Missing Persons

by Stephen White

  She promised him that the prints would be waiting for him before breakfast.

  “I eat early,” he’d told her, suspicious of her promise.

  “I stay up late,” she’d replied with a smile.

  “It’s the suite,” he explained to me. “They must have run my credit report. I think she’s hoping I’m a newly calved whale.”

  The midnight call from Raoul had awakened Lauren. I didn’t see any advantage to be gained by alarming her into having a fitful night’s sleep, so I’d explained, benignly, that Diane was in Vegas and that Raoul hadn’t heard from her, that he was worried, and he’d called to see if I’d talked to her since early that evening.

  Had I? My wife wanted to know. I had not, I told her, not since early evening. I kissed her, and murmured that she should go back to sleep.

  Over coffee in the morning, I explained the rest of the mess to Lauren, obliquely highlighting the slippery ice of the confidentiality hazards that were out in front of me, and specifically including the fact that before we’d hung up the night before, Raoul had reminded me that he wanted to know which patient’s mother Diane had spoken with the previous day. Lauren, of course, knew nothing about my patient Bob and his odd connection to the Millers’ neighbor, Doyle. And she certainly didn’t know that the patient’s mother that Diane wanted to see in Vegas was Mallory’s mother, Rachel.

  “What do you think about Diane not calling?” Lauren asked me as I was kissing her and Grace good-bye before leaving for my office.

  “I’m worried. It’s not like her.”

  “There’s probably an explanation,” she offered.

  “I hope you’re right. But I can’t think of what it might be. Diane’s a stay-in-touch kind of person.”

  “She’s always been unpredictable.”

  “About some things, yeah. Not about staying in touch. About that she’s as reliable as sunrise.”

  She kissed me again. “If Raoul doesn’t hear from her by midday, let me know, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do. Maybe somebody knows somebody in the DA’s office in Las Vegas. Okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sam might be able to reach out, too,” she added. “He might have cop contacts out there.”

  And what, I thought, was I going to tell Sam about the Millers and Bob and Doyle and Hannah Grant that might entice him to reach out to cop colleagues in Las Vegas? “Maybe she’ll call,” I said, not quite believing that she would.

  I unlocked the front door of the building, flicked on the lights in the waiting room, and started a small pot of coffee in the tiny kitchen. At 7:43 the red light that indicated that my first patient had arrived for her 7:45 appointment flashed on in my office.

  It was time to go to work.

  29

  Raoul had my pager number. I’d told him to use it as soon as he knew anything about Diane and that I’d call him back as soon as I could.

  Lunchtime came and I didn’t hear from him. I tried his cell phone. My call was routed to voice mail; I left a message asking him to phone me with news immediately.

  Nothing.

  Midafternoon I went through the same routine with the same result. Just to be certain that my bases were covered, I left an additional message on Raoul’s hotel room voice mail at the Venetian.

  Nothing.

  When 4:45 came around and the red light on the wall in my office flared on, I found myself becoming alarmed that almost an entire workday had passed with no news about Diane. My level of concern for her was approaching ten on a ten-scale.

  I walked down the hall to get Bob. My apprehension about the session was high. I had almost convinced myself that Bob really did know something important about Mallory.

  Bob wasn’t sitting in the waiting room. No one was.

  My first reaction? Who flicked the switch that had turned on the red light?

  I checked my watch. Four forty-four.

  I waited a minute. Four forty-five. Had Bob ever before been late for therapy? Maybe once or twice, but his absence from the waiting room was certainly an anomaly. Had he forgotten that we’d made this appointment the day before? How could he have? Given the drama in front of my house at dawn, I was sure Bob would have remembered his usual appointment time.

  I flicked off the switch that illuminated the red light and returned down the hall to check my calendar and my voice mail. I was still thinking that Bob would show up any minute.

  I was wrong.

  Five o’clock came and went, then five fifteen, and finally five thirty, the time that Bob and I would usually be finished with his session.

