When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  “Ma’am, you all right?”

  “I have a slipped disk.”

  Gorski stands a few yards behind him, one hand up on her utility belt. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and her eyes are starred with sun wrinkles. “Back problems?”

  “A past injury and it gets aggravated every once in a while if I’m not careful.”

  Stop talking. It’s a ridiculous thought — I’ve done nothing wrong — but something about police can make you feel guilty whether you’re innocent or not. Maybe John and I have watched too many documentaries about coerced confessions and falsified evidence, people jailed for crimes they didn’t commit.

  Gorski gives me that cop look that’s both imperious and indifferent as she judges the way I’m holding myself against the porch railing. She lowers her gaze to my bandaged knee. “And you got that from falling?” Her free hand feathers the air around her. “Out here?”

  I nod. “We’ve been meaning to tear out these old bricks. I was rushing because my daughter texted me that someone was here and I wasn’t watching my footing and I tripped.”

  Morse is a little younger, with a soft face and pleasant eyes beneath his felt Stetson. “Ouch. That’s no fun. Is there somewhere else that would be more comfortable for you?” He glances over my shoulder at the front door.

  I haven’t asked them to come inside yet. Not sure why — maybe I just need to take things one step at a time, like wading into the ocean when the water is cold.

  Before I can answer him, Gorski asks, “Who was here? Who caused you to rush like that?”

  “Karen Dewitt. She’s a local woman I know from the . . . she’s my friend. I didn’t know she was here. She got a new car recently and I didn’t know it was her. She left a little while ago.”

  “And the fall?” Gorski points at my lower body. “That’s how you got those scrapes on your hands, too?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  Trooper Morse is near enough that I can see how long his eyelashes are. It gives him a harmless, almost babyish appearance. “You know about that bruise forming there on your cheek?”

  My hand floats up involuntarily. “I must’ve hit my head, too — when I went down. Didn’t even notice it.”

  Morse blinks those long lashes. “Ma’am, have you and Mr. Gable been having any trouble lately?”

  “No. We’re fine, everything’s good.”

  “No, um . . . no getting rough — getting physical? Nothing like that?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But he’s never run off like this before, never left without telling you where he’s going?”

  “No — but it’s not . . . He works from home . . . It’s not that I always know where he is or what he’s doing. He just . . . he doesn’t do much. Much that’s unpredictable, I mean.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “He might go to the store, run errands, that kind of thing — while I’m at work. And I don’t know where he is for a few minutes, maybe. I work primarily from noon to midnight at the hospital and he stays home with the kids once they’re back from school.”

  “But he left last night, you think, and the kids were home.”

  “That’s — yes, that’s right.”

  I don’t think John has done anything illegal by leaving our almost-teenager alone with our seven-year-old but I’m not sure exactly where the law lands on child neglect and it makes me a bit nervous on top of everything else.

  They ask me the expected questions about friends and family and about where he might’ve gone, and I tell them what I told Karen: there’s nowhere, really, nobody. “Well, we have a lake house.”

  “Lake house?” Gorski’s eyebrow goes up.

  “It’s just a camp. A seasonal place. John’s been doing some work on it.”

  They drift a little closer as I explain where it is, our plans to vacation there for the kids’ spring break, how John’s been doing some repairs on it, but that the idea he went there in the middle of the night, unannounced, is highly unlikely.

  Finally I ask, “Would you like to come inside?”

  They exchange looks and silent communication. Morse gives me a smile and moves toward the door. I understand that Gorski wants to stay outside, maybe have a look around. Carefully stepping in, mindful of my back, I hold the door for Trooper Morse as he appraises my labored movements. “Boy, you really sprung a coil, huh?”

  “It’s not usually this bad.”

  “You said it’s from an old injury or something?”

  I lead him into the house. “It’s always been a little glitchy, even when I was young. We went camping one year and I helped John take the canoe down from the car and something happened. I’ve been to chiropractors and massage therapists. The best I can do is just be careful with it.” It’s not the entire truth, but there’s no need to discuss my last pregnancy with a state trooper.

  “John’s study is down here, and his phone is on his desk. I found it there when I came in last night.”

  We’re moving down the hallway. Russ is still at school and Melody is in her bedroom with the door closed. I wonder how she’s feeling with the police being here. Morse stops in the doorway to John’s study but doesn’t go in. “Did you look at the phone? Check to see any latest texts or calls?”

  “Of course. Yes. But it’s protected by a password.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which made me wonder because John doesn’t ordinarily keep his phone password protected.”

  “Oh no?”

  “No.”

  Morse walks into the office, creaking over the floor. He keeps both hands on his belt as he looks around. “I’m not going to touch anything in here, and probably you shouldn’t touch anything else, either. I’m sure you’re in here a fair bit, but in case we need to have a close look at things, maybe keep the kids out. Leave everything as it is. Don’t clean. Did you touch anything else, besides the phone? Move anything?”

