The Many (10 page)

7

Dawn couldn’t get the police to take her seriously. The 911 operator said Isobel's disappearance wasn't an emergency and advised her to call her local police station. When she contacted the North precinct, she was put through to a gravel-voiced detective who listened patiently to Dawn’s story before telling her a person wasn't considered missing until at least twenty-four hours had passed. Also, since there were no signs of foul play, Isobel's abrupt departure wasn't really a police matter. Even if a week passed and Isobel was still AWOL, there was nothing the police could do about it. She was a grown woman and Dawn was no longer a minor. Both of them could come and go as they pleased.

Realizing she'd have to do the detective work herself, Dawn started calling around. She phoned Isobel's office, her friends, her relatives, her doctor, her favorite coffee house, her hairdresser, even her yoga instructor. No one had heard from Isobel in days and they were all annoyingly relaxed when Dawn explained what had happened. Don't worry, they said. She loves you more than anything; she'll be back before you know it.

Isobel's cell kept going straight through to voicemail. She clearly didn't want to be contacted, not by anyone who cared about her. But where the hell had she gone? Was she planning to drive off the nearest cliff? Or was she heading for a small town in the middle of nowhere, about to start a new life under a new name? The way Isobel had been behaving recently, anything was possible. Ever since her date with Maxine, she’d been impossible to read.

Maxine.

Dawn found the Sweet Violets site under the Bookmarks tab on Isobel’s laptop and the link took her straight through to Isobel's profile page. She paused for a moment, looking tenderly at her mother's headshot, but her mood darkened when she spotted the blond-haired thumbnail in Isobel's mailbox. Clicking on the image brought up Maxine’s teasing smile and cruel blue eyes.

Bitch.

She scrolled down through Maxine’s personal information, looking for something useful. But apart from her education and occupation, it was just a bunch of Facebook crap about her hobbies (yoga and eating out), favorite movies (
Thelma and Louise
) and recent holiday destinations (Spain, Italy and France). There was no contact information, not even a place of work.

She closed Maxine’s profile and went back to Isobel's mailbox. There were two messages from the bitch and she clicked on the most recent, titled: RE: Hook Up?

Saturday night works for me. Dinner and then we'll take it from there?

My number is 522 2405

Jesus, Dawn thought. Talk about coming on strong.
Dinner and then we'll take it from there?
No wonder Isobel was excited. Maxine sounded like a sure thing.

She took a deep, calming breath and then punched the number into her cell.

“Hello?” Maxine answered in a low, silky voice.

“Hi, this is Dawn Flint. I'm Isobel's daughter.”

Long pause. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you've heard from Isobel recently. See, she missed an appointment this morning and I'm starting to worry.”

“I haven't heard from your mother since last Saturday.”

Dawn waited for her to offer more but Maxine wasn't giving anything away, happy to let the silence drag on. Her heart was beating up her throat but Dawn forced herself to persevere. “Can I ask – did anything weird happen on your date? I know it's none of my business but she came home in a funny mood. Like she was upset or something.”

“You're right,” Maxine said coolly. “It is none of your business.

Dawn flinched, like she'd had cold water thrown over her face.
What a fucking bitch!
She tried to keep her voice level. “Sorry, did I mention my mother is missing?”

“I caught that, yes. But I can’t help you.” 

“Well, I think you can,” Dawn spluttered. “See, I think you did something to her that night and that's the reason she's taken off.”

Maxine sighed. “Your mother was fine when she left me. Whatever trauma you think she suffered probably happened on her way home.”

“You're lying. I know you’re lying.”

“Don't call this number again.”

“I'll go to the cops.”

“Be my guest,” Maxine laughed, cutting the line.

The morning slipped by without a single lead or phone call. Dawn was reduced to pacing back and forth in the living room, tearing her hair out with frustration. She felt useless, like she was failing her mother in her time of need. But she’d exhausted every angle she could think of. The police had been notified. She'd contacted everyone in Isobel’s circle. It seemed the only thing left to do was wait around the house and quietly go crazy.

Just before noon, Dawn heard the familiar sound of a car easing into the driveway. She raced to the front window and wiped the condensation from the glass, Isobel’s name on the edge of her lips. But her heart sank when a set of rectangular headlights shone through the mist. It was Aunt Rosaline’s Volvo.

