by Gregg Olsen
“If they saw something, then why haven’t they called us? It’s been all over the news.”
“Like I said,” she went on, “they might not have believed they’d seen anything relevant.”
“Or just maybe they’re staying quiet because of something they did see. Or something they did. Any line on the canoe guy?”
“No,” she said. “Carole couldn’t remember anything about him except that he had a dog and was listening to music. Riparian doesn’t rent canoes.”
“Canoe color?” Jake asked.
“Red.”
“Anything on it?”
“Nothing. Have PR make sure to get the word out that we’re looking for the canoe paddler who was on the river at the time with a dog.”
“Okay, I’ll work the names.”
On her way back to the office, Esther stopped at the Miller place and rang the bell, but there was no answer. The heat of one of the hottest days of the year had turned a pot of geraniums into a brittle, lifeless display. The woman next door called over from her front porch that she’d seen Dan leave for the store.
“You could set a clock by his routine,” she said. “He’ll be back soon. Like clockwork, that guy.”
Esther tucked her business card into the doorway. “If you see him, have him call me.”
“Hope you find that kid,” the neighbor said, quickly adding, “I have a scanner.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Nope. Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MISSING: EIGHT HOURS
Drake Park was Bend’s civic centerpiece, a verdant expanse next to Northwest Riverside Boulevard speckled with mature trees and highlighted by a body of water that seldom failed to live up to its namesake. Mirror Pond was created early in the last century as a hydroelectric power source for the growing high-desert city, the largest in Central Oregon. Few think of that when they gaze out at its pristine, reflective surface. They think of the beauty of nature, of the forethought of the pioneer families who settled Bend and had the presence of mind to create a gathering place for all time.
The afternoon Charlie Franklin went missing, a classic car show had commanded nearly all of Drake Park’s space along the pond. It was one of the last events of the season, with visitors from all over the state and beyond. Old Fords, Corvettes, and T-birds shimmered in the ponderosa-filtered sunlight as classic rock pummeled the scene from a temporary stage set up for the event. The band, the Rock and Rollers, segued from Steve Perry to Chuck Berry with barely a break between songs.
At first no one noticed the two divers as they geared up and went into the water. Subtlety was an asset when a city is as dependent on tourist dollars as Bend. The summer season was nearly over, then a short lull before Oktoberfest events, and then the start of the ski season. Distinct seasons and nearly guaranteed good weather were among the area’s strong suits.
“What are they looking for?” asked a woman who’d grown bored of the chrome grill on a ’57 Chevy that was mesmerizing her boyfriend.
“Dunno,” he said, scarcely looking up. “Maybe a body.”
“That’s so gross,” the young woman said, moving closer, unable to look away.
Another man, also fixated on the same old Chevy, a turquoise-and-cream-colored beauty, spoke up: “I heard some kid drowned upriver.”
“No,” she said.
“Yeah. That guy has a police scanner.” He indicated a man in a lawn chair next to his classic Mustang.
“Seriously,” she said. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Come on, Carmen,” her boyfriend said. “Let’s go get a beer.”
She stood there for a beat, watching, before leaving for that cold one.
The dive team disappeared under the shimmering surface, then a few minutes later reemerged before repeating the process. They were working in a grid, methodically searching what many considered the jewel of the city. A small crowd gathered as word got out about what was going on. In time, another pair of divers from out of the area joined in the search.
Three young white men with dreadlocks and miners’ headlamps at the ready ignored the scene and continued doing what they did every day, methodically picking through the garbage containers next to Northwest Riverside Boulevard in search of aluminum cans, mostly untouched food, and whatever else they could scrounge.
Unable to go right home, Liz Jarrett sat on a bench at the water’s edge, watching the scene. It was nearly an out-of-body experience. She couldn’t feel her legs. She could barely breathe. A little girl looked at her as though she were a wax figure in a California tourist town. She couldn’t go home just then, although she knew she had to.
Instead, she sat there as the divers searched for something they’d never find.
While she was remembering what she had done.
The clock over the fireplace had been Carole’s idea. It was a kinetic sculpture that aped Calder. At the moment she hated it more than anything in the world. As the minutes flew by, the hours moved too. She and her husband sat in the living room and waited. There was nothing more to be done. In her direct, borderline cold manner, the Bend police detective had told them that while they could not know what had happened to Charlie, there were several possibilities. All were being worked.
The first scenario was the only one that brought any measure of comfort: Charlie had gone somewhere nearby and fallen asleep. “He might be awake now,” she’d said, “but all the commotion may have frightened him.”
The Franklins had asked if they should be out calling for him.
“You’ve done that,” Esther said. “He hasn’t responded. Doing it any more might only frighten Charlie, if he’s hiding.”
“We can’t just sit here,” David said.
“Let us do our job.”
It was the kind of shutdown that David hated, but for once he acquiesced.
The second scenario was horrendous, but it was better than the last one that the detective would mention as a possibility. “It is very rare,” she said, “but we are also considering an abduction.”
