The Missing Place (25 page)

What Shay hadn't said to Colleen was that after that, it was always “Paul and I” and “Paul was telling me . . .” and never again was there talk of him not fitting in.

A girl came into the bathroom, talking on her cell phone, and Shay hastily shoved the paper into her pocket and headed back out into the crowd. She didn't see McCall Whittaker from South Bend, despite taking her time circling the bar. Well, it probably hadn't been her best idea ever anyway, even if it might have bought her a place to spend the night in addition to a few hours of release. Tomorrow was still going to be tomorrow, and Taylor was still going to be missing, and she needed to have a clear head to figure out what to do about all that, and Colleen too.

Actually, what she really ought to do was go back and find Colleen and make sure she was okay. Shay sighed deeply, wondering when she was ever going to learn to think first and speak later. Even though it was looking like she and Colleen weren't going to be able to work together, Shay couldn't just leave her out there, where, it occurred to her, she was as vulnerable as her own son had been when he showed up, a fish out of water.

She was heading for the door when she saw a familiar face. It took a second to click: the man from Walmart, the one Colleen had been hoping to meet up with here earlier. He looked uncomfortable, standing at the end of the bar, staring at his phone. He was the only man in the bar wearing a suit jacket, though his tie had been loosened, and he was also the only man in the bar with a wineglass in front of him.

Shay hesitated, not knowing what to do. They couldn't afford to miss this opportunity. She got out her phone and dialed Colleen, but there was no answer—and she wouldn't have been able to hear her in the din of the bar anyway.

She slipped the phone back in her pocket, thought for one more minute, then headed outside. In the back of the Explorer, she dug through the bags and found what she needed. She didn't even bother
returning to the ladies' room to change, just threw her coat into the back and shrugged Colleen's cashmere sweater over her own clothes, pulling it down over her hips. She twisted her hair into a chignon with an elastic from her purse and wiped most of her makeup off with a tissue—and then, on second thought, reapplied her lipstick.

Then she headed back to the bar. She was ready as she'd ever be.

COLLEEN NEVER GOT
to the part she'd read about in the Jack London story, the part where you just want to go to sleep, when all the pain leaves you and you gently drift. On the contrary, it just got colder and her shivering more violent, until the numbness in her fingers and toes was too painful to ignore.

But that wasn't the reason that Colleen finally got up off the bench, her coat pulling away with a tearing sound since it had frozen to the metal.

She got up because she had no proof that Paul was dead. And as long as he wasn't dead, she was on duty. It didn't matter what he'd done. It didn't matter what bad decisions he'd made. There wasn't anyone else, and so she got up.

Her face stung, and she was sure she looked frightening. She pulled the hood tighter. She'd go freshen up, and then she'd get a cup of coffee and figure out what to do next.

Two more posters were taped to the glass doors. Colleen stared at the photo for a moment. Was this how it would be, now? Every door she went through, was she going to have to confront this image of Paul, which had been ruined for her now from what Shay said? Why had Andy used this photo, why couldn't he have used the one from the Cape two years ago, when Paul was laughing and tan and holding up a crab by its pincer?

Because no one else needed to see evidence that he had once been happy, Colleen answered her own question. Only
she
needed that.

She opened the door and stepped onto the mat. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted to her nose. The music was quiet, some country song she vaguely recognized.

Other than the waitress, it was all men. They were sitting by themselves, at the counter, at tables. The digital sign showed that only two showers were in use. No waiting. The only sound besides the music was the clack of a spatula on the grill and the quiet thud of a coffee cup being set down.

Everyone was staring at her. Colleen's hand went to her face—she must look worse than she thought. But to get to the ladies' room, she would have to walk past every customer in the place. She looked down at her pants—they were crusted with dirt from when she fell and there was a tear over the knee, rimmed with dried blood. She hadn't even noticed she was bleeding.

“Ma'am, are you all right?”

It was the waitress, a girl scarcely older than Paul. She was standing behind a row of ketchup bottles. Some had other ketchup bottles balanced precariously on top, the last of the spent bottles draining into the new ones.

“I'm . . .”

She couldn't seem to get the words out.
I'll be fine. I just need a moment in the ladies' room. Oh, and could I have a cup of coffee, please? Just black is fine. You're a lifesaver. I'll be right out.

“I just . . . I need . . .”

She looked from face to face; older men, mostly, their faces creased with worry lines, their bodies thick with years of hard labor. Maybe this was the only place to come if you didn't want the noise,
the partying, the strangers jostling you. Maybe this was where you looked for peace.

“I'm Colleen Mitchell.” She wasn't sure why she said it. Her voice sounded broken. Her fingers and toes, as they warmed up, ached intensely. “My boy is one of the missing ones. Paul Mitchell. We put up those posters . . . well, my husband had those posters put up—I don't know what else to do. I don't know where else to look. I don't know where to go.”

No one moved. The men's expressions didn't change. They had seen things before. Things had happened to them. They weren't young; they were cautious. That was all right. She didn't want their pity or even their compassion.

“Mrs. Mitchell, I knew your son,” the waitress said quietly. “I think you better sit down.”

