Death's Excellent Vacation (16 page)

Nora tilted her head. “And they talked.”

The bartender nodded. “Yes . . . but for her to have said she was waiting on someone, it implies she knew him. I don’t think she knew that boy before he arrived.”

Nora said, “So maybe she was waiting on a
type
of someone.”

The bartender shrugged. “I guess. She was ravishing. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”

“You never heard him call her by her name?”

“No, ma’am.”

They moved on to the Glass House Pub. The waitress said, “Jason Kirk and this very pretty woman shared a bottle of pinot noir. She paid with cash and she tipped very well. I thought they were on a date. I’d never seen her in here before, and I would have remembered her, I think. He was drunk. Not obnoxious, but not in full control of himself.”

“Maybe she drugged him?”

“I think the bottle of wine drugged him. I mean, I never saw her slip anything into his wine.” The waitress shrugged at Nora. “She steadied him as they walked out, her hand on his back as they walked out. I see it all the time. He looked besotted by her. Any man would have been.”

“Have you seen this woman before or since?”

“No.” And that had been the answer of all Sint Pieter: No one knew this remarkably lovely woman.

The bouncer at Jake’s Tallboy, who wore a suit for the occasion of his interview, said, “I might not have let the kid in; he’d been drinking a bit too much, not loud but walking unsteadily. But no way I could keep her out. The boss would kill me. It’s a bar for people on vacation; we’re supposed to accommodate beautiful women. She thanked me for letting him in.”

“You heard her speak?”

“Yes. Slight accent, a Caribbean/British mix. Elegant. But . . .”

The pause was an opening. “Yes.”

“She gave me a cold chill. Listen, I could see she was a stunning beauty, but I’m gay. I wasn’t seduced by her charms, you understand? I looked in her eyes and there was no
there
there, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Nora said, “tell us.”

“The old saying is the eyes are windows to the soul. That soul was blank. I don’t know how to say it. Blank. But not like drunk blank. Just unsettling. Empty wrapped up in pretty, you see?” The bouncer cleared his throat.

“Fascinating,” Nora said.

“I would say she gave me a chill, the kind you get from having to deal with an extremely unkind person. I remembered her immediately after the story about this boy broke. She gave me the creeps, and I’m sticking by my story.”

“You saw them leave.”

“Yes. He staggered a bit; she held him. I asked if they needed a cab, and she shot me a rather nasty glare. She said she was fine. She. Not they. A bit cold toward the boy, I thought.”

While the bouncer spoke, the police sketch of the mysterious woman came up, with the caption
Last seen with Jason Kirk
.

“And the security tape, did it show her?” Nora asked. She already knew the answer.

“Um, we didn’t put cameras in until after all the attention you gave us from Mr. Kirk disappearing.” A bit of anger colored the bouncer’s tone. “There was no tape. But when they were leaving, I heard him say he was at the Hotel Sint Pieter but in a room adjoining his folks’, and I laughed a bit, because I thought,
Dude, you will have to find another bed for you and that lady
.”

Nora thanked him, turned back to the camera, and said, “Next, the final stop on Jason Kirk’s tragic night.”

THE bar at the hotel where Jason Kirk stayed was called the Eclipse, for no good reason. But Nora, touring it with the camera following, pointed out that eclipses had once been seen as portents of doom and approaching evil. The bar was not busy, and people cleared out when the cameras started rolling. As if the tragedy might be contagious.

The hotel manager stiffly told Nora that several people saw the couple having a quiet drink in the corner, locked in conversation, heads close together. Jason charged a bottle of pinot noir to his parents’ room account. They drank half the bottle, then headed out the rear of the hotel toward the private beach.

“And no one has seen him since?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And the hotel security cameras at the entrance and exits?” Again she knew the answer, but the facts bore repeating.

“The tape malfunctioned . . . It showed mostly white static.”

“Bizarre timing,” Nora said, and while they spoke, the hotel’s mangled footage of Jason Kirk and the woman, flooded with digital snow, played on the screen. “You can make out Jason, and the outline of the tall woman, Jason leaning close to her as they stumbled out the back door.”

“Yes. Then the static clears up a few minutes later. We can’t explain it.”

