Last Call (18 page)

She left a slippery snail trail across the floor and down the porch steps and Bobcat said, “Fucking mess, will it ever end?” some vestige of humanity making him cringe at the sound of her head thumping each wooden tread. He dragged her into the dooryard and tossed the garbage bags on the ground, watching them fan out like a blank poker hand. Then he pulled down the visor and started the chainsaw.

As he bent to his work, the sun broke the horizon behind him.

––––––––

Tuesday, June 28

JIM SAT ALONE at a round table in a police interrogation room, clutching a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. The brew was pretty bad, bitter and strong, but he hadn’t slept a wink and now he was grateful for the mild caffeine buzz.

Startling him, Detective Boland came in with Sally in tow and Jim got to his feet, surprised and a little shocked to see her again after so many years, wishing now that it were under less trying circumstances. Boland hadn’t told him she was coming, but Jim knew the way a cop’s mind worked, always assuming guilt, looking for ways to trip people up. At first blush it diminished his opinion of the man, but then he realized the detective was only doing his job in the best way he knew how. Of course the parents would be suspects in a case like this, and of course a good cop would bring stress to the interrogation in whichever way he could. And Jim wasn’t kidding himself; whatever else Boland might be calling this little get together, it was an interrogation.

Though Sally looked shattered, she was still just as beautiful as he remembered her, and as she approached the table he held out his hand to her. Scowling, Sally said, “Don’t—touch me,” and Jim returned to his chair, stung, averting his gaze as she took a seat across from him. Boland offered her coffee and Sally said, “Can we just get this done?”

Boland said of course and set a small cardboard box on the table between them. Looking at Jim, he said, “These are the items that were found in your daughter’s—” and Sally said, “She’s
my
daughter, Detective Boland.”

“I apologize, Ms. West,” Boland said. “These are the things we found in your daughter’s car. We need to know what belongs to Trish and what—if anything—doesn’t. Anything you’ve never seen before could be evidence.”

He removed a stack of clear plastic baggies from the box, each of them sealed and affixed with a red evidence sticker. He handed the top one to Sally, who examined it—a pack of Juicy Fruit gum—and said, “I can’t be certain this exact one is hers, but it is her favorite flavor.” Nodding, Boland took it back and handed it to Jim, who concurred. Then he gave Sally the second bag and replaced the first one in the box.

They proceeded in this fashion until Sally said, “I’ve never seen this before,” and handed the bag back to Boland. The detective read the evidence sticker, saying, “It’s a piece of handmade jewelry, from a charm bracelet, probably, or a necklace. It was wedged down in the seat mechanism.” He handed it to Jim now, saying, “It got broken trying to free it up.”

Jim squinted at the two small but elaborate fragments, a carving of an animal of some kind, a cat maybe, or a squirrel. Some of the detail was missing along the edges of the break, which ran almost straight through the center of the item, but Jim could see that it was a fine piece of craftsmanship. It looked like it was made of ivory or maybe bone.

Boland said, “Could it belong to your daughter?”

“I’d have to say yes,” Sally said. “She loves stuff like that. She’s got a ton of it at home.”

Boland said, “One of our investigators will have to go through all that,” and Sally said, “Of course.”

Jim said, “Can I take this thing out?”

Boland said, “Sure,” and took the bag from him, breaking the seal and handing him the contents. “Do you recognize it?”

Jim said, “No, I’ve never seen it before. There’s just something...” He rubbed one of the broken halves between his fingertips, feeling the slightly oily texture of the fractured surface. It put him in mind of something, but he couldn’t narrow it down. After a moment he shook his head and handed the fragments back to Boland. “I guess it’s nothing,” he said. “It just seemed to ring a bell for a second there.”

“That’s alright,” Boland said, replacing the objects in the bag. “The car had three previous owners and we’ll be checking in with each of them as well. But if anything comes to you later on, either of you, please be sure to give me a call. In a case like this, every detail is important.”

They went through the last few bags without further query, either Jim, Sally or both able to verify that the items belonged to Trish.

