Читать книгу: «The Drowning Child», страница 2
3
Ren was settled into a dark corner of a dark restaurant in Denver airport by four thirty a.m. She ordered coffee and a pineapple juice. She popped two Advil.
Somebody fucking shoot me. Ugh. Do some work. My brain is fried. Do something easy.
She opened Safari.
Fuck, the light.
She dimmed the screen and googled the town of Tate.
Tate, Oregon, nestled in the Willamette Valley, fifty miles south-east of Portland, fifteen miles east of Salem, home to 3,949 residents.
The first images were of a quaint, well-kept town, built around one intersection, its most prominent building a two-story red-brick family restaurant with Bucky’s written in red cursive at a jaunty angle on the front.
The public announcements of Tate PD were about fallen trees, storm damage, and buckling up to avoid getting a citation.
Caleb Veir’s disappearance had hit the news and there was a photo of him alongside the article. He was a sturdy-looking boy with dark, side-parted hair, pale skin with freckles across his nose and cheeks, and a naturally downturned mouth.
A mournful-looking kid.
Ren jumped as a figure came into her peripheral vision.
Gary. Jesus. Fuck hangover jumpiness.
‘Hey.’ He sat down beside her. He glanced at the watery pineapple juice pooled in the dying ice of her glass. He knew it was her hangover cure of choice.
Please just smell my beautiful wintergreen smokescreen breath.
‘Caleb Veir was last seen by his father, John, at seven forty-five yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘When did you get the call from Tate PD?’
‘Right before I called you last night,’ said Gary. He nodded. ‘Yes – it’s strange. The kid didn’t make it to school, but when his teacher called his mom, she couldn’t get hold of her. She left a message, then left one for the father on his cell phone and at work. He’s a corrections officer at Black River Correctional Institution outside Salem. An inmate escaped the previous day, so the teacher figured John Veir would be caught up with that and didn’t want to bother him: she figured Caleb was at home being looked after by his mom anyway – a lot of kids had been off school with a virus.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘Wouldn’t the teacher have persevered? And why wasn’t the mom answering her phone?’
‘She wasn’t home the previous night and no one could reach her the following day.’
‘Why not?’ said Ren.
‘I don’t have all the details,’ said Gary.
‘So, Caleb was alone with his father the night before he disappeared?’ said Ren. ‘What’s the father’s deal?’
‘John Veir, fifty-seven years old, ex-military, CO at BRCI for the past five years.’
Military man, corrections officer, son about to hit his teens … hmm.
There was a short silence.
‘Sylvie Ross is flying in too,’ said Gary. Sylvie Ross was an agent and child forensic interviewer. ‘I’m still seeing her.’
Loving the defiant tone. ‘That’s your business,’ said Ren.
‘I just wanted you to know,’ he said.
Why – so I’ll know to exercise the muscles of my blind eye again?
‘Thanks,’ said Ren. Honored to be part of your cheating ways.
He turned to Ren. ‘Paul Louderback’s coming too.’ There was weight to his gaze.
Tou-fucking-ché.
Paul Louderback was Ren’s former PT instructor at Quantico. He was ten years her senior, married throughout their emotional affair, then briefly separated from his wife when he and Ren slept together. He was her kill-your-curiosity fuck, the eliminate-years-of-buildup fuck. After they slept together, Ren had officially gotten together with Ben, and Paul got back with his wife. Contact had dropped since then, until he called her when he heard about the shooting.
What will my heart do when I see you again, Paul Louderback? Because I’ve no control over that.
Your heart will betray Ben and you’ll feel like shit.
The plane landed in Portland in torrential rain. Ren drove to Tate without music, listening, instead, to the sound of the rain pounding the car. It was soothing at first, but as it fell harder, faster, louder, she turned on the radio to drown it out. She focused on Gary’s car, up ahead, copied every move he made.
I am on autopilot.
What the fuck was I doing, driving last night?
Jesus. Christ.
Cliff. God bless him.
I am a shitshow.