“Who would take Charlie?” Carole asked, her eyes red from crying.
David put his hand on her leg. He didn’t need to answer.
“As I said, child abductions are atypical,” Esther went on. “We’ve already done an Amber Alert on Charlie. In most cases, however, those are child custody related. That’s clearly not what happened here.”
“If he was abducted,” David said, “then we’ll catch the freak. Right?”
“We’ll do our best,” the detective said. Clearly she couldn’t promise that.
“Maybe it was a kidnapping for ransom?” Carole said with a little hope in her voice. “We can pay. We will pay anything.”
“Kidnapping for ransom happens more in movies than in real life. If someone contacts you, we’ll need to bring in the FBI.”
Then had come the final possibility. Worse than being kidnapped. Worse even than being molested by some deranged man.
“It might be that he did go into the river. You need to process that, Carole—David. The department has already deployed a dive team to search Mirror Pond.”
Carole had put her hands on her face. David had reached over and held her. “That did not happen,” he said, his voice firm. “Our son is alive. He has to be.”
Esther had heard other parents say the same thing.
“That’s what we all hope,” she had said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MISSING: ELEVEN HOURS
Liz was on the couch when Owen swung open the front door. He’d tried to call her after he left the office, but she hadn’t picked up. He’d been coming home later and later as work consumed more of his time than ever. When he found her, she was curled up like a snail in its shell. A bottle of wine sat on the coffee table. Her fingers clutched an empty glass. She looked up at him but said nothing.
“I heard the news,” he said, throwing down his laptop case and jacket. “Why
didn’t you tell me Charlie was missing?”
Her eyes were puffy. She’d been weeping.
“Sorry,” she said.
Owen dropped his bag and went to console her. She was a mess. Her long brown hair had been fashioned into a messy bun. Loose tendrils brushed her shoulders. Her blouse was disheveled. Her makeup was smeared.
“We need to get over there,” he said.
Her lips trembled and she reached for the bottle of wine. He pushed it from her grasp. She’d had too much.
“I can’t,” she said. She clutched their cat, Bertie, a rescue found in Columbia Park. The gray-and-white tabby’s motor played against Liz’s obvious anguish.
“We have to,” Owen said. “Carole and David need us.”
Liz shifted a little on the couch. Bertie jumped to the floor. The smell of the merlot permeated the space. “I know,” she said. “I just can’t. I don’t feel well, Owen.”
She’d been drinking. That was obvious. However, she didn’t seem drunk. Not the kind of drunk he’d seen her dive into when she couldn’t cope with something.
“The test?” he asked. “Baby, don’t worry about that. That’s small stuff.”
She didn’t answer, and he backtracked a little.
“Small stuff in comparison to Charlie,” he said. “God, I hope he’s okay. You don’t think he fell into the river? They need a goddamn fence over there.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“We need to get over there,” he said. “You need to be strong for Carole. And David. They must be going through hell. Cops are parked on the street.”
Liz’s eyes met his for the first time, but she didn’t say anything.
Owen nudged her a little. “This is a big deal,” he said. “A damn shit storm. Come on. Pull yourself together. They need us.”
Liz could hardly move. “And do what, Owen?” she asked. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Hug them. Bring them soup.” He heaved a sigh. “God, you’re right. I don’t know what the hell we can do. Hope that Charlie’s all right.”
Liz looked away. “I don’t think he’s all right.”
Owen got up from the couch. “I don’t, either. Let’s get our shit together and get over there.”
It was dusk when Owen and Liz Jarrett pushed past the onlookers who crowded the entrance to the driveway they shared with the Franklins. Liz was more than a decade younger than Carole; her husband twenty years younger than David. While Liz and Carole were at different points in their lives, they had connected in a very real way. It wasn’t a mother-daughter relationship, but more like a kind of sisterhood that came from the ups and downs of living next door. Owen got along with David, but he, like his wife, was more aligned with Carole. They were both techies. Her career with Google impressed Owen. His position with a tech start-up about to blow up made Carole a kindred spirit, or at least a tantalizing benchmark of what success might look like. Everything David and Carole had—the cars, the house, the bank account—was within his grasp too.
Liz had never been motivated by money. She was looking for relationships that were born of emotion, not opportunity.
Once inside the megahome, it took only a second for Liz to have her arms around Carole. Only a heartbeat later both women had dissolved into a muted cacophony of sobs.
Owen stayed close to David. “How are you holding up?”
“Not great,” he said, looking over at the two distraught women. “Managing, I guess.”
“What the hell happened, David?”
“We don’t know. He was in the yard and then he was gone.”
“Shit. They don’t think he fell in?”
“They don’t know. We don’t know.”
Carole and Liz held each other for a long time, letting their tears subside. Silence. Ache. Then regret.
“I took my eyes off him for only a second,” Carole said.
“Little boys move fast, Carole,” Liz said, still holding her friend close. “What can we do? How can we help?”
“Just pray, I guess,” Carole said. “The police are all over this. They’ll find him. Everything will be all right.”
