Missing Persons

by Stephen White

  Raoul had expected to find a posse surrounding Canada, a jury of pathetic hangers-on. He’d expected to have to weed through a motley assortment of tougher-than-shit Cristal and Courvoisier-and-Coke-drinking parasites.

  Instead he found a fit, barefoot man wearing crinkled linen slacks and a faded polo shirt that was the color of the flesh of a ripe mango. The man was sitting on one of two big armchairs that shared a large, mismatched ottoman and faced floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors in the living room. His legs were crossed at the ankles. One toenail on his left foot had turned the brown-black of just-roasted coffee beans. It was the toe next to the pinky.

  Canada was alone.

  “Sit,” he said to Raoul.

  Tico loitered across the room near the back door where the parking lot of quarry tile started, or ended. He said, “You cool, Boss?”

  “Yeah, get yourself something to eat.”

  Tico saluted with a motion of two fingers flying out from his right nipple. Raoul figured it meant, “Yes, sir.” Or something in that vicinity. Tico spun. His flip-flops squealed once before they began a percussive smack-smack against the hard floor as he made his way toward the kitchen.

  “I can’t find her,” Canada said. “Come on, sit.” He pointed at the chair beside him. “You want something to drink?”

  Raoul did, but it could wait. You can’t find whom? That’s what he wanted to know. That couldn’t wait. He said, “No, thank you.”

  He was thinking that U.P. North was late thirties, maybe forty. The man was fair-skinned with a full head of curly jet-black hair, and he apparently went to some trouble to avoid the desert sun. He was strong. Not I-live-in-the-weight-room strong, but I’ve-got-a-personal-trainer and I-play-a-heck-of-a-lot-of-tennis strong.

  Raoul fought an instinct that was telling him that he knew the man, or at least knew his type. Sometimes in Boulder he met the smug, self-assured, I’ve-got-shit-going-on-you-don’t-even-know-about types at parties. At first impression, U.P. North could be one of them, just another Boulder trust-fund baby. But Raoul cautioned himself that North probably wasn’t one of them. Not by a long shot.

  Intimidating? Not to Raoul, not yet.

  Blood? Northeast U.S., sure. Whatever that means anymore. Some French ancestry, and maybe something else. Could North have some Eastern European blood, maybe Jewish? Raoul wasn’t certain. Didn’t know if he had enough clues.

  Raoul sat. “You can’t find her? My wife?”

  Three sets of sliding glass doors were open to the night air. The pattern meant that every other panel was glass, every other panel was screen. The prodigious sweat that Raoul had developed while doing time inside the Airstream and then compounded in the cramped front seat of Tico’s bug wasn’t evaporating at all. No breeze was blowing across the wide desert that night.

  “I like the heat,” the man said as though he’d anticipated Raoul’s thoughts. “Hate AC.”

  Raoul duly noted that his question hadn’t been answered and decided not to press it. North wasn’t actually talking to Raoul, he was talking to Raoul’s reflection in the glass. Raoul adjusted his gaze, found the mirrored image of his host against the black hollow, and did the same. He said, “I changed my mind. I’d love a beer, thank you.”

  Canada called out, “Tico? A brew for our guest.”

  Tico came and went. He left behind a long-necked Bud that was sweating even more than Raoul. The bottle immediately left a round tattoo on the table.

  “You like the desert?” Canada asked.

  “I grew up on the Mediterranean,” Raoul said as a way of answering. “Live in the mountains now.”

  “I grew up on Long Island, not far from Jones Beach. I like the desert better.”

  “Taste,” Raoul said. “It’s a personal thing.”

  North chewed on that for a moment. “There’s some shit we do that has nothing to do with taste. It has to do with cycles. Ebb and flow. Moon and tides. Sunrise, sunset. You play golf?”

  “Some. I suck,” Raoul said.

  North laughed. “Bastard game. In golf… in business… with women… dear Lord, with women… all the time, I’m big on mulligans. I… treasure the living that happens in the echoes. Like to think I do some of my best work in the echoes.”

  “The echoes?”

