ALREADY GONE
by
Christopher Fulbright
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Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-4657-4129-5
Copyright © 2011 by C.H. Fulbright
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
If anyone had told me I’d end up on the business end of a gun as a result of the conversation I’d have that morning, I wouldn’t have been surprised. The way things had been going, I should have expected it.
I’d had a bad week. On Monday, my girlfriend broke up with me; on Tuesday, I went out with some friends, got drunk and got punched in the eye; on Thursday my car broke down; and on Friday, I fell in a gravel parking lot and tore most of the skin off my right knee and shin. Dad listened sympathetically to my story Friday night as I patched up my wounds. Then he asked if I had money for rent and I had to tell him I was broke.
So, on Saturday, battered and in a bad mood, I took a walk in the park, hoping I didn’t get run over by a bus. Despite the emerging trend, I didn’t get run over. Instead, I ran into Heather Barnett.
You may be thinking with the way things were going that I actually ran into her, but that wasn’t the way it happened. I was walking along a path around the park, headed toward the creek, when she came running up beside me. At first, I pretended not to see her, because I was hungover and in a bad mood and all, but it didn’t work the way I’d hoped. She was right beside me, after all. So, I just kept walking, hoping she’d go away, but she was a pest.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
“It’s a nickel for strangers,” I said, even though she wasn’t a stranger. I knew her. Knew of her rather, but we never sat at the same lunch table, if you know what I mean. Heather had a year-round tan, perfect manicure, delicate features, long-lashed eyes that flashed like facets of sapphires, and radiant hair of gold; all the colors of a long lost treasure at the sandy bottom of the sea. When she smiled at you, something tugged deep inside and it kind of hurt. Guys used the words “Prettiest Girl in School” to describe her. I didn’t really agree with the sentiment (I had an eye for Sarah, of course, still a little heartsick over the memory of our break-up), but yeah, Heather sure was something.
“You think they’re worth a nickel?” she said.
“You think they’re worth a penny?”
“You are Mitchell Chase, aren’t you?” She had the tone of somebody who wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. Her dad’s name was in the papers all the time since he was on the Carson Lake City Council, and her mother’s name was displayed for all to see in the paperback racks at the local City Market and Walgreens; she wrote romance novels. The perfect richy-pants family if ever there was one.
I stopped walking. I was being impolite. When I met her eyes, I had to force a smile. She may have been pretty, but she was the sort that wasn’t friendly with someone like me unless someone like me had something she needed. Heather had the friends that everybody wanted, but nobody could stand — with the exception of one friend, at least: my ex-girlfriend Sarah Faulk. They were pretty close, and so somewhere in the back of my mind an alarm was going off because, truth be told, come pain or heartbreak, a part of me wanted Sarah back. Snubbing her friend wasn’t the best way to go about it.
We stood on a small rise overlooking Ridgewood Park. Roofs of apartment complexes angled up at the sky in the distance with green mountains beyond, and the snow-capped top of Pikes Peak in the far, misty distance. Nearby, dirt bicycle paths wound through the last, melting patches of snow down into a lush grove of trees that lined Ridgewood Creek. The creek ran past where I shared an apartment with my Dad in those apartments about a mile away. There was a soccer field at the other end of the park, and atop the hill behind us were basketball and tennis courts. This was where I usually walked when I wanted some peace and quiet. Now was one of those times.
But I knew I was being a jerk. Or a fool.
Even excepting the situation with Sarah, this was an opportunity most guys in our high school would have killed for. If you’re a guy, then when you see the Prettiest Girl in School walking down the hall, you think things. Most of the time you probably think about her legs, or her ass, or her breasts, and how all that might look in a bikini or less. If you’re bolder you wish you had a chance to talk to her. You even rehearse what you might say.
“Hi,” you think you’d say. “You look stunning today.”
And: “Oh, thank you,” you hope she’d say. “You look very handsome. I’ve been hoping you’d come up and talk to me.”
And, being very dashing: “Really? Well, what a coincidence. Here I am.” Insert winning smile.
And: “Yes,” you hope she’d say. “Here we are. Would you like to kiss me?”
Yeah, well...back to reality.
Standing there in the sunny park, the ground wet with snowmelt, I looked at her, softened the edge in my voice, and said, “Yeah, I’m Mitchell Chase.”
