The Cantor Dimension (5 page)

"I guess so."

"You guess so? Don't you know?"

"Hey look, I don't go prying into people's private business asking about their money and all."

"According to your own statement, Max isn't just 'people' - he's your best friend and best friends usually know what each other does for a living. Don't you think he lives rather well for a man who has no apparent source of income?"

Brody became angry again, emotions flooding through him as they would a small child: mercurial, changeable, fleeting. "Look, Max is a good guy and if he's missing it means something bad must have happened to him. He doesn't go around causing trouble and however he earns his living, I'm sure it's legit. He isn't one of
those
kinds of guys."

The officer put his hand up in a gesture of peace. "Hey, hey, I'm sorry! Take it easy! I was just asking. I didn't mean to imply anything. We're on the same side, remember? If Max was kidnapped, we'd want to find him before something really bad happened to him, right? His landlady claimed to hear a violent fight so he could be in serious danger. Or like you said, he could be in one of those countries where they chop off your head..."

"What do you mean about a violent fight?"

The officer frowned. "Max's landlady heard a violent-sounding fight coming from his apartment, and then silence. She was concerned so she called us. That's why we're looking for Max, to make sure nothing bad happened to him."

As quickly as the anger had come it faded away again, replaced with the chill of fear. "Oh man, we need to find him! Was his car in the parking lot?"

"Mr. Myers, you know we can't discuss active cases except to get information to help us solve it. If you think of anything else that might help us, here's my card. Right now we've got some other leads to follow so if you'll excuse us, we'll get to work trying to find your friend."

The officers got up to leave knowing that it wasn't the time to intimidate this kid. They'd set the perfect stage for Brody to come clean about everything he knew; now it was time to let him simmer. It was obvious that Brody wasn't going to tell them any more for the moment so there was no sense in badgering him... yet. Better to leave him thinking that the police were his friends. He'd crack pretty soon, that much was evident. They could afford to wait.

Officer Hartley smiled, "Well, I can't say you've been a big help. You obviously don't know anything that would help Max. I'm sure you've done your best to help us find him so that nothing bad happens to him. We'll check out the articles and maybe they'll give us a clue. In the meantime, I want you to think hard. Often people know important things and just don't realize it. Remember this: All of us want the same thing. All of us want to find Max."

After they left the officers laughed at how easily they'd been able to play Brody using his fears of what can happen to Americans in foreign countries and the whole fabrication his landlady had cooked up. It was a genius move and they were fully confident that if he knew anything else, he'd volunteer it before long. They'd caught on to the landlady's trick almost immediately. She'd harped so much on his owing rent that it was obvious that rent was her primary focus, and when she admitted she didn't have the key that clinched it. They knew they'd been had to satisfy her curiosity.

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Ellen woke to find herself huddled in a tattered brown easy chair by the window next to the phone. The early morning sunlight reflected off the icicles hanging from the eaves, shooting bright white light straight into her eyes. She squinted and wondered why she hadn't pulled out the sofa bed last night. She grimaced as she sat up. Her muscles were sore and cramped and she nearly fell over when she tried to stand. Her foot was numb.

She realized that she'd forgotten to turn off the Christmas lights that adorned the tree and framed the apartment's only window. She scowled, mentally ticking off the extra pennies this would add to her electric bill. She looked around the tiny apartment which was decorated for optimum Christmas cheer in spite of its small size.

Ellen lived in a second floor studio apartment located just outside of Fairport, about twelve miles east of Rochester. The front door opened into a small foyer facing a double closet. The closet had mirrored doors which were covered with Christmas cards. They were the same doors she'd thrown the shoes at the night before. A long crack bisected the mirror and several Christmas cards lay on the floor where they had fallen.

To the left of the closet was the bathroom and to the right was the living area which doubled as a bedroom. At the far end of the living area was a doorway that led to the kitchen. The kitchen stood back to back with the bathroom creating a perfect square.

Ellen hobbled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She needed a good stiff shot of caffeine to clear the fuzziness out of her head. Why hadn't the police called her back last night? She tried Pat's number and it just rang and rang, so she called the police to see if they'd checked on Pat. A chirpy girl answered.