She shook her head.
Paul Louderback … his mouth … his hands … his … one night … sexy and just a little dirty … not dirty enough … like he was unleashed but didn’t know what to do with it … an old-school gentleman trying to be filthy … he just didn’t have that thing …
That Ben and I had. That fuck-me-always-any-way-you-want-to thing.
Ben.
Stop.
As Ren drove past the Welcome to Tate sign, she saw black ribbons tied around some of the trees.
Not very hopeful.
As she approached the gates to Tate PD, she felt her stomach clench: it was chaos – news vans, reporters, law enforcement, volunteers, a K-9 Unit.
Gary slowed to a crawl in front of her, and a young Tate PD officer parted the crowd and guided them both through and into two reserved parking spaces. The building was single-story, red-brick, with a parking lot on three sides and a strip of grass planted with trees along the other.
Inside, the lobby was small, clean, and pine-scented, with fresh plants and a wall covered with community photographs that spanned decades of sporting events, picnics, barbecues, charity drives, swim meets – beaming police officers, teachers, schoolchildren, and senior citizens.
Ren and Gary checked in at the desk and took a seat.
Within minutes, a short man with a tight, round stomach came out to meet them. He looked to be in his late fifties, with sad dark brown eyes and a puffy face, pockmarked on the left side. Ren and Gary stood up.
‘Pete Ruddock,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ As he shook Ren’s hand, he gave her a smile that was all about the warmth that radiated from those sad eyes.
I like you already, Pete Ruddock. Whoa. Is that pity in your eyes? Oh, God – have you read about me? You have to know what happened at Safe Streets. How could you not know?
Because he wouldn’t have been told which CARD team members were coming to Tate. Jesus.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ren. ‘I’m Ren Bryce.’
‘Good to meet you, Ren.’
‘Gary Dettling,’ said Gary, shaking Ruddock’s hand.
Ruddock picked up immediately on Gary’s get-to-the-point ways.
‘Something’s a little hinky with the parents,’ he said.
4
Ruddock guided Ren and Gary to his office. It was neat and tidy, with family photos lined across the lower shelf of a walnut cabinet. The biggest one, framed in gold, was a nineties-looking shot of Ruddock, with his arm around a short, smiling woman and two boys and a girl who looked to be in their early teens.
‘What’s your major concern?’ said Gary.
‘There are a few things,’ said Ruddock. ‘The delay in reporting Caleb missing is one.’
Ren nodded. ‘Yes, we thought that – did they explain why? Caleb should have arrived home from school at around four thirty, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Ruddock. ‘But Teddy Veir, Caleb’s mom – didn’t come home until six thirty yesterday evening. She’d been staying with a friend in Salem, Sunday night, and she was at a trade show there yesterday – she works part time in Gemstones, a kind of New-Agey shop here in Tate – sells crystals and incense and angel healing things. Her cell phone battery had died overnight and she had left her charger at home.’
‘Surely someone at the venue could have charged her phone for her,’ said Ren.
‘She said she didn’t think to ask,’ said Ruddock. ‘When she got home, she figured Caleb was at a friend’s house and that he’d be back for supper by seven. She charged her phone, called Caleb’s, left him voicemails. His phone, we now know, was upstairs in his bedroom, powered off. Teddy also tried her husband’s phone, which was diverted. She left voicemails for him, then called BRCI and they said they’d get him to call. When she checked her own messages, she heard one from Caleb’s teacher, Nicole Barton, made at eight thirty a.m., wondering if Caleb was OK, that he hadn’t shown up for school. At this point, about seven thirty p.m., with still no sign of Caleb, Teddy called neighbors and friends, but no one had seen him, and the kids from his class confirmed that he hadn’t been to school that day. Now, Teddy was panicking. At seven forty-five, she called BRCI again and insisted she would wait on the line to speak with John. He came home right away when she told him Caleb was missing.’
‘So, John Veir was working what shift?’ said Ren.
