She’d turned to meet his gaze in the mirror.
“Did you hear me?” He’d sounded so annoyed.
No, she’d wanted to say.
“I said you can’t count on Lindsey getting a scholarship. They’re not even out of preseason this year and she’s already sprained her ankle.”
“Slightly. It’s not a bad injury.”
“This time. But the rest of those girls are gorillas compared to her. Look at Samantha.” Nick had brought up Lindsey’s best friend. “Twenty pounds overweight, at least. She’s a hog.”
“Nicholas! That’s a terrible thing to say.”
He’d brushed his teeth, wiped his face with a towel.
“What is it with you?” she’d asked, and when he’d answered, “Nothing,” when he’d said, “Work,” or whatever excuse he’d offered, Abby had accepted it and his apology. Because he had apologized, she remembered that now, too. He’d embraced her and balanced his chin on the crown of her head. She was just the right height for it. She used to tease him that she wasn’t a chin rest. But not that night. That night he’d been in a mood.
“It’s my job to take care of this family,” he had said and stopped. Even his heart beneath Abby’s ear had seemed to stop, and when she’d looked up at him, when she’d asked, “What is it?” he’d said he didn’t know how to explain it. He’d said, “I’ve made mistakes.”
“Everyone has,” she’d said.
“Yeah, but— Look, there’s this woman, a sort of client, former client, I should say. She thinks I mishandled her interests in some real-estate dealings. She’s made some threats.”
“Threats?”
He’d shaken his head, looking chagrined. “Never mind. I don’t know why I brought it up. She’s just some nutcase. It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure? You sound worried.”
“Nah.” He’d bent to kiss her, then pulling her close, he’d rested his chin atop her head again. “I mean, yeah, I do worry sometimes. What if I’m not around when you or Lindsey or Jake needs something?”
Abby had been unnerved by that. There’d been an underscore of disquiet in his tone. Or was she remembering it that way because she was desperate for an explanation? Her mind seemed full of tricks. What had she said in response? Something like, “Of course you’ll be around,” or, “You’re just exhausted.” Or maybe she’d said, “You’ll work it out.” It would have been something stupid like that. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she pushed him, demanded he give her the details, the woman’s name at least? But worse: Why hadn’t Nick confided in her? Why had he put her off?
Abby pressed her fingertips to her eyes, swept with the hard longing to have that time back. It seemed somehow vital that she understand it. She had the sense that Nick had been trying to tell her something. Warn her? Was she making too much of it now? Should she mention the incident to Sheriff Henderson after all? But suppose she was the nutcase?
There were so many questions, too many questions.
Wheeling abruptly, she went downstairs to the kitchen, found Samantha’s telephone number, and before she could think better of it, she dialed. It was something she could do, a concrete step she could take, but when Samantha answered and fell into an immediate silence, Abby realized Sam was steeling herself to hear something awful, and she rushed to reassure her.
“You didn’t find them?” Sam asked, and the bump of tears in her voice wrenched Abby’s heart.
“No, honey. No. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Sam sighed. “I wish I could go there, look for them, do something.”
“It’s all right, Sam. Maybe you can help me another way.”
“Sure,” Sam said, but she was wary.
And Abby was sorrier still that she’d called, but she pressed on explaining her quandary about painting Lindsey’s bedroom. “You two looked at colors, didn’t you? I was hoping you knew the shade of yellow she settled on.”
“Oh, gosh. We looked at a bunch.” Sam thought about it.
“It’s all right, honey,” Abby said.
“I just can’t remember exactly, but my mom was there. I bet she knows. I’ll get her.”
“No, don’t disturb her,” Abby said quickly, but Sam was already shouting for her mother.
Abby waited, feeling awkward and horrible. No one knew how to talk to her anymore. She’d somehow managed to lose touch with everyone who mattered to her. Except for her mother and Kate. And Jake, who blamed her. He hadn’t said as much, but still it was there. She was the mother, the adult, after all. She should have prevented what happened to their family. It was what everyone probably thought, that she should have kept them home, kept them safe.
“Abby? How are you?” Samantha’s mother Paula’s voice came on the line, holding measured notes of sympathy and caution.
“Paula, hi, I’m all right. I’m sorry, I think I scared Sam. There isn’t any news. I’m just back from—from my friend Kate’s and I’m thinking of painting Lindsey’s room.” Abby stumbled through the rest of her speech, then, realizing she was babbling, she pressed her lips together.
There was a considering silence. Paula was obviously taking a moment to pick the sense from the rush of Abby’s words or more likely wondering how to tactfully suggest Abby obtain psychiatric help.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember anything useful,” Paula said. “Do you know when this was?”
Abby could hear in Paula’s voice that, like Sam, she did truly want to be helpful. Abby could also hear the oh-you-poor-dear-sad-thing lamentation and beneath that were notes of glee, notes that echoed exultation. Not me, the notes sang. Thank God Almighty, it didn’t happen to me! Abby couldn’t blame her; it was only human and she did the only thing that made sense; she let Paula go.
