Songs for the Missing (12 page)

She was being held underground against her will. The caller could see a white house, near running water. The name of the road started with the letter M, or N.

“Help . . . me,” another teenager croaked.

Then there were the hang-ups, dozens of them, some in the middle of the night. They leaned close to the machine, listening through the layer of tape hiss for any hint that it might be Kim.

Competing with the tipline were the rumors volunteers felt obligated to share, as if to protect them from the latest gossip by keeping them up to date. Saturday there’d been whispers of a cloth doll stuffed with hair hung from a tree. Sunday’s favorite was a bloody sneaker, supposedly recovered in a search of the neighborhood. In later variations the shoe was a man’s, found stuck in the mud of a creekbed deep in the woods. Out of a sense of completeness more than anything, they kept a log of these.

The website had its own guestbook in which visitors left messages. A few well-wishers they knew, but a surprising number were from out-of-state or even overseas. There was serious interest in Finland and India. Most of the entries were outpourings of support, welcome prayers and inspirational homilies.
With God’s help, miracles can happen.
More upsetting were posts that began
In 1987 I lost my son in a hunting accident
or
My two golden retrievers were missing for three days a few years ago
or
I’ve never met Kim, but after reading your site I feel like I know her.
Predictably, their appeal for help had drawn a large audience of armchair detectives, playing at solving the case as if it were a game. One lengthy string debated the problems with Kim driving her car off a bridge. Another connected her to three other disappearances near I-90 over the last decade, all involving young women with dark hair.

They kept as much of this speculation from Lindsay as they could, knowing what their own imaginations had done with it. Ever since Fran had appeared on TV the sheer volume was confusing.

Not all the tips were anonymous or far-fetched. A Geneva woman named Anna Fyfield thought she’d seen Kim’s car ahead of her at a Wendy’s drive-thru late Wednesday night. It fit the timeline. The detective said they were following up on it, but like so many of his promises, it was impossible to verify.

A doctor from down the county treated a man who claimed his dog had nipped him, though the bite marks on his wrist were clearly human.

A man driving north on Route 7 Wednesday afternoon saw a blue car traveling southbound pick up a hitchhiker carrying an army-style duffel bag.

It was hard not to attach some hope to these scraps, especially after the weekend’s searches turned up nothing. Even tougher to gauge were the detective’s assurances that the police were pursuing several persons of interest he couldn’t discuss. They didn’t have enough faith in him to buy this outright, yet they desperately wanted to, and hedged and second-guessed themselves until they didn’t know what to believe.

Hello, My Name Is

His cell went off in the dark—
Brass monkey, that funky monkey
—hauling J.P. up from sleep, making him slap at his nightstand.

She’d never returned his last call. Now every time his phone rang he thought it was her, so that he was continually disappointed. He’d come to hate his ringtone, but was too superstitious to change it, as if he’d be deleting her.

He flipped the cover open and for a second the blue light blinded him. It was Nina. What time was it?

“One thirty,” she said.

“I just got to sleep.”

“Sorry. Listen, I need to ask you something.”

“What?” He was tired of this shit. He knew what she was doing, and while he agreed that it was too late to say anything, it still bothered him. He wanted her to stop. He wanted to tell her to worry about herself.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I need to know if you’re ready in case what I think is going to happen happens.”

“What’s up?”

“The cops just talked to Kevin and Doug-o. They were asking about Wooze.”

“Fuck.”

“I figured I’d better tell you.”

“Thanks.” A part of him should have been relieved, but his mind was following the logical branches.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and left him holding the phone.

He was tempted to speed-dial Kim, as he had every night since she’d disappeared, just to hear her outgoing message, but closed the cover and lay back, wide awake. He didn’t blame Nina. He’d known from the beginning what the right decision was, and out of fear or selfishness he hadn’t been able to make it. Now he was done. He’d tell them the truth and take his punishment.

