Forever Man (6 page)

Owens nodded. “I can’t afford to be picky.”

“How long do you want the gig for?”

“Can we try the next two weekends? Then see what happens from there.”

“You want to leave this open ended?”

“Spontaneity keeps me young.”

“Spontaneity doesn’t pay the bills,” Gene returned. “I don’t see how you can survive on a hundred a week.”

“I believe that’s my concern.”

“I just don’t want you skipping out because you’ve run out of cash.”

“I’ll be here,” Owens insisted. “I’m a man of my word.”

Gene stared at the man, and then shrugged. “You’re the man with a guitar. You can start tonight.”

The kitchen door swung open and Celeste Florin walked in. She was an attractive brunette with a slim figure. After waving hello to Gene, she glided up to Chet and gave him a friendly hug. “I know how you hate being kissed by pretty young women.” Then she planted a wet one on his cheek.

He smiled and shooed her away. “You’re enough to give a man a heart attack.”

Celeste grinned and stepped behind the bar. After tying an apron around her waist, she grabbed the rag Gene had been using to wipe down the bar and started on the tabletops.

Chet’s face grew somber. He slipped his red-and-black checkered cap off his head and ran a hand over his balding pate. To Gene, he said, “You heard about what happened?”

Gene shook his head. “Nope. Been here all day.”

“You remember Denny Cain’s son, Jimmy? He was found dead up near the campgrounds.” Chet took a deep pull of his drink. “Heard it was an animal attack. He was all chewed up.”

Gene couldn’t remember ever meeting Jimmy, but his father was another regular at the Lula. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I guess it was pretty gruesome.” He swirled the ice around in his glass. “Sometimes you see this kind of thing during hunting season. Some idiot with too much beer and too few deer gets lost in the woods. Ends up as bear bait.” He put his cap back on. “But those two were on a hiking trail and should’ve been fine.”

Gene frowned. “He wasn’t alone?”

“Nope.” Chet downed the rest of his drink and pushed the empty glass toward Gene. “Natalie Morris was with him. I guess they went to a dance together and then headed up to the campgrounds for a little fun.”

“Fun?” Gene said, still frowning. He picked up a clean glass and dumped some ice into it. “On a hiking trail, in the dark?”

“Ain’t saying I understand kids these days.”

“What does Natalie have to say about it?”

“She ain’t saying nuthin’. She’s missing.”

Gene stopped pouring the bourbon. “Missing?”

Chet nodded. “If she don’t show up, there’s gonna be a big search tomorrow. Izzy’s trying to get a bunch of people to help.” He looked sharply at Gene. “Say, ain’t you—?”

“Natalie’s godfather,” Gene finished.

“Aw shit, I’m sorry,” said Chet, his weathered face pink with embarrassment. “I shoulda told you right away.”

“And this was last night?” asked Gene.

“Yeah,” Chet said. “They been looking for her all morning.”

An uneasy feeling grew in Gene. Why hadn't Stanley or Izzy called? He would have dropped everything to help. “Well, I’m sure they’ve found her by now.”

“Yeah,” Chet repeated, though he sounded doubtful. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Gene noticed that Owens’ glass was empty. Tapping the bar, he asked, “Get you another one, Mr. Owens?”

“Huh?” Owens said, startled. “Oh, no thanks.”

Gene gave him a curious look. “You okay?”

“Just hungry, I guess. Is your cook any good?”

“Best in the Upper, if you ask me.”

“You think he’d be willing to whip up something special? I haven’t had a good meal in a while.”

Gene shrugged. “Sure. Any preferences?”

“Not really,” Owens said with a shake of his head. “I can’t boil water without burning it, so anything would be a treat.”

Gene turned to Celeste. “Tell Sam that a guy out here wants to see what kind of magic he can conjure up.”

As Celeste breezed through the door into the kitchen, Owens said, “One more thing. Do you know where I could find a place to stay? Nothing fancy, just somewhere to put my things and get some sleep?”

“That depends on how far you want to drive.”

“It has to be nearby,” Owens said. “I don’t have a car.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Took a bus,” the man said. “Then walked the rest of the way.”

“You walked all the way here from, what, Newberry?”

