Shadows on the Sand

by Gayle Roper

  The café door opened, and a pale couple entered. I walked to them, smiling. “May I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Carrie Carter.”

  “That’s me.” I upped my smile.

  The man looked quite ill, his skin gray, his eyes bloodshot and circled with deep violet. He gave a halfhearted smile that faded quickly to sadness. “We’re Joe and Margaret Peoples.”

  Jase’s parents! I lost my smile. Had they come to tell us what had happened to Jase? If their expressions were anything to judge by, the news wouldn’t be good.

  “Please, have a seat.” I ushered them to table one, glad the café was almost empty.

  “We’re sorry to bother you.” Mrs. Peoples was pale too but in the way of someone who was troubled, not ill. She folded and unfolded a tissue with nervous fingers. “We just want to ask some questions. If it’s okay.”

  “Of course it’s okay”—I slipped into the third chair at the table—“though I don’t know how I can help you.”

  Margaret was lean to the point of gauntness, and I wondered how much of her build was due to worry over Jase when he’d been missing the first time. For a mother, that was more than enough to put you off eating.

  But why would anyone run away from nice people who cared for him?

  “They’re trying to tell us he went back to that cult.” Joe’s concave chest puffed up, indignant at the thought. “But he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”

  Greg slid into the fourth chair at the table. “How do you know that, Mr. Peoples? What makes you so sure?”

  “Joe,” the older man said. “Call me Joe.”

  “This is Greg Barnes,” I said. “He knows Jase too, and he’s concerned about him, as we all are.” I decided that mentioning Greg was a former cop might intimidate the retiring couple.

  Joe didn’t seem to care who Greg was. He just wanted an opportunity to talk about his son. “When he came home, he was disillusioned.”

  “Not home from the café.” Margaret was quick to clarify. “Home from that terrible place. He liked it here.”

  Joe nodded. “Disenchanted. And very sad. That’s how we know he didn’t go back.”

  “More than disillusioned, Joe. He was contemptuous.” Margaret’s voice took on that contempt. “ ‘I hate The Pathway.’ That’s what he said. ‘Hate.’ ”

  “And he said it more than once,” Joe said. “I’d ask him why, if it was so terrible there, did he stay all those years?” He stared at the tabletop as if he were envisioning the conversations.

  “ ‘Because I was stupid.’ That’s what he said.” Margaret gave an emphatic nod to underscore the comment.

  “But he never told you what made him finally leave?” Greg’s voice was gentle.

  Joe’s shoulders sagged. “Just like he never told us why he left home the first time. Or this time.”

  “He didn’t leave us again, Joe. He didn’t.” Margaret patted her husband’s shaking hand.

  “Then where is he?”

  Joe looked about to cry. How many nights had they wept together or separately for their missing child? I wanted to wrap my arms around Joe and comfort him, not that he wanted consolation from a stranger. His sorrow was of a depth and breadth beyond my power to help. Only God gave solace on that level.

  Margaret cleared her throat and looked at me. “We thought he might have said something here that would give us some clue as to where he went.” She glanced at her husband. “I don’t think we can survive his disappearing again.”

  She meant that Joe couldn’t survive. His heart had broken once, found joy in their son’s return, and if that heart broke again, the blow might well be lethal.

  “He didn’t say anything to me.” I wished I had something of substance to offer. “We talked about schedules and college classes, impersonal things like that. We’d only known each other a short time.”

  Margaret nodded as if she expected this answer.

  “But you should talk to my sister, Lindsay, and our cook. They were in the kitchen with Jase more than I was. And our waitress, Andi. She and Jase talked a lot.”

  Joe nodded, seeming hopeful again. “I’d like to talk with them. I know it’s a long shot, but.” His voice trailed off.

  But what else could they do? I looked at Greg and saw the sympathy in his eyes. He knew about losing children. He squared his shoulders, and the sympathetic parent disappeared. In its place was the cop looking for information.

  “When Jase left to go out Saturday night, did he tell you where he was going?”

