The Dying Hour (12 page)

W
hen he first woke, Jason Wade didn’t know where he was or what had happened.

Part of him tried to block his memory the way a cop tries to block a relative from looking under the sheet.

Something in the air struck him. The smells of cologne and fried onions, the sounds of a creaking window frame and a neighbor’s wind chime, the familiar pall of desperation and despair. Recent history came into focus and then he knew.

He was on his father’s couch, in his father’s home on the fringe of South Park, in the aftermath of last night’s humiliation in the newsroom.

Don’t think about it,
he told himself, heading to the bathroom.
Flush the whole damned thing away. He would apologize.
Explain that his father was sick. He stripped off his clothes and took a shower, scrubbing until his skin was raw.

He hated being here. Hated being jerked back to this house of misery, he thought while taking stock of the kitchen. The same kettle, the same toaster, the dishcloth folded and hung the same way, after all these years.

Time stopped after she walked out.

Jason plugged in the kettle for coffee, then wandered through the small house, hearing his father snoring, then stirring. He went to his old bedroom.

The musty air took him back. Nothing had been touched. The same posters, his model planes, cars, and ships. His small desk where he did his homework. His window where he had sat for hours and hours searching the street, hoping she would come back.

The day before she left, she’d hugged him, her eyes flickering, as if she were seeing something far away. He thought of his old man’s worn swivel rocker and his big hands, scarred from working at the brewery, how they covered his face on the long nights he sat in his chair after she left.

Jason wanted to know how his mother could walk out on her son and her husband. How could anyone do that? She had worked alongside his father in the brewery and one night at dinner, Jason noticed how her face had aged with sadness.

“You know,” she said, “a person can see their whole life on the factory line. There are young people there, fresh from high school, then those a bit older. Then some like us.” She nodded to his father, who chewed on his pork chop as he listened.

“Then you get those like Ida and Frank, a bit older. Kids grown. Then Rob and Aileen in labeling, and Edna and Butch almost going to retire. You see all generations, all the stages of life, right there on the line, with your life over at the end of it. Makes you realize that’s all there is.”

His father said nothing. Jason said nothing. Maybe because they didn’t quite understand. Jason remembered the window frame creaking in the wind that stirred the neighbor’s chimes.

A few months later, she was gone.

In the years after she left, Jason secretly searched for her. He’d go to the library, look for her name, and maiden name, in out-of-town phone books. He’d search obituaries and news stories about deaths. He’d keep records of those he checked, thinking the day would come when he would find her and she would tell him what went wrong and he would forgive her. Maybe that was how his journalistic dream truly started for him. Born out of his mother’s desertion.

It was a different story for his old man.

After his shift, he would sit in his chair saying nothing, staring at nothing. Then Jason noticed that his father, who never drank, would be holding a beer as he sat there. Then he noticed how the number of empties increased. And one night his old man told him, “She’ll be back. I can fix it, Jay. Just wait. She’ll be back. You’ll see.”

And his father got up every day and went to the brewery. As if it were an act of faith, as if by keeping everything precisely as it was, as if by not upsetting the balance of their fractured lives, she would return.

The kettle’s whistle pulled Jason from the past to the kitchen where he made coffee and toast, then went to the door for the paper. He saw Astrid Grant’s feature on the animal surgery. Then he thought of Gideon Cull, wondering what he should do next on the Harding story. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, he thought as he heard his father rising. He had been kidding himself to think that he could compete with the other interns for the one job at the paper.

Jason was ready. He seized the phone book and plopped it on the table, just as his father’s bedroom door opened and he shuffled into the kitchen.

“Jay,” he started, as he poured himself coffee. “I meant no harm, I—”

“Stop right there, Dad.”

Jason opened the phone book to the listing for A.A., stabbed it with his finger, held the book to his father’s face, and said, “Go.”

“But, Son, I—”

“She’s never coming back.
It’s been years!
Get over it and get some help.”

His father’s face deflated and he drew his hand over it.

“I’ll take you. I’ll go with you for the first few sessions.”

His old man turned and gazed out the kitchen window.

“It’s just that after she left, you were all I had. And now, you’re on your own and doing well. I’ve lost you, too.”

“Stop it. I’m right here. You’re going to get some help. All right?”

His old man said nothing. His head turned when a phone started ringing. Jason’s cell phone.

“Jason, it’s Ron Nestor at the paper.”

“Listen, about what happened last night.”

“I’d like you to come in as soon as you can. We need to talk.”

Jason felt something cold shoot up his spine and he swallowed. “On my way.”

Nestor was sitting at a computer in the metro section, talking on the phone and making notes. Spotting Jason, he pointed his pen to his glass-walled office, hung up, then followed him there.

“Sit down, Jason.” Nestor loosened his tie, then appraised him. “Look, I’ll come to the point—”

“I’m sorry about last night. My father’s sick. He’s going to get help.”