“Well, I need your help,” she said, failing to introduce herself. “I thought for a minute there you’d tell me to get lost.”
“I haven’t been in the best of moods lately,” I said. “Sorry.”
I started walking again. She followed.
“Jeez, what happened to your eye?”
I wanted to say none of your business, but reminded myself to be nice.
“I fell,” I said, even though I’m sure she didn’t believe it. My eye was all purple and black and yellow around the edges, with an ugly cut underneath. I expected her to say, “On whose fist?” But, thankfully, she dropped it.
“Oh. Well, like I was saying, I need your help. My brother is missing.”
“Your brother?”
“He’s been gone for two weeks, and my parents aren’t talking. I ask where he’s gone and they won’t say anything. Not to me, not anybody.”
“Your parents ...? I thought maybe you needed help with English homework or something.” I laughed. “I’m no missing persons expert.”
“You work for the newspaper don’t you?”
“Sure, but I’m not Clark Kent or anything.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, Heather looked at me with pleading blue eyes.
I cleared my throat.
“Well,” I said. “What do you mean by ‘gone’?”
She opened her mouth to explain when, from across the park, a young man’s voice yelled, “Heather? Heather?”
The voice came closer as Heather’s boyfriend Bruno lumbered toward us like a yeti. His scowl as he spotted us together was as grim as his shadow was long and broad. He wore a letter jacket rife with decorations, long cargo shorts, and tennis shoes. It wasn’t that cold for around these parts — in Colorado, you can have a snowstorm one day and if the sun comes out the next, everybody puts on shorts and T-shirts. But he just couldn’t go anywhere without that damn latter jacket. He’d be wearing it in the dead of summer. Bruno’s real name, by the way, was Pat Curtis; Bruno is just my nickname for him. Bruno was that other famed high school creature, Captain of the Football Team. He had the little football patch and silver pin to prove it.
Heather seemed to be seized with panic. She fidgeted, quickly searching the pockets of her shorts and pullover. Finding what she was looking for, she hastily pulled a card and pen out of her windbreaker. She leaned toward me, turned me around, and used my shoulder to write on the card. Then she shoved the card into my hand, curled my fingers around it, touching me for a moment that surely didn’t last long enough, and said quickly: “Call me.”
Then she turned, and ran to meet Bruno, that splendent golden hair bouncing gloriously off her back.
They met in an embrace, just like in Gone With the Wind. The brute lifted her off the ground, and she bent one leg as he hugged her and she squealed. Over her shoulder, Bruno shot me a suspicious look, and then the happy couple went the opposite direction hand-in-hand. I couldn’t help but notice Heather’s curves and nicely tanned legs as she walked away with the grace of a model on a catwalk.
Down in the creek, three kids were playing in the sand on the bank. Their voices echoed up the hill. A couple on mountain bikes, with a big white dog running behind them, smiled as they came toward me along the path.
I smiled back, aware of my bruised eye, and then looked at the card.
Heather, it said at the top, in that loopy writing all high school girls seem to use. Btwn 8 & 9 2-Nite.
I had a feeling I was looking at some secret girl code. I flipped the card over. It was one of her mother’s business cards. Beverly Barnett, it said, Romance Author. On the bottom front, it also had her phone number, website, e-mail, and their physical address.
I slipped the card into my pocket, and headed down the slope of the hill, following the bike trail to the creek. I walked along the bank, wind shuddering the aspen trees as water trickled along the creek bed.
I wondered if I’d get up enough nerve to call her later.
I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head.
A small cloud came over, momentarily blocking the sun. It came out of nowhere and drifted overhead with a light sprinkle of rain. It felt pretty good when the sun came out behind the cloud.
I dared to think that fate had dealt me a wild card. Despite the churning feeling in my guts, I was convinced that my bad week had ended.
Boy, was I wrong.
CHAPTER 2
Dad wasn’t there when I got back to the apartment, which was fine with me since I didn’t want to have the rent conversation again. I didn’t get paid for another two weeks, so I didn’t know how I’d manage to square up with him. I’d have to figure out something.
After getting home I took a shower, popped a frozen enchilada dinner in the oven, and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, gently touching my swollen eye. It wouldn’t have been so bad if just my eye was swollen, but the nose had to go and swell up, too, so it looked like a ripe plum. The cut underneath just made things worse — and I had a brand new zit between my eyebrows.
