become a part of me looking out for us. Even though you're right, I shouldn't have to, not by nosing through your stuff.”

  I could see him thinking, and finally he nodded. “Okay, that's fine.”

  “Great. Thanks. That'll make him feel better, stop being so paranoid.” I started for the door. “Oh wait.”

  “What?”

  “With everything that's going on…mind if I use your car?”

  “Why?”

  “Now it's me being paranoid but if someone working there knows your car, associates with that unit and then sees my car pull up…. Am I overthinking this?”

  “Yeah, a little.” He smiled. “But seeing what's happened, I'm fine with you overthinking our safety. I wasn't planning on going anywhere for a while. What time will you be back?”

  “Couple of hours, no more.”

  “Go for it. The code at the gate is all sevens, four of them. I'll get you my keys.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the gate rattled and shook as it slid out of the way. I pulled though and headed to Tristan's lock-up, which lay at one end of a long row of orange-doored units.

  I used the key he'd given me to undo the padlock and yanked the sliding door up. A switch to my left turned on a light bulb that sat protected by its own wire cage. The unit was about ten feet wide and ten deep, and mostly empty. It smelled of dust and some sort of chemical. A battered, brown sofa sat against the right-hand wall, its matching armchair against the left. Various electronic gadgets were piled on the furniture and floor, old computer monitors and processing units, some ancient music speakers, and what looked like miles of cables, white, black, and gray lying on the floor and spilling out of cardboard boxes.

  Two old file cabinets, faded green metal, sat side by side at the back of the unit. I moved inside, pulling the door down behind me. I looked quickly under the sofa and chair cushions, then moved the speakers and cables around with my foot. I didn't expect to find anything. I never believed Tristan had double-crossed us, but this way I could honestly tell Otto I'd looked. The filing cabinet was next. I looked through each of the six drawers. Four were empty. One held stacks of papers, old bills and tax forms, musty with age. The other had a small gun safe in it, about the size of a shoe box. It had a combination lock, which Tristan hadn't mentioned, but there was no way it could have held all our money, so I didn't worry about it.

  I took one more look around the space, slid open the door, and locked up carefully behind me.

  I pulled into Gus's driveway twenty minutes later. Michelle met me at the front door, wringing her hands and upset, but it looked like she was glad to see a friendly face.

  “No word?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  I sat in the living room, and she brought me iced tea, a vile substance that all true Englishmen despise. I put it down on the coffee table. She sat opposite me and wouldn't meet my eye.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “And please. Please, be honest, I can handle anything, I just want the truth.”

  “Sure.”

  She looked at me intently, her head slightly cocked to one side like a dog waiting to sniff out a lie. “Is he seeing someone else?”

  “No.” I shook my head, pleased I didn't have to lie. “At least, not that I know of. I promise, I've always seen him as faithful and loving. That sounds trite, but it's true. Even when we were out…I know what you said on the phone the other day, but I've never seen that. I certainly don't know anything about him seeing someone.”

  “Okay.” She stayed in that position, staring at me. “One other thing. I mentioned it the other day, but I've been thinking more about it. Can't get it out of my head. That thing a few weeks ago, when you and he met a couple of times. He said something at the time…” My face was a mask. That stupid fucking idiot. “I can't remember what, and I know he was vague, but I felt like you two were planning something.”

  “I've been thinking, too, and it had to be music stuff, I'm sure. Otherwise, I don't really—”

  “No, it wasn't. You guys always do that here, or at your place. Usually the den here. So I don't think it was that.”

  “I don't remember, honestly. Although…” My voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “No, I doubt it but…we've talked about him maybe doing some consulting work with the DA's office, but that was early stages. Not much more than me offering to talk to the hierarchy about it.”

  “What do you mean consulting work?”

  “We're getting a lot of cases with foreign nationals. Mexicans mostly, but other Central and Southern Americans. Every time they pick up a felony charge, their defense attorney comes into court and tries to get us to drop or reduce charges by saying that if we don't, they'll get deported. You know, play the sympathy card about the three kids and pregnant wife who will starve if their client gets booted out of the country. The rules about deportation are complicated, so it'd be nice to have a reliable immigration attorney to consult with, to find out if they're blowing smoke or actually telling us the truth in each case.”

  “Huh. Why wouldn't he just come out and tell me about that?”

  “I don't know.” Probably because it's a steaming pile of horseshit that I just made up. “Like I say, it wasn't much more than a suggestion. But we did talk about it, to see if he was interested and to see how it'd work. Maybe he wanted to wait until it was a real possibility before saying anything.”