‘Well, here’s the other strange thing,’ said Ruddock. ‘He was rostered in to work at seven a.m., but he didn’t show up until the three p.m. shift.’
‘Nobody called from work to check where he was that morning?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Ruddock. ‘They were taken up with the escaped inmate from the day before.’
‘Wouldn’t that have made them even more suspicious if Veir didn’t show?’ said Ren.
‘I guess they trust him,’ said Ruddock.
‘I’m not buying that Veir screwed up his start time,’ said Ren. ‘An ex-military man who works a standard shift arrangement gets it wrong the same morning his son disappears?’
‘The only thing is,’ said Ruddock, ‘Veir was filling in for someone yesterday. It was supposed to be his day off. So it wasn’t part of his usual routine.’
‘Still,’ said Ren. ‘And when the school called, he didn’t pick up?’
‘He said he was home, but he didn’t realize the ringer was turned off.’
‘That sounds like bullshit to me,’ said Ren, ‘because he brought his cell phone to work, and he would have seen the missed call.’
Ruddock nodded. ‘Another thing that’s bothering me is that we’ve gotten reports from some of the neighbors that they heard raised voices coming from the house quite regularly. The father and son. Apparently, mother and son were very close.’
‘Did they say what the arguments were about?’ said Ren.
‘They didn’t always hear everything, but the general sense is that it was about Caleb keeping in line, not talking back, that kind of thing,’ said Ruddock. ‘We also saw something at the house – scuff marks on the bottom of Caleb’s door. On the inside. Like it had been kicked at. And the doorjamb looked damaged, as if someone was trying to open a locked door.’
‘They lock him in?’ said Ren.
Ruddock shook his head. ‘Both parents said the door was never locked, and that they had never even seen a key.’
‘We only have the father’s word that Caleb was alive and well yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘No one else can confirm that. What if something went down the night before? The father locks Caleb in, Caleb goes nuts, the father goes too far. And if that happened Sunday night, that would have given him a lot of time to figure out a plan to get rid of the body.’
‘No traces of blood were found anywhere in the house or in the garage,’ said Ruddock. ‘Plus no one saw John Veir leave the house Sunday evening, which of course, doesn’t mean a whole lot, but he hasn’t come up on any of the traffic cams yet.’
‘And what about yesterday?’ said Ren.
‘There aren’t a lot on that route,’ said Ruddock, ‘but we have him at a 7-Eleven on I-5 at 14.05. Bought a bottle of water, some gum.’
‘Any dramatic eyeballing of the security camera?’ said Ren. ‘Any sense that he was trying to time-stamp his activity to prove he couldn’t have been elsewhere?’
‘Well, he looked up when he walked into the store,’ said Ruddock. ‘But he could have done that anyway.’
‘Did he always stop on his way to work?’ said Ren. ‘Like, I hate doing that – I want to get in my car – bam – arrive in work, no stops.’
‘Guess it depends on how long the journey is,’ said Ruddock. ‘His is an hour. But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t think it was significant.’
‘Clearly you still don’t,’ said Ren, smiling.
Ruddock smiled back.
Lovely smile.
‘What have you done in terms of a search?’ said Gary.
‘As much as we could in darkness last night,’ said Ruddock. ‘We have a search organized to start here at midday. We wanted to make that appeal at the press conference too, maximize volunteer numbers.’
‘What about the missing inmate?’ said Gary. ‘Could he be connected to this?’
‘Too early to say,’ said Ruddock. ‘His name is Franklin J. Merrifield – he’s eighteen months into a thirty-five year sentence for robbery, homicide, rape, and arson. He was admitted to Salem Hospital on Sunday because of a seizure, and escaped while he was there – the guard watching him was sleeping, but may have been drugged. Whether the seizure was faked, and this was all planned ahead of time, we don’t know. And seizure activity doesn’t always show up in EEGs. He had an appeal rejected just last month. His buddy cut a deal with the prosecution and had his sentence reduced to seventeen years.’
‘On what grounds was the appeal?’ said Ren.
