The Bottle Ghosts (27 page)

The sound of voices announced the arrival of Carl and Jay—early for the first time since we'd been coming to the meetings—and shortly thereafter Paul and Frank. As we stood around exchanging small talk, Victor and Keith came in. When everyone had their coffee, we gravitated to the circle of chairs and sat down.

At exactly seven o'clock, Brian Oaks came in, making sure to completely close the door behind him. He moved directly to his chair and sat down.

“Dick,” he said, looking directly at me, “I think you have something to say to the group?”

I did. I explained that I was a private investigator and that I was looking into the disappearance of five former members of the group. To say that got their attention would be an understatement. They all stared at me incredulously. I asked each of them to think very carefully of anything at all that might give me some idea of why these men had disappeared and who might conceivably have wanted to do them harm.

I listed the names of the five men: Sam Roedel, Fred DeCarlo, Benicio Martinez, Jerry Shea, and Andy Phillips. I also asked if any of them had known a Charles Whitaker, and tried to watch each one of their faces. The only one on which anything registered—and then so fast I might have been mistaken since I wasn't looking directly at him at that instant—was Brian Oaks.

Ahhh, so!
my mind said in a voice from an old Charlie Chan movie.

When I'd finished, to total silence, I waited a full minute for someone to say something, and when they didn't, I said:

“Again I'd like each of you to think about this very carefully. If you think of anything…anything at all, please give me a call.” I handed each of them my business card, then sat back in my chair.

Still utter silence until Carl said: “What a bunch of bullshit!” And the floodgates opened. What twenty seconds before had been a clam convention was now Times Square at rush hour. Everyone talking at once, wanting details, wanting to know what had happened, where the missing men were, who I suspected was responsible, why had we deliberately tricked them all by joining the group under false pretenses…

When the hubbub abated slightly I did my best to respond to each comment. Jonathan stepped in to address the “false pretenses” issue by verifying that he was, indeed, an alcoholic (he didn't mention the length of his sobriety) and stretched the truth a bit by saying that we well might have joined the group even if this missing persons thing had not come up. It wasn't exactly accurate, of course, but it seemed to satisfy…Keith, I think it was who had made the comment in the first place.

It must have been a good half hour before Brian had a chance to say anything, and when he did, it caught us all by surprise.

“Under the circumstances, I think it would be best if the group suspended all meetings until this entire matter can be explained and resolved.”

He tried his best to maintain his professional calm, but I could sense a definite tension in his expression and body language. His announcement had come as a total surprise to me as well as to everyone else. I wasn't so much surprised by the suspension of meetings, which was probably a good idea under the circumstances, but by the fact that I'd had no indication whatsoever, when we'd met at his home or when we'd talked on the phone, that he might be considering it. I got the gut-level sensation that something had changed, and I had no idea what that something was.

*

The meeting ended in a definite atmosphere of disarray. Brian suggested that since a normal meeting would be impossible under the circumstances, we should quit a little early. He said he would notify everyone when the sessions would resume, and hoped that everyone would come back when they did. Carl simply got up and walked out without a word, leaving Jay to say a quick general goodbye and to hurry out after him. The rest of us exchanged handshakes and a few words of goodbye and encouragement, and everyone just dissolved away. I wanted to say something to Brian, but Victor came over to thank me for telling everyone what was going on, and to assure me that he would do everything he could to try to think of something that might help. By the time he left, Brian was gone.

I thought of following him to his office, but decided against it. I'd call him in the morning to see if I could figure out what was going on, and what had triggered his decision to suspend the group.

*

Friday morning, for the first time in memory, I overslept. Actually,
we
overslept—Jonathan had insisted, when we'd gotten home from the meeting, on staying up until past midnight studying both his horticulture textbook for an upcoming exam, and his driver's manual. With no time for him to make it to work by taking the bus, I drove him, and as a result didn't get to the office until a little after 9:00. There was a message on my machine to call Glen O'Banyon's office, which I did immediately.

I got through to Donna, O'Banyon's secretary, who asked if I could come by his office at 11:00 to discuss a possible assignment. I told her I'd be there.

While I didn't really want to get involved in anything else while this missing persons thing was hanging over my head, the fact of the matter was that other than his retainer, I hadn't been paid a cent for this case since Bradshaw had first walked in my door. Partly my fault, of course, for dragging my feet on sending him a bill. The case was far from over and had expanded well beyond what he'd hired me to do. So I couldn't lose anything by seeing what O'Banyon had in mind.

*

It turned out that O'Banyon wanted me to go to St. Louis for two days the following week to do some investigative legwork on a pending case. I was hesitant, but realized that the way this missing persons case was going, a couple days wouldn't matter. And O'Banyon paid very, very well. So I agreed. He said he'd have Donna order the airline tickets, and we agreed I'd leave Tuesday afternoon and return on Friday morning.

When I returned to the office, I placed a call to Brian Oaks' home and left a message on his machine asking him to please call me.

I devoted the rest of the day to trying, with increasing frustration, to write out a report to Bradshaw, basically laying out the entire case to the present moment. I realized I was doing it as much—if not more—for myself as for him. But by 3:00 all I had was a wastebasket full of crumpled paper and a foul mood.

When I hadn't heard from Brian Oaks by 3:30, I picked up the phone to try again, then remembered Monday, Thursday, and Friday were his days at Qualicare. While I really wanted to talk to him, I didn't want to try to bother him there. I could always call when I got home.

