The Missing Place (7 page)

But here, in the mirror, was evidence that she hadn't escaped the fear at all: the proof was in her face's wornness, its ugliness. Colleen pushed herself up from the counter and tore at her clothes. One of her blouse's buttons popped off in her clumsy fingers. She yanked her panties off along with her pants. She unsnapped her bra and ripped it off her arms and threw it; it landed behind the toilet. Her socks ended up nearby. There.
There!
Naked and pale and useless,
the mother of no one, nothing. It was hard enough to fight the terror without the noise, that terrible racket echoing around the small room, and Colleen covered her ears to drown it out and it was only when someone started pounding on the door that she realized that the sounds were coming from
her.
She tried to stop, the wailing turning to gulping breaths, and someone—a man—was saying in a muffled voice,
Ma'am, ma'am. Are you all right, ma'am?

And then there was Shay's voice, firm and hard. “Colleen. Open the door. Let me in
now.
” Colleen stared at the doorknob for only a few seconds before picking up the towel and holding it in front of herself and opening the door a fraction of an inch.

Shay's blue eye, the smell of coffee, the din behind her. “Colleen,” Shay repeated calmly. “Let me in now. Okay? Open the door. I'm coming in.”

And then she did just that, pushing the door open wide enough to squeeze through before Colleen had made up her mind. Once inside, Shay closed the door nearly all the way and put her face to the opening and said, “We're fine in here, don't worry.” Then she closed and locked the door.

Colleen folded her arms over her breasts. The towel was ridiculous, it hung in front of her, concealing part of her stomach and thighs but leaving her hips exposed, the sagging dollops of flesh at her sides.

Shay didn't blink. She didn't reach for Colleen, either, which was good because Colleen wouldn't have forgiven that, even if she'd been dressed.

“So this is where you thought you'd fall apart?” Shay demanded, in that same steely voice. “With an audience? Honey, they're not going to forget that. You just got yourself talked about for the rest of the week.”

“I don't
care
,” Colleen said. Because she didn't. And wasn't that odd? Not to care what all those strangers thought? But she had finally admitted to herself that she was only a husk, a shell, a used-up woman, and maybe there was some freedom in that.

“You let yourself think worst-case,” Shay continued. “That was your mistake. Want to know where I fell apart? Because I did the exact same thing as you're doing now. Well, I kept my clothes on. It was somewhere in Nevada and it was about three in the morning. I'd stopped because the highway sign said there was an Arby's, twenty-four hours, and I hadn't eaten all day. Only it was shut down, the Arby's. Sign busted and everything. There wasn't
shit
at that exit and the next one was forty miles. There was some kind of mom-and-pop diner and a gas station with some old toothless perv staring out the window. And I parked and got out of the car and I picked up a rock from the flowerbed and I was going to throw it through the window, I
swear
I was, was going to wipe the sneer off his face. And then I just let that rock drop down on the ground, and I started screaming. Worse than you, actually. I screamed and cried until there was snot all over my face and my voice was just about gone. I thought about Taylor and the last time I talked to him, and I went down on my knees and when I couldn't cry anymore I lay down.
Facedown
, right on the asphalt, and I took my nails and dragged them over the road. Here.
Here
, look at this.” She put her hand up in Colleen's face, and the nails were broken off and the nail beds red and scabbed. How had Colleen not noticed?

“I got sand and shit up under my nails and I didn't care. There was sleet or rain or something coming down and I just lay there, all cried out, and then I started to worry that the guy had called the cops, which, come on, wouldn't you? I know I would. I got up and
got back in the car and got on the highway and drove that forty miles, and there was a Shell there with a bathroom and I cleaned myself up. I got a coffee, and when the guy asked me how I was doing, I said fine. I said I was
fine
, Colleen.”

After a minute Colleen nodded, because it seemed as though Shay was waiting for a response. She adjusted the towel.

“So that's once for each of us. But that's
it.
That's all you get. You are not going to fall apart on me again. Because I'll cut you loose, Colleen. I swear I will.”

