Long Lost (10 page)
“How could you possibly think I killed my wife and son?”
“It’s a standard part of an investigation. When a family member’s missing or killed, a lot of times the person responsible is another family member.”
“Jesus, how could I have driven the Volvo to Wyoming, then stolen a car and abandoned it in Montana, and somehow have gotten back here to maroon myself in the mountains?”
“You could have if this guy Dant had been working for you.”
The depth of Gader’s suspicion shocked me. “
Why would I have asked Petey to do that?
”
“Dant. If you had money troubles and needed the payout from a life—insurance policy, or if you had a girlfriend who made your wife an inconvenience.”
I clenched my fists again.
“But there weren’t any unusual withdrawals from your bank accounts or your stock portfolio, and there wasn’t a hint of scandal about your relations with your family. Besides, I couldn’t figure out how you’d have crossed paths with Dant after he got out of jail in Butte and … Quit staring at me like that. The investigation wasn’t going anywhere. I had to try a different approach.”
“You son of a bitch, you made my friends think I’m responsible for my family’s disappearance.”
“It wasn’t personal. I told you, I was following standard procedure. The point is, you came through the investigation perfectly. You’re in the clear.”
“Thanks. Thanks a fucking lot.”
“You seem determined to avoid using Lester Dant’s name,” the psychiatrist said.
I didn’t answer.
“The FBI did a thorough background check,” the psychiatrist continued. “They proved that he’s not your brother.”
My chest was so tight that I could hardly get the words out. “They think Dant crossed paths with my brother and learned what had happened to him as a child. He decided to switch places with Petey, possibly killed him.”
I stared out a window toward a pine tree.
“But you don’t believe it,” the psychiatrist said.
“I
can’t .
”
“ ‘Can’t’ ?” The psychiatrist evaluated the word.
The tightness spread to my throat. “If I accepted that Dant kidnapped my wife and son, I’d have to admit that, given his profile, he’d have done whatever he wanted to them and …” I couldn’t bring myself to say “killed them.” I kept staring through the window toward the pine tree. “But if Petey was using Dant as an alias …” My voice broke. “If
Petey
took them, there’s a good chance they’re still alive.”
The psychiatrist sat forward. “Why do you think that?”
“I’ve tried to put myself in his place.” The tree became a blur. “I’ve done my best to imagine what Petey must have felt when he came into my house. My loving family, my comfortable surroundings. Petey wouldn’t have wanted merely to kill me for destroying his life. He’d have wanted
my
life, the one I’d made for myself.”
I forced myself to continue. “I’ve analyzed the moment when Petey pushed me into the gorge. I’ve relived it again and again. I think Petey’s plan was to wait until Jason wasn’t around and then kill me, making it look like an accident. Then he intended to sympathize with Kate and Jason, to make himself indispensable, and eventually to take my place. The only problem was, Jason saw him push me.”
I took a deep breath. “So the plan was ruined. What was Petey going to do? Kill Jason? Make
that
death look like an accident also? Try to take my place with Kate? No. Jason was an essential part of what Petey wanted. Not just my wife but my
family
. Obviously, he couldn’t live in my house then, not without Jason telling the police what he’d seen.
But Petey could steal my family
. He could hide them someplace and screw my wife whenever he wanted. He could force my son to treat him like a father.” I squeezed the words out. “At least they’d be
alive.
If Petey and Dant are the same person. If
Petey
took them. But if Dant’s who the FBI claims he is, if he isn’t Petey, he probably killed Jason right away and hid his body in the mountains. Then he made the best of a failed plan by looting the house and forcing Kate to go someplace with him, probably the Montana mountains, where he could rape her as much as he wanted before he got bored with her and—” I stopped, unable to admit Kate might be dead.
The psychiatrist narrowed her eyes as if I’d just described hell. But whether it was the hell that Kate and Jason suffered or whether it was the hell of what she considered my delusional mind, I couldn’t know.
