The Fall of Never (19 page)

“I’m not sure. I don’t know when they realized she was missing.”

They probably didn’t even realize it until later the next night,
she thought.
God damn this cold dungeon. What kind of parents don’t even realize their fifteen-year-old daughter’s been missing for an entire day? Jesus Christ, it’s not like she just traipsed off to a friend’s house or something—the nearest house is literally a half-day’s walk into town…and the nearest children on top of that?

She could feel a hot clot of anger sticking to the inside of her chest.

How do you bring children into the world and then ignore their existence?

“Kelly, are you okay?”

She looked quickly down at her hands. “Just thinking. I’m sorry. Yes, I’m okay.”

“I’m sure she’s going to be fine,” he told her, and she felt one of his hands lightly squeeze her right shoulder. “Just have to keep a positive outlook, you know what I mean?”

She forced a smile. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s good to see you again, Gabriel.”

“Gabe,” he insisted. “And you too.”

Ten minutes later, after Gabriel Farmer left the house, Kelly slipped into the kitchen and found herself staring at the two vases of flowers.

“He certainly is a gentleman,” Glenda said, sneaking up behind her.

“He is.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Glenda went on, “but I used to think you two would fall in love, get married, and live here in Spires your whole lives. Just like some little fairy tale. Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’m just a hopeless romantic. But I just used to think the two of you looked so
happy
together. In fact, the only time I could remember you smiling—I mean
really
smiling—was when little Gabriel Farmer was around.”

Kelly nodded, fingered one of the flower petals. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

“A gentleman,” Glenda repeated.
“And
he’s handsome.”

Kelly laughed. “If you must know, he’s taking me out tonight.”

“Oh?” Glenda raised an eyebrow. “Well-well-well, now. The fairy tale has a happy ending after all?”

“It’s nothing, just two old friends.”

“Be it what it may. An old woman can dream, can’t she? Darling, I’m from a generation of lonely old housekeepers in this tiny little town and in this great big house—can’t I live my misspent youth through you?”

Kelly laughed again. “Simplicity is so often underrated. Sometimes I think I’d give anything to just fade away into the background.” And oddly enough, she realized that fading into the background was what her childhood had been all about. What had changed in her since then?

Glenda came up behind her, patted her lightly on the back. “Well, you just have a good time tonight. Get your mind off all this horrible stuff. Sometimes I think this house breeds sadness.”

Breeds sadness,
Kelly thought. The notion chilled her to the center of her soul and she suddenly felt the burning need to urinate again. Without so much as another word to Glenda, she turned and darted out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bathroom at the end of the hall. She slammed the door, rattling the frame. Behind her, frightened by her suddenness, Glenda stood in the kitchen doorway calling her name over and over again.

Detective Felix Raintree had a penchant for New England clam chowder, oven-baked bread sprinkled with sesame seeds, and stiff black coffee, hold the cream and sugar. Having spent his entire life in Spires afforded him the opportunity to trek across the county in search of a restaurant that prepared such delicacies to what he considered perfection. But Raintree was not a punctilious man, and it didn’t take him long to settle on Gray Cloud, a small eatery just north of Spires. It was a shy, modest place stashed off Interstate 87 that was never more than half-full. Maybe the service wasn’t the greatest, but service he could overlook. It was the
food
that kept him coming back. That clam chowder—something in that chowder just
worked.
Something creamy and thick, like sifted butter. Good food.

He was seated at his usual window-side booth just finishing up a bowl of the chowder from heaven when his cellular phone rang. Still scraping the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, he reached for the cell phone with his free hand, not bothering to look at the caller’s ID on the display.

“Raintree,” he said, his mouth still full.

“I catch you during supper, Felix?”

“Oh.” He set the spoon down. “Hi, Annie.”

“We’ve got a little situation down here, Felix. Big to-do.”

“Sturgess find that cat in his office again? I keep telling him to keep those windows closed. Darn thing walks the ledges around the building. I’ve seen it.”

“Not Sturgess,” Annie said. She sounded tired. Her voice was flavored with just a bit of urgency. It was enough to disturb him. “We’ve got Graham Rand down here causing some kind of scene. Came in maybe all of two minutes ago, been pacing through the offices like some caged animal, Felix. He’s all tempered out. Says he wants to speak with you.”

“Isn’t Bannercon around? He’s the sheriff, have him take care of it, Annie. He’s the one running the show, right?”

“Graham Rand don’t want to talk to nobody but you, Felix. He said so straight away, made a point of it.”

“Heck, now,” Raintree grumbled.

“He’s fierce upset, Felix. He’s got his hunting cap in his hands and he’s darn near wringing the life out of it right in the office. He won’t talk to Bannercon. He wants you. Says he was up in that tract of woods in the valley around Gordon Kellow’s place. Said he saw something there you might want to know about. Only wants to talk to you about it. Made that part perfectly clear.”

“All right,” Raintree said. “I’ll be there in a shake. Thank you, Annie.”

He slipped his phone back into his coat pocket and waved the waitress over for the check. She was a young girl named Rachel with purple-streaked hair and a silver barbell speared through her tongue.

“Ready to pay up?” she said.

“Unfortunately, my dear. Nature of the beast, I’m afraid.”

“You haven’t had your three cups of coffee today.”

“Well,” he said, “what about one of those wonderful new beverage containment apparatuses? Those—ahhh, now, what do they call them? Yes—I believe it’s a Styrofoam cup? Am I pronouncing it correctly, my darling?”

