The Summer We Lost Alice (19 page)

He walked to the kitchen to finish his laundry.

"Matthew" and "Brittany," those were their names. Hunched over the sink, he repeated "Matthew and Brittany" over and over while he scrubbed his bloody shorts.

THAT EVENING, Cat saw that Willy Proost had made the national news.

Flo had dozed through the last half of her favorite medical drama and jerked awake at the blaring news theme. She glanced over at Cat
, who was half-snockered, as usual, by this time of night. She hoped Cat had managed to tuck the kids properly into bed. She started to say something but decided it wasn't worth mentioning. At least they weren't asleep on the floor. She could check on them herself in a few minutes.

The news reader announced the transition to
Meddersville where "one baffling question hangs over the residents of this small Midwestern town."

"Why did Barbie drink bad milk?" Cat muttered to the screen
. Flo let out a short laugh despite herself.

The local news anchor, Melanie Dutch, took over, broadcasting on tape from White Deer Lake just outside
Meddersville, Kansas, "where the search has been called off for little Willy Proost, missing since Wednesday when he wandered off during a school field trip."

Flo's head went light. The grieving father came on screen, his voice cracking as he expressed the hope, so obviously founded on nothing but faith, that his son was still alive.

That's me, twenty-five years ago,
Flo thought.

A teacher praised the
Proost boy's character, his spirit of adventure.

Alice's teacher.
Not the same person, of course, but the same words.

The local sheriff, Sammy Morse Jr., commended the many volunteers who'd turned out to search for Willy
Proost.

He looks like his father,
Flo thought,
as his father and namesake, Sam Sr., looked back then
.

A quarter-century of old tears welled in Flo's eyes. She felt the pain in her chest as her heart tightened. She couldn't breathe. Cat bolted upright on the sofa
. Flo became aware of the gagging rasp issuing from her own throat. Cat's eyes were wide with panic. Flo waved a shaking hand at the television.

"Off!" she said. All she could manage was a croak, barely intelligible.

Cat grabbed the remote control and stabbed at the buttons. Nothing worked. She remembered finding two dead batteries on the coffee table and that she'd had to turn the set on by hand. The television continued its barrage of miserable faces and sympathetic voices and the image of that still, terrible lake.

"This is Melanie Dutch reporting—"

Get your name in there, honey!

"—where hope in
Meddersville is dimming for little Willy Proost—"

Little Alice Weaver—

"—missing and feared dead."

Missing and feared dead.

Cat punched the button on the front of the set. As the television went silent, Flo became aware of a jangling in her ears. It was the telephone, ringing and ringing, and it simply would not stop.

* * *

Upstairs, Brittany listened to the ringing phone. Why didn't someone answer it? She wanted to jump out of bed and answer it herself, but her mother had warned her against that. She was too young to answer the phone. But what if it just kept ringing like that and nobody answered?

"You know who it is." Matt's voice came to her from across the darkened room. He spoke with his teasing voice, the one Brittany hated more than any other, a sinister tone rich with melodrama. "You know who's trying to call, don't you?" he said.

Brittany knew.

It was Barbie.

* * *

Once Cat realized that her mother was not having a heart attack, that it was the news about Willy
Proost dredging up the buried feelings Flo still harbored about the loss of her own daughter, Alice, and once she'd managed to kill the stupid television, she could set about calming Flo down. Thank God the damn phone had finally stopped ringing. Who would be calling at this late hour anyway?

She was heading toward the kitchen to fix her mother a cup of chamomile tea when Brittany ran downstairs wailing at the top of her lungs. Matt followed at a safe distance with so much guilt on his
face, it might have been slathered on with a brush.

Never a break,
Cat thought.

Brittany, sobbing about Barbie, grabbed Cat's hand and dragged her through the kitchen. Brittany reached for the lock on the back door
. Cat opened it for her. Cat broke free long enough to grab the magnetic flashlight on the side of the refrigerator, then ran after Brittany who, by now, had reached the backyard garden.