As I swallowed another antidepression pill, I heard the doorbell ring. The FBI with news, I hoped.
But when I opened the door, I frowned at children in costumes on my porch. Trick—or—treaters. It was Halloween, but I hadn’t been aware. I didn’t have candy. Not that they cared. They stumbled back as if
I
was the one in a scary costume. When I tried to explain, they ran from the porch.
I closed the door and shut off the light. Peering out a darkened window, I saw other costumed children, and as I hoped, they passed the house. I couldn’t help remembering that Halloween was one of Jason’s favorite holidays. How he’d loved to dress up as a space monster or a mad scientist. How
I
had loved to go out with him. But that wasn’t going to happen now. It made me angry that I’d frightened the children. Was my face that twisted with loss? Were my eyes that dark with insanity?
The vial of pills remained in my hand. Cursing, I threw it across the living room. Depression gave way to fury. What was it that Petey had said when he’d first approached me and I’d thought that he was a fake, when I’d told him to get away before I beat the shit out of him? “Brad, you’d have a harder time outfighting me than when we were kids.” We’ll see, I thought. In that moment, as I heard someone on the street shout to warn children away from my porch, I vowed to stop waiting for the police and the FBI to do something. I had to stop hoping that something would happen.
I had to
make
something happen.
“A theory of substitution?” Gader asked.
“Yes.” I was so distraught that I stood in front of his desk instead of sitting. “We know that Petey lied.”
“Dant.”
“But what if the reason he was so convincing is that he based his lies on the truth? He
was
in Butte and Colorado Springs at the times he said, after all. He just wasn’t doing what he claimed.”
“What’s that got to do with this theory of —”
“You told me that West Virginia doesn’t have a town called Redemption.”
“That’s correct.”
“But what about the rest of the country? Is there a town called Redemption
anywhere
? Or what about towns in West Virginia whose names have a religious connotation similar to Redemption?”
Gader thought about it. “Possibly. It would help Dant to keep his stories straight.”
“Could you check?”
Gader leaned back in his chair. His thin face looked even thinner from weariness. “I’ll try. The Bureau has me working double time on …” He pointed toward a thick stack of documents on his desk. “What difference would it make? All that stuff Dant said about his past was a lie to make you sympathize with him.”
“But what if it was only
partly
a lie?”
“It still won’t help us find your wife and son. Every lead’s been followed. The task force has been disbanded. All we can do is wait for Dant to surface.”
“Petey.” I strained to keep control. “Damn it, doesn’t
anything
you learn about him take you one step closer to understanding his patterns and where he might go?”
“Sure,” Gader said. “Of course.” He stood and walked me to his frosted—glass door. “The theory of substitution,” he said without conviction. “Certainly. I’ll definitely do some checking. By all means, if you think of anything else, just let me know.”
“Mr. Payne will see you now,” the receptionist said.
I set down the three—month—old
Newsweek,
which might as well have been up—to—date, given how little I’d paid attention to what was happening in the world. Crossing the small waiting area, I entered an office that was spacious by comparison, although in my own company it would have been considered tiny.
It was austere: a wooden chair, a desk, a computer, another chair. And a fish tank into which a portly, bespectacled man tapped grains of food. His white hair contrasted with the healthy ruddiness of his cheeks. His sport coat was off. He wore yellow suspenders over a blue shirt.
“How are you this afternoon, Mr. Denning?”
“Not very good, I’m afraid. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”
Payne nodded, his puffy chin bobbing slightly. “It’s for sure nobody comes to me with happy news. I used to internalize it all. At the end of the day, I’d be a wreck. But then I remembered the fish tank in my dentist’s office and how it calmed me before I went in to have my teeth drilled. These are just garden—variety goldfish. I don’t know if they help my clients, but they do wonders for
me.
Would you believe that I used to be a hundred—and—forty—pound bundle of anxiety? But ever since I got these fish, I’ve”— he spread his arms to his girth—“blossomed.”