"Desk Sergeant D'Amico, can I help you?"

"My name's Ellen Beamon. I called 911 last night about Pat Phillips and nobody ever called me back. Is she okay? What did they find? What's going on? Why didn't they call me back?" Ellen figured if they'd found something horrible they would have called Pat's parents, not Ellen. If Pat were okay, she'd have been mad enough to call Ellen herself and give her an earful. Pat Phillips was a feisty package every which way you looked at her.

The chirpy voice interrupted her thoughts. "Please hold and I'll check for you. What was that name again?"

"Pat. Pat Phillips."

"And your name?"

"Ellen Beamon."

"Just a moment please..."

Englebert Humperdinck's voice came on the line singing
After the Lovin'
. The minutes ticked by and she wondered if the desk sergeant had forgotten about her. Ellen felt a cold chill. She wasn't sure if it was fear, or the morning sun highlighting the room with a stark coldness.

In the wintertime the sunlight made the apartment feel somehow colder, not like the cozy feeling one got in the evening with the Christmas lights twinkling cheerfully and your world limited to what you saw within your four walls. Dim light softened everything - sunlight exposed every worn thread. The chirpy voice broke into her thoughts.

"Hello, m'am?"

"Yes?"

"We did check it out and you must have made a mistake. A Michael Potter lives at that address. We even checked with the landlord this morning. No Pat Phillips has ever resided there."

"You checked 1830 Highland Ave., Apartment 3?"

"Yes, m'am, we checked it quite thoroughly. There's no record of a Pat Phillips at that address or phone number, nor has there ever been."

"Okay well... thank you." Ellen hung up the phone not knowing what else to say. Maybe Pat had rented the apartment under this Michael Potter's name and had something going on that Ellen didn't know about. It was unlikely that Pat would keep such a secret but there had to be an explanation. Ellen researched the phone number for herself and there was no record for a Patricia Phillips. There was, however, a listing for Michael Potter at 555-0126. Then Ellen remembered that she'd seen Pat's phone bills. The phone
was
listed under Pat's name! Ellen was sure of it, so why were the police claiming otherwise? They must have made a mistake.

Ellen wondered how to get Pat on the phone. Maybe Pat would answer if her mother were to call. Ellen dialed Pat's mother, Norma. A man's voice answered. He sounded Mexican.

"Allo?"

"Hello. May I speak with Norma Phillips, please?"

"Oooo?"

"Norma Phillips."

"You got de wrong number, lady." He hung up before she could reply.

Ellen knew Pat's parents had a listed phone number. They were old school, growing up during the days of party lines when you shared a phone line with your neighbors. If your neighbor was on the phone, you could pick up the phone and listen in, or even butt in and turn it into a three-way conversation.

Having a listed number meant you'd be in the phone book. She riffled through the phone book and found several listings for Fred Phillips, Pat's father. None of them were at the right address. She dialed information, wincing as she mentally added up the charges. Information wasn't free anymore.

"May I have the number for Fred Phillips on Farmington Road, please?"

"One moment, please..." The operator came back almost instantly. "I'm sorry, we have no listing for a Fred Phillips on that street."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We have several listings for a Fred Phillips but none on Farmington Road."

"Well how about a Fred and Norma Phillips on any road? Maybe they moved."

"No... no listing for a Fred and Norma Phillips. We have a Fred and Connie, Fred and Jeanne, Fred and Nancy..."

"No, but thank you anyway." Slowly she hung up. The morning was taking on an unreal quality like something out of a
Twilight Zone
episode. One by one she called every Fred Phillips in the phone book. She knew Pat's father quite well as she and Pat had grown up together. She finally hit pay dirt under Fred Phillips on East Avenue. She recognized his voice instantly.

"Mr. Phillips! Hi, this is Ellen. Boy, am I glad to talk to you!"

"Ellen? Ellen who?"

"Ellen, Pat's friend. Pat and I had dinner at your house a week ago Sunday, remember? Ellen? The girl you used to tease about her fiery red pigtails?"