  Having Morse treat things so seriously brings relief after all: the process of getting John back is underway. At the same time, it feels overblown, like he’s going to show up any minute and all of this about evidence and fingerprints is going to seem like high drama. We’ll even laugh about it eventually. “I touched the phone, tried to get into it, and then I looked around a little bit. I took a phone number that was written on a Post-it note.”

  Morse raises his eyebrows. “An important number?”

  “Someone who recently came back into John’s life. An old high school friend.”

  Morse stands there. His pants are gray with a black stripe down the legs. His belt supports a gun, a phone, a nightstick and a radio. The Stetson angles down over his brow. “Someone new in his life . . . Did you try to contact this person?”

  “I did. I thought it was too late to call last night but I tried him this morning. Got the answering machine. His name is Bruce Barnes. He and his wife had dinner with us on Saturday night.”

  Morse takes a notepad out of his uniformed shirt pocket and clicks on a pen. “Barnes,” he says. “Know how to spell that?”

  “Ah, actually I don’t. My guess would be B-a-r-n-e-s.”

  He gives me a look. “So this isn’t a close relationship, then.”

  “No, not really. I just met him.”

  “And do you have that number for Barnes?”

  “I do.” I pull the crumpled note from my pocket and hold it out to him.

  “Just hang on to that for now. And did Mr. Barnes call back?”

  “No, not yet.”

  He nods a little and regards me with his big brown eyes, blinks those caterpillar lashes again. “And did you try the wife, too?”

  “I don’t have her number. I tried looking both of them up online but didn’t have any luck.”

  “Okay.”

  I see something catch in his face. “So, your husband is predictable, you say. Tends to stay at home, doesn’t have any history of this sort of thing, and the big change lately is that there are two new people who have come int
o his life.” He puts the notebook away as the heat rises in my cheeks.

  “They might not be the only people.”

  Morse waits as I build up the nerve. I tell him about the woman Russ saw and Melody’s suspicion that a vehicle arrived the night John disappeared.

  “Okay. So it could be the old high school buddy, could be someone else, this woman. Maybe whoever it is, you know . . . they get together, go out for a few drinks . . .”

  “I actually went to two bars this morning. There was a roofer at the Trailhead who gave me a name. He said that someone named RJ was bartending last night. So maybe he’s worth talking to?”

  “Uh-huh. RJ?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got a last name?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “I can find out.”

  “Thank you.”

  Morse looks around, chews on his lip. “Does John have a passport?”

  “He does.”

  “Is it in here?”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Just his wallet.”

  “Yes — his wallet was in the bedroom on his dresser. Why?”

  “Well, you know, I’m thinking . . . your husband’s not showing back up this morning . . . this old high school friend has come back on the scene . . . Something guys do sometimes around here is they take a run up into Canada. Go to the clubs.”

  It’s not comfortable to contradict a state trooper, but there’s just no way. “I, ah . . . yeah . . . I can’t see John doing that. And I mean, they’re not really even friends.”

  “Hmm.” Morse looks unconvinced. He has boys will be boys written on his face.

  “To tell you the truth, John wasn’t really that happy about Bruce showing up.”

  Morse cocks an eyebrow, inviting me to say more.

  “John says . . . well . . . Bruce picked on him when they were kids.” I flinch at my own choice of words. John would hate the insinuation he was some kind of victim. But wasn’t he? This stuff has got to come out. Now that a state trooper has put it like this, I feel I’ve been too dismissive of the Bruce thing, too paranoid about some blonde woman my seven-year-old might have dreamed.

  And I’ve got to talk about the bottle, too. The drinking. So far I’ve made an effort to keep my gaze from wandering to where the Jim Beam sits on the low shelf, but I’m looking there now.

  “Trooper Morse . . . John has been in recovery for twelve years. From drinking. But there’s a bottle in here — I found it last night.” I point to the bottom shelf.

  Morse moves toward it. “Here?”

  “Behind those things there.” I can feel the dread in my stomach as he squats down and bends his neck for a look.

  “So maybe alcohol is a factor after all,” he says.

  My voice sounds small in my ears. “Yes.”

  “He attend AA meetings, things like that?”

  I shake my head. “He did for a time in the beginning but he hasn’t in a while. Since I’ve been with him, really.”

  “Does he have any sort of record?”

  “Like a criminal record? God, no.”

  “How about any DUIs?”

  “Oh. Well, I think . . . maybe . . . but before we met. More than ten years. I thought after ten years . . .” I stop because a light has come into Morse’s eyes and he’s shaking his head at me.

  “Doesn’t matter in Canada,” he says.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Canada has different laws for DUI. They have stricter punishments. Your husband could have crossed the border, not known about that, and been detained. Happens all the time.”

  “Detained?”

  “Because — okay, so you get a DUI in the U.S. and you pay your fine, maybe take a drunk-driving class, get it cleared up. But in Canada, like I said, it’s a more serious offense. So they’ll detain people and check them out — Border Patrol handles it. Then they either kick you back into the States or they can continue to hold you — they can prosecute you there.”