Colleen nodded again, because it suddenly made sense. Grief was an indulgence. A weakness. She'd been careless and she'd let it come too close.

It helped, knowing Shay had done it too. Even if she was lying. Even if she'd made it up for her.

“I'm fine now.”

“Yes. You are.” Shay narrowed her eyes and considered her. “You got any makeup with you?”

“No, I—I left it back at the trailer. I didn't think—”

“Okay. You shower and get dressed. You only get twenty minutes and if you go over, you have to pay for another full twenty, so be fast. I'll wait. It's getting late enough in the day there's a couple of showers free, so whenever you get out, I'll go in.”

Shay looked around the bathroom. She bent down and picked up all of Colleen's clothes and laid them out on the counter, turning the socks right side out and retrieving the bra without comment. Then she let herself out the door, squeezing it shut so no one could see past her into the bathroom. And Colleen was alone again.

She ran the shower hot and didn't bother to get her shower gel out of the toiletry bag. She unwrapped the soap and tied up her hair
in the elastic Shay had given her, and stepped into the shower enclosure. The water sluicing over her felt shockingly good, and she let her breath out in a long sigh, closing her eyes and letting it cascade over her breasts and shoulders and neck. She made an effort to punish herself for taking pleasure from the heat and the spray against her skin, but she was too weak to resist.

SHAY KEPT AN
eye on Colleen as they drove the mile to the police station, gauging her reaction. Colleen watched the old downtown go by, her lips pressed together and her hands clutching the strap of her purse. Shay wondered what the streets of her town looked like—probably a far cry from both the ice-crusted, dreary streets of Williston and the dusty brown hills around Fairhaven. This trip was the farthest east Shay had ever been, and she had a made-for-TV notion of New England—horse-drawn wagons, crusty Maine fishermen, maple syrup, charming cobblestone streets lined with expensive little shops. In a way, Williston was just Fairhaven with snow and natural resources; for Colleen, it must be as foreign as another planet.

At least she had come out of the shower with her shit together. She kept her chin high and didn't acknowledge the curious and pitying glances from the other customers. Shay wondered if Colleen realized that the moment they walked into the place, everyone knew who they were. It was the third morning in a row Shay had eaten breakfast there, and twenty minutes into her first visit, she had made sure everyone in the miserable little place knew exactly who she was and what she was looking for. She'd held on to a faint hope that someone would be able to help that first day, that one of the customers or waitresses had been keeping a secret or a confidence. That when she laid Taylor's picture flat on the counter next to the cash register, and they saw his big blue eyes and megawatt smile, they'd
realize how badly she needed to find him, and they'd step up and say . . .

It's a hell of a thing. Can't believe it got this out of hand. Can see how you must have been worried sick. Boys will be boys . . .

Some caper, a case of bad judgment, a terrible misunderstanding.
Something.
Shay hadn't told Colleen the whole story, how after the Arby's parking lot episode, for the next forty miles she'd bargained hard with God while her fingers bled, letting Him know that whatever Taylor had done, she would forgive, if only he was alive and safe somewhere. A night in jail, she could accept that. A knocked-up girlfriend. A lost weekend in the Indian casino. A barroom brawl, a case of the clap, a fight that ended with the other guy in the hospital—she'd forgive all of those. By the time she crossed the North Dakota line the next day, she'd upped the ante. Would she forgive Taylor for being involved with a hit-and-run? Drugs? A shootout? Yes, yes, and yes, and there she was to prove it, laying his picture down, ready for the truth.

Only she'd been met with one blank stare after another.

The police station was blocky and modern, maybe fifteen years old, more glass than brick. It looked out of place on the corner where it hunkered, across from a shuttered movie theater and a Meineke muffler shop. Shay found a parking spot out front and dug quarters from her console. Fifty cents an hour; she doubted they'd need even the first quarter, but she put three in the meter just in case.

At the door, Colleen hesitated. “You've been here already, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they stonewalled you.”

“Yes.”

“All right.” Colleen nodded to herself and squared her shoulders, tipped her chin up, and went in. Shay followed her to the receptionist's
desk, but Colleen ignored her. She pulled off her gloves and laid them down on the counter before saying, “My name is Colleen Mitchell. I'd like a word with the chief of police, please.”