Nora thanked him and turned to her final guest, who had joined them at the last stop. “The recent alleged sighting of Jason Kirk near Marysville, on the northern tip of the island, has suggested one theory: that Jason is hurt, suffering from amnesia. I’m here with Dr. Kevin Bayless, an expert on amnesia and author of
Still Here But Not Sure
, an exposé on amnesia that argues memory loss is actually quite common.” The camera panned to a tall, thin man in a suit with a blood-red tie. “Doctor, from what you’ve heard, is it possible that Jason Kirk could have suffered an injury that blocked his memory?”

“It certainly can’t be discounted as a possibility. If he was intoxicated and suffered a blow to the head, he might not know at all where he was, who he was.” Bayless had a breathy voice that reminded Nora of the soft hiss a radio made, not quite tuned to a station.

“How long could the amnesia last?”

“Anywhere from minutes to hours to weeks,” Dr. Bayless said, as though giving Nora a gift.

“We know his torn shirt was found on the beach. He might have been attacked. Describe to me and our viewers what kind of injury could induce amnesia.”

“Well, there are several, and as I point out in my book, just out last week, amnesia is far more common or likely than we know . . .”

Nora saw Molly waving frantically at her, the cut sign. Molly had never gestured so wildly during a broadcast.

“We have a breaking situation, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be right back.”

“Um, will I get to mention my book again?” Dr. Bayless asked.

Molly ignored him and looked stricken. “Annie Van Dorn is on the line. She said Jason Kirk is standing in her backyard again.”

THEY rushed to the cars, drove the fifteen minutes to Annie’s side of the island, Nora swearing at Molly: “Don’t call the police, let us handle this, don’t call. No one gets there before we do. If it’s him, we have to get him on tape.”

“I’m not calling, I’m staying on the line with Annie, but the Kirks will call Peert . . .”

Nora cursed. She’d forgotten about the Kirks. Oh well, but the police might well bundle up Jason and haul him off to the hospital. Surely not before the happy reunion. A strange flood of emotion coursed through Nora: anticipation of the greatest story in her career, and a sincere relief that he was okay. That a story of hers could have a happy ending. It was so rare.

“Uh-huh, Annie, yes, I’m here,” Molly said. The cameraman drove like a maniac, blasting through a red light at the edge of town, barreling the car into the blackness. No streetlights out beyond the tourist zones; Sint Pieter suddenly felt to Nora like a much more ancient, lost world, a back corner of reality. The only light was the wash of the headlights of the Kirks’ car behind them.

“Is he still there?” Nora screeched.

“Yes, well . . .” Molly started, and Nora seized the phone.

“Annie? This is Nora Dare.”

“Yes.” Annie sounded frightened. Eight minutes had passed since her phone call.

“Is Jason still in your yard?”

“Yes. Standing by the trees. I’m not sure he knows I saw him. My outside light’s off. But I saw him, in the moonlight, I can tell it’s him again. What should I do?”

“Leave the lights off; I don’t want the neighbor’s dog to frighten him off again. He may not be well. He might be confused. Don’t approach him.”

“I’m afraid,” Annie said. Her voice—calm and sturdy in the first interview—seemed to fold and crumple. “My sister’s not here. I’m alone.”

“We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

“I’m going to hang up and call the police,” Annie said.

“No, sweetheart, stay on the phone with me,” Nora said. A dread touched her heart. “We’re handling calling the police, okay? We’ll be there in just a few minutes.” Then she added: “You don’t happen to have a camera, do you? I suppose the flash might send him running if he’s panicked . . .”

Annie gave off a choked sob. “I’m afraid of him.”

“We’ll cut off our lights before we get there so he doesn’t run,” Nora said.

Annie made a soft little whispery mewl. “He is walking toward the house. Slowly.” Annie’s voice cracked with anxiety. “Oh my God, he’s coming here.”

“Annie. Don’t scare him.”

“Don’t scare
him
?” Annie said. “Why is he here?”

“Annie,” Nora said, and she said this with the firmness of tone that made her a star, “Don’t let him see you’re frightened. He has to be reassured so he doesn’t run again. You’re going to be a hero, Annie, to his family, to Sint Pieter.”

“He’s at the door,” Annie said, and she didn’t sound afraid anymore. More just surprised. “He’s just standing at the door.”

“Annie, you have to help that boy. You have to help him as much as I have,” Nora said. “He must need help.”

“Help him,” Annie said. Sounding a little sleepy. “He’s . . . he’s better looking than his picture.” Nora could hear the door swinging open. And Annie saying, “Hello.”

