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She plays the security video from the night of July first, and freezes it when the van is in the background. He studies it and says, “Wow. I better clean the lens of that camera.”
Kind of locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen, Holly doesn’t say. “You’re sure you don’t remember a van like that, maybe on other nights?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t. Vans are pretty common.”
It’s what Holly expected. Another t crossed, another i dotted. “Thank you, Mr. Herrera.”
“I wish I could have been more help.”
“What about this boy? Do you recognize him?” She shows him a picture of Peter Steinman. It’s a group shot of his middle school band club, which she found online (everything’s online these days). Holly has enlarged it so that Peter, standing in the back row with a pair of cymbals, is relatively clear. Better than the Jet Mart security footage, anyway. “He was a skateboarder.”
Herrera peers, then looks up when a middle-aged woman comes in. He greets her by name and she returns the greeting. Then he gives the iPad back to Holly. “He looks familiar, but that’s all I can say. Those skateboard kids come in all the time. They buy candy or chips, then ride their boards down the hill to the Whip. Do you know the Dairy Whip?”
“Yes,” Holly says. “He’s missing, too. Since November of 2018.”
“Hey, you don’t think we’ve got some kind of predator in the neighborhood, do you? John Wayne Gacy type?”
“Probably not. This young man and Bonnie Dahl are probably not even related.” Although she’s finding this ever tougher to believe. “I don’t suppose you can think of any other regulars who just suddenly stopped showing up, can you?”
The woman customer—Cora by name—is now waiting to pay for an Iron City sixer and a loaf of Wonder Bread.
“Nope,” Herrera says, but he’s not looking at Holly anymore, who isn’t a customer. Cora is.
Holly can take a hint, but before moving away from the counter, she gives Emilio Herrera one of her cards. “My number’s on there. If you think of anything that might help me locate Bonnie, would you give me a call?”
“Sure,” Herrera says, and pockets the card. “Hey, Cora. Sorry to keep you waiting. What about this Covid, huh?”
Holly buys a can of Fanta before leaving. She doesn’t really want it, but it seems only polite.
2
Holly checks Twitter as soon as she’s back in her apartment. There is one new response, from Franklin Craslow (Christian, Proud NRA Member, South Is Gonna Rise Again). It’s brief. Ellen killed her baby and will burn in hell. Leave us alone.
Us, Holly assumes, meaning the Craslow clan from Bibb County.
She calls Penny Dahl. It’s not a call she wants to make, but it’s time to tell Penny what she now believes, that Bonnie may have been abducted. Possibly by someone in a van who was waiting for her at the former Bill’s Automotive and Small Engine Repair. Possibly by someone she knew. Holly emphasizes the may in may have been.
She expects sobs, but there are none, at least for the time being. This is, after all, exactly what Penny Dahl has been afraid of. She asks Holly if there’s a chance Bonnie might still be alive.
“There’s always a chance,” Holly says.
“Some fucker took her.” The vulgarity surprises Holly, but only for a moment. Anger instead of tears. Penny makes Holly think of a bear who’s lost a cub. “Find him. Whoever took my daughter, you find that fucker. No matter what it costs. I’ll get the money. Do you hear me?”
Holly suspects that tears will come later, when what Holly has told Penny has had a chance to sink in. It’s one thing to have the worst fear a mother can feel locked inside; it’s quite another to hear it spoken aloud.
“I’ll do my best.” It’s what she always says.
“Find him,” Penny repeats, and ends the call without saying goodbye.
Holly goes to the window and lights a cigarette. She tries to think of what her next step should be and comes to the conclusion (reluctantly) that right now she doesn’t have one. She knows of three missing people and feels their disappearances are related, but in spite of certain similarities, she has no proof of that. She’s at a dead end. She needs the universe to throw her a rope.
3
That evening Jerome calls from New York. He’s excited and happy, and why not? The lunch went well, the check duly handed over. His agent will deposit it to his account (minus her fifteen per cent), but he actually held it in his hand, he tells her, and ran his fingers over the embossed numbers.
“I’m rich, Hollyberry. I’m freaking rich!”
You’re not the only one, Holly thinks.
