Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (22 page)

I
assumed Daniel wanted to play tennis, so I brought my racket. It occurred to me that it would be difficult to talk in between rallies. Later I realized that was part of his plan. Not talking.

Daniel silently stepped onto the court, tossed me a ball, and ordered me to serve. I served and had to jump out of the way to miss the return. When Daniel served, I would awkwardly leap for the ball, but never quite make it. I counted three diagnosable muscle pulls for the match. The rest of the first game followed the same pattern—dodging oversize yellow bullets or chasing after bullets I couldn’t return.

Daniel’s sliding scale was no longer in effect. The second game went much like the first and the third game went much like the second. I won two points off Daniel’s foul balls and made only three returns in the entire two sets. By match point I had stopped playing and was merely dodging yellow ammunition. Soon exhaustion dulled my reflexes and with that came the sting from the ball making contact with my skin.

Daniel didn’t notice that a crowd had begun to form. Frankly, I enjoyed this modern country-club version of a medieval punishment. Each yellow bullet that left a red blotch on my skin meant that he cared, and I liked Daniel even more for it. I think he half expected me to become outraged and react, but I figured that once he got it all out of his system we could start again.

Daniel took a breather and noticed all the incriminating eyes upon him. He knew they thought him a monster and it would be impossible to explain to the crowd that I deserved each and every bruise. I am not a masochist, but sometimes you want to punish yourself and you don’t know how. Sometimes you have this feeling that you’re doing something wrong, but you’re so used to doing something wrong that you’re not sure what it is anymore. Daniel seemed like the kind of person I would want to know, I just figured I wasn’t the kind of person
he
would want to know. Hence, all the lies. The only difference between me and other people was that I wasn’t going to let the simple fact that Daniel might not want to know me get in the way of me getting to know him.

“Is there any point in playing another set?” he asked.

“I’ll leave that decision up to you,” I replied with a smile.

Daniel picked up his bag and walked off the court. I followed him outside into the gray, rain-soaked air.

“Well, that was fun,” I said with unnatural enthusiasm.

“You are tough, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I do things like that.”

“I would imagine it has something to do with your family.”

“Yes! It does!”

“What do you want from me?”

“Your DVD collection.”

“Seriously, Isabel. What do you want from me?”

“Your soul, of course.”

“I’m going now. When you manage to piece together a sincere sentence, I’ll think about it. Until then, good-bye.”

I
switched into street clothes inside my car—a talent I had grown all too good at—and drove to Marin County, where I scheduled a couple of afternoon interviews with onetime acquaintances of Andrew Snow. I pulled the names from the few people who had signed Andrew’s yearbook.

None of the people I interviewed could recall too many details of the missing boy twelve years later. All the descriptions were vague and delivered through memory’s unreliable filter. Audrey Gale, who was in Andrew’s homeroom for three years and occasionally studied with him, described the younger Snow brother as polite, unassuming, and sensitive. Susan Hayes, who had English class with him all through high school, described him as easy to talk to, sensitive, but also a serious pothead. Sharon Kramer, who lived down the street from the Snow boys and used to date Martin, described Andrew as thoughtful and kind of sad. I asked her what he was sad about and she said that he seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, like he just didn’t fit in. Almost everyone I interviewed had seen Andrew smoke pot on more than one occasion, but none could tell me whether he was into harder stuff. I asked if he’d ever been bullied and the response was a resounding no.

No one messed with Andrew unless they wanted to answer to Martin—maybe the most popular boy in school. He was class president, a member of the track team, the debate team, and the football team. I asked about Martin’s known acquaintances and Greg Larson’s name came up yet again.

But Larson had ignored my first three phone calls. It was time to try a different tack. I called Sheriff Larson at the precinct, used a phony name, and finally managed to make contact. Once I got Larson on the line, I explained my ruse and asked for a meeting. He reluctantly agreed and I met him the following day at the station house.

Sheriff Larson greeted me in the foyer and shook my hand with a firm grip. He was well over six feet and lanky, with a pronounced bone structure that looked stressed against his thin skin. The uniform didn’t make him more attractive, just more severe. Larson invited me back to a tiny cubicle at the far end of the main corridor. He put his feet on his desk and pulled a toothpick out of his pocket. I didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“How did you know the Snow brothers?” I asked.

