Alex (6 page)
She was pretty, smiling, all dimples and dancing brown eyes and dark curls.
"Bitch," Ian murmured.
"Please call 888-55-KALEN if you have any information.
That's 888-55-KALEN."
Missing since April 1st.
And since her father was Jarrid Kalen, a man who could afford to do things like buy airtime on cable channels, the local news had latched on to her case at once.
The police had thrown a net twice as large as the one for Alex.
Ian hadn't heard anything else about his son until Alex's body was found the next week.
"God dammit, Jarrid," Ian said to the empty room.
The voiceover ended, and for a moment Silvia's face hung on the screen in awkward silence, smiling sweetly,
888-55-KALEN
quivering just above her eyes and
$100,000
beneath her chin.
"There are other kids who need help, you fucker.
Get off the fucking airwaves and let the other kids have a chance."
Silvia's face started to fade, but her dramatic departure was abruptly replaced by Vince Shlomi hawking the ShamWow.
"You can't just push
everyone out of your way because you're rich," Ian said.
"Alex was still alive, you fucker, he was
still alive
when you decided - !
"Or maybe you can.
I don't know.
Obviously you can.
You
did.
You decided fuck the Colmes kid, right?
Fuck him, he ain't rich."
Shlomi was soaking up spilled pop with an incredible towel that sold itself.
"
Fuck you!
" Ian roared.
His throat burned as if he'd vomited fire.
"
Fuck you!
You fucking son of a bitch!
"
He lurched to his feet, cast about for something to break, and grabbed a throw pillow.
It glanced dully off the wall when he threw it.
"Why don't you tell
him
to get over it?" he demanded, picturing Alina.
"Why aren't you calling fucking
Jarrid Kalen
everyday and telling
him
to get the fuck over it?
Why is it okay for him to look for his kid?"
Okay,
some part of Ian's mind said.
That's enough.
You're acting like a child.
"I bet his wife is still living at home.
I bet he can talk to her without her hanging up on him and slamming her door and looking at him like he's fucking...
going crazy.
"
He can afford to run ads, and they haven't found his daughter dead in a ravine.
If you were him, you'd run the ads too.
You wouldn't care about anyone else's kid but your own.
But that didn't matter.
All that mattered was that they had been looking for
Alex,
they had been looking for
Ian's son
until that son of a bitch had come along and -
"You'll find her, you shithead.
It's gonna kill you like it killed me.
I hope they find her in a ditch like they found Alex, with her face..."
But he couldn't finish that sentence.
When he realized that, the anger drained away.
It left him wasted and empty.
When had this happened to him?
Who the hell
was he?
His cell phone buzzed an alarm at 6:30 the next morning.
He slapped it quiet and fell back against the couch, his head throbbing.
Alex said, "Daddy, I'm dressed."
"Good," Ian murmured, his eyes shut.
"Did you brush your teeth and go potty?"
"Yes."
He sounded proud.
"Did you flush the toilet?"
"Yes.
Can I go play now?"
"For a little bit."
The sun streamed through a crack in the curtains.
The clock on the wall said 8:17.
"Shit!"
He leapt up, pounded into the bedroom.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
He fumbled his shirt buttons closed, pulled on boxers and socks.
His pants drawer was empty.
"Fuck."
Nothing in the dryer.
It was all towels.
He dug out a worn pair from the hamper, pulled them on, and grabbed his coat.
As he pulled out he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Alex in the house's front window, waving goodbye in a red turtleneck and jeans.
It was the same thing he'd done on the day he disappeared.
Ian's hands started shaking so badly he could barely keep a grip on the wheel.
He kept driving.
He wanted to get the house out of view.
When he rounded the corner, he pulled over.
His heart hammered like it was gasping for air.
Palpitations.
He'd never had them before, never read the definition, but he'd heard the word.
It described perfectly what was happening in his chest.
Jesus,
he thought like a whimper.
He closed his eyes, tried to breathe deeply, tried to calm down.
Jesus Christ.
Finally he was able to pull out his phone and call his boss.
He barely had the strength in his hands to press the keys.
"Ian?"
"Justin, I'm sorry, I overslept - last night I had my first counseling session with Alina and it didn't go well.
I'm on my way."
He sighed.
"Okay."
"I'm sorry."
"Ian, this really can't keep happening."
"I know.
I'm on my way."
"We'll talk about it when you get here."
Ian glanced into the rearview mirror.