“Good. That’s good. Now, I want to talk to you about your performance.”

Jason’s stomach quivered.
This is it. It’s over.
But he felt a perverse relief that it wasn’t about his father.

“It seems you’ve been doing a lot of work on your own time—and in some cases not informing your supervisors—
even after I advised you to do so.
” Nestor glanced at his notebook and interrupted himself. “Look, you did it again, Jason.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got a call from the college director of public affairs regarding Gideon Cull, an instructor you went to see on the Harding story.”

“Yes.”

“Apparently you were supposed to go through public affairs to arrange any interview of faculty. He claimed you ambushed him, started grilling him at a time he was anxious about his missing student.”

“
What?
That’s bull! Cull agreed when I called him. The guy shook my hand. He was totally cooperative.”

“Did you tape it?”

It hit him hard—he simply had forgotten to tape it. How could he have been so stupid? “No, I didn’t.”

“A big mistake. Now it’s his word against yours. Furthermore, you didn’t tell me what you were up to. I had to get an earful from the college.”

“This is strange. It’s all wrong.”

“Look at me. You disobeyed my explicit instructions to keep me informed. You can’t go around enterprising and representing the
Seattle Mirror
on your own time, without me knowing what you’re doing.”

Something’s not right. Why would Cull complain?

“Are you listening? Given the college thing, and your father—”

“My father’s sick and getting help. That should be my business.”

Nestor leaned close to Jason.

“When he comes into the newsroom smashed and is a potential threat to our staff, it’s our business. Understand?”

Jason understood.

“Jason, I know it sounds like we’re being hard on you. Beale and I are in your corner. You have talent. Take a few days off and try not to read anything more into this. I know it’s hard but don’t read this the wrong way.”

“I’m being fired.”

“No. To be frank, Neena Swain wanted you gone. Vic and I got in the way. Are you taking in what I’m telling you?”

“What about the Harding story, the Benton County connection? I was checking some leads…”

“We’ll take care of it.”

Nestor’s attention was drawn to some people at his door. Ben Randolph and Astrid Grant. Jason took it as his exit cue.

Before he left the newsroom, he turned and glanced over his shoulder. Nestor gave him a wave. Jason felt everything was coming apart. Lost in his trouble, he nearly bumped into Nancy Poden, the librarian.

“Goodness, Jason.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you get the material I got for you on Gideon Cull?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s in your slot up front. Have a look. He didn’t have any criminal convictions.”

“No criminal history?”

“Nothing came up on the Washington Access to Criminal History database, but there’s a complaint out of Spokane.”

“I’ll look at it later. Thanks, Nancy.”

He went to the washroom, splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection. What was he going to do? How could he get himself out of this mess? He stopped by the newsroom mailboxes for the documents Poden had left. Without looking at them, he rolled them into a tube, got into his Falcon, and drove home.

Dinner that night was cold baked beans eaten straight from the can, while watching his tropical fish gliding in the tank.

No one else for company.

He thought of Valerie, but not for long. It hurt too much. He went to his fridge and stared at his lone beer, contemplating it before grabbing a soda. He had to see himself through this. There were more important things, like Karen Harding and Roxanne Palmer.

He began flipping through Nancy Poden’s research.

Most of the items were of no consequence—conferences, lectures, academic papers, nothing that he was really interested in. Not even a conviction. So much for confirming anything about Creepy Cull. Professor Touchy. And why had he griped after the interview? What was up with that?

Jason was still puzzling over Cull when he came to a tiny citation that blurred by. Right, Nancy had mentioned an incident of some sort. It was several years old and came out of Spokane.

Cull had been under investigation following a complaint by one of his college students who alleged that he had sexually harassed her.

K
aren Harding’s face beamed from three different color snapshots, taken at three distinct places.

Indoors at a friend’s house, on the water at the railing of a ferry, and one in front of the Space Needle. Her eyes brimmed with warmth and happiness from an ordinary sheet of legal-sized paper.

MISSING, in bold, black letters, crowned the pictures.

Below them was Karen’s description, her date and place of birth. Her gender, her hair and eye color. Her height, weight, and race.

Then came the details.

Marlene Clark traced her fingers over her sister’s face before nodding her approval of the poster. Her husband, Bill, put his arm around her as she looked through the restaurant window of their Bellingham motel at the college students from Seattle who’d gathered in the parking lot.

Karen’s friends.

They had produced the flier and were circulating it along the route she would’ve taken to Marlene’s home. They wanted Marlene to know they were helping. She turned to Kim Metzer and Sophie Lacosta, two students sitting across from her, and cleared her throat.

“It’s good. Please keep doing this. I wish I’d thought of it sooner.”

“We’re making more,” Sophie said. “And we’re setting up a Web site.”

Kim reached for her phone. “Luke is with a group handing out the fliers at the Lynden and Sumas crossings,” she said as she dialed. “Then they’ll work their way back along Route 539, hit every gas station, store, and house they see.”