THE WAITRESS'S NAME
was Emily. She told Colleen that when she got back from the bathroom, there would be a cup of coffee and a turkey club waiting for her.

Colleen had been here only fifteen hours earlier for a shower and breakfast. The first time she'd looked in the truck stop's mirror, she'd been shocked by what she saw, by how much she had aged since this whole ordeal began. Tonight, she was not shocked at all. She understood the bargain she'd made: herself for Paul. And if the devil or whoever had been sent to collect had left behind the lines around her mouth, the purple hollows under her eyes, the sagging lifeless skin, she knew it was all part of the trade.

But that didn't mean she couldn't fight back. She splashed water on her face and dug into her makeup kit. Repaired what she could and combed her hair. Dampened a handful of paper towels and
wiped the mud off her clothes. Pulling up her pant leg, she inspected the bruise and torn skin. She dabbed at it with soapy hot water, and welcomed the sting.

Back at the counter, the sandwich was indeed waiting, cut into four perfect triangles, with a tiny sprig of parsley and a lemon slice on the side. The men had resumed what they were doing—reading the paper, watching a game playing silently on the TV hung from the ceiling—and didn't even glance her way. Emily watched as Colleen forced herself to take a bite and wash it down with water.

“I am so sorry for what you're going through,” Emily said.

“You knew him?” Colleen felt a little better. She had been hungrier than she realized. “You knew Paul?”

“Only a little. My friend's roommate was his girlfriend. I met him at a party once.”

“Paul had a girlfriend?”

Emily's expression softened. “You didn't know?”

“He . . . he never said.”

“Okay then, well, what I have to tell you is going to be kind of a shock, I guess. I wouldn't say anything, I mean, I feel like it's not my place or whatever, but you have a right to know, especially since, well, because of whatever happened.” She took a deep breath and said, “He and Kristine started dating last fall, and, well, she's pregnant.”

“
What?
”

Pregnant.
The word tumbled in Colleen's mind, spinning and bouncing against all the impossibilities. Paul had never had a girlfriend, not for more than a few weeks at a time; he never had any trouble getting girls to go to dances with him, and Colleen had always felt that they might have been interested in more, but for some reason Paul had never let things go further. While he was at Syracuse,
she'd had the impression that there were a couple of girls he dated, but he never talked about it at home.

And since he came to Lawton, it hadn't occurred to Colleen even to wonder. The ratio of men to women up here . . .
that
she was aware of, it was mentioned in every news article about the place. She'd assumed that all the girls would pair up with the more outgoing boys, the ones who knew their way around a place like this, who were more confident and charismatic.

But Paul had found someone. Even as Colleen tried to wrap her mind around the situation, there was a tiny flame of pleasure inside her, a relief that he'd had this happiness.

They'd made a
baby.
Even now, with Paul missing, his trail going colder, the piece of him that he'd left behind here in Lawton was growing. His child.

“How far along?” she asked faintly.

“I don't know, Mrs. Mitchell. I'm not supposed to know. They aren't telling anyone. Way I heard was, I guess Paul was drinking with some friends and he kind of hinted around that he got her pregnant, and one of the guys told Chastity. When she asked Kristine about it, she got all upset and asked her not to say anything. And she'd only told me, and I don't think she's told nobody else and neither have I. I don't like to spread rumors. But I thought you should know.”

“I can't . . . I just can't even believe it.” Colleen stared at the food on her plate. The idea of eating was impossible now. “Could you put me in touch with her?”

“I don't have her phone number, but I can tell you where to find her. She works at Swann's, her and Chastity both. Chastity got her the job.”

“What's Swann's?”

“It's a restaurant, the only really nice restaurant around here.
Steak and seafood and stuff like that. They make good money over there; they get all the corporate types.”

“How late are they open, do you know?”

Colleen saw the look that passed over Emily's expression before she answered, knew what she was thinking. In her state, she was hardly at her best, especially to meet the girl who was carrying her grandchild.

“I think they're usually open until eleven,” she said. “Do you want me to try to call over there for you?”

Colleen considered: how would this girl, this girlfriend, feel about meeting her? If she loved Paul—and God, Colleen discovered that she wanted this girl to love Paul—she must be frantic with worry. But she hadn't tried to contact her or Andy, and presumably Paul had told her where he was from. Although Mitchell was a common name . . . But she couldn't afford to scare her off. “No, I think it would be better if I didn't, if she didn't, um . . .”

“I know this has to be a shock,” Emily said. “But if it helps, Kristine seems really nice. I don't know her all that well, but she's always been real polite to me.”

“Thank you,” Colleen said faintly. She noticed that Emily didn't try to talk her out of showing up unannounced. What girl would want that, to meet her boyfriend's mother in these circumstances, the future grandmother of her child . . . if she was even keeping the child? Oh, God, she hadn't thought of that. Especially now, with Paul missing, maybe she would get rid of it. Maybe she already
had.
Colleen was astonished to experience a jolt of loss at the thought—that a baby she didn't even know had existed until moments ago had instantly come to mean something to her, a connection to Paul, a child of her child.