"Who is Pat?"

Ellen hesitated a brief moment. This wasn't making any sense. "Aren't you the Fred Phillips who crushed his knee in a car accident? You work for Kodak, right? And your mother went on a holiday to Kent County, England to research her family tree, which is where she met your father? Right?"

"Yes, that's right. Sounds like you've got the right Fred Phillips, but who's this Pat?"

"Pat is your daughter," Ellen whispered, clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip of fear.

"No, I don't have a daughter. In fact, I've never had any children. My wife couldn't."

"Your wife! What's her name?"

"Jeanne."

"What happened to Norma? You married Norma! She was your high school sweetheart! I was just at your house! And you were married to Norma! You've always been married to Norma!" Ellen was beginning to panic.

"No, my high school sweetheart's name was Marjorie but we never married. I met Jeanne and she became my wife. I'm sorry, miss, but someone gave you your facts wrong."

Ellen had made no mistake. This was Pat's father - Kent County, the car accident, Kodak, his voice... there couldn't be two like that. This whole scene was very, very wrong. "Thank you anyway, Mr. Phillips. I'm sorry to have bothered you." Slowly, she hung up the phone.

Ellen sat stunned, phone clutched in her lap, her mind retreating into long lost memories. The sun moved a few degrees higher in the sky. People drove past her window on their way to church. Off in the distance a clock tower chimed but Ellen didn't hear it - she was focused inward remembering the crazy stories she had heard as a child...

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The next day brought a flurry of activity in the search for Eric. A missing person's case was highly unusual for this sleepy little precinct that oversaw a town of a thousand people. Every police officer on staff was dispatched to talk to neighbors and interview friends and family. Chief Hunsinger had quickly ruled out the possibility that Eric had left voluntarily. His friends had all stated that Eric would never have willingly left his truck in the condition that they'd found it.

Neighbors told bizarre stories that left Chief Hunsinger with a throbbing headache. Denny Farnsworth, a middle-aged recluse who owned the farm two miles to the west of the Weissmuller's, offered the most descriptive account.

"It was twilight and I was just settin' down to supper. The horses started carrying on and I thought mebbe a cat had come creeping 'round again. You remember a few years back when everybody's livestock took to disappearing and it turned out to be one of them mountain cats? Some folks claimed it came clear up from Shawnee and that a famine had forced the big cats out into the open thataway." Denny shook his head ruefully and continued.

"So I went outside to see what was bothering the horses. I took my twelve-gauge with me. I was gonna kill me a cat if need be, when all of a sudden the sky lit up like the Fourth of July. There was lightning shooting across the sky in all different colors. Red, yellow, orange, purple, green - every color you could think of was flashing across the sky. I'd never seen anything like it! Then just as quick as it started, it stopped again. The horses quieted down and so did the other animals. They was all up in arms until the lightning stopped, then they all calmed down and went back about their business. I figured if they wasn't worried no more then I shouldn't ought to be neither so I went back inside and et my dinner."

The official report listed
aurora borealis
as the cause of the lights although nowhere in recorded history had there been an incident of aurora borealis seen in this part of the country. Chief Hunsinger figured it was the only possible explanation. He was a logical man and all incidents, regardless of how bizarre, could be explained rationally.

That afternoon Chief Hunsinger drove up to the Starnes' farm arriving precisely at 4:00 p.m. The farmhouse sat a half mile off the main road and the driveway was long and rutted with potholes. A small copse of twisted trees crouched behind the farmhouse and the area was perpetually wet, creating a bubbling mudhole. The local farmers compared the trees to witches hovering over a bubbling cauldron. Consequently they were called the
witch-trees
by the townspeople.

The trees did bear a striking resemblance to witches, Chief Hunsinger noted. He found Mark already there waiting, nervous and fidgety as he'd been the night before. An eerie silence hung over the farm. Even the birds and crickets avoided the Starnes' farm though nobody could explain why except to say that the farm was haunted. The place gave Chief Hunsinger the creeps and his tone bristled with tension. "So what's this you've got to tell me? Do you have some information?"