The Coaster (16 page)

I was all up-to-date on current events by the time I had to leave to pick up the kids. As the line of parents' luxury SUVs moved slowly forward, I thought about Corny's missing vehicle. Normally I enjoy watching the rich young MILFs embracing their children after a long day of Pilates and yoga, but today I was too distracted for that. Somebody was going to come looking for Corny at some point and I had to find his transportation before they did.

Nick got to the car first and slipped in the backseat. “Hey, Nick. How was school?” Keeping it normal. Nothing to see here.

“Fine.” The answer he always gives. “Dad, can we go fishing when we get home?”

Fishing?
We hadn't fished in a month and he wants to fish today? I think he has some kind of sixth sense that makes him want to do whatever I would want to do the least, like fly a kite when I have a particularly evil hangover.

Obviously, I didn't want Nick anywhere near the pond. I pictured him reeling in a succession of Corny's personal belongings.
That's weird. A stocking cap and a watch? And this looks like a human ear.
“Not today, Buddy. I have some things to do on the farm.”

“What kind of things?”

“Oh, you know. Maintenance. Upkeep.”

I didn't really think he would buy it and he didn't. “Isn't that what we pay all those guys to do?”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you? But sometimes I have to help out when there's a lot to do. It's nothing fun, believe me.”

I think Nick was going to keep interrogating me but thankfully Emily opened the door and slid in next to him. I tried again and this time I knew I'd get a different response. “How was school, honey?”

“Oh, my gosh, Dad. We're doing an experiment on these two rats at school? To see what kind of food makes them grow better?” Emily speaks in a series of questions. “We're giving one rat junk food and the other one good food?”

I was happy to avoid any more questions from Nick. I figured an Emily story could last the whole ride home. “You mean good food for rats? Like Purina Rat Chow?”

Emily gave me “the look” and rolled her eyes. “No, Dad. Why would they even make that? Like healthy people food. Meat and vegetables and stuff. The junk food rat gets chips and Twinkies and stuff.”

“So is the healthy-food rat doing better?” I was pretty sure rats could eat anything and do just fine. We had a barn rat so big once I didn't want to shoot him because I was afraid it would just piss him off.

“That's what I'm trying to tell you if you'd quit interrupting.”

“Sorry. Go ahead with your story, honey.”

“Mrs. Wilson got the healthy-food rat out and to show us how he was growing more, she turned him over and showed us his big
testicles
. It was disgusting!” Emily fell over on the seat giggling. “I screamed and my friend Caitlin S almost passed out and had to go to the nurse.”

“Caitlin S?”

“There's like four Caitlins in our class.”

“Of course there are.”

As I expected, Emily's rat story occupied us until we got home. She even had Nick and me laughing through most of it, although Nick kept shaking his head in a “girls are crazy” kind of way that I knew he'd be using for the rest of his life.

***

I told Nick and Emily to go in the house and do their homework because I had some things to do. Then I got on one of our ATVs to go search for Corny's wheels. Nick and I have ridden these machines dozens of times but I never quite remember the procedures for getting the damn things started. I knew I had to push some kind of button or move the lever to the on position. It's pathetic, but I usually have to have Nick come over to do it for me. I tried a few things but nothing worked. I finally gave up and yelled for Nick to come outside.

“Oh, man,” Nick said, “you're taking the ATV? Can I come?”

“No, you need to stay here and watch your sister. Just come over here to start it for me.”

“Jeez, Dad. I've only shown you about a million times.”

“I know. I'm old and clueless. Just show me one more time.”

“You just move this thing up here to ‘on' and then push that button. It's not that hard. Emily can do it.”

It started right up. “Okay, thanks. I've got it now. Go inside. I'll be back in a little bit.”

“Careful, the throttle sticks sometimes. Remember? You told Mom you were going to fix it.”

“I do remember, thank you.” Which meant “call someone to fix it,” but I hadn't done it yet.

Fortunately, if the throttle didn't stick, the ATV rode like a piece of cake. Corny had to have come in through the front gate but not up the driveway or I would have heard him. He must have driven along the fence line and then ditched the car before he got too close, so I headed down to the gate to try to follow his tracks. I stopped the ATV at the edge of the driveway. I dismounted and lay down on the ground, examining the grass closely for clues like I was tracking an escaped prisoner. There was nothing to indicate where he might have left the driveway or what direction he might have gone.

There are really not that many places on our property to hide a car. There are some hills and hollows, but the land is mostly flat grassland, like a prairie. All of the buildings are too close to the barn. The only place I could think of with any cover at all was what we called a “copse” of trees maybe a half-mile southwest of the barn. Dictionary.com tells me a copse is “a thicket of small trees or bushes; a small wood.” Did you know that to look up the definition of a word you used to have to manually flip through the pages of an enormous book with tiny print that was outdated the second you bought it? Life was so different five years ago.

