Discretion (7 page)

Footsteps from behind startle me to my feet. My father moves fast in my direction.

“Yeah?”

His hand reaches my shoulder. “Mike. They found Mike’s boat.”

T
he deputy finds Mike Larison and Mayra sound asleep in a tent on the campgrounds at Lake Roosevelt. Their location is identified by the boat, and then an enormous amount of dumb luck in finding the campsite. No news comes of the find; just more agony at a dead end. Our only hope to find Natalie. They help search, even though it feels hopeless. No leads, no clues.

We return home on Tuesday—the Merians are beyond tired of us. Home is like a tomb. A beautiful, spacious…comfortable…tomb.

My favorite things have no meaning anymore—what would cheer me up days ago no longer does anything for my mood, other than to remind me that my life, my world, is different. Each day feels like a year, passing as sandpaper against sensitive skin. I confide in the computer, to my daily search for answers I dream of finding and that’s what keeps me among the living.

I hardly sleep. I barely eat. My father rants and raves on the phone, and accomplishes nothing.

Calls come. Advice is offered. No sight of Natalie. Law enforcement works long hours to find her, but with no evidence of a crime, there’s nothing to be done. No witnesses saw Natalie leave the boat. The news media takes great interest in the disappearance and Natalie Merian becomes a household name around Phoenix.

Jackson finds three college students who say they saw Natalie at a party on some big boat everyone was admiring from the north shore. One of the guys remembers Natalie quite well, it seems, yet he has no clue where she went. There one moment, gone the next. No sight of the boat anywhere. Several other girls in the student group took off unannounced they say, yet that doesn’t strike anyone as out of place. With no phone numbers to call and only first names to gather, nothing can be done about them. The sheriff says to let that go—as college students come and go all weekend long at the lake.

Tuesday is like a week of hell. Wednesday is worse.

The unforgiving sunlight arrives on Thursday morning and I curse its arrival. Doubt settles in that I will ever sleep again.

I beg and plead for Christel to return. She is my world, my every consuming thought. She can lead me to where Natalie is, dead or alive, and put the issue to rest. If she is a runaway, knowing that will allow my heart to have some peace. If she is gone, I will try to move on, and at least I will know the truth.

“Son. What are you doing?” my father asks, taking a seat next to me. We are in the small office he never uses. I bring my laptop in here to work and clear my mind. “You’ve neglected all of your responsibilities…for long enough.” He sighs. “You need to accept that all that can be done…is being done. Researching this isn’t getting you anywhere, but…”

“But what, Dad? What should I do? Give up? There’s no point in talking about it because you know I’ll never give up on her.” I pause a moment, staring at him. “Has Jackson got anything new?”

He shakes his head sharply. “Son, this won’t help. Jackson is digging, that’s all I can say.”

“Why keep me out? I was the last one to—”

“This is hard for you, I know. But investing more time will only make it harder. It’s been three days. No one disappears for three days by accident or coincidence.”

“Meaning what?”

“Son, she’s probably—”

“I won’t accept that.”

Can’t he see that my world is melting? Natalie means everything to me. Allan Wyle the great doesn’t get it, but she may be the love of my life.

He pats me on the shoulder, a grand effort at sympathy from him. He is accepting that she’s gone, destined to appear on milk cartons and flyers for years. No answers, just flyers.

“I’m facing the facts, son. There’s no trace of her. Three days of searching and nothing to follow. No trail. A lead…any lead…that would be something.”

“Mattocks said it’s hard to find evidence at a lake. Any blood or hair would be lost in the water. It’s much too soon to give up. How can you…when she means so much to me?”

He nods and closes his eyes a moment. A tear escapes and he leaves without another word.

“Dad, we’re going to find her. I know it.”

He doesn’t look back, but just nods, his hands grip the doorframe. “I’ve accepted reality, son. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And he walks out.

My father the realist. It’s too much for me right now. I redirect my attention back to the computer screen.

The website I’m at is about saints, angels, and the like. A New Age set of beliefs rather than mainstream religion. Symbols and strange writing cover the site, along with illustrations of majestic beings with wings on a background of blue sky and fluffy clouds like that of a painting.