‘Merrifield has maintained his innocence throughout,’ said Ruddock. ‘He admits to the robbery, but denies all other charges. He says he was going along for the ride, didn’t know his buddy was carrying a firearm. His appeal was on the grounds that the jury was poorly instructed on accomplice liability.’
‘When was Merrifield reported missing?’ said Gary.
‘Five p.m., Sunday,’ said Ruddock.
‘Do they believe he had help from someone in BRCI before he ever got to the hospital?’ said Ren.
Ruddock nodded.
‘Any incidents between him and John Veir?’ said Ren.
‘Nothing we know about,’ said Ruddock.
‘Could we take a look at the Veirs’ questionnaires?’ said Gary.
‘Sure,’ said Ruddock. ‘I’ve got them right here.’
He handed them the forms that every parent of a missing child fills out as soon as they make the initial report. Gary and Ren scanned them.
John Veir, fifty-seven years old; born and raised in Tate, Oregon; joined the military in 1977, US Navy – 00D, married Teddy Veir in 2000; did one tour in Afghanistan; three tours in Iraq; one son – Caleb, born 2004; left the military in 2009, worked in different businesses around Tate, employed as a corrections officer in BRCI since 2010; mother deceased, father living in Madison, Wisconsin; one sister – Alice Veir, lawyer, living in Spokane, Washington.
Teddy Veir, fifty-four years old; born and raised in Tate, Oregon; married John Veir in 2000; one son – Caleb, born 2004; works part-time in Gemstones, Tate, suffers from anxiety, no family living in the US, but has a brother and sister-in-law in Australia.
‘What’s 00D?’ said Ren.
‘Double-oh Delta,’ said Gary. ‘He was a navy diver.’
Part of the questionnaire asked parents to name anyone they might want law enforcement to take a look at; anyone who might have given them a bad feeling or may have an issue with the family.
‘Teddy Veir’s written the names of five men she thinks we should take a look at,’ said Ren. ‘And John Veir has ten.’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, some of his include former inmates at BRCI,’ said Ruddock. ‘We’re going through the list.’ He glanced at his wall clock. ‘The press conference is about to start. Let’s walk.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I was wondering – I saw a couple of black ribbons on the trees on the drive in …’
‘That’s not about Caleb,’ said Ruddock. ‘Two young boys died here – one in January, one last month.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ren. ‘What happened to them?’
‘Aaron Fuller – he was only eleven years old – drowned in Lake Verny. And a couple of weeks later, little Luke Monroe choked on a sandwich,’ said Ruddock. ‘Seven years old.’
Jesus. ‘That’s heartbreaking,’ said Ren.
‘And in such a small community,’ said Ruddock. ‘And now this …’
‘Well, let’s hope there’s a favorable outcome to this,’ said Ren.
The conference room was packed with police officers, reporters, photographers, Tate residents. Three tables were lined up at the top of the room. Mounted behind them on a whiteboard at the center was the Missing poster of Caleb Veir, blown up to four feet by three feet. There were twenty rows of chairs, divided by a central aisle. Gary and Ren stood toward the front, close to the wall, neither aware that they were in the exact same pose – arms folded, stiff, frowning.
Ren turned to Gary. ‘What a sad little face that boy has. There’s pain in those eyes.’
Ruddock walked over to them. ‘We’ll be starting soon.’
A man appeared suddenly in front of them, no hellos, no introductions, no eye contact with anyone. He had a buzz cut, a scowl, and flaming red razor burn on his neck.
‘Just so you know,’ he said to Ruddock, ‘both parents have refused to take polygraphs.’
What an extraordinary voice. Like it’s being scrambled.
Ruddock turned to Ren and Gary, irritated. ‘This is Lieutenant Gil Wiley – FBI agents, Ren Bryce and Gary Dettling from CARD.’
Ah, the sharp upward nod, thank you, Mr Wiley.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ren, shaking his hand. Gary stayed silent but shook Wiley’s hand. Wiley said nothing to either of them.