I decided this was a good week to invest in a pair of sunglasses.
The fight in which I received this wonderful black eye had taken place the day after Sarah broke up with me. I guess when your girlfriend of two years breaks up with you, sometimes you go off half-cocked. Mad at the world, like it owes you something and refuses to pay. So, I went out with some friends after the football game last Thursday, and picked a fight at a party. Let me stress that drinking beer is not a good idea before picking a fight. You get this stupid impression that you’re bulletproof. Reason becomes secondary to desire.
I ended up antagonizing a guy twice my size. Rick Borland, half back for the Carson Lake football team, which — according to everyone’s predictions — had lost the game to Palmer High that night. He was also the half-wit ogre who’d been responsible for coming up with my “nickname” back in junior high, the Yard Sale Kid. For the duration of the seventh and eighth grade, he and his buddies used to call me Yard Sale, or Y.S.K., because I never had any new clothes, and the clothes that I did have were always second-hand. My parents never had much money. Before the divorce, when Mom ran off with some rich Real Estate developer, she’d always shop at yard sales. I never had a new pair of shoes until late in the eighth grade when Dad came home with a shiny white new pair of Keds he’d picked up at K-Mart in the Springs. I wore them to school the next day like they were plated with gold, only to have Rick and his gang point and laugh because they were Keds. They all strutted away in their expensive Nikes while I rained down silent curses of death upon them through teary eyes.
I guess maybe that all came back to me at the party that night. I’d been shunted by the girl that I loved. I’d been dumped like a bottom-rate chump. I’d been mocked by those of lesser intellect for the mere fact that my family could not afford the “in” fashions, and made to feel like an amoeba because of it. Anger, indignation, and the raw injustice of it all boiled inside me, and I thought Rick Borland — towering there above everyone in the living room, laughing and doing shots of tequila — was a primary cause of my suffering. I’m embarrassed to admit that another part of me also thought that if I could topple Rick Borland here in front of everyone that, not only would I be vindicated, but I’d be crawling with girls by the end of the night.
I don’t recall exactly what I said, or how I went about initiating the fatal encounter. I do remember looking him in the eyes, craning my neck since he was foot taller than me. I said something that’s been erased by the sudden jarring smash of his fist against my face. I remember falling flat backwards onto the floor, head bouncing, ears ringing, and an amazing fire of pain across the bridge of my nose.
Needless to say, perhaps, but after that show, it wasn’t exactly raining girls’ phone numbers.
The funny thing is, even though I got pounded, I felt a little better. Later, of course. I’d proven I was not a coward — stupid and drunk sometimes, but not a coward. I hoped people would say stuff like, “Mitchell may be skin and bones, but he’s got heart!” but that seemed like wishful thinking. It had instantly dissolved my anger, though. The disaster at the party had momentarily shifted focus from the disaster of my failed relationship with Sarah. I still couldn’t escape it completely, however; I felt shame at losing the fight in front of everybody, and sick inside at the thought of word getting back to Sarah. It wouldn’t get me any points with her. It just gave me more time to sit at home and wonder why it all had come apart.
She didn’t flash me any warning signs before the break up. Or, if she did, I completely missed them. There weren’t any more arguments than usual. In fact, over the preceding couple of weeks, we got along better than average. She had been kind of aloof the last couple times we’d gone out — once to a party and once to the movies. I thought maybe she was just bored. I asked her, she said she was tired. No problem. I took her home.
Then, she broke up with me.
It happened one night when we were in her parents’ bedroom, lying on the bed, watching TV. One minute we’re watching Night of the Living Dead, the next minute, we’re breaking up. I was just getting up, headed toward the kitchen for a Coke, ready to ask her if she wanted one. Before I could say anything, she gave a big heavy sigh, like she was bored with the world.
“I’m ready to break up,” she said, like it was something we’d already talked about but remained undecided until now.
Stunned, I stood there at the end of her parents’ bed, looking at her. She sat, propped up by pillows, fiddling with her fingernails. She wouldn’t look up at me.
“You’re kidding me,” I said.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Sarah said. “I just need some time.”
“For what?”
“To be alone. To think.”
“So, that’s it? Two years together, all these plans we’ve made....”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“We’re breaking up,” I said.
She stopped fiddling with her nails. She laid both hands in her lap and stared at them.
I stopped the movie and slipped it into my jacket.