When they were done, Boland said, “With your permission, we’d like to draw blood samples from you both before you leave. As you know, there was blood in the car; the DNA studies will help us determine if it was Trisha’s.”

Jim thought,
And exclude us as suspects.

Sally said, “Those other girls, Detective, the ones that disappeared. Do you think the same thing’s happened to my daughter? Do you think someone got her?”

Boland said, “It’s too early to say for certain, Ms. West. The staff at the restaurant don’t recall serving her, but hundreds of people go through that place every hour. We’ve subpoenaed their security footage and should have it in hand by the end of the day. Maybe we’ll find something there. Another possibility is the car was stolen somewhere en route and your daughter was never even at the restaurant.”

Jim almost told him the restaurant was her usual food stop en route from Sudbury, but decided to let him know later, in private. It was clear Sally was close to the breaking point and wanted only to get out of here.

Boland said, “I do need to ask you both—and I apologize for this in advance—but is there any chance your daughter was involved with illicit drugs or with anyone in that world?”

Sally was quick to deny it, but Jim said, “Dean, her boyfriend, was into all that about a year-and-a-half ago—”

Sally said, “Jesus Christ.”

“—but Trish broke it off with him as soon as she found out. Dean went into rehab that same week and he’s been my sponsor in the recovery program for the past year. No way he’s into that shit anymore.”

Boland said, “Thank you, Jim. We’ve got him coming in later today, and I’m assuming he’ll be forthcoming on the subject.”

Jim said, “He will.”

Boland said, “One last thing, then. Is there any chance Trish ran away? Any huge fight or disagreement she might have had with either of you? Any new boyfriends who might have lured her away?”

Jim said, “No way,” and Sally said, “Listen, Detective Boland, I understand why you’ve got to ask these questions, and I appreciate you being thorough. But let me assure you right now, once and for all, that my daughter is a
good
girl. She always has been. She’s bright, focused—she’s on her way to becoming a veterinarian, for Christ sake—so please, this instant, put all that horseshit out of your mind and just
find
my daughter, okay? Just find my little girl...”

Jim touched Sally’s arm, he couldn’t help himself, and now she turned on him like a jackal, striking his face and chest with her fists, Jim making no move to protect himself, Sally shouting, “I told you not to
touch
me, you junkie asshole.
This is all your
fault!”

Boland broke it up and led Sally out of the room. Through the open door Jim saw him hand her off to a female officer, who led her away to have her blood drawn. Sick in his guts, Jim only stood there, tasting blood on his lips.

Boland came back and led him to a chair, handing him a tissue for his bloody nose, saying, “That was a bad scene. I’m sorry.”

“I had it coming.”

“Still.”

“I’m okay,” Jim said. “I’m ready to have that blood drawn now.” Grinning, he held out the bloody tissue. “Unless this’ll do.”

Laughing, Boland said, “Sometimes all you
can
do is laugh,” and started for the door. He said, “I’ll have someone come get you for the blood work.” Then: “Oh, before I forget. Come with me, would you?”

Jim got up and followed the detective to his third floor office, a small angular space in a corner of the building. The walls were plastered with wanted posters and crime scene photos, the desk in the corner equally cluttered with official looking documents and computer equipment.

Boland reached into a tiny closet and came out with a vintage acoustic guitar, a big red ribbon tied around the rosewood neck. Jim knew right away who it was from. She was always talking about him getting back into music, wanting to hear him play.

Boland gave him the guitar, then took a square red envelope out of a desk drawer and handed that to him, too. He said, “This came with it.”

Jim leaned the guitar against the desk and opened the card, going straight to the inscription. In Trish’s elegant script, it read simply,
Congratulations, Dad. I am
so
proud of you!!!!
It was signed,
Your daughter. xxxooo

Heading for the door now, Boland said, “Why don’t you take a few minutes, Jim. Then we’ll get that blood work out of the way.”

Jim nodded as Boland left. He sat in the chair in front of the desk and picked up the guitar, a beautiful old Gibson Hummingbird, and strummed the open strings.
Have to tune ’er up
, he thought, and wept more violently than he’d ever imagined possible.