  “The opportunities that come back around. The do-overs. A man has to learn in life. He has to. In golf, it’s not really that satisfying. It’s hard to learn enough from one tee shot to the next. If you do better on your mulligan than you did on your first drive, could be dumb luck. Probably is dumb luck. In life, though, the do-overs tend to come around less often. That gives the wise man time to adjust, to be grateful for the opportunity, to make the most of the blessing of the second chance. You’re a successful man. You must know about the echoes. Every successful man I’ve ever met knows about playing the echoes.”

  Raoul drank enough of the Bud that when he pulled the bottle back down from his lips the beer leveled off at a line about two thirds of the way down the label. He said, “If I’m understanding you right, I think maybe I do know about the echoes.”

  “Rachel’s one of my echoes.” Canada’s eyes locked on Raoul’s in the black mirror of the glass. He held Raoul’s gaze like a strong man holds a handshake-a few beats too long, just to prove that he can do it. “She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. You know about that?”

  Raoul decided the time was right to once again interject Diane into the conversation. “My wife’s a psychologist. I learn some things from her.”

  North nodded. Raoul translated the nod to mean, “Whatever.”

  “My mother was one, too. A paranoid schiz. I watched her do her crazy thing most of the time I was growing up. Nobody helped her out. Not really. People laughed, the ones who didn’t avoid us took advantage. She ended up running away with some loser she met in a biker bar. Came home with him, grabbed some things, said she’d be back soon. I never saw her again. I still don’t like to think about what happened to her next.”

  Raoul felt the rhythm of the melody that was developing and decided to skip right to the chorus. “But for Rachel, you’re what happened next?”

  “There’s the echo. When they come back around, you get another chance. Not all the time, but sometimes. When you do, it’s important to get it right. The gods count on it. They keep score.”

  “You take care of her?”

  “I watch out for her. Difference. Nobody can protect her from being crazy. I learned that lesson as a kid. Paranoid schizes have the kind of crazy that comes from someplace else. Someplace where the tiniest wires are jumbled, someplace you and I don’t ever get to visit. All I do-all I can do-is I protect her from people who prey. That’s all. I let them know if they fuck with her, they have to fuck with me. People in town have learned to leave well enough alone; people new to town need lessons. It’s what I wished I could have done for my mother.”

  Raoul lost the visual connection in the pane of glass as Canada shifted the range of focus from Raoul’s eyes to the infinity of the desert night. From inside to out.

  “That’s generous of you,” Raoul said, already wondering whether his empathy was being misapplied.

  “Is it?”

  Raoul didn’t want to argue the point. A linguistic chameleon, he adopted his host’s vernacular. “Has someone fucked with her lately?”

  “People have been coming in from out of town. It’s not been welcome. We’ve had to deal with it.”

  Raoul felt the reverberation: Diane had come in from out of town. He put his cards on the table. “My wife flew to Las Vegas looking for Rachel. She had some questions about her daughter-Rachel’s missing daughter. I’m sure you know that. Before she was able to meet with Rachel, Diane disappeared off the casino floor at the Venetian. That was Monday night. I’m worried about her, very worried. I’d like to know where she is. I’m happy to tell you what I know.”

  With just the slightest spice of menace added to his tone-a verbal dash of cayenne-North said, “Doesn’t
make any difference to me whether or not you’re happy. But you will tell me what you know. One thing, though, Raoul. May I call you Raoul?”

  “Of course. What’s that?”

  “It’s not all about your wife.”

  Raoul felt some intimidation then. He shrank a little at the words, had to remind himself not to cower, and had to remind himself that Canada held all the good cards. “Okay,” he said.

  “Now, like I said, I can’t find her-Rachel. You feel the echo there? Yes, me, too.” He exhaled through pursed lips. “I’m not happy I can’t find her. Are we in the same boat, Raoul? You and me? The not-happy-I-can’t-find-her boat?”

  “Are we?” Raoul asked.

  “I think so. I think we are.”

  Raoul dove so far into his host’s eyes that he was almost submerged. Sensing something there, he took a last look at his cards and went all-in. “Diane was led out of the Venetian casino on Monday evening by two men. They weren’t yours?” He pulled the grainy screen shot that Marlina had given him from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Canada.