I left her parents’ bedroom. I left her house, her driveway, and her — presumably so she could “think.” I went over to my best friend Devon’s house, and watched the rest of Night of the Living Dead, a physical pain in my chest like my heart was a piston wrapped with barbed wire. I moved quickly from denial to anger about the injustice of the whole thing. How it could just be over with no explanation?
Then, the next night, I got my ticket punched.
While I was thinking all this over in the bathroom, I had forgotten about my TV dinner.
I ran to the kitchen and yanked open the oven where my enchiladas were curling up like those old shoes I used to have to wear. I slid the TV tray onto a plate, took it into the living room, and munched on crunchy enchiladas while watching Star Trek.
Though I didn’t want to admit it, I was watching the clock. Not really staring at the hands as they went around, but I was aware of the time. I love to watch the SFX Classics channel. They show all kinds of great movies and shows from the old days. Star Trek (the original is my favorite) came on at six and lasted till seven. Then came Lost in Space, which I always say is stupid, but end up watching whenever I get the chance. Then came Space 1999 at seven-thirty, which I really do think is stupid, but watched to pass the time. Soon it was eight o’clock.
Time to call Heather.
I found the card.
Should I call her now? It was just a little past eight, and I didn’t want her to think I was too eager. I don’t know why I cared about that. It wasn’t like I was calling to ask her out on a date or anything. Although, maybe somewhere below the surface, I thought I might have a chance with Heather. Wasn’t it weird that she’d come and ask me for help with such a personal problem? Whatever the case, I didn’t want her to think I was falling all over myself to talk to her or something. Every guy knows that’s a bad show, and that girls don’t go for guys who seem too interested. Some girls I know say that’s a bullshit myth, but that’s not been my experience. So I dragged the telephone into the living room and decided to make another phone call first.
I dialed Sarah’s number. It was quick and practiced, etched forever into my memory. When I’m old and gray, I’ll remember that number.
It rang on the other end. I nervously whistled a little tune, waiting for someone to answer. The TV was still on, but I watched the lightning through the sliding glass doors as a storm front rolled in. Dark clouds came pluming over the ridge of mountains to the west. Lightning flashed above the homes of Carson Lake, and raindrops speckled the window.
Sarah picked up the receiver on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Sarah. It’s me.”
She was silent for a second. Then: “Mitchell....”
It suddenly dawned on me that this was a bad idea. Here I’d just gone through the whole reasoning of how girls don’t like it when a guy seems too interested, and I was practically smothering Sarah with every phone call, with every desperate attempt to try and pry information out of her.
“Sarah,” I swallowed hard. “Look ... I just need some kind of explanation. It’s been two years for God’s sake. I love you. You said you love me. It doesn’t make any sense. You never said anything about being unhappy. I thought ... I thought it was good.” Somehow that seemed inadequate, but as usual, at the moment you most need to find the right words, they all go deep, leaving you a bunch of broken phrases to choose from.
She gave a heavy sigh that said plenty. It made me angry. Angry that she’d treat me like this. Just blow me off after all we’d been through.
“Listen,” I snapped. “This shouldn’t be too hard. I’m just looking for a solid reason.”
“Mitchell....”
“I just want an explanation.”
She made that pouty little sound she makes. The sound that says, “Give me a break” without saying anything at all.
“Mitchell, I already told you; I just need some time.”
“For what?”
She sounded angry when she said, “What do you want me to say?”
“I want...” to be with you still. That’s what I wanted to say, but for some stupid reason I couldn’t say it. There I was, heart crushed flat on the road and getting run over by big imaginary steamrollers that said SARAH FAULK on their sides, and when I knew the only thing in the world that would make me feel better was getting back together with her, I drove the wedge a little further. “I want a rational, specific explanation!” I was almost yelling. “That’s all! It’s not too much to ask, is it? I don’t understand how one day everything can be fine and then you just—?”
“I didn’t happen all in one day, Mitchell. I’ve been feeling this way for a while, and if you could hear yourself now, maybe you’d have a clue. That’s all, Mitchell. Don’t call here again if you’re going to act like this.”
“Hey, now, wait a sec—”
She hung up.
