When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  “We’re sure,” Gorski says. “The vehicle identification number is a match. It’s registered in your husband’s name.”

  Of course it is — that’s how she knew it was John’s before they brought me out here. Morse looks at me with sad eyes, then turns his head. Another police car is coming into the rest area with an unmarked car following. Gorski takes my arm again and says, “Will you come have a word with us, Jane?”

  The urge to look through the Subaru is almost overpowering. I want to read what’s on that notepad and check through the glove box and under the seats and everywhere else. But the technicians are closing in. They’ll do all that. I just need to be patient.

  Deep breath. “Sure,” I tell Gorski. “Where? Do I go to the police station now? Does anybody know anything yet?”

  “Just come this way.”

  She helps me back towards her car, but at this point I’m doing fine on my own. All the walking around seems to be working out some of the kinks — imagine that. Morse moves away from us and meets with the newcomers. The trooper just arrived has black and gray chevrons on his sleeves. The person in the unmarked car hasn’t gotten out yet. I can’t quite see his or her face. Gorski is touching my head, pushing me into the backseat.

  After we get situated, the passenger door opens and the trooper with the chevrons gets in.

  “Hi, Mrs. Gable. I’m Sergeant Ferron. How are you doing? I understand you hurt your back?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Well,” Ferron says, “this has been quite a morning for you, I’m sure.”

  Maybe I’ll wake up and this will all have been a bad dream.

  “We’re going to look at a few different possibilities,” Ferron says. “We’ll search this area here, but right now it’s looking like he might’ve gotten into another vehicle and left. Any idea who that vehicle might belong to?”

  It’s time. I tell Sergeant Ferron and Trooper Gorski about the SUV: how it followed from a distance, then sped up and rode our rear bumper; how the driver killed the headlights.

  “Any chance you got the license plate?” Ferron asks.

  “No. I wish I had. And I saw the vehicle again.”

  “You saw it again?”

  “I think so. It was dark when it was following us, but the next day I was grocery shopping and I saw it on the road. Right in town. First it slowed a little, then it sped off.”

  “Did you observe the make?” Ferron isn’t writing anything down, just looking in the mirror at me.

  “I’m not good at knowing these things . . . Maybe a Chevy Tahoe? Or a GMC-something? I really don’t know.”

  “Was it full-sized, or was it one of those compact SUVs? Like your car — a Toyota RAV is what we’d call a compact SUV.”

  “I know what a compact SUV is.” The words are out before I have a chance to censor myself.

  Ferron’s eyebrows go up. “Okay, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry. No, it was full-sized. Dark blue or black. And I think there was a brownish stripe down the side of it.”

  “From when you saw it on Saturday? Or on Sunday?”

  “On Saturday. When I saw it from the grocery store parking lot.”

  “Okay,” Ferron says. “Anything else that you want to talk about? Trooper Gorski tells me you and your husband recently had a former high school classmate over for dinner.”

  I go through it all again. I’m beginning to feel like an actor reciting lines.

  Ferron says, “And you spoke to this . . . um . . . Barnes, who claims he has no idea where your husband might be and that they had made no plans to get together or anything like that.”

  “That’s correct. Well . . . yes, that’s correct.”

  Ferron shifts in his seat. He’s a large man, I guess about fifty, a bit of hair growing out of his nose and ears. “Ma’am? At this point it’s best to be as open about everything as you can be.”

  “I’m trying to be. I’m really trying to be. My husband’s been having some issues with work.”

  “And what does he do exactly? Gorski said he writes – is he a reporter or something?”

  “No. He went to school at Rensselaer Polytechnic but dropped out, just wanted to write fiction. He had a few books do well, and then one did really well and he got an agent. I spoke to his agent this morning and I guess he’s been struggling. I think he talked to Bruce about it. Bruce said something like he needed to stir things up.”

  “Stir things up?”

  “I don’t know. Get out of the normal routine.”

  “Like take a trip?”

  “Sergeant, I know how this looks . . . there’s my husband’s car — obviously he went somewhere. Or he started to go somewhere . . .” I have to pause, choke back the tears. “But I don’t think that’s what this is. I don’t think John would just take off and not tell me. Not because of a friend, or even another woman. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. There’s blood in that car. John would never just leave me and the kids. No matter what.”

  Silence follows and I can hear Ferron breathing as I watch the people in white jumpsuits swarm the Subaru.

  “Mrs. Gable, we’re going to need you to provide some blood and DNA samples. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes. Anything.”

  “As we process the vehicle we’re going to need to know which samples we collect might belong to you, and which might be your husband’s.”

  “I understand.”

  “The last time you were in the car — in the Subaru — was that Friday night?”

  I have to think about it for a second. “That’s right.”

  “You had no occasion to be in the car since then.”

  “No. No reason to.”

  “So we’ll have you come in and it will be a quick procedure, just a pin prick for the blood and we’ll swab the inside of your mouth for DNA. It’s called a buccal swab. That’s okay with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mrs. Gable, there is one other thing I need to ask you.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Ferron turns to look at me directly. “Your mother is in jail?”

