Doubleback: A Novel (6 page)

How had Hanover ended up a tour guide flunky? He had to be pushing fifty, a little old for PR. Was he a ne’er do well son-in-law or nephew? The guy they couldn’t fire? Maybe they couldn’t find any other place for him.

He prattled on about state-of-the-art vats and silos while we walked back to the office. He introduced us to the plant manager, a taciturn man with a bulbous nose and gray stubble, who answered my questions in monosyllables. Hanover seemed to realize the guy might not be a great interview and offered to do it himself.

“We can decide that later,” I said, trying to be politic.

“Anything I can do, just ask.” Hanover rubbed his hands together again. “Well, I just don’t know when I’ve had a better time on a tour. You are certainly the most charming thing that’s been around here for a while.”

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls.”

•   •   •

A few minutes later we were driving gratefully back upstate through tiny towns like Funks Grove and Shirley. We’d skipped lunch, and both of us were famished, so we stopped at a place whose outdoor sign advertised “home cooking.” The menu was on a board above the counter; it featured sandwiches on one side, hot meals on the other, and a Pepsi logo in the middle. Mac went for the pork chops. A tired-looking woman told him it would take ten minutes. Mac said he’d wait and smiled. She smiled back, but when I ordered a tuna sandwich, her smile faded and she pursed her lips. Did I insult her by not ordering a hot meal? Or was she just flirting with Mac?

“I’ll probably need to bring in some extra crew to handle the lighting, you know,” Mac said as we sat at a small, grimy table.

“Why can’t we just go with available light? Everything at the plant sparkles.”

“Not inside. And what if it’s an overcast day?”

“I suppose.”

“I’ll also bring in a dolly to get some shots moving around all those pipes and tanks.”

“What about a steady-cam?”

“We’ll be okay without it. Nothing really shakes that much, except the rail car, and that’ll be somewhat contained. But that plant manager wouldn’t be my first choice for an interview. I’d rather go with your new boyfriend.”

I shuddered. “Unfortunately, he’s the right guy. The plant manager, I mean. Why don’t we give him a shot, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll use Hanover.” Our meals came, and I took a bite of my sandwich. It was surprisingly good. “There’s a chance we won’t have to use either of them. We’re going to interview the CEO of Voss-Peterson. Maybe he can give us enough for a voice-over.”

“Doubtful.” Mac dug into his pork chops. I generally don’t eat pork, but the aroma from whatever seasonings they used was seductive. I looked over longingly. He slid his plate closer to his side of the table. I sighed and went back to my sandwich.

We were back in the van heading north on back roads rather than Interstate 55 when we passed a field with a barbed-wire fence. A sign on the fence said “Restricted Area—No Unauthorized Personnel.”

“That’s weird,” I said.

“What?”

“The sign. You don’t see that kind of thing in farm country.”

Mac slowed so he could take a look, but a berm at the edge of the field obstructed our view.

“What do you think is back there?” I asked.

“Who knows?”

“Maybe it’s some top-secret agricultural facility,” I said. “Maybe Voss-Peterson has a super-secret program where they’re cloning animals.”

“In central Illinois?”

The fence stretched about half a mile, a long distance even for the countryside. Beyond it was nothing for another half-mile except a field of trees and prairie grass. “With my luck, they’re probably cloning Fred Hanovers.”

That got a smile from Mac.

We were just turning onto the interstate when the opening bars of “Honky Tonk Woman” rang out. Thanks to Rachel, I have personalized ring tones for everyone who calls my cell. Rachel claimed the Stones tune, based on her adoration of Keith Richards. I fished the phone out of my bag.

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi, Mom. I wanted to tell you I’m going to Iowa for the Fourth of July.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m driving with Becky. We’re gonna spend the weekend there.”

“Where will you stay?”

“At Becky’s apartment.”

“We must have a bad connection. For a minute I thought you said ‘apartment.’ You mean ‘dorm room,’ right?”

“Mother, you are so retro. Everyone lives in an apartment now.”

“You’re not everyone. And since the condom incident—”

“I told you it wasn’t me. It was Mary.”

