When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  “Mom? What are you doing?”

  I brush a sweaty lock from my forehead, a smile jittering on my face as if there’s electricity running through my lips. “Nothing, honey. Everything’s okay. Need something?”

  She observes me a moment longer — Melody is so sharp, with so much complexity already at twelve years old — and then looks away. She’s just decided I’m unstable. I know it. Feel it deep in my stomach.

  “Can I go outside?”

  The blinds are drawn and anyway John’s view is over the backyard and forest — if there are reporters still parked out front or some dark SUV idling up the street, I can’t tell. But I say, “Honey I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

  Melody’s eyes track across the room until she’s staring at where I’m standing. She looks right down at the rug beneath my feet and says, “What did you find?”

  In the end, I guess, it was the idea of telling my children one more lie that finally broke me.

  * * *

  “Don’t touch anything,” Ridley says, sounding slightly out of breath. “I’m going to send a crew over right now. I’ll be along as soon as I can. Don’t . . . Just don’t—”

  “I won’t touch anything. I’m done in here.”

  Ignoring the finality of my words, or perhaps because of them, Ridley adds, “You did good. You did the right thing, Jane.”

  Maybe. Maybe I did the right thing. But if so, I did it for me. I did it for my kids. I didn’t do it for Ridley, who either thinks I finally cracked and came clean, or I just delivered evidence that my husband is a murderer.

  The next few hours are surreal. Despite what I said about not going outside, I let Melody and Russ play around in the yard in winter coats and woolen hats while I supervise. And despite my worry, there’s no SUV up the road and no news van — though I’m sure they’ll be back. One or the other.

  The yard is free of snow and ice; the grass is yellow and brown and bent over in bunches, stiff to the touch. I can see my breath but there’s a warm sun penetrating the puffy white clouds. For the first time in many months it truly feels like spring is in the air.

  * * *

  Once the forensic crew (two men and one woman in full-body suits) have gone through John’s office, taken the gun out in an evidence baggie and dusted everything in there for prints, things get quiet again. Melody and I make dinner. We do it together, working to a recipe from one of my mother’s cookbooks, with me giving her gentle instruction here and there. Melody doesn’t really need it but permits me the role with a kind of preternatural grace.

  Afterward, we even bake some cupcakes. Russ is eager to run the spatula around the frosting bowl until his mouth is smeared with brown sugary paste. He looks like some kind of mad clown, and when we tell him, he does a little dance, a combination of ballerina and crazy monkey that has us laughing until there are tears.

  At some point, I guess, your children take on a life of their own. They’ve picked up on things — characteristics — not just from you, but other children, other adults, TV shows and the rest. It all gets synthesized into their own unique selves.

  Maybe that’s all we do: pick up the pieces of life and make something out of them, and that’s our gift, that’s our human soul, something that throughout eternity will never be replicated.

  It almost feels like a normal evening when the kids park themselves in front of a movie in Russ’s room. It doesn’t feel like I’m farming them out to an artificial babysitter. They’re actually getting along. They’ve chosen some mutually interesting entertainment (they both like Moana) and are content.

  But when Ridley’s car pulls into the driveway, it’s back to business as usual. A familiar weight settles over my shoulders and it’s like I’m stepping back into the role I’ve had to play this past week: the helpful but misunderstood housewife.

  Only now, the role has a new dimension: the scrutiny is no longer directed at me. I can sense it in Ridley’s body language as I open the front door for her, can see it in the directness of her gaze as we sit down at the family table. The freight has shifted. John carries it now, even in his absence.

  “We went quickly on this,” she says, and pulls out some papers from her valise. “I had the gun sent straight to our ballistics unit and they did a rifling test on it. That’s when you shoot a weapon into a target so you see the marks made as it explodes out of the barrel. With the autopsy performed on Carl Dixon already, we had the projectile that killed him and were able to compare the two — compare that bullet to ones fired from the gun you found in John’s study.” She folds her hands on the table and draws a breath through her nose. “They’re a match.”

  If she’s waiting for shock or dismay, I’m all out.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. And since we had your husband’s prints on file it was a quick look at a lifted print from the weapon and it’s also a match. So, right now, this is the deal . . . you’ve found a gun hidden in your husband’s study, with his prints on it, that was used to kill Carl Dixon.”

  Again she waits, but rather than get emotional, I seek confirmation. “And Dixon was a drug dealer. You said connected to some scary people?”

  “Well, that part of it we’re still getting into, but yes, he has a long list of offenses and known associates, and some of those KAs are people connected to a criminal organization. A drug cartel.” She looks away for a moment and then her eyes wander back. “I mean, every drug on the street connects up to some cartel or organization in one way or another. It’s just a case of degrees of separation. And Dixon wasn’t quite a street-level thug but a bit higher up the chain. Not much, but enough. Which probably means that whatever he was selling was more than nickel and dime. If there was a transaction, there’d be some decent money involved.”

  “Which could explain how John is funded even though our savings are depleted.”