  I swallow over the lump in my throat. But I had to expect this eventually. “Yes. She’s in the women’s wing at SCI Cold Brook.”

  “She’s there for attempted murder.”

  It sounds horrible whenever someone says it aloud, conjuring the picture of a hardened criminal. “Second-degree, yes. Her lawyer tried to prove self-defense but he wasn’t very good.”

  “When’s the last time you saw your mother?”

  “Not since the sentencing. So, a few years.”

  “You don’t visit?”

  “She doesn’t want me to visit.” How is this relevant? I want to ask.

  Ferron lifts a hand, sensing my agitation. “I’m just trying to get the full picture here. This is what’s going to happen — you’re going to have an investigator assigned to this. Her name is Muriel Ridley. Trooper Gorski is going to—”

  “Is she just a regular detective or—”

  “She’s from the Violent Crime investigation team. That’s a unit with the state police.”

  “What about the Missing Persons Clearinghouse?”

  Ferron studies my reflection for a moment. “You’re a nurse?”

  “Nurse practitioner, yes.”

  “The clearinghouse typically works with law enforcement on cases involving children and those involving vulnerable adults.”

  “My husband could be vulnerable.”

  He clears his throat. “Trooper Gorski is going to bring you to the barracks where you’ll fill out the official missing person’s report together, which will get the information to the clearing house, and we’ll keep a hotline open for case intake and leads, okay? And then we’ll draw your blood and tissue samples.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ferron keeps looking at me with his somber gray eyes. “Mrs. Gable, we’ll do everything we can. As a nurse — ah, nurse practitioner — m
aybe you’re aware that unless a person is elderly or under the age of thirteen, or suffers from a mental or physical condition, they’re not designated as ‘special category.’”

  “I have patients with Alzheimer’s and dementia and occasionally they leave their homes unattended. John may not be elderly or have a precondition but he’s an alcoholic and he could be the victim of a crime. Could that make it special category?”

  Ferron and Gorski exchange looks. Gorski turns toward me and says, “That’s what we’re trying to determine.” Her gaze lowers to my hands.

  It takes me a moment, but I turn my hands over, look at the cuts from falling on the front walkway, then think of the blood on the steering wheel of the car.

  “What I’m saying,” Ferron continues, “is that people over the age of eighteen, legally speaking, do not have to return home.”

  “My husband did not leave me!” I have to fight against sudden tears of angst and fear as I point through the window. “There is blood in the car!”

  “I understand.”

  “I was at work. I fell this morning. After my husband — and the car — were already gone.”

  “Mrs. Gable, I think you’re misconstruing what I’m saying. In an instance like this, when there are lots of emotions, it’s hard for us to trust everything we think. We can get confused.”

  “What do you mean, confused? Why would you think I’m confused?”

  There’s something they’re not telling me. Some piece I’m unaware of, and it’s making me look unreliable, or worse — like I’m hiding something. Am I? I didn’t say anything about my mother’s incarceration because I didn’t think it had anything to do with what’s happened — not remotely. What else could I be missing?

  “If you’re not confused,” Ferron says slowly, “maybe you could tell us why this person — Bruce Barnes — why we can’t find any record of him. Why he doesn’t seem to exist.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN / FUGUE STATE

  I’m staring at bits of breakfast cereal on the table, the way they cast long shadows in the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. Small things . . . big shadows.

  He’s not someone I just imagined.

  No, Bruce was at this house, at this very table, eating a dinner I prepared, laughing with bits of food showing in his mouth. He was at the grocery store before that — people saw him. My children saw him. He’s real and flesh and blood. Just maybe not who he says he is.

  I’m not who I think I am. So said Selma Ford. And John’s not who I think he is either.

  I shake it off. The lack of sleep is getting to me and the past four hours have been a blur. In the first hour, I sat in the back of Trooper Gorski’s cruiser and phoned Bruce to prove I wasn’t confused or lying. Bruce’s voice mail picked up: “Hey it’s me . . .”

  At least there was a working number and a man’s recorded voice. After listening, Sergeant Ferron studied the screen and said simply, “We’ll look into it.”

  I’ve memorized Bruce’s outgoing message now, because I just keep hitting redial, thinking about the way Ferron was eyeing me. Picturing my husband’s car at the overgrown end of a neglected rest area. Remembering those cracks in the asphalt, bunches of wildflowers poking through the fissures, the Subaru just sitting there, blood on the steering wheel, people in white suits circling like it might be fitted with explosives.

  I managed to get through the buccal swab, blood draw and missing person’s report at the state trooper barracks and return in time for Russ to get dropped off from school. Bounding away from the big yellow bus with his characteristic zeal, backpack manhandling him as it jounced side to side, all my worries and fears melted away for a precious few minutes. “Mom! I didn’t go into the girls’ bathroom today.”

  “Good for you, baby.” And I kissed him on his forehead.

  Karen has left to tend to her own children, but she promised to call me later, to come back if I need her. For someone who’s barely registered as a friend, she’s been a wonderful support. She doesn’t eye me with suspicion the way Ferron or Gorski do, like I’m keeping secrets or losing my mind. My children are alive and well and I have the support of a local friend — these are good things.