I slammed down the receiver. Something from deep down rose inside me, suggesting revenge. She had hurt me. It was a pain I could feel in my chest, aching in my throat, pushing tears to my eyes to blur my vision. I told myself to stop being such a damn sissy. Instead, I suddenly had the driving need to hurt her back. To make her feel the way she’d made me feel. Worthless. Flawed.
I called again.
Her mother, Tabitha, answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Tabitha, this is Mitchell. I’ve got to talk to Sarah.”
Sarah’s mother and I had always gotten along. She’d become kind of like my adopted mom when my own mother disappeared. Sarah had once joked that maybe I should go out with her mom.
“Mitchell,” Tabitha said, “she’s upset right now. I think if you just give her some time, she’ll talk with you.”
“I just want...”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Mitchell. This is between you and Sarah. My advice: talk to her at school or something, when she can’t hang up on you.”
“Thanks,” I said stiffly, ending the call. My heart felt heavy. Mistake, mistake, mistake, I kept telling myself. And it had been. After that night, when she gave me her line, I should have left it at that and never talked to her again.
I shut off the TV and sat alone for a while.
Then I called Heather Barnett.
CHAPTER 3
The phone rang twice on the other end, and then came a throaty woman’s voice said “hello” like one of those 1-900-HOT-SEXX operators on late night TV.
“Uh, hi,” I said. “Heather?”
“No. Hold on a second, dear.”
I realized then that the number on the card must have been her mother’s private line. She’d probably given me that number for a purpose: maybe in case ol’ Bruno called the other line wouldn’t be busy, or so his number wouldn’t so up on the incoming calls on her cell, and he wouldn’t hurt himself thinking about it. For that matter, maybe she didn’t tell me to call her cell phone because she didn’t want me to have the number.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
When Heather came on the line, I couldn’t think of anything to say right off the bat, other than “hi.” I kept imagining her legs at the park earlier that day.
“I’m glad you called,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. A real charmer.
“Listen, what I want to talk to you about — hold on.” I heard a fleshy palm scooch over the telephone receiver, her muffled voice asking her mom to close the door. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to help me find my brother,” she said in a low voice, as if afraid someone nearby would overhear her. “He’s been missing for almost two weeks, and my parents refuse to talk about it. My dad seems angry and my mom is worried sick. The last time I saw Danny was when I got off the bus last Friday. My dad — he’s a city councilman, you know.”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, he was headed down the driveway Friday afternoon. He had Danny in the car seat, and said he had to go into town, said he’d see me later. Well, Dad didn’t come back until late, and Danny wasn’t with him. He wasn’t in his crib the next morning, and he wasn’t in his playpen downstairs. After Dad left for work, I asked Mom where he was. She got real upset, like she was going to cry, and didn’t say much.”
I was going “uh-huh” here and there, intrigued, but more than that, trying to figure out where she got off on the idea that I could help with this sort of thing. It suddenly occurred to me why she thought I could find her brother; it was because of my job at the newspaper.
A couple of months ago, I landed a job writing news stories. Actually, I’d gotten a job typing up press releases and lucked into the reporter position when they’d been desperate for someone to do the job. Plus, I guess I probably worked for a heck of a lot cheaper than an actual reporter would have. Anyway, I hadn’t been long in the job before I got the police department into trouble when they illegally stormed into one of my older friend’s apartments and beat him up just because he had a bad reputation. They’d made up some piss poor excuse about why they’d done it, but the bottom line was that they didn’t have a warrant to enter the house, and they sure didn’t have the right to go and rough him up. Now everybody in school thought I was some kind of investigative genius. Everybody, that is, except for the high school journalism teacher, who just thought I had no business writing for the town newspaper. He thought I was an embarrassment to Carson Lake High School and had been known to utter the words “yellow journalism” in the same breath as my name.
Heather seemed genuinely worried about her baby brother. She thought I could help her find him, but I wasn’t sure if I could. Just because somebody’s a newspaper reporter doesn’t make them Sherlock Holmes.
“Heather,” I said, rolling over on the couch to look at the storm outside. It was really coming down.
She stopped jabbering. “What, Mitchell?”
“How do you know that your dad didn’t leave him with a relative...maybe a grandparent or something, taking him overnight?”
“Why wouldn’t my Mom say that, then?”
She had a good point. Still, something about this story wasn’t sitting well with me, so I decided to play along and see if I could put my finger on it.
“Have you called the police?”
“On my parents?”
“No. Just to see if they can find him.”