  For the first time, I see something like compassion in Ridley’s small eyes. Even sorrow. For me. “That’s right. It could be that John thought this was a way out of his financial problems. Or, it could be something that just happened spontaneously — something escalated, there was an exchange of fire. We don’t know. And then maybe, to buy himself some time, John steals money off of Dixon and hightails it.”

  “What about the blood in the Subaru, then. Is it Dixon’s?”

  Ridley’s look of concern dissipates with a furrowing of her brow. “At this point we still have yet to determine whose blood is in John’s car.”

  I’m about to ask why on earth she thinks John would bring the gun back to the house, but I halt when Ridley raises a finger and then opens a file on the table.

  “I’ve also been following up with CBSA,” she says.

  “That’s the Canadian border patrol?”

  “Right. For a long time we had no evidence that John crossed into the country by land or air — but then I also checked with CBSA on their Marine Reporting hotline. I looked at the period since your husband was last known to be at your home. During that time, a number of boats and personal watercraft checked in with Border Services after entering Canadian waters on Lake Ontario.”

  She pushes a document toward me.

  “Your husband showed up in Prince Edward County in Ontario, Canada, two days ago.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE / THE JIG IS UP

  John is in Canada.

  It plays on a loop in my mind, like before: That’s John’s car, and he’s not in it.

  John is in Canada.

  He’s alive and in Canada.

  Even if John is a murderer and a fugitive from justice, he’s alive. The hope surges in me but I’m hesitant. Fool me twice, right?

  “Is there a picture of him? Can we be sure it’s him?”

  “Well, there are over four hundred designated marine reporting sites,” Ridley says. “Most are located at marinas and yacht clubs — there’s a special telephone in a room that connects to a border agent. Or, you can use a cellular phone, and connect to that same Border Serv
ices hotline. We’re still determining the origin of the call.”

  “So it’s just a phone call. There’s got to be a recording then. Of John’s voice.” I want to believe it. More than anything I want to believe my husband is okay and just hopped over the border — even if it reinforces the idea that he shot and killed someone, abandoned his family and ran to another country. I just want to see his face. Hear his voice. Something. Anything. My gaze seeks some photo evidence in Ridley’s open file.

  “The man who actually placed the call to Border Patrol is not your husband,” Ridley says.

  “Who is he?”

  “Right now I need to keep that information confidential. The person is a US citizen and has protected rights.”

  It makes some sense. We don’t own any boats that could cross the thirty-mile width of upper Lake Ontario. John’s not a sailor, and while he might be capable of driving a big boat or yacht, he’d be a complete novice at it. Lake Ontario is more like a sea, with waves that can scrape along at ten feet high.

  Marcus, I think. Marcus has money. The last I knew, he owned a boat, too.

  But Marcus is in Belize — apparently. “Still,” I ask Ridley, “wouldn’t Border Patrol get a — what’s it called — a hull identification number? Did they give that to you? Who owns the boat?”

  “Again, I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”

  It’s getting exhausting, and my reserve of good feeling from an evening with the kids is already almost drained away. “Why? I don’t understand. I mean I understand about protecting privacy—”

  “It’s not relevant. And I need to protect this person’s privacy, yes. This is someone likely hired to take John across Lake Ontario, because the boat then returned to U.S. waters later that same day.”

  “Well — are you questioning the driver?”

  “I’m coordinating with U.S. Customs and Border Patrol on it.”

  “And this person definitely says he took John across the lake, dropped him at Prince Edward County.”

  “That’s about as much as I can say, yes.” She gives me a flat look.

  “So,” I say, feeling irked, “John rehabilitates his right to enter Canada, then murders a drug dealer named Carl Dixon and charters a boat across the nearest Great Lake. It still doesn’t explain the Subaru or the blood.”

  “Unless he’s trying to make it look like something bad happened to him. But it could also turn out to be blood from anywhere — a motorist John was helping who was bleeding and drove his car briefly for some reason, or just sat behind the wheel. We don’t know. We won’t know until we have the DNA testing completed, and only then if there’s a match for DNA already in the system. Listen, Jane . . .” She reaches out and places her hand on mine. She’s never touched me before and I have to keep from recoiling. What is she hiding? What isn’t she saying besides the obviously confidential?

  Remember your wedding.

  “Maybe it would help to see this as good news,” Ridley says.

  I have no idea how to possibly agree with that statement.

  “We know that John is alive. And whatever he got mixed up in, maybe there’s an explanation for it. Like you point out, we have some loose ends, but I’m confident we’ll get the full picture very soon and we’ll all be able to sleep a little better.”

  “Are the Canadian police going to pick him up? How do I reach him?”

  She tries to conceal a sigh as she withdraws her hand. She wants me to just accept her leadership with minimal response.

  “Of course I’ve contacted both the Ontario Provincial Police and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. They’ve each been kind enough to extend that courtesy. They’ll keep an eye out for your husband and—”

  “Keep an eye out?”