She’d held out a faint hope that Isobel would turn up before the rest of the family, just in time for birthday lunch. But deep down, she knew it was wishful thinking. Isobel had meant what she said in her note. She was probably halfway across the country by now.               

Dawn was crying uncontrollably when she opened the front door to her relatives. Thankfully, Aunt Rosaline was a cool head in a crisis, guiding her to the sofa while Uncle Pete and Grandpa Flint shuffled awkwardly in the background. Dawn allowed herself to be waited on – drinking the tea that was handed to her, swallowing the aspirin. When she’d regained some semblance of composure, Dawn gave them a quick rundown of the day’s distressing events.

Describing her efforts to track down Isobel only made her feel worse. “And that’s it, that’s all I’ve done,” she sobbed. “After the call to Maxine, I’ve been completely useless. I haven’t even left the house.”

“You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about,” Rosaline reassured, moving closer to Dawn on the sofa and putting her arm around her. “I’m the one who’s let your mother down. I should’ve acted on your e-mail – maybe I could’ve persuaded her to get help. But I thought it was just Isobel being Isobel."

“She hasn’t been Isobel for weeks.”

Rosaline nodded soberly, rubbing Dawn’s shoulder with her bony hand. She was doing her best to be comforting, but the touchy feely stuff didn’t come naturally to her. She was much better at cracking the whip.

When Dawn had dried her eyes, Rosaline instructed her to stay seated while she called a cab for Uncle Pete and Grandpa Flint. She was sending them out to Applebee’s for dinner.

“But I was going to make lemon chicken,” Dawn protested, feeling bad for turning her relatives away.             

“Don’t be silly, Dawn. You’ve got more important things on your mind than feeding those two. Now trust me, I know Isobel, and I’m almost certain this isn’t as bad as it looks. We’ll find her before the night is through, I promise you.”

Uncle Pete and Grandpa Flint were sweet and sympathetic, but they were nevertheless quick to leave the house. Neither of them had the stomach for drama, especially where crying women were involved. Grandpa even seemed a bit confused over what the fuss was about. Dawn heard him whispering to Pete, “She used to run off all the time.”

When the house had emptied of men, Rosaline went to the computer, eager to view Maxine's profile page. She clicked her tongue distastefully when the glamorous blonde appeared on screen. “I see what you mean,” Rosaline said. “She looks like bad news. But your mother always did have terrible taste in women.”

With her jaw firmly set, Rosaline pulled out her cell and dialed Maxine's number. Dawn heard a voice answer and her aunt's eyes grew thinner. “Hello, this is Rosaline Harris, Isobel’s sister. I'm calling because....”

Rosaline gasped, pulling the phone away from her ear. “She hung up on me,” she said, as if not quite believing it. She quickly redialed, but Dawn already knew what the outcome would be. “And now she's rejecting my calls,” Rosaline said. “What on earth’s she playing at?”

“She's hiding something,” Dawn said.

Rosaline stared at her, thinking hard. “Yes, I think you're right,” she said eventually. “But she can’t hide from me. How are you feeling, Dawn? Awful, obviously, but can you handle a drive to the police station?”

“I told you, I already tried the police.”

“Not with me you haven't,” she said crisply, already moving towards the door. “Come on, get your coat.”

8

When Detective McElroy ambled into the waiting area, Dawn wondered how long it had been since he’d passed a fitness test. He must’ve been three hundred pounds at least, with most of it pooled around his waist. No wonder he was free to see them – Dawn didn’t imagine he’d get out on many emergency calls.

After a brief introduction, McElroy led them through to the main desk area – a dozen workstations spaced generously apart, a map of the North precinct on the wall, and a couple of plain-clothes officers typing mechanically at their desks. Stale sweat and drip coffee spiced the air. It wasn’t like the noisy, bustling police stations Dawn had seen on TV. More like a realtor’s office.

“Take a seat, take a seat,” McElroy said, squeezing himself into his desk chair. Dawn stared at his straining business shirt, wondering how many buttons he went through in a month.

Aunt Rosaline quickly assumed control of the meeting, explaining how her sister's recent behavior was completely out of character and how she would never have left her daughter unless something was dreadfully wrong. The detective listened diligently to the story – scrunching his fleshy features in sympathy at all the right moments, jotting down key names and dates in his notepad. But Dawn could tell he was bored. He was just waiting for Rosaline to finish her story before telling them there was nothing he could do.

