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“Thank you, nurse.”
Holly ends the call and lights another cigarette. She goes to the window and looks out. It’s still hours until dark, but the sunlight has taken on the evening slant that always feels rueful to her, and a little sad. Another day older, another day closer to the grave, her mother used to say. Her mother who is now in her grave.
“She stole from me,” Holly murmurs. “She stole the trust fund I got from Janey. Not all of it, but most of it. My own mother.”
She tells herself that’s the past. Bonnie Rae Dahl may still be alive.
But.
No action on her Visa. No calls made from her phone. Holly supposes a trained secret agent—one of John le Carré’s “joes”—could slip away like that, shedding the ties to modern life the way a snake sheds its skin, but a twenty-four-year-old college librarian? No. Not unlikely, just no.
Bonnie Rae Dahl is dead. Holly knows it.
3
Holly has an ill-formed (and totally unscientific) idea that exercise can offset some of the damage she’s doing to her body by renewing her smoking habit, so after speaking with Pete she takes a two-mile walk in the latening light, ending up at the south end of Deerfield Park. The playground is full of kids swinging and teeter-tottering, sliding and hanging upside-down from the jungle gym. She watches them in an unguarded way no man could get away with in this century of sexual hyper-awareness, not consciously thinking about her new case, subconsciously thinking of nothing else. She has a nagging sensation that she’s forgetting something, but refuses to chase it. Whatever it is will make itself known eventually.
She calls Lakeisha Stone when she gets home. The woman who answers sounds exuberant and high on life (other substances possible). In the background Holly can hear music—it might be Otis Redding—and people laughing. There are occasional whoops. Other substances probable, Holly thinks.
“Hi, whoever you are,” Lakeisha says. “If this is some car warranty offer or how I can improve my credit rating—”
“It’s not.” Holly introduces herself, explains why she’s calling, and asks if she could meet with Lakeisha tomorrow afternoon, lateish. She says she has to be close to Upsala Village on family business. Would that be convenient?
It’s a much less exuberant Lakeisha who says that she’d be happy to talk to Holly. She’s with friends at the campground on Route 27, the one with the Indian name—does Holly know it? Holly says she doesn’t, and doesn’t say that these days Indian is considered a pejorative at best, racist at worst. She says she’s sure the GPS on her phone will take her right there.
“Nothing about Bonnie? No word?”
“No word at all,” Holly says.
“Then I don’t know how I can help you, Ms. Gibney.”
“You can help me with one thing right now. Do you think she ran away?”
“God, no.” Her voice wavers. When she speaks again, all traces of exuberance are gone. “I think she’s dead. I think some sick bastard raped her and killed her.”
4
That night Holly prays on her knees, being sure to name-check her friends and saying that she’s sorry she resumed her smoking habit and hopes that God will help her quit again soon (but not just yet). She tells God she doesn’t want to think about her mother tonight—what Charlotte did and why she did it. She ends by asking for any help God can give her in the case of the missing woman and concludes by saying she hopes that Bonnie Rae is still alive.
She gets into bed and looks up into the darkness, wondering what was nagging her at the park. As sleep approaches, ready to take her in, it comes to her: have there been other disappearances in the vicinity of Deerfield Park?
She thinks it might be interesting to find out.
February 8, 2021
January has been bitterly cold, but February brings unseasonably warm temperatures, as if to make up for three weeks of lake-effect snow and teeth-clattering near-zero weather. On this Monday afternoon, with the mercury in the mid-fifties, Roddy Harris decides to rid the Subaru wagon of the built-up encrustations of salt, which will eventually rot out the rocker panels and undercarriage if allowed to stay. Em suggests he take it to the Drive & Shine on the Airport Extension, but Roddy says he’d rather get out in the fresh air while the fresh air is bearable. She asks about his arthritis. He insists it isn’t bothering him, says he feels fine.
“Not bothering you now,” Em says, “but you’ll be moaning about it tonight, I bet, and you’ll be stuck with Bengay because the good stuff is down to dribs and drabs. We should save what’s left for an emergency.” If my back or your neck locks up again is what she means.
“I’ll wear my gloves,” he tells her, and Em sighs. Roddy is a dear man, the light of her life, but when he decides to do something, there’s no swaying him.
He enters the garage by the back door, gets the hose, and attaches it to the faucet bib on the side of the house. Then he returns to back the car out. There are three buttons on the garage wall. One opens the left bay, where the van they seldom use is parked. One opens the right bay, home to the Harrises’ Subaru runabout. The third button opens both bays, and Roddy has an irritating habit of pushing that one. Because it’s in the middle instead of at the bottom or top is what he tells himself when both doors go rattling up instead of the one he wants. It’s not forgetfulness, just bad design, pure and simple.
He gets in the wagon and backs to where the hose is waiting with the spray attachment already screwed on. Roddy is looking forward to this little chore. He loves the way the high-pressure blast cleans away the caked-on clots of road salt. He lifts the nozzle, then stops. There’s someone standing at the head of the driveway, looking at him. She’s a pretty girl wearing a red coat and a matching knitted scarf and hat. Her facemask is also red and so are her galoshes—a Christmas present, as it happens, because the girl has admired her good friend Holly’s pair on several occasions. In one hand she’s holding a slim file folder against her chest.
“Are you Professor Harris?” she asks.
“I am indeed,” he says. “One second, young lady.” He opens the driver’s door of the Subaru. The remote for the garage is clipped to the visor. This one has two buttons instead of three. He pushes one and the lefthand door trundles down, enclosing the van. He doubts she even noticed it, it’s him she’s looking at, but always safe, never sorry.