The phone clicked off.

THREE minutes later, they were at the small bungalow. The clouds had scudded to the south. Bright moonlight spilled across the eaves, the flat glass of the windows, the bent shadows made by the divi-divi trees. Nora was out of the car before it stopped, heading around to the backyard.

The car with the Kirks screeched to a stop, and she heard Hope screaming, “Jason! Jason!”

Nora ignored her and ran into the scrubby backyard. No lights on in the yard. A dim light burned in the kitchen. The back door—where Jason had come to—stood open.

“Annie?” Nora called. “Jason? Jason, it’s all right. I’ve brought you your parents, sweetheart. Just come on out.” She glanced behind her; the cameraman was struggling to get his gear squared on his shoulder.

She stepped inside. A small, modest back entry, then a kitchen. The tile was worn and peeling but the room was spotless. A dinner on the plate—noodles and salad and sliced tomato, a glass of soda next to it—lay half eaten. The window by the table fronted the backyard. She must have been eating a late meal, feet tired from cleaning hotel rooms all day, when she saw him.

Nora walked quickly through the house. No sign of Annie. No sign of anyone else. No sign of a struggle.

No Jason.

Gary and Hope Kirk tore through the house, and in the still distance Nora heard the rising cry of police sirens.

“He’s not here.”

“Was he ever?” Hope Kirk screamed at her. “My God. Is this a trick?”

“She said he was here.”

“Well, she’s not and he’s not. This is just a sick prank. I can’t—I cannot keep doing this, Gary. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Hope fell to her knees on the wooden floor. Gary Kirk knelt by his wife, put his arm over her shaking shoulders.

“We are done with you,” he said to Nora. “I mean, what was this stunt? Invented drama for the ratings? An exclamation point on the whole awful evening of revisiting our loss? Did you put this young woman up to this? Did you just need some damn footage, Nora?” His voice rose into a roar.

“No, of course not . . .” Nora’s voice trailed off. “She said he was here. She said he was.” And now she saw in the doorway Inspector Peert, with his lemon-sucking scowl. She turned back to Gary Kirk.

“We counted on you. You wouldn’t let go. You said you wouldn’t forget him. But this . . . tricking us, this is too much,” Gary hissed.

“I had nothing to do with this,” Nora said.

“Yeah, this drama just happens the night you’re filming.”

“Blame Annie Van Dorn, not me.” Nora’s voice shook, and she glanced; the cameras were rolling.
Oh, Molly, damn you,
she thought. Molly stared at her. “Ask Molly, she took the call.”

Peert folded his arms. “Did you hear this woman say she saw Jason?”

“I heard her say she
thought
it was Jason. But then Nora took the phone . . .”

“Oh, this is too much. Too much!” Nora whirled on Gary Kirk. “You listen to me. I could have helped any missing person anywhere in the world, and I helped your son. I kept this entire island looking for him, and I kept the whole U.S. of A. thinking about him and praying for him to come home safe and sound. Without me, everyone would have forgotten him, just a kid who got drunk and probably drowned in the ocean.” She stopped, slammed a hand over her mouth.

“It was never about him, was it?” Hope Kirk said in a small voice. “It was about you. Always you.”

“Molly, tell them. Tell them what Annie said!”

“I didn’t hear, Nora, you did.” Molly turned to Peert. “Annie Van Dorn did call, did say that she thought Jason was standing in her backyard. We rushed over. I heard nothing else.”

“You’re fired, you backstabbing bitch,” Nora said.

“I work for the network, not you,” Molly said in her usual calm voice.

“Find Annie Van Dorn,” Nora said to Peert. “She saw Jason, identified him at her back door. I heard her say hello to him.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. She hung up. But find her, she’ll confirm what I said.”

“I’ll confirm what?” Annie said. She stood in the open back door, a bit breathless. She blinked at the crowd.

Nora lurched toward her, clutched her arm. “You said . . . you said Jason was here.”

Annie blinked again. “Oh. Yes. I did. I went outside to see after I called you, but there was no one there. Someone was playing a trick on me.”

A long, low moan from Hope Kirk.

“You didn’t speak with Ms. Dare?” Peert said.

“Well, she kept insisting the man must be Jason Kirk, and I got tired of hearing her say that and I hung up.” Annie’s voice was dreamy-raw, as though she’d just woken from sleep.