At one point he asked, “Does she history of psychological problems?”

“No,” Dawn said, compelled to speak up. “Isobel, I mean my mom, never had problems before. It was only after her date last week.”

“Date?”

“She went out with this nurse she met online, Maxine. And she came back a different person. It wasn’t a gradual change or anything – before the date she was normal, and afterwards she was wrong in the head. I swear Maxine did something to her. I’m not sure what, but something….”

Dawn let her voice trail off, realizing how nuts she sounded. But to her surprise, McElroy leaned forward in his chair, interested.

“You say she met this Maxine woman online? Through a dating site?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know which dating site?”

“Sweet Violets. It’s for the lesbian community.”

The curiosity suddenly went out of Detective McElroy’s eyes. He sighed and put down his pen. “Okay, I’m going to be frank with you. The first officer you spoke to was right – due to your age, there’s no question of abandonment. And since your mother left a farewell note, we can’t even classify her as missing.”

“But I told you,” Dawn said. “She wasn’t herself when she wrote that.”

“I’m just giving you the facts. At the moment, this is not police business. But because I can see you’re genuinely concerned for your mom’s safety, I’ll run a check on this Maxine character. I seriously doubt she’s as involved as you think, but maybe someone else has complained about her. Trouble tends to follow these people around.”

Dawn smiled weakly, trying hard to appear grateful. It was better than nothing, she supposed.

“But if you want my opinion.” McElroy continued. “Your mom’s far more likely to come home in her own time. She probably had a sudden urge to escape, but in my experience, people usually find the grass isn’t any greener. I’m sure she’ll be back before too long.”

Dawn looked away, her eyes suddenly welling up again. She closed them, trying to be brave, but the sadness was overpowering. As the tears started to roll, she could hear McElroy nervously shifting papers on his desk.

“It’s been an emotional day,” Rosaline said, patting her back. “You probably need to lie down.”

Dawn shook her head, sobbing into her hands. She was exhausted, but that wasn’t the reason she’d broken down. It was Detective McElroy’s comment about Isobel eventually seeing sense and turning up in her own time. When he’d uttered those well-meaning words, Dawn had had a chilling moment of clarity.

Isobel was never coming home.

9

The feeling of being choked woke Karl, like a sock being stuffed down his throat. It had been happening for several weeks now but each night was still a fresh shock, flinging him upright in his single bed, breathless and disoriented. The tension only eased when he began picking out familiar objects in the dark: the amber street light winking through the gap in the curtains, his backpack resting against the far wall, the two other beds in the room. He looked down at the clock radio on the floor: 2.14 AM. Just under three hours sleep, that’s all he was managing these days. He’d learned that getting back to sleep after one of his choking episodes was practically impossible. And because of his two roommates, he couldn’t turn on a light and read. He had to lie there in rigid silence. Alone with his thoughts until dawn.

Frustrated, Karl kicked off his blankets and swung his legs out of bed, tiptoeing over to his backpack. He was wearing thick socks, a long-sleeved crew and knit shorts but he still gasped when he moved through the cold air. He’d planned on braving a walk around the block, perhaps stumbling on a late night-café where he could sip hot chocolate and read yesterday’s newspaper for an hour or two. Anything to break up his horrible, sleepless routine. However, as much as he wanted to shake his insomnia, the sharp chill outside his bed made him think twice.             

He went to the window. Poking his head through the curtains, he peered up at the fuzzy, orange-tinged night, careful not to let the streetlights flood the bedroom. For once, there weren’t any showers outside but he could feel the biting cold coming through the glass. The last of the drug stores and bars had closed for the night and the city street was a bleak procession of security shutters and metal grills. The only signs of life were an occasional car sweeping past and a single light from a window in the building opposite.

Karl pulled his head back, letting the curtains fall together. He’d almost made it back to bed when he stopped, an image of the street still fresh in his mind.

Karl edged over to the window again. This time he carefully parted the curtain with a finger.

A man in dark clothing was watching him from the opposite side of the road. Karl hadn’t noticed him at first because he was stooped under a low-rise scaffolding board, his outline barely visible in the shadows. His pale face was obscured, buried deep in his high collar overcoat. Only two gleaming eyes and a brush of gray hair poked above the top button.