Owens slid his empty glass toward Gene. “There’s not much of a taxi service up here.”

“No,” Gene said warily, taking the glass. “I guess not.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a small place about a mile away. You can try there. But we’re talking more than a hundred a week.”

“I’ll check it out after I eat,” said Owens. “What time do you want me to start?”

Gene got the message: mind your own business, barkeep. “Nine okay with you?”

Owens nodded. “Nine’s fine.”

Celeste came out from the kitchen and set a meal in front of Owens. “Sam says enjoy.”

Bart Owens thanked her. Then he attacked his meal with such ferocity that Gene wondered when the man had eaten last.

The sun slid slowly, inexorably toward the horizon.

The encroaching darkness had made it impossible to continue the search for Natalie; the deadfalls and the uneven ground were too treacherous to navigate without sunlight. Izzy was desperate, but she wouldn’t risk the lives of her colleagues. So, reluctantly, she’d told everyone to go home.

She, of course, had intended to stay and continue searching. Flashlight in hand, she’d planned to scour the ground until she uncovered some evidence of where her daughter had gone. But when Sten had learned of her plan, he’d protested strongly that she was making a bad situation worse by putting herself in danger. They had gone back and forth, neither giving ground, until Sten had pulled his trump card: he’d told the others about her intentions. After that, no one would leave if she didn’t agree to suspend her search for the night.

She’d been furious, mostly because she knew they were right. And she’d had little choice but to agree. So she had stowed her equipment in the trunk of the car and left the campgrounds, driving absently through town, relying on instinct to guide her.

When her cell buzzed, she looked idly at the screen. She’d gotten an email from the lab. Heart pounding, she pulled over. It contained test results. The blood found at the scene was type A negative. The same as Natalie’s. Her baby was hurt.

With her mind reeling and her heart aching, she barely remembered pulling back onto the road. Now, as she turned into her driveway, the car’s headlights washing across the façade of red bricks, Izzy noticed that the house was completely dark. All the lights were out, even the outside lights at each doorway and the two on the garage.

The neighbors on either side had their lights on, so power wasn’t an issue.

Which meant either the lights had been purposefully turned off—or something had happened to interrupt the power
in
the house.

Stanley was supposed to be home. And if that was the case, why hadn't—

Her stomach clenching, she hurried up the walkway. The front door was locked. She fumbled for the correct key on her keychain, unlocked the door, then shouldered it open. Her hand went to the wall on her right. Her fingers scratched along the surface until she felt the toggle switch. She pressed the lower half, turning on the overhead foyer light.

Nothing. The house remained dark. Thin blades of yellow light penetrated through the living room blinds, providing some meager illumination, though not enough to see by.

Her hand went automatically for her gun, but she wasn’t wearing it; she’d left the Glock locked in a metal box sitting on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. And the Maglite was back in the trunk of her car.

Shit.

“Stanley!” she called out. No reply. “Damn it, answer me!”

She strained to hear a voice, a scrape, a rattle—anything that would tell her that she wasn’t alone in the house.

Silence. Silence…and darkness.  

She kept a flashlight in the nightstand drawer next to her bed, so she decided to make for the bedroom. With her hands held out in front of her, she made her way through the dark heart of the house.

She turned left into the living room, taking small, careful steps, all the time listening. After a few feet, her knee bumped into something soft. The leather recliner. Okay. Shift right. Another step, and her fingers grazed what felt like stiff fabric: the shade for the lamp next to the sofa. Carefully, she slid her hand under the shade and felt for the little plastic knob. Finding it, she gave a twist; the sharp click sounded loud in the dead silence of the house. She wasn’t surprised when nothing happened. Then, on impulse, she lifted her hand…and
was
surprised to discover the bulb missing.

Had someone—had
Stanley?
—removed all the light bulbs in the house? What possible reason could he have had for doing something so absurd?

Just off to her right were two hallways. One led to the bedrooms and the bathroom, the other to the kitchen and the dining room. She felt along the wall until she found the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She needed the flashlight, and her gun.

With one hand stretched out in front of her and the other running lightly against the right-hand wall, Izzy moved down the hallway. The darkness felt oppressive; it was like wading through a black sea. Her heart galloped in her chest.