That definition sounds about right, but it's a weird word. I was always afraid I'd be shot by an intruder and manage to croak out, “Go to the cops,” and Emily would run as fast as she could to a small group of trees. Sarah and I have been making corny jokes about it since we moved here.

I wasn't sure the copse was big enough to hide a car, but Corny was planning to be gone before daybreak, so maybe he didn't really even hide it. He just needed a landmark so he could find it again in the dark. The copse was as good a place as any.

I parked the ATV and walked into the copse. I looked around as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was clearly no car in here. The whole area was maybe ten thousand square feet. Aren't you impressed that I'm one of those guys who can estimate square footage at a glance? Actually, I'm not. I guessed it was a hundred feet wide and a hundred feet deep and did the math in my head, so just picture a bunch of trees arranged randomly by nature into a perfect square. The copse seemed empty but I walked around to make sure. I thought I saw a flash of metal on the ground. I moved closer and there it was: a motorcycle.

Chapter Twenty

The motorcycle was lying right in the middle of a patch of ivy. The bike itself was a neon green, so it blended in. This may come as a shock to you, but I know nothing about motorcycles. I saw that this one was called a Kawasaki Ninja. That sounded like just the kind of bike Corny would want when he was on a black ops mission like last night.

It also looked like the kind of bike even I could handle. It didn't weigh much and appeared to be designed to be ridden by a small Japanese man.

I couldn't get it started. I quickly deduced that, like the cars I'm familiar with, this motorcycle required an ignition key to start. Kawasaki apparently didn't want a ten-year-old to be able to walk up to any bike on the street and start it with the push of a button. A real theft problem, with some fairly serious liability concerns to boot.

I evidently needed the key but I didn't have a clue where it could be. I'd emptied Corny's pockets before I dumped him in the pond, but couldn't remember what I'd done with all of his personal effects. Did I use a zip-loc bag or one of those impenetrable pouches businesses use to take money to the bank?…and then it hit me: I didn't search his pockets at all. Which meant that his keys—and anything else incriminating and/or helpful—were at the bottom of the pond.

How did I forget to check Corny's pockets? That's Dead Body 101. I needed his cell phone. I needed to know who was calling him and what they knew about his plans. I needed to know if he was in contact with Swanson. I needed any other information he might have with him: names, dates, receipts, whatever. And I needed those goddamn keys.

I left the motorcycle where it was and drove the ATV back to the house. Somebody was going to have to swim down and get the keys and whatever else Corny had in his pockets. And that somebody was probably not going to be me. Since we obviously didn't want anybody else to know, our pool of applicants for the pond-diving job was only two deep.

When we go to a beach, Sarah always likes to
do
something. I don't. I'm perfectly happy just sitting there. I like the beach to be there in the background like a movie set, but I could do without the scalding hot sand and the razor-sharp shells and the cold salty water and the dead sea creatures washing up on shore. For me, the beach is much better as an idea than as a reality.

But not Sarah. She's a strong swimmer. She's built up triathlete lungs, and she hasn't damaged them with frequent intentional smoke inhalation. She'll swim farther out into the ocean than I would willingly go in a boat. Sarah likes to snorkel and explore the coral reefs. She would definitely scuba dive down to a sunken pirate ship and look for treasure if she got the chance.

Although a tremendous ordeal for me, swimming to the bottom of the pond and staying down there for a while would be a breeze for Sarah, except for the dead body. If I tried to go down there, I'd most likely end up keeping Corny company for eternity. It had to be Sarah or no one.

***

Whatever we did, it was going to have to be after the kids were asleep, so I got back on the “normal day” track. When I came back in the house, the kids acted like they didn't even realize I'd been gone. I was afraid I was going to have to come up with some explanation for Nick, but when I looked in his room, he had a headset on and was conducting some kind of computer battle with his friends, likely against a team of middle-aged pedophiles who intermixed shouts of “Cover the left flank!” with personal questions like “Where do you go to school?”

Sarah came home as I was making dinner in the kitchen. She put her arms around me from behind and rested her cheek against my back. As I mentioned, we're not generally touchy-feely people. Sarah was worried.

I turned around and put a finger against her lips. “Nothing.” I got a piece of paper and wrote: DON'T SAY ANYTHING YOU DON'T WANT OVERHEARD. TALK AFTER KIDS IN BED.

Sarah widened her eyes and stared at me. This is a nonverbal communication that she often uses on me in public settings. Like “shalom” or “aloha,” it can mean almost anything.