  The reality was that patients missed scheduled appointments all the time. If I had a busy week I could usually count on at least one no-show among my patients. Sometimes patients forgot their appointments and that was that; other times patients spaced out their appointments and the fact that they’d forgotten was ripe with therapeutic meaning. Sometimes life intervened. An injured child, a traffic accident, a late flight.

  But Bob? He’d never missed a scheduled appointment. Never.

  I thought about the midnight-blue box with the Kinko’s logo that was sitting in the file cabinet near my desk. Bob had said, “Don’t read it yet. I’ll tell you when.”

  After he’d handed it to me I thought I’d said, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  I thought Bob had replied, “Sure.” Was it possible that Bob had known he wouldn’t be showing up for this appointment? With most patients, I would have simply packed up my things, gone home, and not given the missed session another thought. But Bob wasn’t most patients: Bob was Doyle’s friend, and Bob knew Mallory.

  Bob thought he knew what Mallory had been thinking. Bob had been next door the night that Mallory had disappeared. Bob had written a story about Mallory’s disappearance. Bob thought Mallory was scared.

  I had a copy of what he had written.

  But he’d told me not to read it.

  Powered by the pair of fresh batteries that I’d installed that morning, the pager on my hip vibrated with irritating insistence. The number that flashed on the screen was for Raoul’s cell.

  I dialed immediately. “Raoul, it’s me: Alan.”

  “I’m ready to kill these people. Tell me something: Does Nevada have the death penalty? I think I’m becoming a proponent.”

  “Which people?”

  “Take your pick. The Las Vegas police. The fascists in Venetian security. Even the damn minister at the Love In Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. He might be first.”

  “What?”

  “I gave the housekeeping manager two hundred more bucks to look for Diane’s calendar in her room. It wasn’t there, but she let me see the notepad by the telephone. Diane was visiting wedding chapels. She wanted to talk with somebody named Rachel at a wedding chapel. She had a list of them on the notepad. I visited all three. Love In Las Vegas was the most promising.”

  Without much thought, I said, “I’m glad you found that…” I didn’t know how to end the sentence.

  Raoul did. “On my own, you mean,” he said.

  “Yes. Did you talk to this… Rachel?”

  “Nobody at the chapel will tell me anything. But they know her, that’s clear enough. The minister is a guy with a fake British accent who prances around like he’s on holiday from his day job in the House of Lords. He acted really cagey when I mentioned Rachel’s name. I’ll find her tomorrow.”

  “Diane?” I said, hopefully.

  “I pray. But I’ll find Rachel, and she’ll help me find Diane. Despite the neon carnival and depraved World’s Fair ambiance of the place, Las Vegas feels like a small town. Money is ammunition here. That works in my favor. I’m well armed.”

  “The police are uninterested?”

  “ ‘Uninterested’ is a generous word.”

  “And Venetian security?”

  “I think they went ahead and looked at the videotapes of whatever happened while Diane was walking out of the casino. When she lost her phone.”


  “Did you get the impression it seemed significant to them?”

  “It raised an eyebrow or two. But they won’t tell me why.”

  “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?”

  “Like that. There’s one woman on the security team who wants to talk with me. I flirted with her a little, and I’m going to see if I can catch up with her later on when she gets off work. Her shift ends at eight.”

  I tried to imagine Raoul’s frustration. His determination was apparent, but whatever he was doing to mask his frustration was admirable. I asked him, “Why aren’t you bugging me for more information about Rachel?”

  “Diane wouldn’t want me to. She didn’t talk to me about her clients. One of the things she respects about you is how you’ve kept your mouth shut through all the… difficult situations you’ve been in over the years. I’m trying to respect what she respects.”

  “I appreciate that. I’m in another difficult position right now. I’d really like to be more helpful, but Diane’s not the only one who’s…”

  “Who’s what?”

