The Dorsey campaign had fielded a new theme: ‘Trust is all that matters.’ I had the radio on so I could hear the first two spots they were running. Nothing surprising and the same kind of thing we’d have done in Dorsey’s position.
I had the teenage notion that Karen Foster would surprise me with a phone call. A little reminder of what was on the menu tonight and how she hoped I was as happy in my anticipation as she was. I kept glancing at the clock on my desk. I even called it a dirty name once. I was far too mature to give it the finger.
The day ended with some new internal numbers that were not quite as bad as I’d feared they’d be. According to our own people we were now four points behind. We had another debate to go and Dorsey’s campaign always had to fear that he would say something intemperate, such as (this was one of his best) unwed teenage mothers should have to register in order to bring back ‘shame’ into our society. ‘Shame’ would make our culture what it used to be, he said. He was probably right. The Salem Witch Trials certainly worked pretty well with shame propelling them.
By the time I drove back to my hotel the rain was little more than a drizzle but the sky was a roiling blackish-gray and the sound of thunder was steady and ominous.
I did fifty pushups, shaved again, showered and put on a fresh white T-shirt, a tan V-neck sweater and a pair of brown trousers. An actual date and I was excited about it. My daughter Sarah would be, too, when I emailed her the results. She wanted me to be married again. She was convinced that in wedded bliss I would be able to answer all the cosmic questions and riddles that had beleaguered mankind for millions of years. But with a fifty-percent divorce rate in this country, wedded bliss sure eluded a lot of couples.
Thirty-Three
Karen lived in a small New England-style cottage hidden behind a long hedge and surrounded by enormous oak trees. The address was clearly marked on a country-style mailbox out front, or I might not have been able to find it.
By now the downpour had returned. My wipers sliced back and forth as I followed the narrow concrete drive that ended adjacent to the house.
Light poured from the front window, welcoming given the rain pounding on my rental and the spider-legged lightning I saw in the distance.
As I passed the lone front window I glanced inside. Cozy. Tan carpeting, earth-toned walls and furnishings. A very small fireplace glowed as flame engulfed timber.
No sign of Karen.
I probably knocked harder than I needed to but when there was no response I assumed that she still hadn’t heard me. Then I saw a tiny button of a doorbell and pushed it. I heard the sound peal inside. For no particular reason I stepped back over to the front window and looked in again. I really wanted to see her. But I didn’t. I tried the bell again and again but got no response. I opened the exterior glass door and knocked hard on the wooden interior one. And the force of my knock pushed it back so that all I had to do was step inside.
‘Karen! It’s me, Dev!’
I stepped up over the threshold and called out again.
A certain kind of emptiness has a feel, a wrong feel. The lights, the fire, the unlocked door. She should have been in front of me by now. Maybe we should have even been making out a little, striking the start of our own kind of fire to get us through this drenched night that would be clogging up sewers and flooding the streets all too soon.
The wrong kind of emptiness. I started moving through the house.
As adult and occasionally fierce as she was, there was a gentleness to the decor that touched me. The large bedroom sheltered fanciful stuffed creatures of many kinds; the kitchen was bright and happy with framed drawings from Victorian-era children’s books. I recognized them because my wife and daughter had loved them, too. No signs of a dinner being prepared.
She’d fashioned herself an office in the smallest room. Desk, computer and bookshelves filled with mysteries and a few romance novels. The desk lamp still shone, lending a noirish shadow to everything else.
There was a back porch. In the shadows I could see return cartons of Diet Pepsi cans. A pair of skis. I flipped on the light and checked for any traces of struggle. None. There was no garage. There was also no car. Lights on, fire going, desk lamp burning and car gone.
The wrong kind of emptiness.
I reversed my course and went back through the house room by room in case I’d missed some explanation of what may have happened to her.
But nothing.
I closed and locked the front door and walked out to my car to retrieve the flashlight. I spent the next ten minutes searching the grounds. The onslaught of rain didn’t bother me much. She took precedence over the weather.
I wanted this to be a TV episode of a crime show. Man searching in the downpour for at least one clue to the disappearance of a missing woman. In my investigator days I was usually able to formulate an alternate plan when I ran out of ideas. The problem was that I didn’t know anybody who knew her. Showalter would never tell me about her day, where she’d gone, what she’d done. As much as she wanted to put Showalter in prison — or on death row — she still had to report to him. So he wouldn’t have any trouble finding her if he’d decided to end their professional relationship violently.
Then I remembered Bromfield and the cop bar.
They didn’t look any happier to see me than they had the other night.
In fact, when Henry saw me he reached down, grabbed his ball bat and set it right on the bar so I’d be sure to see it. He made sure to pop his biceps.
The scene was the same, too. Girlfriends and groupies and the younger cops; the more sedate married pairs. The ones who stared at me the longest were the loners. I didn’t see Bromfield.
‘Get out,’ Henry said as I approached the bar.
‘I was wondering if I’d find Showalter in here.’
‘You got big hairy ones, I’ve got to give you that. ’Course, they may not be attached to your body much longer once I get through with this bat.’
I tried to make my scan of the place casual. I didn’t see Bromfield anywhere. Then he pulled a Clint Eastwood. He shoved the bat across the bar and into my chest. ‘Now get the hell out of here.’
He had now gotten the attention he wanted. We were in another D-minus Western movie written and directed by Henry. And starring Henry as well.
A semicircle of aftershave- and cologne-wearing off-duty cops and a bully boy with a bat glaring at me.
To my right, I saw the door of the office in back open up. I heard ‘Your turn to deal, Stan.’ And then I saw Bromfield leaving the office, laughing and saying over his shoulder, ‘Now I don’t even have enough money for any meth. I’m going home.’
He had a surprised expression when he saw me. Probably wondered why I’d been crazed enough to come back here. But he picked up his cue immediately.
‘What’s this asshole doin’ here, Henry?’
‘Ask him.’
‘I’m looking for Chief Showalter.’
Bromfield played it out. ‘Showalter?’ His eyes scanned his fellow officers. ‘When he’s pissed he’s one of the scariest guys I’ve ever seen. Even Henry here’s afraid of Showalter — even when Henry’s got his ball bat. Just be glad he isn’t here, jerk-off. Otherwise you’d be on the floor. In pieces.’
Now it was my turn to look at them. There was no way to tell if any of them belonged to Showalter’s group. But this was their place, invitation only. And I definitely wasn’t the type who’d get himself invited.