He couldn't see the house.
"Okay."
He had expected some kind of reckoning: a final warning, if not a final dismissal.
Justin gave him neither, just the same tired bullshit.
On a different morning, Ian would've actually felt his opinion of the man drop.
Today, he didn't care.
"Ian, you look terrible."
Billi Swanson, kneeling at Sheila's desk to help her with some problem.
"Are you okay?"
Ian nodded.
"He looks like that every morning," Sheila scoffed, and glanced at the clock.
"Ten after nine.
New record for you, Colmes."
It didn't even get a rise out of him.
Something is wrong with me.
I need to get checked out.
He thought about the counseling sessions.
Wondered if they would help him.
"So, what do you think?" Sheila asked Billi.
"He obviously screwed something up pretty bad, but I'm not sure it's hardware.
Should I try to walk him through the system restore first?"
"Yeah," Billi said.
She was an ample woman, out of shape: levering herself back to her feet was a production.
She blew out a breath.
"If that doesn't work, shoot it up to tier two."
"Kay."
Ian listened to his computer grind through its morning ritual.
The screen flickered once and presented him with an image of himself, Alina, Derek, and Alex last Halloween.
Brown eyes, brown eyes, brown eyes, blue.
He had the weird little thought every time the screen appeared.
"Hey," Billi said, resting a hand on his desk.
"Everything okay?"
He glanced at her.
"Yeah.
Sorry."
She scoffed, waved his apology away.
"I don't care when you come in.
That's Justin's problem."
"I know."
He shrugged and lowered his voice.
"It's just hard not to feel like shit about it with..."
He nodded toward Sheila, who was working her best high-pitched
I really care
voice with her caller.
"Screw her," Billi whispered back.
"She ain't gonna be perfect forever."
Ian managed an amused snort.
"Really though.
How are you holding up?"
He debated how much to say.
Billi was cool; probably the only person at Smartlink he even trusted.
"Not well," he admitted.
"Couldn't get to sleep last night.
Passed out on the couch.
I set my cell alarm but it must not have gone off."
"I'm telling you, look at FMLA."
He rubbed his head.
"Yeah."
"Seriously.
If Kal can take six weeks for depression - and I'm pretty sure that was all bullshit - you can sure as hell take some time to get level.
You have a lot going on."
He looked at her.
"For what, though?
I don't need medical leave.
I'm not sick."
"That didn't stop Kal.
Talk to a doctor, tell them what's going on.
You know, the stuff you
don't
tell me."
He double-clicked the little phone icon and positioned his headset.
"Really nothing to tell."
My son died.
I saw him buried, and now I see him in the window.
"You're grieving."
Billi tapped her temple.
"It's
mental.
"
He had a microwave meal for supper, one of those salisbury steak deals.
He ate it in the living room, watching a Law & Order rerun.
He'd tried sitcoms, reality, the news, The Daily Show.
Only Law & Order and maybe the occasional infomercial really let him escape.
The show was weirdly comforting.
They didn't always catch the bad guy, but they usually did.
The cops on Law & Order would never let themselves get diverted from something important (a kidnapping) by a sudden high-profile case (a rich girl's kidnapping).
They had too much integrity.
Of course, they didn't handle kidnappings, usually.
That was the other Law & Order show, SVU.
Ian couldn't watch that one.
He threw the plastic tray in the garbage in the kitchen.
He was fighting hard not to let the house go to shit.
One day, a few weeks after Alina had left, he'd come home from work and recognized the growing pile of dirty dishes and old pop cans in the living room as the sign of a man sinking back into bachelorhood.
He'd gone on a rampage of cleaning that night.
His life was falling apart, but he didn't have to let the seams show.
Alex was sitting on the couch when he got back to the living room.
"Daddy, will you play hide and seek with me?"
The couch was too high for him, so he was kicking his legs over the side.
Ian stopped short, felt a familiar pang like his chest was getting wrung dry.
That's how I'll know I've lost it,
he suddenly realized.
When I stop getting surprised.
When I expect to see him.
That's how I'll know.
He approached the couch carefully, picked up the remote and muted Detective Green's wry dialogue.
Alex looked up - he'd been watching the TV when he spoke first - and smiled.
"Daddy, can we play hide and seek?"
Ian knelt in front of his son.
He wanted to take his hands, like he'd used to when they had to have a
serious talk.
But it seemed like every time he touched him, Alex disappeared.
"Alex, listen, okay?"