  “You think they were mine?” Canada asked after a quick glance at the photograph of three people walking through the casino at the Venetian.

  Totally cognizant of how provocative his words were, Raoul said, “I did.”

  “If they were mine, you’d be a dead man. You feel like a dead man?”

  “I admit I’ve felt better.”

  Canada laughed. A stretch of silence consumed half a minute before he added, “They’re not mine.” He raised the photograph, grasping it between his thumb and index finger, and rotated it so that it faced Raoul. “You don’t recognize the tall guy? I’m surprised; you seem like an observant man.”

  Raoul leaned over and squinted at the taller of the two men. “Should I?”

  “I hear you call him ‘Reverend Howie.’ ”

  “What? Mierda. His hair…”

  “That’s not his hair. Probably won it in a poker game.”

  Raoul had participated in a thousand negotiations, some of them involving tens of millions of dollars. In every deal, instinct was his guide. He relied on that intuition and felt around in the dark for whatever direction he was going to get. “Howie didn’t take Diane for you?”

  Canada hesitated before he shook his head.

  “Do you recognize the other man?” Raoul asked.

  Canada took another fleeting glance at the paper. “If I admit I do, what happens then?”

  Raoul jumped at the bait. “If Diane’s okay, I swear I’ll-”

  Canada held his left hand out. A stop sign. “No, my friend. No… No. The ifs are all mine. You don’t get any ifs. These two people weren’t working for me. I don’t know what they’ve done, or to whom. That means there are no ifs left over for you. We clear?”

  No, Raoul thought. He said, “Yes.”

  “Good. I repeat, if I admit I do recognize him, what happens then?”

  “I will be grateful for your assistance,” Raoul said.

  “How grateful?”

  Raoul wondered momentarily if Canada was trying to extort some money. He recalled Tico’s admonition in the car-Everything’s temporary but people. That’s what he says, says it all the time-and decided that it wasn’t likely that Canada was squeezing a reward from him. Raoul said, “I will be completely grateful. So grateful you won’t be playing any echoes about this.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “And if you happen to run across Rachel?”

  “Goes without saying. You’ll know first.”

  Canada poked at the photograph. “This guy? The one with Howard? Showed up in town a day or so before your wife, went to Rachel’s apartment looking for her, failed, then started asking around about how to find her. Howard alerted us that the guy came to the chapel. Howard, it now appears, was playing both ends against the middle. Well, that’s a tougher game than Hold ’Em-and soon enough, if he isn’t already, Howard will regret he anteed in. We started keeping an eye on the new man. Lost him for a while. Found him again. Eventually he had a traffic accident. Sad thing.”

  “Serious accident?” Raoul asked.

  Canada feigned a sympathetic face. “Misjudged a curve in the mountains. His car had Colorado plates. Tico?” he called.

  Tico hustled in carrying a half-eaten piece of cold pizza. His mouth was full. Canada pointed at the photo. “You know where?”

  Tico glanced at the picture, then at Raoul, swallowed, and said, “I could probably find it.”

  “Show our friend.”

  “Not sure I can do it in the dark, Boss. You tell me to try, though, I will.”

  Canada tapped his manicured fingernails on the arm of the chair. “Find Raoul a bed for the night, some clean towels, and offer him some food. You can take him out in the morning. And Raoul?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t mind that I hold on to this?” He lifted the photograph. “I’d like to show it to Howard.”

  62

  I was wide-eyed and body-weary long before Sam’s arrival for our Saturday run, but the winter sky was too black for daybreak and the bedroom too cold to consider popping right out of bed. I waited for the growl of the paper guy’s Power Wagon to come and go and for the first unmistakable illuminations of dawn before I rolled reluctantly into the day.

  Even the dogs thought I was crazy. Emily sighed at me, but she didn’t bother to get up to see what I had planned. Anvil, whose ears were beginning to fail him, didn’t acknowledge that I’d moved.