“You know the police around here,” she said. “They don’t like kids.”
I moaned. Great, now I’d made them all out to be monsters, just because of a few bad apples.
“Besides,” she went on. “My mom has been really upset about it. I’m pretty sure she already made a report. But, if he’d been kidnapped or something, wouldn’t they have said that, too? Why would they keep that from me?”
I was still thinking it was more likely that the kid got dropped off with a relative, maybe somebody her mom didn’t like or didn’t want to talk about, but again, I played along.
“So why do you want me to look for him?”
“Because I think something...weird is going on.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t know. But the way they’re acting about it has got me curious. I just...why wouldn’t they give me some kind of answer if it was easy to explain? Something like dropping him off at Granna’s? It doesn’t make sense. He’s six months old ...Mom barely let him out of her sight.”
“Listen, Heather, I really think I’d rather leave this up to the police. That is, if there’s even anything to investigate. Why not talk to your mom later, give her some time to cool off, see what she has to say? If it still seems to you like something’s going on, call the cops and make a report, or at least see if your parents have filed a report. There are some good guys over at the cop shop. They’ll help you if they can. If you still feel like something’s weird by the end of this weekend, then talk to me at school on Monday.” Suddenly I imagined her boyfriend Bruno scowling down the hall at me. “No, call me Monday night.” I gave her my phone number.
“Okay,” Heather said seriously. That yippie-skippy bubble-gum inflection left her voice, and for the first time I thought of her as a real person, not just the Prettiest Girl in School. “But in the meantime, could you do some checking for me, Mitchell? I’d really appreciate it. Really.”
I didn’t know the first place to start, but obviously she wasn’t willing to let me slip out of the conversation without some kind of commitment. I shrugged. “How can I refuse?”
“You can’t,” she said. If it was possible to hear a smile, I heard one. “But you might need a little more time than just the weekend. How about...well, I’ll meet you at the Melville Theater next Friday at seven o’clock and we can compare notes.”
I stammered a little bit. Maybe I said “Okay,” but I don’t think so.
“Good. See you then. Thank you, Mitchell!”
She hung up.
“What?” I said into the phone. I took the phone away from my ear, my eyes feeling dry and too big for their sockets. “What?” I said again, imaging Bruno’s scowl once again.
I shut off the phone.
Not only was Sarah breaking my heart, but now I had to worry about getting another shiner when Bruno caught up with Heather and I together at the Melville next Friday. Of course, I knew I could stand her up — I was broke, after all — but I also knew that I’d do no such thing. Anyway, the whole story with her brother did seem strange. The things she was saying just didn’t sound right. Could she possibly have cooked up this whole elaborate story just to end up at the movies with me on Friday night?
Surely not.
I laughed and thought, Don’t flatter yourself, kid. But I did anyway. I entertained the thought that she had some burning desire to be with me, and it made me feel a little better about the train wreck of my relationship with Sarah. It gave me hope. False hope, maybe, but at the time I was willing to take anything.
Really, though, I realized how dangerous it would be for me to get mixed up in a police investigation. Especially since the police captain, Mike Candles, was none too happy with me about that story I’d done a while back about Officer Flint.
If it all wasn’t just some story Heather had cooked up, I hoped the police found Danny, or it just turned out the baby was on an innocent visit at a relative’s house, someone her mother didn’t like. If something didn’t pan out, well...maybe I’d arrange to have a little talk with Heather before Friday — before I got spotted at the most popular place in town on Friday night with Bruno’s girlfriend. Despite the emerging trend, I really didn’t enjoy getting my ticket punched.
Really.
CHAPTER 4
Sunday was bright, warm, and perfect for walking around with sunglasses on.
Sunday mornings, for me, represented an end-of-the-week rest period. Even though Saturday and Sunday mornings were the only days I worked for the newspaper, just going into the office, sitting behind the computer, and writing was the best feeling in the world. I guess that probably sounds crazy to most people. But it was a means of escape for me. I could wrap my head entirely around the news story I was working on and forget my troubles for just a little while. It was a lot easier than dealing with other people, namely Sarah and Heather Barnett.
Stepping out into the sun, I had a yearning to get behind the wheel of my Mustang and drive, but it sat inert and tired-looking in the uncovered space next to where Dad’s truck would be if he were home. Since I didn’t have the money, or energy for that matter, to fix my car, I convinced myself that I could use the fresh air and crossed the grassy expanse between two buildings on foot.