After several steps, her right hand bumped up against a line of wood molding, and then the wall disappeared. The doorway to Natalie’s room. Her and Stanley’s bedroom was about ten feet further down the hallway.

Almost there.

She was about to take another step when she heard something. A noise of some kind. Like a whisper—or a whimper.

“Hello,” she said, still wishing she had the security of her gun. “Stanley?”

Another sound. This time the rustling of cloth—movement.

It came from Natalie’s room.

Izzy turned toward the doorway. “Stanley? This isn’t funny. Are you in there?”

When she didn’t get a reply, she stepped cautiously into the room. Then anoth—

POP!

Startled, she jerked her foot back. A light came on.

In the retreating darkness, Izzy saw her husband lying on Natalie’s bed, his hand moving away from a small lamp on the nightstand. He had the comforter pulled up around his shoulders. A wet line of snot ran from his nose and down his whiskery cheek. He had obviously been crying.

And there, scattered on the carpet between the door and the bed like tiny land mines, were a dozen or so light bulbs. As far as Izzy could tell, Stanley had removed all of them—all except the one he’d left in Natalie’s lamp. He had even removed the small colored bulbs she used in the hallway nightlights. There was a shattered bulb just inside the doorway. The noise she had heard was her foot breaking it.

She lifted her eyes. “Stanley, what’s with the light bulbs?”

His eyes twitched to meet hers. “I can smell her, you know.”

“You can what?”

“Smell her,” he said, and his voice raised the hairs on her arms. It sounded desolate, like a man who had woken from a nightmare, only to find out he wasn’t dreaming. “I can smell her. On this pillow, in the sheets. Her scent is everywhere.”

“My God, what’s happened to you?”

“God?” Stanley said. “God’s got nothing to do with this. God would’ve brought my little girl home. Which is more than I can say for you, isn’t it?”

“That’s not fair.” Stepping around the field of glass, Izzy approached the bed. “I’ve spent the entire day looking for her.”

“Tell me, how did that go for you? Are there any leads? Are you ‘hot on the trail’?”

Izzy sat down on the edge of the bed, Stanley’s bent knees resting near her. Gesturing to the light bulbs, she said, “This isn’t helping. We’ve both got to keep it together. If you start losing it….” She scrubbed her face with her hands. She was exhausted and didn’t need this right now. “Look, there’s going to be a search tomorrow morning. Lots of people have agreed to help. Something’s going turn up.”

“You’re a day late and a dollar short, Iz. The search should’ve been done
today
.”

“These things take time. I’ve done my best to pull everything together. And even if Natalie’s hurt, we still have enough time to find her before—”

“She’s not hurt. She’s dead. I can tell.” He knuckled his chest with a fist. “In here.”

“It’s only been a day,” she said with a hint of irritation. “We need to stay positive.”

“It’s that feeling you get,” Stanley went on as if he hadn't heard her. “You know, after your child is born. That connection, like some kind of psychic tether, that tells you she’s all right. I’ve felt it every day—every
single
day—since Natalie was born. I felt her here, in my heart, and I knew she was okay. I don’t feel that anymore. I don’t feel anything.”

“No,” she said, her voice tight with anger. “You’re not doing this. You’re
not
giving up. Natalie needs you, now more than ever. You’re her father. Start acting like one.”

“I’m not giving up,” Stanley said, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing. “I’m facing the facts. She never came out of those woods. She never found her way to a road or the trail. She didn’t follow the shoreline to the campgrounds. She didn’t do any of those things.” He pulled the blanket up to his chin. “She didn’t do any of those things, because she’s dead.”

She turned to face him, anger flaring within her. This self-centered apathy was what had driven a wedge between them. “I refuse to believe that. I refuse to even
consider
it. Our daughter is alive, damn it! And we’re going to keep looking for her—both of us—and we aren’t going to stop until we find her.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We’ll keep looking, but for different reasons.” He sighed, and closed his eyes.

She returned to her earlier question. “Are you going to tell me what’s with the light bulbs?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “The darkness made me feel safe. It hid anything that might remind me of Natalie. By taking away the light, it took away some of the pain.” He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Guess I went a little overboard.”