My cell is in my pocket and I reach for it, to ensure it’s there, for reassurance. I take it out and set it on the desk. My palms sweat. My shirt collar feels uncomfortable against the back of my neck. My leg starts twitching on its own and I’d like to go running up a mountain, something I’ve not done since my girl went missing.

Christel
.
Where is she all this time? I have begged. I have pleaded. What more can I do?

I will take you to her.

I look behind me quickly, expecting to see someone. Then my head clears enough to think—she’s back.

“Yes?” I say aloud.

Go with him.

“Go with who?”

What is she talking about? I stand and look out the window toward the front of the house, but no one is there. My phone vibrates and the display lights up with Mike’s number on the caller ID. “Hey, Mike.”

“I’m Goin’ back to the lake. You in?” His breathing sounds as if he’s panting. In the background, Mayra is talking, irritated at something, or someone.

“Are you going up there to camp?”

“With Natalie missing, you must be shitting me.”

“I knew you’d want to keep looking. When can you pick me up?”

“I’ll be by in thirty minutes, maybe forty. Mayra is pissed, so you might want to ride in the bed of the truck.”

“So she feels like I do.”

“With Natalie being gone, she’s been pissed and taking it out on the rest of the world. Yeah, she probably feels about the same as you.”

Mike is packing weapons to bring Natalie home.

“You bringing your rifle?”

“Bet your rich white ass I am.”

“See you in thirty.”

I
slip the cellphone in my pocket and head to the bedroom. In a swimsuit and T-shirt, I wait out front for Mike, who pulls in right on time.

Mayra is stretched out in the backseat of Mike’s truck, asleep. Her five-foot frame fits well. She’s wearing tattered form-fitting jeans and a black tube top. The sight of her bare abdomen causes my pulse to jump and I can’t help thinking of Natalie. Her dark hair is cut short, close to the head.

“So, what’s the plan?” I ask.

He laughs a little. “No plan. You know that, man.” He finishes a cigarette and flicks the butt out the cracked window. “Unless you consider searching aimlessly a plan.”

Mike slouches behind the wheel, all five foot eight of him and as thick as a hundred-year-old tree trunk. He looks like he’s mid-twenties, but is not a month over eighteen. He sustains himself on a steady diet of fast food, coffee, and obsessive-compulsive work habits. Mike’s in a multi-generation family business, building decks. He’s an outdoorsman through and through.

“What’s making you do this? I mean…this isn’t like you. Is it all about Mayra?”

A quick look from Mike and a sly grimace, and then he lights another cigarette. “Natalie’s my friend. I’m doing for her what I hope someone would do for me.”

“You never give up and you never walk away from a fight.”

“Damn straight.”

“We’re going to find her.”

He grins, watching the road behind the fat aviator style sunglasses on his face. He pushes up the brim of his well-loved Cardinals hat and wipes sweat from his brow. “Love that optimism about you,” he says and slaps me on the shoulder. He watches the road a moment and then looks my way. “So you think I’m going to get to castrate the fucker who took her?” We share a laugh and for a second, I allow myself to dream of a happy ending.

“I hope so, Mike. I hope so. She’s got to be alive somewhere.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking, and I keep asking myself, why would she run? That’s what I don’t get. She’s got tons of friends. Good family. You. That’s a great life. What’s to run away from?”

“That’s what the PI is trying to find out now.”

Mike nods, contemplating.

He’s not surprised.

“What’s he found?” Mike asks. I think there’s anxiety in his voice, but I can’t be sure.

“Not much. He thinks he’ll find a witness sooner or later.”

Mike just nods and says nothing for a while.

After a few conversations about life, women, and medical use of marijuana, we arrive at Apache Lake. The population in the area is two families, with little kids armed with fishing poles. Mike pulls the red Ford F150 to a stop and shuts down the engine, grabs his tactical bag and a duffel, slings them over his shoulder like he’s carrying pillows.

Get a boat and go out on the lake.

“I think we should go east. The cops have been all over the trail. Let’s find some uncharted territory,” Mike says.