Last night, Dad had been merciful by not asking when I’d come up with my share of the rent. Despite our agreement that I could come and go as I pleased and he’d treat me like an adult as long as I carried my weight, he was still my dad, and sometimes, when he sensed that times were tough, he let me slide. I didn’t want to take advantage of him; I knew that, in the cold cruel world, if I handled a real lease the way I handled my arrangement with Dad, I’d be out on my ear. I’d figure out a way to get the extra money I needed, or I’d pay him double with my next check.
I strolled along the sidewalk away from the apartment complex, heading up a side road that led to one of two traffic lights in Carson Lake. The sidewalk was new. They just put it in last year when YMCA built a new complex down the street. You could see down the hill into the pool, so I liked to walk by since it had gotten warm out so I could watch the girls. It was the high point of the walk. The rest of the street led past rodeo grounds on my left, a trailer park behind that, and closer to Main Street, there was a fairly new strip mall with a laundromat, a bookstore, and the video store, Rick’s Flicks. I smiled at the people I passed, gazing now and then into shop windows as I turned onto Main Street and walked through downtown, coming to the post office. Across the post office parking lot was the office of the Carson Lake Chronicle.
While walking, I’d given up on clearing my mind, and thought about Sarah. I had decided to go over to her house after work, and tell her exactly what was going through my mind. I was going to apologize for the way I acted over the phone last night and tell her that all I really wanted was for us to get back together again. It was funny — my obsession with Sarah. I didn’t usually fall for girls like I had for her. Not that I had a big list of them in my past or anything, but really, she was the only one I ever even cared about at all.
My thoughts must have shown on my bruised face when I walked into the Chronicle office. As soon as I stepped in the front door, Jeanine, editor of our fine town newspaper, immediately started hassling me.
“Oh look! He’s here! Mitchell ‘puppy-love’ Chase.” She was grinning because she knew about me and Sarah and she liked to torture me. Ever since I’d gotten the job as staff writer, the hazing had begun. I was just a young punk; I had to earn my stripes. So I decided to get it over with all at once and took off my cheap sunglasses. Her grin turned to shock and a bit of concern when she saw my black eye.
Jeanine was a beautiful woman. I had a hard time concentrating on my work when she was in the room. I guess I had a crush on her. Unfortunately, I think she knew it, which is why she got away with ribbing me. For that matter, Jeanine got away with ribbing everybody in the office, including her husband Grant, who was the publisher. Admittedly, he got the worst of it. Sometimes I think the reason we got along so well was that my probably obvious fawning assured her that young men still found her attractive. I sure couldn’t hide it well, even though I tried. Thankfully, her husband Grant was oblivious to my attentions. It was all innocent admiration anyway.
Still, despite our amiable relationship, she intimidated me. She was a Beautiful Woman, not one of the Prettiest Girls in School. Jeanine was a full-grown member of the opposite sex, complete with deep, mysterious eyes, lustrous hair, supple breasts, slender waist, hips and legs that demanded attention when she walked.
“What the heck happened to you this time?”
I smiled, leaned over her desk, and said, “You cannot insult me today. I feel invincible.”
“Uh oh,” she said over her shoulder to nobody, “he’s been drinking again.”
I let her comment go unchallenged, and she handed me a large stack of news releases to type into the computer. “I think Rich is gone for lunch, so he’ll be back pretty soon,” she said, then got a sour look on her face, “but I have a feeling John won’t be in today. Use his computer.”
“All right,” I said, shuffling through the papers she’d given me. “What do you mean about John?” John was the other reporter besides Rich who worked at the paper full-time.
She looked at me and shrugged. “I don’t know, I just...well, he didn’t show up yesterday either, and we haven’t heard from him.”
“That’s not like him. He’s always here.”
“I know. I’m a little bit worried that something’s happened.”
I nodded and was surprised by the intensity of an urgent hope that nothing had happened to him. I felt it the way you feel bad about a family member in trouble, when something in your middle sinks at some vaguely dreadful news. John was a good guy. He’d taught me a lot in the short time since I’d started. We’d had plenty of laughs over some of the sillier stories that we sometimes got to cover in a small town like ours.
“So,” Jeanine said. “Not going to spill the story on what happened to your face?”