  Joe nodded. “He said he was going to that party. ‘I hope everyone’s not too young,’ he said. But a couple of the guys in his classes were ex-military doing college older, like Jason. They were the ones who invited him.”

  “Did he plan to meet anyone specific that you’re aware of?”

  “He never mentioned anyone beyond these guys,” Joe said.

  “And you’ve talked to them?”

  Margaret nodded. “And we gave their names to the police.”

  “According to the paper, there was a fight,” Greg said.

  Margaret nodded again. “It’s ridiculous. Jason wasn’t a fighting kind of guy.”

  Just the thing a mother might say, but thinking of the slight, pleasant young man, I tended to agree with her. I’d never seen any tendency toward temper, certainly not toward physical confrontation.

  “His friends said there was a fight, Marg.” Joe sighed. “You have to accept that.”

  Margaret got a mutinous look, and I thought that even a video of Bill knocking Jase down wouldn’t convince her. “One person attacking another isn’t a fight.”

  “That’s a very good point, Margaret,” Greg said, and she looked at him gratefully.

  I pushed back my chair. “Come. Let me take you to the kitchen.”

  The conversation with Lindsay and Ricky was brief and went as I expected.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lindsay said. “I wish there was something I could tell you that might help, but all we ever talked about was work or his classes. He was a pretty private person.”

  Ricky added, “But we liked him. He was a nice guy.”

  Margaret and Joe both looked pleased at the compliment and more discouraged than ever.

  “We knew the chances of learning anything helpful were slim.” Margaret took her husband’s hand. “But you understand. We had to ask.”

  “Of course you did.” I wanted to cry for them.

  “We’re all praying for his return.” Lindsay had tears in her eyes.

  Nodding numbly, Joe and Margaret Peoples left the kitchen. Greg and I trailed behind.

  “Andi.” I signaled to her as she came out of the ladies’ room, and she came hurrying over. I indicated Joe and Margaret. “Jase’s parents have come to ask if we know anything that might help them find him.”

  Her eyes went wide with what looked like panic. Was she afraid of what would happen if they knew she was the one who caused Jase to get attacked? And that the bully who did it had been right here mere minutes ago?

  “Uh,” she said.

  Margaret smiled at her. “If you think of anything, please let us know. We need to find him.” She looked at Joe. “We must find him.”

  The front door slid shut behind them after they left, and we were all silent in a combination of fear for Jase and respect for Joe and Margaret. Their pain had been palpable, and it left a bruise in the air.

  After a few minutes Ricky cleared his throat. “I hate to bring things back to the mundane, but I got Billingsley’s cold toast here.” He held it out through the serving window. “If I heat it up, does anyone want it?”

  No one seemed interested, so I took it. I sat at the counter and ate it with a cup of coffee, a touch of cream, no sugar. Conversation seemed to have dried up in the aftermath of the Peoples’s visit. Lindsay and Ricky became busy in the kitchen, Clooney stared at nothing, and Greg began working the cryptogram on the Inquirer funnies page. Mr. Perkins fidgeted, wanting to say more, bu
t since no one would look his way, he was forced to content himself with finishing his coffee.

  I opened my Sudoku book to the challenging section and began searching for number sequences as I munched Bill’s toast. I’d gotten Andi to try the easy puzzles, and she seemed to like doing them.

  “My goal,” she said, perky as ever as she appeared beside me, “is to finish a puzzle without looking at the answers in the back of the book.” She made believe she hadn’t been distressed to see Jase’s parents. At least I hoped it was make-believe.

  “Sounds good to me.” I wondered if she knew more about Jase than she’d said. Was that why the panic? Or was it something altogether different, something I had no idea about? What was her story? Where were her parents? Why was Clooney the one who stood up for her? And why would no one talk about her unusual circumstances?

  Andi interrupted my thoughts. “Did you ever use numbers to make a secret code when you were a kid?” She wrote 1ND3 in the margin of my Sudoku page. “You know, 1 equals A. Like that.”

  I shook my head. Secret codes were too much like fun, something missing from my childhood. “A-N-D-C?”