Karl was creeped out by the stranger, but he found it hard to look away. A cold bead of sweat trickled down the nape of his neck.

“What the fuck are you doing?” came a groan from inside the room, giving Karl’s heart a jolt. He closed his eyes, waiting for his nerves to settle. It was only Kenny, his asshole roommate.

“Nothing,” Karl whispered. “I’m just looking at the stars. Go back to sleep.”

“Fuck you, you’re not my mother,” Kenny grumbled, rolling over noisily.

When Karl turned back to the window, the man with the gleaming eyes was gone.

The following morning at the grocery store, Karl was dead on his feet, his brain a sleep-deprived haze. Unloading the morning’s fresh produce into the display shelves, he only heard Ravi’s order when it was screamed in his ear.

“Are you deaf? Apples, oranges, bananas – that’s the order. So what are tomatoes doing there? You trying to confuse people?”

Karl looked dumbly at the shelves. He’d been thinking about the stranger outside his window last night, not the arrangement of Ravi’s produce. “Sorry,” he mumbled, beginning to shift the tomatoes.

“Sorry?
Fuck
, sorry. We open in five minutes.”

“I know, I’m fixing it.”

He could feel Ravi’s eyes upon him. Watching how he handled his precious fucking tomatoes.

“Don’t….” Ravi started.

“–Don’t bruise them!” Karl interrupted. “You don’t need to tell me the same goddamn thing every day, Ravi. I’m not an idiot.”

Instead of giving him an earful, like he deserved, Ravi stared at Karl for a second before bursting into laughter, slapping his thigh with delight. “Shit, you are one tightly wound motherfucker. Moping around all day, like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders. I’ve been waiting weeks for that cork in your ass to blow.”

Karl shook his head, turning back to his work. Behind the insults and the gutter language Ravi was a decent enough guy. He’d done Karl a few favors already – giving him more hours, schooling him in accounts and ordering. And he couldn’t blame Ravi for being insensitive about Stacey – he hadn’t told anyone at the store about her. 

“That’s right, jam that cork in tight again,” Ravi said, laughing to himself as he walked away. 

Karl had another reason to ignore Ravi’s taunts. He needed to ask for an advance if he was going to pay Virgil’s two hundred bucks next week. He was waiting for an opportune moment – like after agreeing to cover a last-minute shift, or when he’d nabbed a shoplifter. An employee-of-the-month moment. Yelling at the boss wasn’t on the list. Although Ravi had laughed off his sudden outburst, it wasn’t the best lead-in to asking for a favor.

He finished stacking the produce just in time for the 7 a.m. opening. Ravi always made a big production over rolling up the front entrance, like he expected a rush of customers to burst into the store. But no one was ever waiting outside. Just the dark, lung-chilling morning.

Once the fresh goods were out, Karl went to unpack the non-perishable goods from the supply room. It was his favorite part of the day. Hidden from the shop floor, he could work at his own pace, away from Ravi’s critical eye and the condescending looks of customers who viewed him as a minimum wage loser. He was dreading the day when someone from Cave Creek walked into the store. One of his old football buddies; or worse, an ex. Jesus – what a humiliation that would be. Glory fucking days, all right.

But even in the supply room, Karl wasn’t able to relax. The gray-haired man with the gleaming eyes weighed heavily on his mind. For the first time since Stacey’s death, fear was beginning to overshadow his desire for revenge.

It’s not him I have to worry about.

Those were his sister’s words. Dr. Reynolds was definitely culpable, but it was the other man in the basement who’d haunted Stacey’s dreams.
Ivan.
She’d described him as a tall man with gray hair and weird eyes. It certainly fit the description of the stranger outside his window last night. Even from across the street, Karl had felt his menacing presence.

The sense of dread stayed with Karl the rest of day, wearing away at his resolve. A part of him wanted to quit his job and head back to Cave Creek. He even tried to rationalize his cowardice – thinking he should just let his sister rest and concentrate on looking after his mother. But as tempting as it was to run, Karl knew he could never live with himself if he gave up. Even though he was frightened and penniless and nearly always fucking cold, he had to stay strong.

Karl was stacking the top row in the cereal aisle when his day took an unexpected turn. It was just before lunch and his gut was growling noisily, reminding him that he was fresh out of pot noodles. While he was contemplating asking Ravi for a bulk order discount, a woman asked if he could pass down a box of Raisin Bran. Normally he would’ve handed it to her without blinking – he wasn’t the type to smile and stop for a chat – but from the edge of his vision, he caught a glow of tanned skin and light blonde hair.