  “Mixed up with Rachel’s… problems. I’ve already told you more than I should.” I knew I sounded lame. If I were in Raoul’s shoes, I think I’d want to string me up by my thumbs.

  In a tone that was intended not only to sound calm but also to communicate his increasing desperation, he said, “It’s a reprieve, not a pardon, my friend. As soon as I run into a dead end with this Rachel person I’ll be back in your face, insisting. Or worse.” At the end he managed a little laugh.

  “I can’t wait,” I said.

  “I have to go. Before my date with this security lady later I’m going to try to see if I can find any gamblers who remember seeing Diane at the craps tables last night. I hope that some of the same people will be playing again. I’ll be in touch. Adeu.”

  “Adeu” is Catalonian for good-bye. Other than profanity, the only other Catalonian Raoul had taught me during the many years of our friendship was how to ask if there was a good bar nearby. At that moment, had I been on a beachfront up the coast from Barcelona, I would have been sorely tempted to try out the phrase.

  I said, “Adeu, Raoul.” But he’d already hung up.

  After only a moment’s hesitation I opened the drawer to the file cabinet and withdrew the Kinko’s box that Bob had given me. Almost reverentially, I lifted the lid off the box, and raised the title page in my hands.

  My Little Runaway

  By R.C. Brandt

  A quick, surreptitious glance at the open box revealed that the top sheet in the pile of paper that remained in the box wasn’t the beginning of Bob’s story. The second page was handwritten. In his familiar, neat, incredibly cramped script, Bob had written me a note.

  Dr. Gregory,

  If I’ve told you to go ahead and read this, this is the page that I want you to throw away. You can go ahead.

  If I haven’t given you permission, this is where you should stop. Remember, I’m trusting you. I’ll tell you when.

  Bob

  His tiny scrawl seemed indecipherable, a missive intended for selected residents of Lilliput. I guessed that the first line was my name and the last line was Bob’s, but I couldn’t read the two lines in between all the way through, not at first. Only by holding the paper farther and farther from my eyes until I got it all the way out to arm’s length did the script come sufficiently into focus. “Dr. Gregory,” it read. “If I’ve told you to go ahead and read this, this is the page that I want you to throw away. You can go ahead. If I haven’t given you permission, this is where you should stop. Remember, I’m trusting you. I’ll tell you when. Bob.”

  Reluctantly, I replaced both pages-the title page and the warning page-and fit the lid back onto the box.

  What could be the harm of reading the damn thing?

  Bob’s handwritten note had spooked me. How had he anticipated that a second caution to me about not reading his manuscript would be necessary? I decided to ask him. After checking my address book for the number, I called his home.

  The phone rang and rang. No answering machine ever kicked in. As I hung up, I admitted to myself that I’d just done something that I rarely, if ever, did. I’d just tried to check in with a patient because they’d missed a session. What was my typical practice? I usually just let the issue simmer until the next scheduled appointment.

  This time, that didn’t sound like a judicious plan.

  30

  I thought she was maybe fifteen years old, but she swore she was seventeen. I didn’t have to ask her age; she was apparently accustomed to protesting that she was older than she looked, and before I’d known her for a full minute she’d insisted she was seventeen, really. Her name was Jenifer Donald. The Jenifer was leavened with only one n, she’d pointed out-the result not of a spelling failure, but rather, I was guessing, of a momentary lapse in judgment by young parents who were intent on making sure their daughter went through life with a distinctive name.

  Jenifer was from Clemson, South Carolina, and was in Boulder visiting her grandparents, who lived on the northern edge of Boulder’s original downtown near the intersection of Eighteenth and Pine. “They’re so cute. They really are,” she said, referring to her grandparents. “Some of my friends’ parents are as old as my grandparents. But my grandparents are just so cute.”

  “Clemson? That’s where the college is?” I asked.