A stony silence ensued. Then, “It’s okay, Mom.” Rachel’s voice was suddenly honey. “I know how much you’re gonna miss me next year. By the way, Luke called. He said to tell you he’s coming this weekend. So, you see, it’ll all work out. You guys can have some ‘private time.’”

I wondered if she could sense me blushing.

“And, oh... I almost forgot. The woman whose kid was kidnapped called too.”

I straightened up. “Christine Messenger?”

“She wanted you to call her right away. She said it was important.”

chapter
7

A
stack of storm clouds battled the setting sun as Georgia drove to Christine Messenger’s house Thursday evening. Despite the weather, neighborhood kids were still outside pedaling furiously on tricycles, bikes, and toy cars. Two girls glided down the sidewalk on skates. Carefree shouts echoed up and down the street. The cheerful scene tugged at her, but she pushed it away. It was all an illusion. Lurking beneath the surface of the suburbs were demons every bit as dangerous as those in the back alleys of Chicago.

Ellie Foreman was waiting outside the Messenger house, waving away mosquitoes. She looked worried. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Georgia. I appreciate it.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she needed help fast. That something bad had happened. She sounded terrified.”

Georgia raised her eyebrows. She wouldn’t have pegged Messenger as the type to panic.

“Look,” Foreman slid her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I promised my family I wouldn’t get involved. But—if there is something
you
can do...” her voice trailed off. “Of course, that’s your decision.”

Georgia hesitated. “I’m not sure I’d take the case.”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing about this makes any sense.”

“You mean the kidnapping?”

Georgia nodded. “We don’t have the whole story, you know that. And—I don’t trust her.”

“Well, maybe that’s why she called me. Look, I know you have more pressing things to do, Georgia, but I—”

Georgia cut her off. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Christine Messenger answered the door. If anything, she looked worse than the first time they’d met. Her skin was ashen, her expression haggard, and her hair looked like she’d been pulling at it. “Thank you for coming—again.”

“It’s okay,” Foreman said soothingly. “We’re glad you called.”

Georgia kept her mouth shut.

Christine led them into the living room. The approaching storm had lengthened the shadows, and the room looked dark and brooding. She turned on some lamps. “Molly’s in the kitchen on her computer,” she said. “I keep it there so I can keep an eye on what she’s surfing.”

Georgia sat on a couch upholstered in blue brocade. Foreman took a matching armchair. Christine put herself in another chair and gripped the arms. Her knuckles were white.

“Something horrible has happened.”

“What?” Foreman asked.

“I told you that I work at Midwest National Bank, right?”

“You’re the director of IT,” Georgia said.

“Right. Well, my boss is the COO. The Chief Operating Officer. He—he died this morning.”

Surprise streaked across Foreman’s face. “My god. What happened?”

“His car smashed into the back of a truck on the Eisenhower.”

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”

Christine swallowed. “The thing is, well, I don’t think it was an accident.”

Georgia leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he called me at home last night. He told me we had to talk first thing this morning. That it was critical. So I went in early, but he never showed up. And then, when I heard about the accident, well, it seemed too coincidental. I think something else is going on, and I’m scared.”

“What do you mean ‘something else’?” Georgia asked.

“It just—well...” Messenger looked down at her hands.

“Do you think there’s a connection to Molly’s kidnapping?” Foreman cut in.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe.”

“What do you want us to do?” Foreman asked.

“I think I need protection. I—I feel vulnerable.” She looked at Georgia.

Georgia blew out a breath. “Lady, until you come clean about what happened to Molly, we—I can’t do anything.”

“What do you mean, ‘come clean’?” She looked over, but her face didn’t register much.

Georgia frowned. “You may think you pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, but this—situation—never made any sense. First off, there’s no proof Molly was ever actually abducted. You won’t let the cops talk to her, and—”

A suspicious look came over Messenger. “How do you know that?”

“That’s not important. What is important is that I don’t know who you are and why you’re doing this. For all I know, you are a sick woman who needs help.”

Messenger drew herself up. “You have no right to talk to me like this.”

“That may be,” Georgia said. “But you have no right to expect me to help you. I’m a private investigator, not a baby-sitter. Hire yourself a bodyguard. As for your boss...” she paused. “Maybe he was on his cell and wasn’t paying attention.”