When Karl turned around, he couldn’t help gawking. Her hair was cut in a short bob, accentuating her heavy-lashed blue eyes and slanted cheekbones. In heels, she was only a few inches shorter than Karl’s six-one and although she was wrapped up in a knee-length winter coat, he could tell there was a killer body underneath. Just the way the cream wool hugged her hips….

“Raisin Bran?” she repeated.

“Sorry,” Karl said, shaking his head and reaching up for a box. “Long morning.”

“I hear that,” she sighed, holding out her empty basket.

Karl put the Raisin Bran inside and dared another look. Her eyes narrowed teasingly and there was a half-smile on her lips. Was she flirting with him? Probably – but it didn’t mean anything. He was expected to flirt back and then she’d move on, never to return. He didn’t mind playing along. “A bit late for breakfast,” he said, nodding down at her basket.

“I'm a late riser. I blame my bed – it's far too comfortable.”

Karl returned her smile, trying to play it cool. He felt like a bashful kid in her presence. He guessed her age at about thirty-five – she was still youthful looking, but there were a few tiny wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. And from the way she spoke and carried herself, she wasn’t short of money.

She was out of his league, obviously. Yet here she was, smiling in front of him. And she wasn't in any hurry to leave.

“You should try a futon,” Karl said, curious to see where the conversation would lead. “They're good for your back but they're hard to sleep on.”

“Hard is good,” she said. “Hard is very good.”

Karl swallowed, feeling horny as hell but also a little wary. Like he was seconds away from being humiliated. He decided to hedge his bets. “Is there anything else I can help you with, ma'am?” he asked in what he hoped was a suggestive voice.

“No, thank you. I got what I came for.”

She held his gaze for a moment and then swept away in a waft of expensive perfume. Karl watched her hips wiggle down the aisle, unsure whether he’d screwed up or if he’d never had a chance in the first place. The confidence and intuition he’d had in high school had all but abandoned him. He hadn't been with a girl since he’d arrived in Portland – almost three months ago. It wasn't healthy, to be out of action for so long at his age. He was preoccupied, sure, but that didn't mean he had to stop living. And beating off twice a week sure as hell wasn’t living.

He went to the end of the aisle and looked out at the front counter. Ravi was bagging the box of Raisin Bran for the gorgeous blond, his thick moustache spread out over a wide grin. Karl shuddered to think what he was saying. Ravi was married with five kids, but he was always coming on to female customers, especially blondes.

She gave a little wave as the entrance bell tinkled, disappearing into the lunch hour crowd. Karl went straight to the front counter.

“Some piece of ass, huh?” Ravi said.

“I’ll say. Has she been in here before?”

“No, no. I would’ve remembered her.” He paused to howl like a coyote. “She was red hot, man.
Red
hot.”

“Yeah, we’re in agreement. Did she say anything though? Like has she just moved into the neighborhood?”

“No, she lives two blocks away but her local ran out of Raisin Bran.” He drew his head back. “Lucky for you though, eh? You like her?”

Karl shrugged.

“Because she likes you. She told me.”

“Bullshit.”

“She did. She said,
‘thanks to your cute young helper, I can now have breakfast.’
You’re in, man – if you ever see again.”

Karl mulled over her words, seeing them every which way.

“Shit, you think too much,” Ravi laughed. “Pussy is falling into your pretty-boy lap and you’re too wound up to notice. That’s why you’re walking around with a cork up your ass. You need to get laid.”

Just then, an elderly couple walked in and Ravi’s smile transformed into something less lascivious. “Good morning,” he greeted in a friendly voice, becoming the nice Indian man from the store again.

Karl didn’t wait to be told, heading back to the cereal aisle. Ravi was right, he really did need to get laid. Not just for the physical release but for the sake of his mental health.

For three months he’d been a simmering ball of anger, fear and frustration. His grief over Stacey’s death had totally consumed him. Yet for the five minutes the blond was in the store, there had been only one thing on his mind.

It felt good, to feel like that again. And now that the familiar urge had returned – the intense desire to lay down with a woman rather than your own right hand – he resolved not to let another opportunity slip through his fingers.