Rachel laughed. She’d heard the routine before—hundreds of times before, Raintree was certain—but she was a good sport. “Sty-ro-foam, you say?” She tapped her pencil on the corner of her mouth. “Must be one of those fancy French contraptions all the runway models have made popular. I’ll see what I can dig up in the Dumpster out back for you, but that’s the best I can do.”

Raintree laughed and fluttered a hand at the girl.

“All right, then,” he said. “We make no promises. Good, good, good. Now scoot. Duty calls.”

“Yes it does,” Rachel said and hurried away.

Chapter Thirteen

It was already dusk when Gabriel returned to the Kellow Compound. He was dressed nice in pressed slacks and a blue chambray button-down, his curlicue hair tamed and parted to one side. Upon arrival, he presented Kelly with a second spray of wildflowers. He then drove her into downtown where he’d made impromptu dinner reservations at a local tavern. Together, mostly in embarrassed silence, they dined on scalloped potatoes, grilled salmon, and chords of asparagus. Throughout dinner, Kelly tried to see herself through Gabriel’s eyes. After all this time, how did she appear to him? Was her hair too dark? Were the rings beneath her eyes too noticeable? Did she wear too many silver bracelets and rings and have too many piercings? Or maybe not enough?

Gabriel was thoughtful enough to steer away from discussing Becky’s condition over dinner.

“Tell me more about this project of yours, this
We the People
documentary series.”

“Like I mentioned, I’ve really only started,” she said. “I was lucky enough to get a grant from the city, and I’m hoping I can get someone to pick it up. I’m hoping for the Discovery Channel.”

“It’s an incredible idea,” he told her, his tone genuine. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem selling it. Have you made any initial contacts?”

“Not yet. I’m just filming the preliminary segments now.”

“Meeting all those different people, filming each segment—sounds daunting.”

“I have someone to help me.” And damn it all, she’d forgotten about Josh. He’d wanted her to call and she still hadn’t. She looked down at her plate, and at the potato coins and asparagus antennae. “Tell me about your paintings.”

“I’m working on a series now,” he said, half-grinning. He seemed embarrassed. “I’m afraid it’s a bit morbid, though. Not quite dinner conversation.”

“Do I look like a prude to you?”

He laughed. “No, I guess city life has hardened you a bit, right?”

She flexed one arm jokingly. “Me big strong girl.”

“Have you heard of the German artist Lars Kurtz?”

She shook her head.

“He started out doing modern abstracts but somewhere along the line he got the brilliant idea to dabble in human taxidermy. Particularly pregnant mothers and their fetuses. I mean, of course they were already dead, most from natural causes. They’d previously donated their bodies to Kurtz—or, in the instance of the fetuses, I suppose the parents allowed such a thing, although who could imagine? He found a way to preserve the skin and had them stuffed. Some of his work exhibits a pregnant mother with a section of her torso removed, allowing people to observe the mummified child inside her. Jesus, I’m sorry, this isn’t dinner conversation at all. I must sound disgusting.”

“No, actually, it’s fascinating.”

“Serious?”

“Go on.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’d heard about the controversy and became interested. Practically the only place you can view his work now is on the Internet. As you can imagine, not too many galleries want to prop dead people against the walls, put them on display.”

“Imagine that.”

“But something about his worked touched me. I think it was the total originality of it all, the human quality. So I actually started doing a series of paintings titled
Rest
depicting different people in the positions they died in.”

“Interesting,” Kelly said. “So, like, a woman with a broken neck draped over the wall of her bathtub? Some old guy cleaning his gun on his back porch just as the trigger goes off, pushing the back of his head through the wall?”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

She grinned. “Me, neither.”

“It’s not that gruesome. That’s why I call the series
Rest.
Death is very peaceful. And I think we as people understand that, we’re just so frightened and saddened by death that we don’t stop and realize it. For many people suffering from terminal illnesses or severe debilitation, death is quite welcome. But for most people—well, I guess that’s not something we’re comfortable considering.”

“Well, I’m glad you stuck with it,” she said. “You were always such a wonderful artist.”

“And a wonderful sentimentalist too, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

He smiled. “Remember that week I insisted you paint with me? That it didn’t matter what you painted as long as you painted something? And all you did was bitch and moan…but you finally conceded.”

Kelly laughed. “I remember.”

“I still have them. All your paintings. Packed away back at my apartment, but they’re still there. I hope you don’t think that’s creepy.”

“A little.” She laughed again.

“Would it be even creepier to ask about your personal life? I don’t want to sound pushy—”

“No,” she said.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Oddly, she thought again of Josh. Then shook her head. “No. But I was married for a while.”

“Married? Are you serious?”

“Collin Rich.”

“Imagine you married.” He seemed unsure how to react. “Let me guess—tax attorney?”

“Textbook editor. But he spoke mostly like a tax attorney, I guess.”

“And it didn’t work out?”

“We both just sort of jumped into it. And I was just a stupid kid.” She smiled in a way that looked like a frown. “He cheated on me several times,” she added, unsure why.

“I’m sorry. He was a fool.”

“No. I mean, yes, he was—but I wasn’t the greatest person to live with, either. Collin was a very proud, very boisterous person. He was proud of his work, proud of the money he made, proud of the long hours he spent behind a locked office door. We were just too different. I was like a scared white rabbit around him most of the time and he couldn’t stand that. Eventually, he found other women with whom he felt more comfortable with. That happens sometimes.”

“You’re not angry with him?”

She shook her head. “Not really, no. It’s more like…I don’t know. It seems like I was more angry at myself back then.”

“And now you’re not?”

I don’t know,
she thought, and said, “No.”