The problem with this solution was that it only worked when he was alone in the dark. Eating breakfast with his mother or helping Kim’s dad stack flats of bottled water, he understood why he lied. Even now he hoped his mistakes would go away and not harm them. He could bear his own self-loathing. To confess would be to lose everything.

He’d gotten time off so he could devote himself to the search. He and Kim’s dad and Lindsay were the first ones at the church besides Father John, their cars parked side-by-side on the newly lined tarmac. The stone facade with its square belltower and lancet windows had recently been sandblasted; without its weeping coat of soot it looked less intimidating. Landscapers had shaved the hedges by the front entrance into smooth lobes. The doors were so heavy he had to help Lindsay open one. Inside, the stairs were marble, the banisters polished brass. The air smelled of candles and old books and dust. His mother wasn’t religious but had friends who went to Lakeview. “Respectable folk,” she joked. The few times he’d been inside as a child were for carnivals and pancake suppers in the same high-windowed parish hall they were using as a command center. When Kim’s dad left them to go downstairs and get the weather, he felt like an intruder.

The first thing they had to do was fill a cooler for each team with bottled water and ice. Like everything else, the coolers were donated, identical except the numbers magic-markered on the lids.

“How many do we need?” Lindsay asked.

Saturday they’d had over two hundred volunteers and ran out of water. Sunday they had a hundred and fifty. Each team was made up of ten volunteers plus a leader, usually one of Kim’s dad’s fellow coaches or Kim’s old teachers. It was Monday and a lot of people would probably go back to work.

“I don’t know,” he said, “ten?”

It was his call—she refused to make decisions. She skidded a cooler over to the flats while he lifted a fifty-pound bag of ice out of the freezer and dropped it on the floor—once, twice—then tore it open and poured the jagged chunks over the bottles. By the time he lugged the cooler around the counter to Team One’s table, she had another ready.

Though there was an old boom box on the shelf above the deep double sink, they worked in silence. “Shit,” Lindsay said when a water got away from her. “Come on,” he said when a bag was being stubborn. Short of conversation, these stray words were a way of acknowledging each other, offering the possibility that they might talk.

Like Kim’s dad, she was a mystery to J.P. He knew only Kim’s view of her—nerdy and immature, the snotty kid sister. She was slim and plain, and her ponytail made her look younger than she was. For the middle of July she was strikingly pale, as if she never left the house. She was quiet but attacked each job with the same intense concentration, and when she had nothing to do she folded her arms and watched people across the room, her head panning like a camera, lingering then moving off again to find new subjects. He thought it must be hard on her, not having her friends there. She’d mentioned once that they weren’t old enough—not to complain, just to explain why she was by herself, as if she was afraid he’d think she didn’t have any.

They were both slowing down.

“How many’s that?” she asked.

“This’ll be eight.” He picked up a bag, dropped it and squatted there, thinking this might be his best chance. Once they broke into teams she’d go off with her dad. He waited until she scraped the cooler across the floor to him, then froze. He’d never studied her so closely, and was surprised to find her eyes were the same gray green as Kim’s.

“What?” she said.

“I was going to ask if you heard anything new.”

“Good luck. They don’t tell me anything.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to tell.” Could he open his mouth without lying?

“That’s even better,” she said. “Thanks for cheering me up.”

“No problem.”

They finished the coolers and got the big coffee urn going, setting out the cups and stirrers and baskets of sugar packets and individually sealed creamers on the counter. The kitchen was cramped, and they juked to avoid each other, twisted sideways to brush by. On the surface it felt like work, but the hall and the empty tables wouldn’t let him forget why they were there.

Kim’s dad returned with Father John, who waved to them. J.P. waved back with Lindsay as if he were a regular member of the congregation.

The early birds were already drinking their coffees when Nina arrived with an armload of doughnut boxes. There were a few more in the car, she said—a cue for J.P. to come outside and help her.

“Where’s Hinch?” he asked in the stairwell.

“He has to work lunch. His boss is being a dick.”

“What about Marnie?”

“She said she’d come by later.”