  “What?” She stared at 1ND3 with a frown. “No, not that way. My friends and me used to do it with just the vowels: 2 equals E, 3 equals I. So 1-N-D-3 is A-N-D-I.”

  “Ah, got it.”

  “We thought we were so clever. Of course, we were in second grade.”

  “You were clever. I bet no one ever decoded your notes.”

  “Not that it mattered,” she said. “We never had anything very interesting to write about. I mean, second grade. But when we got older, our codes got more sophisticated. First it was all the letters of the alphabet and their number equivalents, then symbols to represent certain letters, then a mix of numbers and symbols.” She grinned. “We could write anything about anyone, and they’d never know. When the teacher confiscated stuff, she couldn’t read it either. Neither could Becca.”

  “Becca?”

  Her face darkened. “My goody-goody older sister.”

  So there was a sister, and one who was resented. It was the first piece of personal information Andi had ever revealed beyond her age and social security number. A million new questions raced through my mind, but before I could ask one, Clooney spoke.

  “So solving a Sudoku is like decoding a note?” He was clearly skeptical about any redeeming value in the puzzle.

  Andi nodded, then seemed to remember she was miffed at her uncle for not liking Bill. She sniffed. “Only it’s more challenging because of the limitations of the form.” She spun away to wipe down all the tables.

  “ ‘The limitations of the form?’ ” He stared after her, as if she were as difficult to decipher as the codes written by the Navajo code talkers from World War II. “Where did she ever get that line?”

  “Not from me,” I assured him.

  He watched as I rubbed my eraser over a square to get rid of the three possible numbers and leave the one that was correct—I hoped. “Why do you like those things so much?”

  I shrugged. I had no idea. I’d never tried to analyze why.

  “Carrie likes unraveling things,” Greg said. “Fixing things. Being the one in charge. Proving she’s able. She likes to beat the puzzle just like she likes to beat life.”

  I stared at him, and he looked almost as surprised as I felt. He’d given what I thought was a very accurate read, and it was disconcerting to know he understood me that well. I thought he didn’t even see me.

  “Huh.” Clooney looked from Greg to me and back. “Impressive.”

  “Very,” I agreed.

  Greg colored. “You sit on a stool long enough, you notice things.”

  Clooney gave first Greg, then me his most charming smile, and I braced myself for a con. Clooney that personable meant he wanted something.

  “You two are obviously very smart.”

  I shook my head at the blatant flattery, and Greg raised an eyebrow.

  “How about I let you two homeschool Andi?” Again the very charming smile. “That should be challenging enough for both of you and have a beneficial purpose.” He glanced at my Sudoku book. Unspoken: which the number puzzles clearly hadn’t.

  “Is she a difficult student?” I asked.

  “She’s just had things so rough these last few years that she has a hard time with focus.” He took his hat off, and for a moment I had hope he’d leave it off. Then he slapped it back in place, pulling his ponytail through the back. “She needs to catch up with her class.”

  Clooney held out his cup for a refill.

  “I bet you’re a good teacher.” I filled his cup. “A great teacher.”

  “If you want her to be a beachcomber calculating the value of the things she digs out of the sand.” That was how Clooney spent much of his time when he wasn’t driving the town’s bright red trash truck.

  Ricky appeared at the serving window. “My afternoons are free.” The café only served breakfast and lunch. “I could tutor her. How much you paying?”

  “It’s all about helping a needy girl.” Clooney made pro bono sound a privilege.

  “Won’t buy groceries or pay the rent.”

  “You eat here, kid,” Clooney said. “You don’t need grocery money.”

  “Rent. I need rent.” Ricky started to turn back to the kitchen and lunch prep.

  “You good at math, especially algebra and geometry?” Clooney asked.

  “Even calculus,” Ricky said. “Math minor. I’m sure we can reach a price that’s agreeable to us both.”

  Clooney looked so deflated at the thought of paying, I couldn’t help laughing. I patted his hand.

  Greg slid off his stool. “Just be glad you’ve got her to worry about. You’re a fortunate man.”