Larson had a disconcerting stillness about him. His movements, speech, and expressions appeared to happen in slow motion, although I suspect that if I timed them with a stopwatch, I would find nothing out of the ordinary. All the same, his iciness piqued my suspicion from the start.

“We were neighbors,” Larson casually replied.

“Did you often go over to the Snow house?”

“Nope.”

“Right. The Snow house probably wasn’t ideal for playing.”

“Nope.”

“So your mother had no problem with the Snow boys?”

“Nope.”

“Was Andrew gay?”

“Excuse me?” the sheriff asked without a hint of a change in his expression.

“People keep describing him as sensitive. Sometimes that’s a code word for gay.”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Maybe something was troubling him. Maybe his disappearance wasn’t that, maybe it was a suicide.”

“Maybe.”

“Did Andrew take drugs?”

“Maybe he smoked a joint here and there.”

“Anything harder than that?”

“Maybe.”

“Where did Andrew get his drugs?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“If you do remember, let me know.”

“Sure thing.”

“Don’t you care what happened to Andrew?” I asked, growing tired of Larson’s monosyllabic disinterest.

“Yes, I do.”

“How often did you go camping with the Snow brothers?”

“Often.”

“But not the time Andrew disappeared?”

“Nope.”

“What were you doing?”

“When?”

“The weekend of Andrew’s disappearance.”

“Visiting my uncle.”

“Where?”

“In the city.”

“Do you ever see Martin anymore?” I asked, knowing that if I pushed for an alibi the conversation would end.

“Every now and again.”

“He won’t return any of my calls.”

“He probably thinks you’re wasting your time. Or his.”

“Is that what you think, Sheriff?”

“Yes. That’s what I think.”

“Well, I’ll take that into consideration,” I said casually as I stood to leave. “One more thing, Sheriff.”

He gave me the lift of an eyebrow that said I could keep talking.

“Does Joseph Snow golf?”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

After a couple of hours of sleep, I returned to the office early the next morning. My mother was already at her desk, toiling away at a series of banal background checks for one of our major corporate clients. The silence lasted only as long as it took me to turn on my computer.

“How is the Snow case going?” she casually asked.

“As good as can be expected.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not going to find him, Mom.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

The case file contained Social Security numbers for every member of the Snow family. I decide to run a credit header on Joseph Snow. Within a few short seconds the report surfaced on the screen and I sent it to the printer.

“Mom, do you think it’s possible that Andrew was a runaway?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because if Mrs. Snow were my mother, I’d run away.”

“I think if Mrs. Snow were your mother,
she’d
run away,” said my mom.

I picked up the report off the printer and within a second I had the answer to at least one of the questions that had been nagging at me.

“Joseph Snow doesn’t live with Abigail,” I said.

“Where does he live?” asked my mom.

“I have an address in Pacifica for him.”

“That’s odd,” said my mother. “Didn’t she tell you he was playing golf?”

Before I left for my unannounced meeting with Joseph Snow, I checked the Marin County Civil Court for a divorce filing. I couldn’t find anything on the Snows, but that didn’t mean a thing. There’s no national divorce registry, so you have to go county by county, and people can get divorced anywhere.

I would check the rest of the Bay Area later, if Mr. Snow proved as reticent as the rest of his family.

Driving down Highway 1, I caught a partial view of the ocean through the thick fog. I parked in front of a rambler on Seaside Drive, just a few short steps from the ocean. There’s a certain casual quality that all California coastal towns seem to possess. The salty air causes paint to chip faster and the wood to bend more frequently. Its state of disrepair seemed the perfect antithesis to Abigail Snow’s picket-fenced perfection.

An attractive woman in her midforties opened the door. She was wearing wrinkled linen pants and a light blue man’s oxford shirt with a gray sweater over it. Her skin was tanned and creased, but you could tell she had been striking in her youth.

“Can I help you?” she asked, in the guarded way you speak to someone who you think might start in on a sales pitch or religious propaganda.