I really rarely get into a foul mood, but when I do, it tends to be a real show-stopper. I realized on the way home that biting the heads off random passersby might be all well and good when I could just go home and sit there and sulk, but it wouldn't work when there was somebody I really cared about waiting for me who certainly didn't deserve to be exposed to all my pent-up frustration. So on the drive home, as soon as I reached a spot where I could see there weren't any other cars in my immediate vicinity, I rolled up the windows and let out a bellow of rage that I could literally feel rattle the whole car. I then rolled the window back down and forced myself to repeat one of my standard mini-mantras:
“I work to live, I do not live to work.”

*

Luckily, it was the weekend and, other than trying a couple more times to reach Brian Oaks, I determined that I would not so much as think of the case. It almost worked.

Saturday night we'd arranged, finally, to go out with Mollie Marino and her lover Barb, and Phil and Tim joined us. It was exactly what I needed. We went to dinner at Rasputin's, then hit Steamroller Junction and wrapped up the evening at Griff's, and I laughed more in those couple of hours than I'd done in the past couple of weeks. Never, ever underestimate the therapeutic benefits of laughter!

We'd sort of anticipated Jared's coming into town for the weekend and getting together with him for brunch, but when he didn't show up, Jonathan and I had brunch alone on the patio of Calypso's, then drove out to Jessup Reservoir and just walked through the woods stopping, when we found a particularly idyllic grove of trees hidden away from the main trail, for a very pleasant game of “Horny Lumberjacks”.

Wonderful weekend!

*

Monday morning Jonathan and I were standing outside the doors of the DMV when it opened. Jonathan, of course, had a hard time just standing still and kept peering through the glass doors looking at the clock on the far wall, waiting for someone to open the doors. When they finally did, I waited around while Jonathan went to take his test, have it checked (he missed one question out of twenty-five, and that one only because he misunderstood it). Then there was another wait for an examiner to call his name. I watched them walk out to the car and drive off. A few minutes later, the car came back, and a beaming Jonathan emerged and followed the examiner back into the building.

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan was officially a licensed driver.

*

The fact that Brian Oaks had not returned my several phone calls—and there was no message from him on my machine at the office—kind of irked me. It was bad enough I didn't know why he'd decided to suspend the group, but the thought that he might be avoiding me, and the reasons why, really niggled at me. Plus the sudden recollection of that corner-of-my-eye reaction to my mention of Charles Whitaker…well, it bothered me.

I decided to call him at Qualicare, even though I really shouldn't. But then I've never let a little thing like “I really shouldn't” stand in the way of my doing it anyway.

I looked up Qualicare's main number and called, asking to speak to Brian Oaks. There was a rather long pause, then a woman's voice: “May I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if I might speak to Brian Oaks.”

“Is this in regard to an appointment?”

“No, I'm a member of his Thursday night group, and I needed to speak to him.”

Another pause and then: “I'm sorry, Mr. Oaks is not in today.”

Odd. “I thought he worked Monday, Thursday, and Friday.”

“Yes, that's correct, but he has not been in since Thursday.”

Why did my stomach just hit the floor?
I wondered.

I managed to thank her, hung up, and immediately dialed Brian Oaks' home number.

“This is Brian Oaks. I'm with someone right now, but if you'll leave your name…”

“Brian, this is Dick Hardesty. It's very important that I speak with you right away. It's now…” I checked my watch “…ten-fifteen on Monday. If I've not heard from you by eleven-thirty, I'll take a drive over to your house. Hope to hear from you. Thanks.”

What are you panicking for?
my mind voice asked.
So he's not at work. The guy's entitled to some time off. And he never answers his home phone anyway…

Well, it was my gut I was listening to at the moment and
it
was telling me a little panic might be well justified.

10:30. Nothing.

Well, his “fifty-minute hours” run until ten 'til. If he's with a patient…

10:45. Still nothing.

Hold your horses. If he is with a patient, he's got five more minutes.

10:50.
God, I hate this!

10:55, 11:00, 11:03, 11:04…

What the hell is
with
you, Hardesty?

At 11:29 I was out the door and heading for the elevator.

*

You know, sometimes I think
you
need a good psychologist,
my mind observed on the drive toward Ridge.

I pulled up in front of Oaks' house. No other cars around. None in the driveway. The garage door open; no car there, either.

See?
my mind said.
He's just out somewhere. The grocery store. The dentist…

I got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk toward the back of the house. No sign of life. No sounds from inside.

I reached the side door and took a couple steps beyond, looking into the back yard. Nothing. A spade was sticking up out of a freshly dug extension to one of the flowerbeds, but no one was around. I returned to the door. The inner door was open. Odd.

“Hello?” I called, peering into the interior of the house.

Nothing. I tried the latch, and the door opened easily. I stepped inside.

“Hello? Brian?”

Nothing.

I walked up the steps into the reception area. Nothing. The door to the office was open, and I could see it was empty. Nothing out of place that I could tell, although I noticed that the lights were on.

I entered the office, expecting any minute to hear Brian or his lover…Chad?…say “What are you doing here?” Nothing.

The door to the rest of the house was open, showing a short hallway down which I could look into the living room.

“Brian? Chad? Hello?”

A door to the left of the hall, about halfway down, was open and I hesitantly walked toward it, my stomach increasingly queasy. I reached the door and looked in. A bedroom. Very neat. But the dresser drawers were open, and so were the double closet doors. There were several large gaps in the row of clothes hanging there, as if someone had just grabbed them. There was a hanger on the floor, just outside the closet. The ceiling light was on.