Outside, the day was bright and cloudless, the lake a deep blue, the horizon a sharp dividing line.

A car was turning into the lot. Compared to the weekend it was empty. In the far corner the buses and vans waited in the shade.

Nina lifted the hatchback. There were only four more boxes. They’d slid around while she was driving and wrecked against the seats. They both leaned in, reaching.

“Hear anything else?” he asked.

“No.”

“Did Hinch try calling him?” Because he should be warned, at least. Not that it would save them.

“Probably not the smartest idea right now.”

“Right.”

They’d given up any pretense of working and stood hunched over the boxes, looking at each other. She’d kissed him once at a party and he’d kissed her back, leaving him confused and guilty. This was another secret bond he didn’t want.

“Forget all the little shit, okay?” she said. “Think about Kim.”

“I am,” he said defensively, because she was right. He’d spent his whole life thinking of himself. No matter what happened, that had to change. He just didn’t see how.

Back inside he manned the sign-in desk with Lindsay, checking driver’s licenses and making nametags for people like Mr. Hedrick who’d been searching beside them all weekend. During a lull they played tic-tac-toe until they acknowledged the other wasn’t going to make a mistake. Lindsay sniffed her Sharpie, crossed her eyes and pretended to fall over. She made him show her his license before she signed him in, then did his nametag, blowing on the wet ink. She peeled the sticker from the backing and held it out to him on a fingertip.

Slowly the volunteers rolled in. There was no line. “Mornin’,” they said, and handed over their IDs like it was normal. He understood that organization was important, but so much of it was redundant. By now the regulars were familiar. It was silly to take pictures of the teams before they went out, as if someone might disappear and not be missed.

It would be hard to lose anyone from today’s group. By eight forty only the first three tables were filled, and most of them were seniors—a problem, since Kim’s dad and Mr. Hedrick had targeted the hills on the far side of the interstate. They held off starting the briefing, highlighting a different set of maps. J.P. couldn’t see what part of the county they’d shaded. He figured they’d keep sweeping south along 7, filling in the grid block by block, hopscotching their way to Wooze’s place.

Around nine Elise finally showed up, lamely apologizing for Sam. “Where is everybody?”

“I don’t know,” J.P. said. “Maybe they’re out looking for Sam.”

The total turnout was thirty-seven. Kim’s dad rolled over the dry-erase board with the master map and split them into three teams, hand-picking one so all the younger volunteers would be together.

Teams One and Two would concentrate on the farms along the westbound lanes of the interstate. The land was private, and while the owners had granted them permission to search, they still needed to be careful. If they ran into any trouble they should immediately advise their team leaders, who should immediately advise the command center. He held up one walkie-talkie and gave it to Mr. Hedrick, held up another and gave it to Mr. Riggio.

Team Three, which included J.P., Nina, Elise and Lindsay, would do the hills by Route 7 as planned. The same guidelines applied. They might want to search these areas again, so if there was a problem, play it safe and call. He held up the last walkie-talkie and came over to their table as if to take charge, and then, before J.P. could protest, slid the walkie-talkie across the map so he had to catch it.

He’d been there every day, and knew the routine. Kim’s dad stood beside him while he checked off the roster, assigning everyone their numbers. He passed a flyer around and reminded them not to touch or move any evidence. The terrain was moderate to difficult, the high would be in the mid-eighties, so they needed to stay hydrated. Lunch was at one, sandwiches, chips and cookies from Subway. They’d search until sunset. Dinner would be available here afterward. Any questions?

No, they were all veterans. They stood so Kim’s dad could take their picture.

Before they left to get on the buses, Father John led them in prayer. Holding hands with Kim’s dad on one side and Lindsay on the other, J.P. wondered why he’d been surprised. From the beginning he’d been trying to make himself indispensable—something he’d failed to do with Kim. Now that he’d succeeded, he thought it was a mistake, and too late to take back. While his pride told him this responsibility was an honor, he was afraid the more they relied on him, the more, eventually, they would hate him, whether any of it was his fault or not.