  “And if they find him, they’ll keep tabs on him.” Ridley’s tone gets even drier. “Jane, at this point your husband has entered the country of Canada legally. We haven’t brought any formal charges yet. The DA is looking everything over and will likely issue the complaint first thing tomorrow. John will be indicted, but the United States has an extradition treaty with Canada — in most instances, they would not force John’s return until there’s—”

  “So they wouldn’t let my husband into the country because of a DUI from over ten years ago, but they won’t send him home if he’s committed a crime here?”

  “The DUI was a crime that was prosecuted, and there is dual criminality for that offense. He was punished here, but not there — that’s why he had to rehabilitate his admissibility. If dual criminality is found in this case by two or more years of incarceration — and it will be — then we notify the Minister of Justice and then there could be an extradition hearing. John will either hire a Canadian lawyer or have one appointed. There is a chance that such a hearing can be waived in the hope it leads to leniency or sympathy from U.S. prosecutors. A good lawyer will probably try to play that hand. This is the process.”

  The emotions churn and conflict. My husband appears to have simply boated over to Canada, but the only way he can be forced to return home is through a bunch of legal gobbledygook.

  There’s something else bothering me though: why hasn’t he phoned me? Why not reach out and tell me he’s there and he’s all right? Even if he did something horrible, the man I married was never so secretive.

  “Can we ask the Ontario police to screen him?”

  “Mental health? We can. I can ask. But I can’t—”

  “I know, you can’t force them.”

  “That’s right.” She pauses. “I know this must be difficult. We’re so close, yet—”

  “Is he okay? Is he sick? Was Border Patrol able to give you any more information?”

  “All I know is what I told you. A third party notified CBSA two days ago that they had entered Canadian waters and with them—”

  “But is that really all you have to do? Just pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, I’m coming in. Thanks.’”

  “The agent checks the status of the individuals, makes a determination. If they’re ineligible to enter the country, they’re turned around. If they don’t comply, a marine patrol intercepts them. In this case, both parties were deemed eligible for admission.”

  “And then that’s it.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about where they arrive?”

  “Port Milford was the destination CBSA was given.”

  “And was that verified? By someone at the port? Or cameras?”

  There’s mounting frustration visible in Ridley’s face. I can’t blame her; I’m being pushy. But it’s my husband, not hers. It’s the father of my children. While she seems like a good detective, I’m sure there’s part of her looking to make a big case, a boozy writer-turned-drug-thief who killed a man and fled for Canada. It’s within her sights, she can practically taste it, and I keep trying to take it away.

  “Port Milford was the destination given by the boaters,” she says. “It’s in Prince Edward County. That’s a fairly rural, touristy area known for its wines and beaches, not for its closed-circuit cameras.”

  I know a little about Prince Edward County, though I’ve never been. Henderson Harbor probably rides the same latitude line as Milford. John, with whomever he hired, must have made a due west trip across Lake Ontario. I need to look at a map but, if memory serves, he would’ve bypassed two large islands before crossing the international border. We talked about boating across the lake someday — we talked about a lot of things. And now he’s made the trip without us. As a murderer on the run.

  My God.

  “You never told me what you found out — Olympia.”

  “I didn’t? I’m sorry.” She flips through some more papers. “Among the many possibilities, I did look into Olympia & York, which was a massive Canadian-based international property development firm that went bankrupt in the early nineties. The company re-emerged as Olympia & York Properties Corporation. They still own properties all over the world, but there’s a concentration in Toronto, Canada.
Naturally I looked into it a bit more when we discovered John’s application to rehabilitate his admissibility, but I can’t find any connections to your husband or any members of that company or their shareholders or properties. The other pertinent findings were a bank called Olympia Trust and a law firm, Grazer and Olympia.”

  I think about it for a minute. “Are they nearby?”

  She gives me a look with half-lidded eyes. “Sorry?”

  “Are they close — is there either a branch for that bank or the law firm located on or near Prince Ed—”

  “Well, banking can be done remotely, of course. And the law firm? No. That’s located in Quebec City, so quite a ways away. But still not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  “That John contacted a lawyer ahead of time, before traveling over? With the expectation or maybe the concern that he’d be found out?”

  By you, by the way. You were the one to find the gun and call the cops and turn him in.

  Ridley is nodding. “I said that whatever happened between your husband and Carl Dixon could’ve been spontaneous, and that’s possible. This is all speculative, but, with the application to renew admissibility made in advance, together with this possible link to a law firm — and we’ll know more in the coming days if John hires someone from there — it supports a theory of premeditation. That John planned this out and executed his plan. That leads to a charge of murder in the first degree, the charge to include premeditation, and that’s what the DA will seek.”

  I feel dizzy with uncertainty, my armor cracked at last. “Do you think he did it?”

  Her eyes are cool, the compassion and sorrow long gone. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the evidence shows. And, Jane . . . there’s one last thing we need to consider.”

  There always is. I wait.

  “As we discussed, Dixon is connected to some dangerous people.”

  “You think someone might come for the money?”

  “Or they might want to get to John. And they might think the best way to do that is through you.”

  I’m already picturing the SUV as it sat up the road, windows dark, engine idling, its hidden occupants watching me.