  I forced myself to drink some water and I downed a banana after mindlessly trying to peel a plantain that Lauren or Viv had stuck in the fruit bowl. The plantain wasn’t ripe and wasn’t at all eager to be peeled. I totally mangled the thing before I figured out that I wasn’t wrestling with a mutant Chiquita.

  New errand: Replace the damn plantain.

  I thought I heard a car on the lane and peeked out the front door at 7:25. No Sam. I was hoping he’d spaced out the run or that he’d overslept. Jogging on a fifteen-degree morning didn’t sound any more appetizing to me than had eating an under-ripe plantain.

  Seven-thirty. No Sam. Out loud, I prayed, “Give it a rest, Sammy. Take a day off.” That, of course, is when he drove up the lane. He climbed out of the Cherokee in his fancy running duds and a brand-new pair of trainers. His frosty breath was visible in long, slow rolls. Lauren’s advice from the night before felt as sage to me as it had then, but I still hadn’t decided exactly what I knew that I could tell Sam that might help Diane. He rescued me from my temporary paralysis by saying, “Let’s stretch a minute. I want to tell you about the tunnel search.”

  The tunnel. The opening that had been excavated from Doyle’s basement was cut at a steep enough angle that it actually descended all the way down below the spread footing of the foundation of the Millers’ house. At that point the track-and-trolley system terminated and a vertical shaft about two feet in diameter rose straight up into the Millers’ crawl space. The top of the shaft was covered by a fitted piece of one-inch-thick plywood upholstered with an ample amount of dirt that had been glued to the wood with some kind of industrial-strength adhesive.

  Were someone to venture into the crawl space, any evidence of the construction project was hidden from view by the thick-milled black-plastic sheeting that stretched from foundation wall to foundation wall over the entire expanse. The plastic was installed to collect the natural radon that was common in soil in Colorado, so the gases could be vented to the outdoors and the lungs of the home’s inhabitants could be protected from the toxic consequences of long-term radiation exposure.

  Access from the tunnel into the Miller home was ingenious. False sills had been attached to the tops of the foundation walls in the corner closest to the tunnel shaft. The plastic sheeting had been removed from the original sills and reattached to the false sills, where it could be easily lifted and folded back to reveal the opening of the shaft. After an intruder was ready to return to Doyle’s ho
use next door, he had only to lock the false sills back in place-which would return the plastic to its normal location-and then slide the plywood lid back over the shaft.

  A cursory examination of the crawl space by someone in the Miller home would reveal no evidence of the tunnel. Once Sam was down in the crawl space, it had taken him a few minutes to figure out exactly how it all worked, despite the fact that he knew almost precisely where the tunnel should be entering the house. The only clue to the location, he said, was a slight interruption in the dust pattern on top of the plastic sheeting.

  Bill Miller professed shock and ignorance at the discovery of the tunnel. Although the revised warrant that Sam delivered to Bill’s door gave him no choice about the matter, he was totally cooperative with the police about access to his crawl space.

  He also rapidly put two and two together and got four. “Where is Doyle?” Bill had demanded. “Have you guys talked to him? Is he under arrest? Somebody tell me something! Does he know where Mallory is?”

  Sam made a tactical decision to allow Bill to hover close by during the search-he wanted to observe him-but he wasn’t buying Bill’s act. “He knew it was there,” Sam told me. “Might even have known Doyle was dead.”

  “He knew about the tunnel? What makes you think that?”

  “You interview enough people you get to know when they’re lying. Meryl Streep could lie to me and get away with it, maybe Al Pacino. Definitely what’s-his-face, Anthony Hopkins. But Bill Miller? He couldn’t even get a bit part with the Flatirons Players. Must be the same for you, you know, in your business.”

  The truth was that my patients often lied to me with absolute impunity. I rationalized my often embarrassing credulity by trying to convince myself that when my patients lied to me they were lying to themselves as well, and that was why I was so inept at spotting their mistruths.

  But the simple reality is that I am gullible. In reply to Sam, I said, “Yeah.”

  He chuckled. “Exactly what I’m talking about. Exactly.”

  I asked, “Speaking of being fooled-Jaris Slocum blew it, didn’t he? His piece of the investigation.”