* * *
Something woke her deep in the night. She didn’t know what time it was. The only clock in the den, where she was camped out because she couldn’t face the bed she’d shared with Nick, was on the mantel, and she couldn’t see it in the dark. She pulled the thin coverlet to her chin rigid with fear. When the sound came again, she realized the telephone was ringing, and she came instantly to her feet, heart pounding. Bad news, bad news. The words hammered through her brain, keeping time with her bare feet hammering the floor. In the kitchen, Abby yanked up the receiver, not checking the ID. “What? Yes? Hello!”
Nothing. Breath. A bit of static, then there was the smallest sigh, soft, liquid sounding. Female. Abby was certain of it.
She went still. “Lindsey? Honey, is it you?” The receiver trembled. “Where are you? Just tell me where you are and Mommy will come. Lindsey? Please, honey. Say something....”
Abby waited. Nothing. Dead air. “Nick?” She slid down the wall beside the desk onto the floor. “Please…?” The connection was held open a fraction longer, and then it broke with a soft click. Abby went up on her knees and switched on the desk lamp. The ID told her nothing. Out of area, it read. She dialed the operator who couldn’t help her either. She lowered herself back to the floor, keeping her grip on the phone, willing it to ring again. Finally it was morning, a decent hour, and she called Kate and told her what she’d heard.
She said, “I know it was Lindsey.”
“But how, Abby? If she didn’t say anything?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I just can’t stand for you to hurt anymore.”
“Is there a way not to? Is there a cure for this other than finding them? One of them called me, Katie. They’re alive. Can’t you even say it’s possible?”
Kate didn’t answer.
“I think someone was here.”
“In the night?” Now Kate sounded even more alarmed, and Abby filled with even more regret.
But she went on. “I mean while I was gone. Things aren’t—”
“Aren’t what?”
Abby said she didn’t know. She said, “You think I’m insane.”
“Honey, I think you’re exhausted. I think I should come.”
“No.” Abby didn’t want her. She didn’t need traitors, naysayers. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sure you’re right,” she added for effect. “Jake’s coming home this weekend. I’m making him a meatloaf.”
* * *
Abby grocery shopped and managed to make a meatloaf—Jake’s favorite—before his arrival. To go with it, she made mashed potatoes and carrots she’d harvested from last fall’s vegetable garden. She did not plan to tell him about her middle-of-the night mystery caller. But he already knew. He said Kate had called him because she was concerned.
“She shouldn’t have bothered you,” Abby said. They were repairing the back porch rail. Abby was holding it while Jake filled the sockets with glue.
“She’s afraid you aren’t telling her the truth about how you are,” he said.
“So, what do you think?”
“About how you are?”
“No, the call. Do you think it’s possible?”
“I think stuff like that, thinking Lindsey and Dad are calling, thinking someone’s in the house—it’ll make you crazy.”
“According to Kate, it already has.”
“Come on, Mom. Let’s say it’s true, that it was Lindsey or Dad on the phone. Where does that leave us? I mean, do you think they’re out there somewhere? Like what? Kidnapped or something?”
“No,” she said, but her brain wanted to argue. Sheriff Henderson had questioned her in this regard. He had asked her if there might be someone who was a threat to Nick. Nadine Betts and the San Antonio D.A. had both insinuated they thought it was Nick with Adam Sandoval on the surveillance tape. Suppose it was? Suppose Adam was holding a gun on Nick, forcing Nick to help him? But no one could see that because the quality of the film was too poor. Stranger things had happened. Abby could have said all of this, but she didn’t. Jake was right; she would drive herself crazy. Worse, she would drive him crazy. “I’m sure it was nothing,” she said, handing him the railing. “A wrong number is all.”
He gave her a look.
“What?” she said. “I’m fine. Fine,” she reiterated.
* * *
The next day, working like demons, they got the yard work caught up and thoroughly mucked out the horse stalls. They labored mostly in silence as if they had no idea what to say or how to be around each other anymore.
At dinner, they sat at the kitchen table in a well of light, silverware clanking monotonously against china. Abby couldn’t stand it. “When are finals?” she asked, although she knew, but she couldn’t think of anything else, and anyway, it was a normal, motherly-type question.
“Next week,” Jake answered.
“I guess you’re studying like mad then.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re okay, grade-wise?”
“Yeah.” He forked bites of meatloaf into his mouth, keeping his gaze from hers.
Deliberately, Abby thought, the same as answering her in monosyllables was deliberate. This was not normal. “Jake, is anything wrong?”
His head came up. “Wrong? Gosh, Mom, what could be wrong? Here we are at the dinner table, the two of us, one big happy family with a mountain of food.”
She frowned at him. “I knew you’d be starved. You always are when you come home.”
“I can’t take their place. I can’t eat for them. I can’t be here all the time like they were.”
“I don’t expect that.”
Jake thrust aside his napkin and stood up; he took his dishes to the sink and rinsed them. He came for Abby’s.
She grasped his wrist. “I should have stopped them; that’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“How? It isn’t like Dad was going to listen to you.”
She loosened her hold, and he took her plate away.