Ren looked at Ruddock. Beneath the endearing, doughy face, his jaw was tight.
5
Shannon Fuller gripped the edge of the bar like she was about to do a push-up, her head bent over the newspaper, her broad back hunched. She stared at the photo of Caleb Veir under the headline MISSING FROM TATE. Her chest tightened. She thought of her son, Aaron, and how he had been in the lake in the pitch-black all night. But his body had gotten lodged in a shallow spot, where the water was clear, so he was found. He wasn’t MISSING. She was lucky.
Lucky … her only child, found under an icy, glassy surface, like a sleeping beauty who might wake up. But it was better than being down in the grim depths, rock bottom, decomposing, flesh falling from his bones. A shiver crawled up her spine. She reached out to grab a cloth, a pen, a beer mat, anything to take her mind along a different path – another useless pursuit. So many useless pursuits.
She’d replayed that evening on a loop ever since. Aaron had been at his middle school dance, she had been in The Crow Bar alone, feeling sorry for herself, drinking herself into oblivion, crying into beer after beer after beer. She had chased it all down with a row of shots to remind her of times when a broken heart was something other people got. She had staggered into the house behind the bar, fallen asleep on the sofa, never knew her baby hadn’t made it home.
She sucked in a breath, stood up straight, shoulders back, head high. She figured all bars were a desolate place in the early morning, but when she bought The Crow, she thought that would change. It didn’t. And, now, without Aaron, the desolation had seeped into every cell of her body too; she felt a part of the bar, as worn as the timber, as faded as the drapes, as stained as the surfaces.
She remembered walking into The Crow Bar seven years earlier, with four-year-old Aaron, and sixteen-year-old Seth, who she could feel was already pulling away from her, already worrying her with his behavior, and his friends, and his recklessness. Her sweet, handsome, loving, affectionate little nephew had turned into someone she couldn’t understand. He had effectively been her son since he was eight years old, when her sister, Jessie, was killed in an instant by a brain aneurysm. Seth’s father had OD’d when he was six months old, and the only family he had left was Shannon who had always adored him, and adored him still, even in this troubled teenage incarnation. She wanted to give Seth everything her sister had dreamed of for him.
Shannon hadn’t known that Jessie had been saving for years, and along with her insurance policy, had left Shannon quite a large sum of money. Shannon had added to it, and by the time the battered and abandoned thirty-five-year-old Lake Verny resort was put up for sale, at its knock-down price, she could afford to buy it. It made sense to her: she had spent time there as a child, she worked in a bar, Aaron loved the water, and Seth used to love it. He used to be a champion little swimmer, and Shannon wanted to reintroduce him to what was once his passion. She also wanted to employ people in town, bring business to Tate, she wanted to do good in Jessica’s honor. That day, she said yes to the real estate agent, yes to the Lake Verny Resort with its twenty brokedown cabins, yes to The Crow Bar, and yes to years and years of struggling to make ends meet. But she also said yes to something that brought her joy … until now.
In the six weeks since Aaron had died, along with thoughts of beautiful boy, along with her tears and her paralyzing grief, she was struck with hot stabs of shame when she thought of how she must have looked to Pete Ruddock and Gil Wiley that morning, captured, as she was, like a shabby Polaroid with Bad Mom scrawled on the white strip underneath – hanging out of the doorway of a bar, puffy-eyed, messy-haired, liquor-soaked, unaware of her only child’s whereabouts, neglectful, undeserving, trash.
Tears slid down her face. She thought of her pain, she thought of John Veir’s, she thought of Teddy’s. She pictured Gil Wiley and Pete Ruddock walking up to the Veirs’ front door, as they had walked to hers, with their white faces and their terrible news.
Then, for a guilty moment, Shannon thought of John Veir and how his hands felt on her body, how his lips felt against hers, how she loved him, how she feared she always would.
They had gone their separate ways before, found their way back to each other, until the last time – the time that sent her diving, heartfirst, into an alcohol haze. Now here they were, through tragedy, entwined again.