  I did notice a few looks from people about town as Morse drove me home from the barracks. People are undoubtedly starting to talk. There’s no preventing that and I guess I don’t care. At least, I shouldn’t. My mother didn’t raise me to worry about the opinions of others. What other people think of you is none of your business, she once said.

  Ah, my mother.

  It’s one of those things you hear about: how when a person has an unstable upbringing they tend to become controlling adults. Growing up with Mom was pretty unstable due to a revolving door of subhuman boyfriends, drug abuse, and plenty of paranoid delusional thinking. I don’t think I’m overly controlling as a result, but then I’d probably be the last person to know.

  Melody is out of her room and her mood has improved. Teenaged moods come and go like the weather, and right now it’s sunny and warm. She cooks pasta in the kitchen as I set the phone aside and open my laptop. I need to find evidence of Bruce Barnes and his wife or girlfriend Rainey before shoving my children in front of the cops to corroborate me. But I arrive at the same dead ends. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen the name Rainey spelled out. A Google search turns up several variations — Rainy, Raini, Rany, and more. The name could be short for something. Google says Regina, Katharina and various versions of Lorraine. I try them all on Facebook before giving up. Maybe John has it written down somewhere — like on that notebook in his car the police haven’t shared with me yet.

  And why haven’t they?

  Because I’m a suspect. Or at least what they call a “person of interest.” No one’s come right out and said it directly, but I can see it in their eyes. My mother is in jail for nearly killing a man. That he was abusive to her doesn’t matter; for all the cops know, John was abusive to me, too. I have the same blood running in my veins; I’ve learned from the best. I must be a woman with reason to harm her husband.

  Anyway, if John had more information about Bruce and Rainey in that notebook the police would have told me. They wouldn’t have acted like my marbles were falling out.

  I feel hollow. Russ doesn’t even know his father is missing yet. Melody knows — just not about the car or the blood or the question of Bruce’s existence. The dilemma to open up to her or keep her shielded forms knots in my shoulders and burns through my every breath. I don’t know if I can handle her questions, her anxiety. This has been something I’ve tried to avoid all my life — instability in the household. Instead, a safe, familiar environment: routine, normalcy, a place for my daughter to thrive and become a well-adjusted adult.

  When I first met John I didn’t waste any time telling him about my little girl; I introduced them on our second date. Two men had already faded away after learning I was a single mom, so it became the obvious litmus test.

  They warmed to each other quickly. He was a natural, like he’d been around small children all his life. He was funny and self-deprecating, a perfect balance of goofy and capable. He made faces and silly voices without infantilizing, and in the first week we were together he caught her in his arms before she could hit the ground after toppling over her chair.

  Ladies and gentlemen — we have a winner.

  Adoption happened when she was three; John formally became her father. In every sense but one, she is his daughter. I used to think a biological connection was the most important of all, but experience has proven otherwise — and Melody has had zero contact with her biological father. Now she’s doing exactly what I used to do — cooking and cleaning like she can keep things on an even keel this way amid swelling uncertainty. I hurt for her, but I still can’t say anything. Not yet. I need to know more. I need that stable ground beneath my feet.

  A car engine gurgles into the driveway and I leave the table to peek through the window at the same unmarked car from the rest area. St
ate Police Detective Ridley is blonde and pretty and about my age, thirty-five, wearing a gray pantsuit. We met briefly at the barracks; an introduction only, a prelude to now.

  It’s ridiculous to wish it was a man assigned to my case, but I do. I hate having a woman think my husband left me or judge my mother — or judge me, a daughter who at first followed in her mother’s footsteps through reckless relationships and temperamental men. Until I met John — who now seems to have bolted at last.

  It just took him a lot longer than most.

  Stop. Pull it together.

  I offer Ridley a smile and invite her in. “Can I get you anything?” We walk toward the open area that’s our combined kitchen and dining room and I can’t help but notice the badge and gun on her hip.

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “This is my daughter, Melody. She’s making some dinner for her and her brother, Russ.”

  “Hi, Melody.”

  Melody has changed her outfit and pulled her hair back and looks mature and pretty as she flashes a smile at the detective. “Hello. Mom, I’ll just finish this up and take it into Russ’s room. We’ll watch some TV and eat.”

  “Thank you, honey.”

  “Good to have such a helper,” Ridley says.

  I’m eyeing the things Ridley’s holding, including what looks like a yearbook from John’s high school.

  She says, “Let’s sit down.”

  “Great.”

  We make small talk for another minute and Ridley compliments my home. Once Melody has plated up the penne and pasta sauce and walked out of the room with another pleasant smile and a knowing in her eyes that drills into my chest, Ridley sets out a small tape recorder.

  “I’m just going to put this here. That way if I need to refer back to anything, I don’t need to bother you. Are you all right with that?”

  “Yes.”

  She clicks it on. “Monday, March twenty-fifth, 6:14 p.m., I’m here in Hazleton, New York, with Jane Gable. It’s been approximately thirty-one hours since she last saw her husband, John Gable.” She faces me. “When do your children say they last saw their father?”