He turned from the sink, towel in hand. “You aren’t going all paranoid on me now, are you?”
Her laugh was uneasy. “Maybe I am.”
His smile seemed forced; it seemed pitying. He said, “I’ll try and come home more, okay?”
He left for school the next day, and without him the house was dead still again.
Chapter 6
In May, nearly seven weeks after the flood, Dennis Henderson came to Abby’s house to collect DNA samples. When Abby opened the door, he took his hat from his head and said, “I’m sorry I have to put you through this.”
She widened the door, allowing him to enter. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.”
He followed her through the house, and Abby saw how it must appear to him. He couldn’t fail to notice the neglect, the musty smell, the dust everywhere, the sheet and blanket tossed in a heap on the sofa in the den where she was sleeping. She thought of making an excuse. Or she could tell him the truth, that she couldn’t bring herself to do the household chores, to wash the clothes, to dust and scour. The messiness and smells were all that was left of her husband and daughter, and she clung to them.
“I expected one of your deputies.” She poured tea over ice into two glasses.
“I’m trying to give them a break.” He put the metal case on the table next to his hat. “We’ve made a lot of progress since the flood, but it’s still pretty much nonstop.”
She brought the tea to the table, indicating he should sit. She set the sugar bowl within his reach, and Abby sat down across from him. “I thought you were the boss.”
“Yes, ma’am, but the work is the work and has to be done. This has to be done.” His eyes were grave, quiet.
“I know you explained what you needed when you called, Sheriff Henderson, but I’m still not sure I understand. On television, the police take hair and—”
“Hair will work, and please, call me Dennis.” He opened the case and took out square envelopes made from something transparent.
“We’ll have to go upstairs,” Abby said, standing.
Again she was conscious of his steps following hers, that she was leading a stranger deeper into her family’s private quarters. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. She hesitated in the doorway of the bathroom that joined Lindsey’s bedroom to the guest room. There was a scrap of white, lace-trimmed nylon poking out of the hamper door. Abby recognized it was a pair of underwear, Lindsey’s underwear, and her discomfiture increased. An athletic sock lay on the floor underneath. She had left it there on purpose, knowing when she picked it up, it would feel crunchy. It would leave a powdering of fine dirt from the barn on her hand.
Dennis saw the focus of her attention and smiled when their eyes met. He was trying to reassure her, to ease her anxiety. She opened a drawer and took a round-bristled hairbrush with a polka dot handle from the jumbled collection. “Her hair is long,” she said, “and there’s so much of it. She wants to get it cut, but she worries her dad will be unhappy if she does.” Abby looked ruefully at Dennis. “I end up having to do it for her about half the time.”
When Dennis smiled again, Abby noticed one of his front teeth was chipped. She imagined there were fights in his line of work, men hitting each other. She looked away. “Nick says it’s fine with him if she wants to cut it short. Almost anything she does is fine with him.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You think they’re dead, don’t you?”
Dennis rubbed two fingers near the center of his forehead.
Abby began unwinding long hairs from the bristles of Lindsey’s brush, seeing them through the prism of her unshed tears. She tucked them into the envelope Dennis held open.
He bent to label it. “Of all the things in the world that are hard,” he said, keeping his eye on what he was doing, “not knowing is the worst. I want to find your husba
nd and daughter, Mrs. Bennett, and I’m going to do everything I can to accomplish that. So will my deputies. I want you to know that.”
She brought her hands to her face. He plucked a tissue from the box on the vanity and gave it to her. And he waited for her to mop up and blow her nose as if he had all the time in the world, as if he had been born to wait through a woman’s tears.
“I guess you’re used to hysterics.”
“I don’t like this part of the job, ma’am. I never get used to it.”
“Abby, please. Ma’am is what my students called me.”
“You teach school?”
“I did. I’ve been thinking of going back.”
“What grade?”
“Kindergarten for a while and then second grade.”
“Man.” Dennis grinned. “Of all the years I was in school, through college, the academy, you name it, my kindergarten teacher is the one I remember. Miss Sneed. She taught me to read. Taught me to tie my shoes. I thought when I grew up, I was going to marry her.”
Abby said, “I thought all little boys wanted to marry their mothers.”
“I never knew mine,” Dennis said. “She and my dad were killed in a bus accident right after I was born.”
Instinctively, Abby reached out, touched his wrist, murmured regret.
“It’s all right,” Dennis said.
Abby led the way into the hall. The bedroom she and Nick shared was to her left, but she hesitated, reluctant to go into that room with Dennis. She said Nick only had one hairbrush, and she didn’t think he would have left it behind. “Is there something else that will work?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Abby.”
“Abby,” he repeated.
He kept her gaze, and her face heated as she took his meaning, the nature of the “something else” that would suffice. “We didn’t.” She caught her upper arms in a tight clasp.
Dennis was quiet. Abby stared at the floor. An awkward silence was measured in heartbeats, then Abby had an idea. “Nick cut himself shaving that morning badly enough that he put a bit of tissue on it. I couldn’t find a Band-Aid. He was annoyed.”
Evidence of Life Page 6