Marlene took a deep breath as Sophie pulled out a folder.

“We’ve contacted student and church groups in Canada.”

Marlene was touched by their determination. “Thank you,” she said.

Departing hugs were exchanged with Kim and Sophie. Marlene watched the student caravan leave the parking lot, then struggled with her exhaustion as she gazed down at the posters the girls had left on the table.

“Let’s go to the spot,” Marlene said. “I want to go the same way she went again. Starting from the truck stop.”

It wasn’t long before they’d driven by the chainsaw sculptures of the Big Timber Truck Stop, then got on Route 539. Looking out at the same scenery her sister had passed only days earlier, Marlene thought of how devastated her parents were going to be. She was almost grateful that they were incommunicado in such a remote mountain area.

The embassy had said it would take a few days to actually get word to them. Then a few days for them to trek safely out, maybe longer, depending on the region’s severe weather. Torrential rains were expected. And by the time they got to a city, then an airport, then on a flight to the U.S. with a connection to Seattle, it would be another few days.

Maybe by then they would have found her, Marlene hoped.

Hang on, Karen. Please hang on.

As the highway rolled under them, Marlene realized why she was convinced Karen was still alive. It was a stirring in her heart that arose after Detective Stralla had informed them that she was not the victim found in the hills.

It was the same stirring Marlene had felt the time Karen
did
die on her.

No one ever knew.

They were kids and they’d gone on a river camping trip with friends. Marlene was fourteen and responsible for looking after Karen. They’d gone swimming at a small reservoir that had a dam. Just the two of them. It was pretty the way the water curtained over the dam, whirlpooling below.

Karen had chased a butterfly that was skimming the surface, running and splashing in knee-deep water, unaware of the drop-off until it swallowed her. Horrified, Marlene rushed out, swimming underwater some ten feet to see her sister pinned against the dam by the whirlpool’s undertow. Karen’s mouth had opened and her eyes were glazed. She didn’t respond to Marlene’s effort to help her.

She was drowning.

Marlene surfaced for air, then returned, and using every ounce of strength, pulled Karen from the dam to the riverbank.
“Hang on, Karen! Hang on!”
Marlene screamed over the rush of the water.

Karen’s eyes were closed, her lips were blue. Her chest was not rising. Marlene was hysterical.
“No. No. No. You’re not dead! Hang on, Karen!”
She fumbled at it, but Marlene performed CPR on her little sister, refusing to quit, watching her chest rise and fall as she breathed air into Karen’s lungs. Praying and sobbing for her to hang on. Marlene didn’t know how much time had passed before Karen’s eyes fluttered and she coughed, spat up water, and came to.

Marlene kept it secret for fear she’d get into trouble. She told Karen she had slipped under and had swallowed a bit too much water. Only Marlene would know it as the time she came within a breath of losing her sister. Yet deep in her heart, she had refused to give up on her. Deep in her heart Marlene believed that Karen had refused to let go.

Hang on.

Bill slowed down at the site along 539 where Karen was last seen. Students had marked it with bows of yellow ribbon tied to the trees.

“Looks like Luke’s here.” Bill indicated the vehicles and a group of young people studying large maps on the hood of a pickup truck. Luke turned as Marlene and Bill approached.

“Hi.” He nodded. “We’re just finishing up on who’s going where. I’ll catch up with Pete at Sumas,” he said, waving off his friends as they drove away.

The highway whined with passing rigs and cars, the breeze lifting the yellow ribbons. During lulls, the area was tranquil.

“So, how are you holding up?” Luke asked.

“Doing our best. And you?”

He looked at the forests, rubbing his chin with his fingers, saying nothing.

“We know, Luke. It’s hard, very hard, on all of us.”

Marlene stood toe-to-toe and looked him in the eye.

“What happened that night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did Karen run off like that? What happened between you and my sister, Luke?”

“We talked on the phone,” he said. “Everything was fine.”

“Everything was not fine! Something upset her. What did you say to her that night?”

“Nothing.”

“I can’t stand this. Why did she leave Seattle to see me?”

He searched the hills for an answer as Marlene searched his face for the truth.

“I don’t know, Marlene. I don’t know.”

Marlene closed her eyes.

“You’re lying. You never told us everything about that night.”

His face reddened, eyes stinging. He bit his lip, shaking his head, then glared at her.

“All right! I never told anyone everything that happened.”

“Why not?”

“Because at this point, my sins don’t matter.”

“
What!
What did you say? Don’t you walk away from me!”

He’d broken into a trot to his car, the engine turned, the tires screeched, echoing over the treetops, rolling up the foothills that overlooked the last place Karen was seen alive.

“Luke!”

Marlene stared in vain as his car vanished.

She heard the soft beeping of Bill’s cell phone. He was calling Detective Stralla.