  “Maybe. Was he acting weird in the last week or two?”

&
nbsp; I gave her a kind smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “No. Worried about work, but nothing new there.”

  Her eyes settled on her phone. “Will you…will you help me call the hospitals?”

  “No need, I already did.” True. “Nothing.”

  “Really? I figured they only answer family about health stuff.”

  “Normally,” I said. “Family and prosecutors.”

  “Ah, of course. Thank you for doing that.”

  “Of course, Michelle, he's my friend.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I think we should call the police.”

  In my little village back home, there was a constable assigned to keep the peace. His name was Clive Potter, a forty-something single man who lived with his parents and could only ever play good cop, because bad cops didn't have pot bellies and ruddy cheeks. He had a tried-and-true routine for ensuring a peaceful village that began with a morning bicycle ride. If someone had suffered a puncture on the four streets that wound through Weston, he'd keep them company as they changed their own wheel or hold the gate for the farmer chasing his escaped cows back into the field.

  Around lunchtime, Constable Potter propped his cycle against the wall of one of the three pubs and made sure there was no trouble inside, accepting a ham sandwich and pint of ale for his trouble. In the early afternoon, he'd work off the sandwich and beer on a park bench on the village green, with ducks for company. He usually read a mystery novel, his version of studying police procedure, an Agatha Christie his criminal-investigation manual. We were pretty sure he nodded off every day, his belly holding him upright, but his bench sat beneath a weeping willow tree, so it was hard to be sure. At around three, he'd stretch himself awake and walk his bicycle to the elementary school half a mile away to make sure no kids got run over at day's end. And, when the summer began, to buy himself an ice cream from old Mr. Miller, who cranked up his ice cream van for a few months and toured the nearby villages in the late afternoons and on weekends.

  I'd somehow expected the cop who took Michelle's call to be like Clive Potter. To be the cop who preferred the easy missing-person's call to the higher-priority calls that might require confrontation and running. Jared Carruth was no Clive Potter. In his midtwenties, he addressed us with the politeness and interest of a highly trained customer-service rep, all Sir and Ma’am in his soft, Texas twang. His pen jotted down everything we said, a modern cop full of efficient concern. And no hint that he thought we were having an affair, no suggestion that this wasn't his most important call of the day.

  After he'd gathered the details of name, age, height, weight, and Michelle's contact number, Carruth asked, “What was he wearing when you last saw him?”

  “Khaki pants, light-blue shirt, and dark-blue tie,” Michelle said.

  “You gave me his car details. It hasn't turned up?”

  “No. I wouldn't expect it to, not without him.”

  “And you last saw him leaving for work.”

  “Yes. I didn't talk to him all day, which isn't unusual. Normally we'll text to figure out dinner plans midafternoon, and he'd call from his office to let me know if he had some late meetings. But I didn't notice that he'd left his phone at home.”

  “Was that unusual, for him to forget his phone?”

  “I don't…I guess it's happened once before. He can be kind of scatterbrained, which I know is odd for a lawyer but…” She shrugged. “Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all. Nothing.”

  Carruth hesitated. “Ma'am, excuse me for asking, but I have to. Is there any reason he might take off for a while. Y'all didn't argue or anything like that?”

  “No,” she said. “Not at all, everything was fine between us. Like I said, everything seemed totally normal.”

  “Yes, ma'am. And have you called hospitals or the jail to see if somehow he's at one of those places?”

  “I did,” I said. “I'm a friend of theirs. I work at the DA's office, as a prosecutor. I checked the hospitals and the county jail, nothing.”

  “Good. Can either of you think of anywhere he might be, anywhere he might have gone?”

  We shook our heads in unison.

  “No problem,” Carruth said. He tore off a page from his small notebook and handed it to Michelle. “That's the case number. If you think of anything else, just call 311 and ask for the detective in charge of the case. You can give the information to him, and if he's not available, the 311 operator will add it to the report.”

  “So what happens now?” Michelle asked. “I mean, what will you do?”

  “I'll write a report, put all this information in there. The report will be forwarded to a detective, I don't know who yet. He'll put out a notice on something called TCIC/NCIC, which will act as a notification system. So, if a cop pulls your husband over and runs his name, he'll show up as a missing person.”

  “And then what, you'll bring him home?”