Georgia got up and started toward the door. She avoided looking at Foreman; she knew Foreman would be upset, but she knew she was right. The whole thing smelled. She was almost at the door when a little girl ran into the room.

“Mommy, Mommy... Guess what? I just got eight out of eight on a movie quiz! Come see, come see!” She grabbed her mother’s arm.

Christine Messenger’s countenance shifted from anguish to smiles so quickly Georgia couldn’t believe she was looking at the same woman. “You did? What quiz is that?”

“It was on the internet, and...”

The child stopped abruptly as if she’d just realized Georgia and Ellie were there. Georgia studied her. Her red-brown braids were tied with green ribbons. She had frank blue eyes, pale eyelashes, and a button nose. Freckles splayed across a round face, and rosy patches glowed on her arms and legs where she’d been out in the sun. She was wearing a pink tank top and green shorts, which she kept hitching up.

“Sorry, Mommy, I didn’t know you had company.” The way she emphasized the word made Georgia think Christine had instructed Molly never to interrupt when “company” was in the house. Georgia’s own mother, all Southern gentility and courtesy, had done the same thing. “A lady never interrupts,” she would say in the soft, lilting voice Georgia could almost remember. She looked away. She hadn’t seen her mother since she was twelve.

“Is it that movie quiz on Kids’ Facebook?” Foreman interjected.

The little girl’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know?”

“My daughter loved that website, too.” Foreman laughed.

“You have a daughter?” Molly asked eagerly. “How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

“Oh.” Molly looked crestfallen. Eighteen had to be tantamount to fifty in her mind. “I’m only eight.”

“I know.” Ellie looked at Messenger, but the woman made no move to introduce them. “Molly, I’m Ellie Foreman...” She gestured toward Georgia. “And this is Georgia Davis. We’re—friends with your Mom.”

“Georgia...” Molly turned to Georgia. “Like the state?”

Georgia nodded. “Ever hear of Georgia peaches?”

Molly looked unsure. “I don’t know.”

Ellie laughed. “Well, that’s just peachy. Just like Georgia.”

When Molly giggled, Georgia couldn’t help smiling.

•   •   •

“I’m still not sure what I can do, Ellie,” Georgia said.

They were outside a few minutes later. Night had fallen, and the street was now deserted. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of rain. Crickets chirred nervously.

“Then why’d you tell Chris you’d look into it?”

“It was the kid. She—” Georgia stopped, not exactly sure where she was going. Once Molly had skipped into the room, it was hard not to be taken with her. In fact, the girl had forced Georgia reassess the mother. If Christine had raised a kid like that, maybe she wasn’t such a train wreck.

“I get it,” Foreman said. “I know you have a thing for kids. Especially girls.”

Was it that obvious? She’d spent years building her shell, making sure people couldn’t ferret out her secrets. But Foreman knew more about her than most.

“Look, I admit,” Foreman went on, as if what she’d said was common knowledge and not even that significant, “the whole thing sounds weird, coming right after the kidnapping. But it’s clear Christine is scared. And I keep thinking what I would do if Rachel had been kidnapped.” She looked over at Georgia. “You know what I mean?”

Georgia cut in. “You’re forgetting something else.”

“What’s that?”

“The woman didn’t offer to pay me. I’m doing this on my own time and my own dime. Don’t expect much.”

Georgia was being hard. She had to be. Foreman might be led by a soft heart or the pursuit of justice, but Georgia couldn’t afford those impulses. She had to make a living.

Foreman’s tone cooled. “In that case, Georgia, just forget it. I can make a few calls. I know O’Malley, too.” She hiked her bag further up her shoulder and turned towards her Volvo.

Georgia watched her take a few steps, then called out, “Wait.”

Foreman spun around.

“O’Malley’s not going to know anything. The accident happened on the Eisenhower. It’s the Illinois State Police you need to talk to.”

Foreman cocked her head.

Georgia blew out a breath. “Shit. I’ll call around and see if there’s an accident report. But that’s it.”

Ellie smiled.

“And I probably won’t know anything for a few days. When there’s a fatal, they do a pretty thorough investigation.”