I asked the woman if this was the home of Joseph Snow. She said yes. I asked her if Joseph Snow was her husband. She said no. Then she asked a few questions of her own. I briefly mentioned the reopening of the case, and the woman, whose name I learned was Jennifer Banks, walked me around the house to a workroom in the garage. Joseph Snow, a fit but weathered-looking man in his midsixties, was staining a bookshelf that he had recently completed. The workshop floor was carpeted with sawdust, an assemblage of tools was scattered about, and sheets of wood leaned against the walls. After the initial pleasantries and a brief summary of my purpose there, Jennifer left us alone.

Joseph played with a nail in his hand, but answered my questions with the most forthrightness I had yet to come across on this case.

“Are you still married to Abigail?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I tried to get a divorce. She refused to sign the papers.”

“She won’t even acknowledge that you don’t live there. She told me you were playing golf.”

“I hate golf.”

“Mr. Snow, do you have any idea what happened to your son?”

“No. I don’t think I ever will.”

There was nothing about my meeting with Joseph Snow that would have raised any suspicion. Everything he said was in line with what was already in the case file. I wanted to return to Abigail’s home and ask her what she was hiding, but it was late and I needed a break from this family and my own.

I stopped by Milo’s for a couple of games of pool, killing a few hours before I returned home. I wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation, so I walked around to the back of the house to use the fire escape entrance. But Mom had locked the ladder with a padlock, I assume to prevent Rae’s escape, which had the unfortunate side effect of preventing my preferred mode of entry.

I returned to my car and figured I’d nap for a few hours until I was certain my parents would be in bed. Of course, I always had the option of using the front door. But front doors are fraught with loaded pleasantries like
Hello
and
Where the hell have you been?
Doors have never been my friend.

It turned out that the backseat of my car was more comfortable than I imagined. I didn’t wake until morning, when Rae knocked on my window and asked me for a ride to school. I agreed because my exhaustion weakened all rational thought. Rae took the opportunity of the short drive to ask a series of desultory questions, chosen to throw me off the point of her inquisition.

“So how’s the case going?”

“Fine.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“So have you seen the dentist recently?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have ten dollars?”

“No.”

“So when’s the last time you saw him?”

“Who?”

“The dentist.”

“The night you gave Uncle Ray the ransom note.”

“That’s the last time you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t I have ten dollars?”

“Because you have more money than I do.”

“Has he called you?”

“Who?”

“The dentist.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Rae, why are you asking these questions?”

“Did you eat breakfast this morning?” she asked in a feeble attempt to deflect my suspicion.

“I fell asleep in my car. What do you think?”

“You don’t keep snacks in your car?”

“No.”

“You should have emergency snacks.”

I pulled the car in front of Rae’s school. I grabbed the sleeve of her shirt before she could reach the door.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Did you go see him?”

“I’m going to be late.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“Truthfully, I’m going to be late. And the principal is standing over there right now watching you, and if you recall the last time you dropped me off at school, you manhandled me then, as well. So I’d let go, unless you want Child Services to call you.”

I released my grip, made eye contact with the principal, smiled, patted Rae on the head, and threatened to kill her. She had the audacity to ask me if I would pick her up from school. I declined.

I drove directly to Daniel’s office to make another valiant attempt at winning him back and to get evidence on my sister. He was with a patient when I arrived and Mrs. Sanchez suggested I make an appointment and then cutely asked what name I would be using today. I smiled politely, gave her my real name, and said I would wait.

An hour later, Mrs. Sanchez asked me if I wouldn’t mind sleeping in one of the empty examination chairs instead of the couch in the waiting room. I obliged and got another two hours of much-needed sleep. Daniel, convinced that I would never leave, came into the office and woke me.

“Open your mouth,” he said, putting on a pair of plastic gloves.

“I don’t want an exam.”

“When is the last time you went to a dentist?”

“Chicago.”

He didn’t seem surprised and said, “I take it that was a while ago.”

“Not that long.”

“Your family has no respect for dental hygiene.”

“Did she come to see you?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Doctor-patient privilege applies to dentists, as well.”

“But it doesn’t apply to minors.”

“Are you her guardian?”

“You can talk to me or my mother. Take your pick.”