  “Maybe.” Carruth shifted from foot to foot. “See, thing is, he's an adult. The officer will let him know there's a missing-person's report on him. And then, well, it's his choice what to do.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “If he tells the officer he's not missing, in other words he doesn't want to return home, then the officer will update the report and the detective will notify you.”

  “That he was found but doesn't want to come home?”

  “If that's his reaction, yes.”

  Michelle's eyes widened. “So either he's dead in a ditch somewhere, or he's disappeared of his own accord. Either way, there's not much you can do to bring him home to me.”

  “I'm sorry, ma'am.” From the distress on his face, I could see that Carruth hadn't given enough of these speeches to become indifferent. “I promise, we'll do what we can. I promise.”

  After Officer Carruth had left, I told Michelle that I was surprised he'd not poked around the house a bit. “Probably a rookie and didn't want to upset you,” I said. “But if a man is missing, I don't know, I'd probably want to see if there are signs or indications why.”

  “You think? How would he know what to look for?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes a pair of eyes from the outside can see things that might be missed by someone close to the situation.”

  “Well,” she said, “you're kind of on the outside. And work in law enforcement. Would you look around, see if you see anything?”

  “Sure, if you want,” I said reluctantly. “I don't want to be nosing in your stuff; you guys are my friends.”

  “Gus is missing, Dom, and I've nothing to hide. Look where you want.”

  “Sure, okay.”

  I walked slowly up the stairs, keeping my eyes peeled. I was looking, of course, because the things that would explain missing Gus to her would explain them to me. And I knew there was a good chance I'd want to see them before she, or a cop, did. The fact that he'd not left a note, or sent one, was good. I tried to quell the frustration growing inside me. It had been a long time since my recklessness had pushed events out of my control, potentially beyond the point of redemption. A very long time because I'd learned that even recklessness can be channeled, and redemption wasn't necessary if it was channeled into doing something good, or if someone else was there to take the fall.

  My parents sent me to boarding school when I was ten, not because I was a bad kid but because it was the done thing, the expected thing in my family. My father and his brothers had gone when they were six, my grandfather, too. But, even though it was a family tradition, the looks of relief they wore as they hugged me and drove away from Maidstone Hall Preparatory School were unmistakable. I actually didn't mind. Growing up on a farm is hard for a kid who experiments with animals. And for a kid who has no one to blame his little fires on. So to be surrounded by wide-eyed little boys and teachers all too eager to bring out their canes was something to appreciate. The school itself was in the Scottish highlands, a rugged and often desolate place, but since I was familiar with the countrys
ide and pretty much immune to atmosphere, I felt at home much quicker than most.

  One time, in the dormitory just before lights-out, one of the kids was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I had the idea to give him an apple-pie bed, to short-sheet him. Two other boys thought it a splendid idea and leaped into action, stripping away his top sheet and folding up the lower one, then remaking the bed with military perfection. They landed on their own beds just as he came through the door. I'd suggested this particular victim not because I didn't like him but because I knew how he'd react. His name was Faisal, and he was the nephew of a Saudi prince. He and his little brother, Hakim, shared the same sense of entitlement—and the same hair-trigger temper. When they didn't get their way, or if someone didn't accord them the respect they felt they deserved, they would explode, fists flailing, screaming bloody murder. Hilarious if you weren't the subject of their anger.

  We heard the headmaster in the dorm next door, so Faisal hopped straight into bed, jamming his feet down under the sheets. It took him a split second to realize what had happened, but when he did, and when he looked up and saw us all snorting with laughter, his face darkened and the lid blew off.

  “Who did this? Who did this?” he repeated over and over. When no one answered, he leaped out of bed and to the enormous chest of drawers that held our clean underwear and socks. On top were each boy's hairbrush and nail-scissors. He grabbed a pair of scissors and went straight for the kid laughing the hardest, Michael Moxon. Before Moxy knew it, a pair of scissors was sticking out of his shoulder. Our rugby captain and the toughest kid in the school, this merely served to annoy him, and he went for Faisal with a howl as we sat on our beds, gawking.

  In seconds, the headmaster burst through the door.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded, his face as red as I'd ever seen it.

  Faisal and Moxy got up off the floor, the former with a sulky, don't-you-dare-berate-me look, the latter with a pair of nail scissors still protruding from his shoulder. And what happened next was probably the first sign I'd become a lawyer, because when Faisal had explained about his apple-pie bed, as if that was the worst thing that could happen to a boy, the headmaster swiveled on his heels, glaring around the room.