I look at my friend, knowing he will not understand, but he must accept what I have to say. “We have to take the boat, Mike. We need to be on the water.”

“Really?” Mike says, eyeing me. Mayra sighs while holding a bag of supplies.

“The cops have been everywhere on the water the last three days, Colin. What do you expect to find?” Mike asks me.

I pause a moment, debating how to answer him. “Natalie,” I say, and for the first time in a while, I genuinely smile—it’s not to be polite or to hide the pain. I believe she is going to be okay and I’m close to bringing her home. I have nothing to back up that emotion other than faith—Christel, sent from above, will guide me.

Mike and Mayra look at each other and agree to play along, by body language only, and neither believe there’s a reason for any of this; this is a shot in the dark, hoping to hit a rare bird that flies by day.

“You’re the boss,” Mike says, conceding to my leadership.

Fifteen minutes later, we board Mike’s sport boat, a white and black four-seater Stingray he bought last summer with his college savings, and pull away from the dock.

Head northeast, toward the campgrounds.

I relay Christel’s instructions to Mike, and he accepts them without question. We are about two miles from the camping grounds, moving at a slow pace on calm lake water. The temperature is about ninety-three and the sun is bearing down from a cloudless sky, with no wind for reprieve.

We are heading for a destination we don’t understand. An eternal destiny. A quest for redemption that could be our doom.

Natalie is close by.

“Colin, so what is the plan?” Mike says, breaking the silence.

There will be a boat with two men fishing from the bow. White, thirty feet long with brown trim through the middle.

“It’s not far. Keep going,” I say.

Mike and Mayra exchange glances, and think about ways to change leadership, as no boats or people are about.

They are concerned about you. About how you expect to find her.

“What are you looking for? Do you think after all this time she’s still out here? On the water?”

Tell him it’s a guess.

“I know…I know…it’s just that I had the whim…that maybe we could go somewhere no one has.”

Mike laughs. “Hope for the best, right?”

Mayra watches Mike for a sign, then shrugs. “Well, we can’t cause any harm, right? Boating on the lake isn’t going to hurt anybody.”

“Hard to say, Mayra. Don’t jinx us yet.”

We cruise in silence for several minutes. Around a bend, and there it is—about two hundred yards away is a white and brown Bayliner Cabin Cruiser, anchored about a hundred yards from the shore. A beautiful vessel with a long deck and three windows on the hull, probably to the cabin and kitchen. Two men stand on the bow of the boat, fishing. They have drinks close by and a good tan to match the leisure. Both are well-built. Athletes maybe. Twenty-somethings.

Kill them.

M
y body tenses. This can’t be right. I must have misunderstood. Why would Christel want to kill two guys fishing on a boat?

I wave at Mike to shut down the engine. At my feet is Mike’s tactical bag, containing several guns.

In the past, I’d struggle to hit paper targets; these are people. Why must they die? What can be gained from killing them?

The distance closes between us, now about one hundred yards. Seconds pass and we get closer still, yet the men on the boat take no notice of our approach. But then the blond surfer looks my way; his expression changes from lax to tense. He drops his fishing pole and moves for the cooler. What he comes up with is black and narrow and he moves fast toward the rail of the boat.

He’s holding a gun.

Kill them before they kill you.

The blond surfer has a gun in both hands, aimed at us.

My bladder releases on its own; urine trickles down my leg and puddles on the floor.

The dark-haired man drops his fishing pole and moves toward the cooler between them, emerging with a black pistol. He takes the same stance, the weapon ready to fire at us at a moment’s notice.

“What the fuck?” Mike dives for the tactical bag and in one swift motion, draws a rifle from the bag and then a pistol, tossing it to Mayra. She frees the safety and points it at them, in a firing position on one knee. Mike is in position: finger on the trigger, the barrel of his Winchester pointed at the deck—Mike could kill them from here.

We aren’t assassins. Well, maybe Mike and Mayra could be, but I’m not. I’ve hardly fired a gun. And what does this have to do with Natalie? Is she on board?

Seconds pass. Maybe seventy yards between our boat and the cruiser.

Christel, do they know we are coming?