“Right,” Liz said, the word coming out like a cough.
“I saw the Amber Alert,” Owen said. “Gave our street. I knew it had to be Charlie.”
Carole pulled back from Liz. “Honey, I thought you’d still be in Beaverton.”
“I needed to be here,” she said.
Carole hugged Liz again. “But your exam . . . you’ve been working so hard.”
“There will be other times for a test,” Liz said. “Tests aren’t important. You, David, and Charlie are. I can’t believe any of this is really happening.”
Carole went into mom mode just then. She told David to get Liz a glass of wine and led her to the sofa. “We’ll find him. They’ll find him.”
“What can we do to help?” Owen asked David.
“Just be who you are,” he said. “Carole is falling apart. I’m not doing that great, either.”
For the next hour the two couples sat, mostly in silence. Carole pulled an afghan from the sofa and wrapped it around Liz.
David and Owen went into the kitchen.
“This isn’t really happening, David. Is it?”
David understood the question. It wasn’t about what had transpired that morning; it was about the worst possible outcome. An outcome neither could say out loud. At least, not directly.
“They searched Mirror Pond,” David said. “There’s hope that he didn’t fall into the river.”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
In the other room, the two women stayed entwined on the sofa. Liz couldn’t stop crying. David and Owen could hear her soft cries in the kitchen.
“Maybe I should take Liz home,” Owen said.
David didn’t think so. “I think it’s good that she’s here. It’s distracting Carole, and I think that’s welcome right now.”
“If you’re sure,” he said. “Is the rest of the family on the way?”
David shook his head. “Carole doesn’t want anyone alarmed.”
“It’s on the news now.”
“I know,” David said. “But it probably hasn’t made it to Spain. That’s where Carole’s parents are, on a trip with friends. My folks are dead. I’ll call my sister.”
David offered Owen a beer and took an O’Doul’s for himself. They stood at the kitchen window overlooking the river.
“Sometimes I just hate it here,” David said.
Owen watched the last group of tubers spin lazily in the river, bouncing off each other like balls in a drunken bumper pool game. They kicked and splashed, lying on their backs like overturned sea turtles. “Yeah. I know what you mean. It’s like having Middle America in your face all day long. Not cool.”
Carole continued to console Liz on the sofa, first with words promising everything would be all right, even suggesting that all of this was only a very bad dream. The simple gesture of holding hands under the afghan provided a little solace in the darkest moment of Carole’s life. Liz’s too. What happened to Charlie—whatever it was—had brought a deep, throbbing pain in the hearts of both women.
They had been close before tonight, but not in the beginning.
Before the teardown of the old house and the construction of the new place, Liz had been a little standoffish, only friendly enough so as not to be rude. She told the newcomers that the house they planned to raze had been part of her childhood. Her grandparents were close friends of the O’Donnells, the owners of the property before it was sold to the Franklins. Liz’s childhood visits to Bend included fly-fishing with the O’Donnells’ son Trevor and making s’mores with her family in the river-rock fire pit that Mr. O’Donnell had built, stone by stone. There was never anything but a crush between Liz and Trevor. He was three years older. At fourteen, seventeen seemed old to her.
When the old house came down, Carole purposely left the fire pit right where it was. David
wanted it gone, but his wife thought better of it.
“Liz has real memories here,” she said when she and David met with the landscape designer and reviewed the plans for the landscaping.
“Who cares what she thinks? She’s still a kid. She can make new ones.”
Carole pushed back. “Old memories matter, David.”
He frowned. “It doesn’t go with the architecture. It just doesn’t.”
“We’re neighbors now,” she said, looking at her husband. “I want us to be friends.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MISSING: THIRTEEN HOURS
The Jarretts walked up the incline past the old detached garage and toward their door. A lid of thunderclouds had darkened the sky, and the temperature had dropped some. The eerie call from a loon came from the river. The couple didn’t speak. They only nodded in the direction of the patrol officer who had been stationed on the street. With Carole, Liz had found a new and larger hatred for herself. One that she could never have imagined in a lifetime of disappointments. Owen put his arm around her, but Liz was sure that it wasn’t to comfort her, rather to move her quickly past the police and into the house.
She was a leaf—no, a piece of trash—that he was scooting out of view.
With each step, Liz thought of Carole. Her actions had turned her closest friend into a sodden ball of misery. Carole was about to slide into a very dark place. She would have to go into the bedroom where her son had slept and face the emptiness. She’d pass by the cement pad of the new patio with his tiny handprints embedded forever and know they’d never grow larger. That the family Christmas card with the three of them that Carole had sent last year had been a one-off, not the first of a series. Liz had brought all of that on. The thought ricocheted through her mind that maybe none of this had really happened.
That it was a bad dream.
That she was an actor in a play.
That she’d wake up.
That the curtain would rise.
That Charlie wasn’t dead on her father’s workbench in the garage.
Liz faced her husband. Her brown eyes were on the verge of letting tears fall. She started to shake.