  I’m following along the line of thought, feeling this queasy mixture of relief and fresh worry over John being jailed in Canada. It’s not a bad explanation — that someone gregarious and a bit pushy like Bruce convinces John to come out for a drink, John leaves his phone and wallet but takes his passport for ID, and before too long he’s three sheets to the wind and agreeing to go to a Canadian club but gets stopped at the border and locked up.

  “But wouldn’t someone have called? A lawyer or something?”

  “Maybe not yet.”

  The theory loses some traction for me.

  Perhaps sensing my skepticism, Morse says, “Contrary to popular belief, there’s no constitutional guarantee of a phone call from jail in the U.S. — same goes for Canada. What I’m saying, ma’am, is the border is forty-five minutes north of here and John is from the area. I don’t know about him, but when my big brother was in high school, him and his school buddies would go up to Montreal, go to the clubs where they could drink. You know what I mean? This old high school acquaintance comes back into your husband’s life, maybe it’s to make amends, this and that — and they go hit the bars in Canada for old times’ sake. It’s just something to pursue. It’s an idea.”

  The floor groans as Morse starts out of the study. I follow him back down the hallway as he peeks in on Russ’s room and then pauses outside of Melody’s door.

  “My daughter,” I explain about the closed room. “She’s not feeling too well.”

  He hesitates before moving on. When we reach the living room, the front door opens and Gorski steps in. “Ma’am, do you have the plate number handy for your husband’s vehicle? Or maybe a copy of the registration?”

  “I don’t have the plate number committed to memory, but there might be a copy of the registration in John’s office.”

  “Or maybe,” Gorski adds, “If the vehicle is registered in your husband’s name I can just look it up that way.”

  “Sure, that would be good. Thank you.”

  Gorski starts to push back through the door and Morse speaks to her. “We want to check with USBP, too. Just see if maybe he popped over into Canada. He’s got an old D-dub on his record and he could be dealing with that up there.”

  Gorski looks around Morse at me. “You think your husband went into Canada?”

  “I’m not . . . I mean, ah . . .”

  “It’s an idea,” Morse says. “Here, let’s step out for a minute. Mrs. Gable, we’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  They walk back to their cars. I’m about to go check on Melody when my phone vibrates in my pocket. My heart trills and I take it out. It’s not someone in my contacts but I’ve come to know the number by now: Bruce Barnes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN / BRUCE BARNES

  “Hi,” Bruce says on the phone. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Jane Gable — John’s wife.”

  “Jane! You guys are like the Jetsons. But I think that was George, though. George and Jane Jetson. Wasn’t it?”

  “Bruce, did you get my message?”

  “No, sorry — I mean, I saw it but I haven’t listened to it. What’s going on?”

  I have a hand on the front door, about to go outside so I can have this conversation in the presence of the state troopers, but the words jump out of me. “Bruce, I don’t know where John is.”

  A pause. “You don’t know where he is?”

  “Is he with you, Bruce?”

  “Is he with me?”

  “John left last night at some point. His phone is here but he took the car — his Subaru — and he’s gone. I thought maybe you two . . . maybe you got together or something.”

  Another hesitation, and I can hear noise in the background, like voices, the bubble of laughter — as if from a TV audience. “No,” he says, “we didn’t get together.”

  “So you haven’t seen him? Not since the dinner.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Did you talk on the phone? I thought maybe he
was talking to you later that night, after dinner.”

  “Yeah, oh — yeah, we talked a little bit after dinner.”

  “Can I ask what about?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just the old days and whatnot. Talked a little about his work stuff. Stuff like that. Just catching up.”

  “Even though you’d just seen each other at dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  I find this suspicious, but there’s nothing more I can say about it and I have other questions for him. “My son says maybe he saw someone, maybe last night, maybe before that. And Melody thinks maybe . . . Do you know anything? Any reason why someone might’ve been here last night?”

  He lowers the pitch of his voice. “I have no idea.”

  My mouth opens — then I realize I’m close to calling Bruce a liar. I barely know this person. Even if his recent appearance coincides with John’s disappearance, it doesn’t have to mean anything. “All I know is that I don’t know where he is. He left at some point last night while I was working at the hospital. He left his phone, like he was in a rush.”

  Or because he doesn’t want to be found.

  “Jane, I would tell you if we got together. I mean, we’ve had no plans. Nothing.”

  Or because he didn’t intend to leave at all — he was abducted.

  Bruce says, “So he’s like . . . missing?”

  Carefully now, so as not to offend: “Is it possible maybe John misread something and thought you had plans? That you were going to get together? He went somewhere to . . .”

  “Jane . . .”

  “I’m sorry. I know . . . it’s just—”

  “I’ll tell you what we talked about, okay? On the phone, later that night after we had dinner. For one thing, we talked about the writing slump he’s in.”

  My mind is reeling. John talking to someone he barely knows or trusts about his writing seems far-fetched to me. On the other hand, maybe he sought a fresh perspective, an outsider’s opinion. And I know it’s true from my talk with John’s agent, Marty. Although why he had to call Bruce that very night to talk about it I don’t know.