  “The university,” she corrected. It was clear that the distinction was important to her. “It’s where I want to go. I’m hoping for a scholarship, for band. I’m a drummer. I have a good chance, I think. My PSATs were better than I expected. Much better. I take the SATs next month-I hope, I hope, I hope I do well. My parents and my grandparents want me to look at CU, too. I told them I would. That’s why I’m here.” She rolled her eyes. As if anyone would choose the University of Colorado over Clemson.

  I found myself warmed by the unfamiliar melody of her lilting voice and loving the openness with which she’d greeted me at the front door of the brick two-story home. Jenifer’s pretty face was as welcoming as her manner. Her blond hair fell in a straight shot well past her shoulders. “What kind of doctor are y’all?” she asked. Her question wasn’t at all suspicious, merely friendly.

  When she’d opened the front door, I’d introduced myself as “Dr. Gregory,” hoping the appellation would grant me some advantage with the kid who’d responded to the doorbell. I was already regretting having done it; I couldn’t very well tell her I was a clinical psychologist without leaving her with the implication that Bob had a reason to be seeing one.

  “So Bob’s not here?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “The guy upstairs in back? That’s Bob? Grandpa calls him ‘the tenant.’ Don’t think so.” Jenifer said “the tenant” in a deep, gravelly voice, mimicking, I guessed, her grandfather’s delivery. “I haven’t actually seen him this visit. I just got in to Boulder today-it’s so cold here, how do you stand it? My grandparents have an appointment somewhere. Pill-ottos, pill-ah-tees. Those machines? We don’t do that much of it in South Carolina.”

  She laughed; and her laugh made me smile. She really thought her grandparents were cute and that Boulder was exotic. “Yes, those machines,” I said.

  She smiled back and shook her head. “Would you like to come in and wait for him? I’ll fix you something.”

  “Thank you,” I said, stepping past her into the house. “You’re a drummer? Marching band?”

  “And orchestra,” she said.

  A short hallway led to the back of the house. Through a kitchen window I could see the curtained rooms above the garage. “That’s Bob’s?” I asked.

  Jenifer said, “You bet.”

  “Where are the stairs?”

  “Other side, on the alley.”

  A pile of mail was visible in a basket on the back porch.

  Jenifer saw me looking. “See that? I’m sure your friend Bob would have picked up his mail if he was home.” She lowered her voice to a w
hisper before she added, “He sure gets a lot of catalogs.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. He must not be home.”

  “Hey, I’m a pretty good cook. Y’all like grilled cheese? I make a mean Swiss on rye.”

  Jenifer managed to make “Swiss on rye” sound almost as alien as blowfish.

  I said, “I’m actually kind of worried about him. He and I were going to get together earlier today but he didn’t show up, which isn’t like him.”

  “Are you thinking maybe he’s sick?” Her voice blossomed with concern.

  I shrugged my shoulders. Bob could indeed be ill; it would explain a lot. I asked, “Is it okay for me to go knock, you think?”

  She hopped past me and bounded out the door and across the back porch. “I don’t see why not. Knocking never hurt anybody, did it?”

  She lifted the rubber-banded stack of mail from the basket, led me around to the alley, ran up the stairs, and knocked on Bob’s door. Two sharp raps. She cooed, “Knock, knock,” for good measure.

  While we were giving Bob much too much time to make his way to the door, Jenifer seemed to be examining my face. She finally scrunched up her nose a little bit and asked, “You really are worried, aren’t you?”

  I said, “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s so sweet. Wait here.” In one fluid motion she jumped down the stairs, and disappeared around the corner. She returned seconds later with a fistful of keys, popped back up the stairs, unlocked the lock, turned the knob, and threw open the door.

  “Go have a quick look,” she said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’ll just toss this mail in here so nobody-”

  Jenifer took a half step into Bob’s apartment and immediately screamed, hitting a note that-despite a volume that would have made a siren engineer envious-was so high in pitch that it almost disappeared into the range undetectable by human ears.

  I hurdled up the steps three at a time, “What-”

  31