  There was a short beat during which both Clooney and I were brought up hard against the fact that Greg no longer had his daughter to worry about. Or his son. Or his wife.

  I wanted to cry as I saw Greg’s shoulders hunch and his jaw clench.

  4

  Life wasn’t fair. Or God was out to get him. Either way, he was knee-deep in chicken waste.

  You get a little physical with someone and they die on you.

  He shuddered with the wave of rage that swept over him. He stared at the ocean. What he needed was a hurricane so he could experience the force and frenzy of the water and wind. Exorcise his personal fury.

  He hadn’t meant to kill. He hadn’t. But the stupid person up and died anyway. What was he supposed to do about it now? Dead was dead.

  One thing for sure. They weren’t taking him down over it. Okay, maybe they wouldn’t say it was murder, it being an accident and all, but manslaughter could take him down too. Hard and fast. And he had no desire to fall.

  His jaw hurt. He must be grinding his teeth in his sleep. He opened and shut his mouth, rotated his jaw. If anything, the throbbing increased, and with the pain his rage heated and burned.

  He shook with the intensity of his hatred.

  5

  Greg felt more than heard the hiccup in the conversation, the “uh-oh, did you hear what he just said?” It happened less often these days than it had even a year ago, but every time it did, the barb of pain struck deep and true. He never knew what to do either, to ease his own ache or to relieve the distress of those who suddenly heard what had been innocently said and had taken on a macabre meaning when they thought of his circumstances.

  All he’d meant to do was remind Clooney how lucky he was to have Andi. That was all. Probably. He didn’t think he’d even been thinking about Serena or Greggie or Ginny when he spoke, at least not on any conscious level.

  Okay, so it bothered him to hear people complain about what he now saw as privilege. Not that Clooney was griping seriously. Still, Andi was here, vibrant and thriving. Pouty, not yet too insightful about character or behavior, especially of the male of the species, but living, breathing. Alive.

  Clooney recovered before Carrie. “She’ll make me old before my t
ime is what she’ll do,” he said with an overdone frown.

  When Carrie spoke, he’d have thought she missed the awkward moment if it hadn’t been for the slight shake in her voice. “If that gray hair of yours is any indication, Clooney,” she said, “you’re well on your way to ancient without her help.”

  Clooney laughed too loudly.

  Greg stood beside his stool, staring at his empty plate lying on the counter. He’d eaten all his eggs and toast like a good little boy, and he didn’t even like eggs, no matter how they were prepared. For some reason they caught in his throat, threatening to make him gag. Yet he ate them day after dismal day.

  He just couldn’t face a cereal bowl. His had been waiting for him when he’d gone back into the house that terrible day, a soggy, bloated presweetened mess floating on soured milk.

  “Dad, you’ll rot your teeth!” Greggie and Serena had loved to tease him as only five- and seven-year-olds could. “Just because Grandmom never let you have anything but shredded wheat or bran flakes is no reason to be bad now that you’re big.”

  “It’s a good enough reason for me,” he’d say as he poured his Lucky Charms or Cap’n Crunch, licking his lips in anticipation of that first sweet burst on his tongue.

  “It’s okay,” Ginny would tell the kids. “He’s the one who pays the dental bills.” And she’d pour them their Cheerios or Raisin Bran while she smiled at him.

  She had the best smile, the kind that dripped with love and warmed your soul. He never could figure how he’d been lucky enough to get her to marry him. And she’d given him Serena, already a beauty with a steel-trap mind, and Greggie, blessed with Ginny’s warmth and charm.

  On his fifth birthday all Greggie wanted to eat at his party were Count Chocula and chocolate Pop-Tarts.

  “Sugar, like Daddy,” he said.

  The party was a raging success, at least in Greggie’s young mind. Ginny had a hard time making the candles stay upright in the Pop-Tarts, but Greggie hadn’t cared. He had sugar like Daddy.

  As Ginny poured the Count Chocula into the kids’ bowls, she’d shrugged. “At least the milk is good for them.”