––––––––

Thursday, July 7

JIM THOUGHT,
SHIT
. Some rude bitch at the cop shop had put him on hold, an annoying disco tune thumping in his ear now.
Jesus Christ.

He rubbed his lips with a sweaty hand, feeling like he had that first week in treatment, the alcohol still leaving his system. The shakes had returned, not full-blown but still pretty bad, and the hunger was alive in him again. He needed
some
thing. He hadn’t been to an A.A. meeting in over a week, and in view of the situation, asking Dean to put on his sponsor hat right now seemed unforgivably self-centered. The poor kid was losing his mind, too.

A gruff male voice said: “Boland.”

Finally.
“Detective, it’s Jim Gamble. Do you have any news for me?”

“Nothing yet, Jim. We—”

“Shit, man, that’s not good enough. It’s been ten
days
. What are you people doing out there?”

“I understand your frustration, Jim,” Boland said, sounding distracted, “but believe me, we’re doing everything we can.”

Jim said, “Yeah, well I’m sick of waiting.” He cut the connection and called Dean, saying, “I need your car.”

“Sure,” Dean said. “What’s up?”

“I’m going out to look for her.”

“Give me an hour,” Dean said. “I’m coming with you.”

* * *

Dean arrived forty minutes later in his Beemer. Jim climbed in with an army surplus duffel bag and sat with it on his knees. Dean took the bag and tossed it on the back seat next to his own small suitcase. He said, “Where to?”

Jim showed him some photos of Trish. He said, “I thought we could start at the restaurant. Show her picture around. It’s a needle in a haystack, but I can’t sit around here any longer. I’m going out of my mind.”

“I hear that,” Dean said. “Let’s go find her.”

* * *

They were silent for most of the trip, each man immersed in his own dark thoughts. When they got to the restaurant Jim asked to see the manager, who turned out to be a decent guy with three daughters of his own. He led them to his office, a cramped, windowless space in the back next to the staff washroom, and had the employees file through one at a time to look at Trish’s picture. As it turned out, the majority of them hadn’t even been working that day, and the ones who were didn’t recall serving her. Everyone was polite and sympathetic, but like Jim had said at the outset, it was a needle in a haystack. They thanked the manager and gratefully accepted the free burgers, drinks and fries he offered to help them on their way.

They went to the gas bar next and Dean topped up the tank while Jim canvassed the staff; but again, no luck. They spent the next several hours checking every public place they could find—strip malls, convenience stores, gas stations—then had dinner at a greasy spoon and grabbed a few winks in the car behind a motel. The proprietor ran them off just before dawn, making a show of recording Dean’s license plate number and threatening to call the cops if he ever laid eyes on them again.

* * *

Shortly after sunup that morning, sixteen year old Jason Hanson said to his buddy Mike Zufelt, “Nice play, ass cramp. Now we’re lost.” Mike had veered off the woodlands trail about five klicks back, saying it was a short cut, and like an idiot Jason had followed. They were crawling along through dense underbrush now, the dirt bikes wanting to stall at such low speeds, and Jason was about to say screw it and double back when he spotted something odd in a nearby clearing.

He said, “Hey, man, check this out,” and accelerated into the clearing, seeing a bunch of green garbage bags hanging like weird fruit from the low branches of random trees around the thirty foot perimeter. The bags each looked about half full, and heavy, their contents creating smooth humps and sharp bulges in the plastic, stretching it close to the tearing point. And the whole area smelled bad, like rotten eggs.

Mike rolled up beside him now, saying, “What the hell is this?”

Jason walked his bike to the nearest bag and sliced it open with a pocket knife. Something fleshy and foul smelling slopped out and landed by his sneaker. He said, “Holy
shit
,” and did a quick scan of the area, trying to look everywhere at once. Then he toed his bike into gear and gunned the engine, almost losing control, debris from the forest floor spraying Mike in the face and chest. Jason took off at full throttle, screaming like a little girl.

Certain he was being fucked with, Mike scooted over for a closer look. Then he beat it the hell out of there, too, glancing back every few seconds to make sure that whoever had strung up those bags wasn’t following them.