The receptionist, a young dark-haired woman with thick-fringed eyelashes behind plastic-framed glasses, gawped at her. “He's pretty busy. He mostly only sees people with appointments.”

“I understand,” Colleen said calmly. “Please let him know that I have come all the way from Boston to talk to him. About a private and sensitive matter,” she added, speaking over the young woman's protest. “I'll wait right here.”

“You can sit over there in those chairs—”

“I prefer to stand.”

As the receptionist disappeared down a hall, other people in the warren of desks behind the reception area glanced up curiously. Shay, who hadn't been permitted to talk to anyone but the on-duty sergeant when she visited two days ago, considered Colleen. She was nice-looking in profile, with her expensively styled hair and good skin. She had probably been gorgeous twenty years ago, and now she was the kind of woman Shay made fun of. The kind of woman who could afford to buy anything but settled for shapeless, boring old-lady clothes. Whose makeup case held three shades of concealer and no eye shadow.

But she had something. An . . . elegance, Shay supposed, or else just a knack for giving off a rich vibe without trying. Here she was without any makeup on, her boots rimed with salt and her clothes wrinkled from the suitcase, and she could still probably walk down Fifth Avenue and have people waiting on her hand and foot.

The receptionist returned. “Chief Weyant says he can give you a few minutes before his next appointment. Just wait over there.”

“As I said, I'll stand. Thank you.”

Shay took a chair, picked up a brochure from a stack on the table. “Towed, Stored, and Abandoned Vehicles.” She scanned it without reading the text, put it back. Colleen stood motionless, gazing at the wall above the desks, appearing not to notice everyone staring at her. When the chief came down the hall, she gathered up her gloves and purse and extended her hand.

“Mrs. Mitchell?”

Shay's first impression of Chief Weyant was that he had the right look for a difficult job, projecting unflappable calm while his department tried to keep a lid on behind-the-scenes turmoil brought by the boom. Fortyish and fit, Weyant had the ramrod-straight posture and bland good looks to carry off the polyester uniform shirt without giving up an ounce of authority. He was probably six one, six two, and his dark, thick hair was just a shade longer than a military-style brush cut, a bit of silver showing at the temples.

Colleen flashed him a smile so brief it might have been imagined, and shook his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me and Ms. Capparelli.”

The chief glanced over at Shay and acknowledged her with a nod. If he knew about her prior visit, he didn't let on. “Sure thing. Come on back. Get you ladies some coffee? Water?”

Colleen declined, murmuring her thanks, and they followed him to a large office at the corner of the building. The windows looked out over the street where they'd parked, and then past the downtown to the old houses and barns and vacant lots at the edge of town, beyond which the white-and-tan landscape stretched to the horizon under an oppressive gray sky. The snow had stopped, only to seem to be gathering for a greater onslaught later.

The women took the chairs facing the chief's desk. Weyant rested his hands on the laminate desktop and regarded them gravely.
“Let me start by telling you the same thing Sergeant Sanders told Mrs. Capparelli. We are concerned that your sons have been out of communication, and we are devoting as many resources as we can to locating them. But we can't rule out the possibility that there's an explanation other than them getting into some kind of trouble. We've seen too many of these boys light out of here without giving notice, just to show up a few weeks or months later in another state entirely. You know how it is when you're that age.”

“Not really, no,” Colleen said coldly. She sat very erect in her chair. “Please share a little more about your line of thinking.”

“Oh. Well—all I meant was, you got a twenty-year-old, especially a boy, a male, there's going to be a lot more hormones and such than common sense at work. If I had a nickel for every fight we had to break up in the bars—and this is
after
these boys come off a twelve-hour shift that would knock me out, I'm not afraid to say it—well, I'd be a rich man. Then we got the casinos barely an hour away, or—and this happens more often than we like to admit—they just get tired of the guy-to-girl ratio around here, they take the money they've made and go looking somewhere else. Find a girl and an easier job and don't get around to writing home for a while.”