I had to smile a little.
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Denning.” Payne set down the box of fish food and eased into the chair behind his desk. “Would you like some coffee? A soft drink?”
I shook my head no.
He laced his fingers over his ample stomach and gave me the most sympathetic look I’d ever experienced. “Then tell me how I can help you.”
Haltingly, I explained about Kate and Jason.
Payne nodded. “I read about it in the newspapers and saw the stories on television. A terrible thing.”
“My attorney says you’re the best private investigator in Denver.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know a lot of private investigators.”
“He says you used to be with the FBI. He says you tracked down a serial killer.”
“That’s right.”
“He says you predicted where a team of interstate bank robbers was going to hit next.”
“True.”
“And
when
they were going to do it. He also says you blocked a domestic—terrorist attempt to—”
“But that was only on the weekends.”
The joke caught me unprepared.
“Please. All that flattery just makes my cheeks get redder,” Payne said. “I was part of a team. We each did our share.”
“My attorney says that you did
more
than your share.”
“Did he also tell you that it cost me my first marriage, not to mention a bullet in my knee that forced me to leave the Bureau? I finally got the wisdom to stop having undue expectations of myself.
You
shouldn’t have undue expectations either, Mr. Denning. I’m good, but only because I often see patterns others don’t. For something like this, it’s important to your emotional health that you don’t count on the impossible.”
With nowhere else to turn, I swallowed my disappointment. “Fair enough.”
“So let me ask you again: How do you think I can help you?”
“The FBI and the police have given up.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “It’s been six months. I heard somewhere that in missing persons’ cases, the more time drags on, the less chance there is of finding the people who are missing.” I could barely add, “Finding them alive at least.”
“It depends. Every case is different. Statistics are a record of the past, not a prediction of the future.”
“In other words, you’ve got an open mind. You’re exactly the person I need. Name any fee you want. Money isn’t an issue.”
“Money isn’t an issue with me, either. I charge the same fee to everyone,” Payne said. “But what do you expect
I
can do that the police and the FBI couldn’t?”
“At the moment, they’re not doing anything.”
“Possibly because there isn’t anything to be learned.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“Understandably.” Payne spread his hands. “But you have to realize that I can’t duplicate the resources available to the FBI.”
“Of course not. You can listen to new ideas, though. You can … I don’t think I’ve made myself clear. I don’t want to hire you just to continue the investigation.”
“Oh?” Payne looked mystified. “Then what
do
you want?”
“I want you to teach me so
I
can continue the investigation.”
“I need a handgun,” I said.
“What kind?” The clerk had a beard and a ponytail.
“Whatever’s the most powerful and shoots the most bullets.”
“Rounds,” the clerk said.
“Excuse me?”
“They’re not called bullets. They’re called rounds. The bullet’s the part that blows away from the casing and hits the target.”
“Fine. Whatever shoots the most rounds.”
“Is this for target shooting or home defense? The reason I ask is, some people believe a shotgun’s the best way to deal with a burglar.”
“How about one of those?”
“A revolver? It only shoots six. These semiautomatics shoot more. But you’ll need to decide which caliber you want: nine—millimeter or forty—five.”
“Which is the biggest?”
“The forty—five.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Just so you know your options, biggest isn’t always best. The forty—five holds seven rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. But this nine—millimeter over here holds
ten
rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. A lot of power with eight rounds, versus somewhat less power but
eleven
rounds.”
“How much less power?”
“With the nine—millimeter? Let’s put it this way, it gets the job done. Actually, the only reason the magazine in this nine—millimeter holds only ten rounds is that in the mid—1990s, Congress passed an anti—assault weapon law that limits the capacity of handgun magazines. But
before
the law …”
“Yes?”
“There’s a gun show in town Saturday. I’ll introduce you to a friend who’s willing to sell a
pre
law Beretta nine—millimeter that holds
fifteen
rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.”
“That’s a lot.”