Despite the indecipherable look, she nodded, which I took to mean she understood. We got through the rest of the night like a “normal” night. Sarah and Emily talked throughout dinner while Nick and I smirked at each other. Business as usual. After dinner, I helped the kids with their homework, which consisted of Nick telling me he didn't have any and Emily telling me every single thing that happened in school that day.

Once I got the kids in bed, I went down to my office to do a little Internet research. I typed in “Kawasaki Ninja” on Google and immediately found a YouTube video of a guy showing his girlfriend how to ride. She knew absolutely nothing and weighed about ninety pounds and managed to start it up and drive it around the parking lot. I figured if she could do it, I could do it.

I took some notes and thought about what else I needed to know. I typed in “how to dry out” and Google guessed I was going to type “cell phone” and filled it in itself. Google knows me better than I know myself! I wrote down a few drying tips and then erased my browsing history. I've heard the FBI computer techs can still find everything even after you delete it, so you shouldn't feel all that safe if you're eliminating the trail from a series of incriminating searches, but I didn't want to make it easy for them either.

***

I went back upstairs and into the bedroom. Sarah was in her usual position, propped up in bed with her laptop, reading glasses on. I motioned her to join me in the bathroom. She was wearing sweats and a tee-shirt, which in our house counts as lingerie.

I turned on the shower and both faucets and we sat on the floor facing each other, whispering. I knew this wouldn't take long because I can sit comfortably cross-legged for about as long as I can listen to one of Sarah's mind-numbing work stories
.

“Do you really think the house is bugged?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. When I was on the phone at my office today, I thought I heard a click. It was probably nothing, but there's no reason to take any chances.”

“Why would they bother?”

“They want to know what we know and if we're planning to go to the cops. If they're willing to blackmail me, I don't think they'll be too worried about a little eavesdropping.”

Sarah shook her head back and forth and shuddered. “When I think someone might have been listening to every single thing we've said and done…”

“I've been telling you to tone down the dirty talk.”

“It's not funny. I feel violated.”

“Oh, come on. There's nothing to hear. Like all couples with children, we've trained ourselves to screw in complete silence.” Before she could tell me that it was easy for her to keep quiet, I continued. “Look, the idea of someone monitoring everything we do makes me uncomfortable, too. But we need to act normal. As long as they think we're oblivious, we're probably okay.”

Sarah nodded. “And we might even be able to use it to our advantage.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Pretty sneaky, Sis. Remind me not to trust you when all this is over.”

She grinned. “I will. It'll keep you on your toes.”

“So if we need to talk, we go somewhere where noise will muffle the conversation or go outside. Also, don't say anything over the phone or send texts or e-mails. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay, that was the easy part.”

“There's more?” Sarah's eyes were wide again.

I nodded.

“Oh, my God. What now?”

“It's actually nothing new. It's just follow-up on our earlier project.”

“What do you mean ‘follow-up'? Should I put a note in my tickler file to get back together with you in four weeks?”

“Unfortunately, no. It has to be tonight.”

“That's a pretty quick follow-up.”

“This is a very important matter.”

She sighed. “All right. What is it?”

“Remember I told you I'd take care of the body and you'd never even know where it was?”

“Yes. And you led me to believe you accomplished that task.”

“There's been a new development. Did you notice anything odd about Corny showing up here last night?”

“Like what?”

“Think about it. Corny just appears out here in the middle of nowhere?”

The realization slowly came over her face and she smiled at her own powers of deduction. “How did he get here?”

“Give the lady a gold star. I drove around the property and found a motorcycle in the copse of trees. We need to get rid of it, but there's a problem.”

“Besides the fact that you can't ride a motorcycle?”

“Yes, besides that fact. There are no keys.”

“Couldn't we just put the motorcycle in the back of the pickup and dump it somewhere?”

“We could, but someone could see me driving the pickup with a bright green motorcycle in the back. That would be hard to explain later. Plus, I want to park the motorcycle in long-term parking at the airport.”

“Why?”

“That's what people always do when they need to ditch a car.”

“You mean people in books and movies.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “I don't have any real life experience. But the writers have them do it for a reason. Cars sit there for weeks and no one thinks a thing about it. Remember that time we came back from vacation and our car was in the long-term parking lot under a foot of snow?”

“But why can't we just take it to the airport in the back of the truck?”

“The tags are expired. The last thing we need is to get pulled over. Plus someone might remember the truck with the motorcycle in back. You have to go through the gate and get a ticket. If I drive the motorcycle, I'll be wearing a helmet, so if there are any cameras or anyone remembers the bike, it could just as easily have been Corny. He's a criminal. They'll think he ditched the bike and flew off somewhere with a fake ID.”

“Let's say you're right,” Sarah said. “And for comedic purposes, let's say you could actually ride a motorcycle all the way to the airport and park it without crashing through the parking garage gate. We still need the keys.”

“I think I know where they are.”