Cat shined the flashlight where Brittany, still wailing, pointed at Barbie's grave, or what was left of it. Where this afternoon the doll had been somberly entombed, was now only a clumsy
hole.

Brittany fell silent. In place of the tears came a look of pure horror. Cat knew there was a simple explanation for the desecration of Barbie's grave. Matt was undoubtedly behind it, but what would possess a boy to pull such a detestable stunt? She knew he had his problems, but she never would have suspected him capable of such
... evil. Was her son seriously disturbed? Was she harboring a sociopath?

"I didn't do it!" he said, as if reading his mother's thoughts.

Cat shot him a look.

"I didn't!" he said. "You always blame me for everything!" He ran into the house. The screen door slammed behind him.

Cat gathered Brittany in her arms. Mother and daughter alike trembled, each for reasons of her own.

AFTER A LONG layover in Denver, Ethan and Heather flew into Kansas in an airplane small enough to dust crops along the way. It was a noisy flight, mercifully short. The engine noise had inhibited conversation, but there hadn't been much up to then anyway. Heather was occupied with her own thoughts. Ethan assumed that she was regretting the trip as one of the dumbest things she'd done in a long time.

The car rental agency didn't have the car he'd reserved
. They made up for it by offering him a new Mustang convertible from the local dealer. The reservations clerk was a fan, as was the car dealer's wife.

Heather gave Ethan a look
. He shrugged.

"These things happen to celebrities," he said.

They drove into downtown Meddersville with the top down. Heather studied his face for some reaction. His tight lips told her that he didn't like what he saw. She prodded him for his thoughts.

"It hasn't changed much," he said, "except that the charm's been stripped off like old paint."

Characterless façades of aluminum and plate glass had replaced wood-and-brick storefronts. The theater was closed, as was the bicycle shop. Uncle Billy's insurance office was now a thrift shop run by the Presbyterians. A tired-looking hardware store was giving up the ghost. Ethan wasn't surprised—they'd passed a Walmart on their way into town.

"They kill off the hometown businesses," Heather said.

"They have a million accomplices. People would rather save twenty-four cents on a bottle of aspirin or two dollars on a hammer than support the local stores. The tragedy of modern life is that, from parking lots to politicians, toxic waste dumps to television celebrities"—he pointed to himself—"Americans generally get what they want."

He bought a newspaper at the drugstore (which no longer claimed a pharmacy and seemed overloaded with candles and knick-knacks) to read the latest about Willy
Proost. A few diehard volunteers were carrying on the search, though they admitted they were now looking for a body. The official search was winding down.

You won't find a body,
Ethan thought.
The thing—and even if it was a human being, it was a thing—the thing that took Willy Proost doesn't leave bodies behind. All it leaves is fear and desolate hearts and wounds that never heal. And questions. A helluva lot of questions.

He heard a sound and glanced up from his newspaper to see Heather slowly turning one of the swivel stools at the soda fountain.

The clerk noticed Ethan's interest.

"It's mostly decoration," he said. "Old man Tompkins, when he sold this place, had one requirement—that the fountain stay in place until he died. Practically gave the place away, but he made that condition and wouldn't budge. Funny what people get attached
to."

"No one behind the counter."

"Doesn't pay. The self-serve machine's easier."

Ethan saw the drink machine in the corner now that it had been pointed out to him.

"No malts or floats, though," he said.

The clerk smiled.

"No, none of those." He called over to Heather. "Go ahead—take it for a spin!"

Grinning, she
sat on the stool and twirled around a couple of times. Then, having already committed to acting like a child, spun a few more times.

"Bring back memories, does it?" the clerk said.

Heather paused. She looked troubled. Or dizzy.

"Yes," she said. "It does bring back memories."

Ethan was standing beside her now. She looked up him.

"The problem is, they aren't mine," she said. "I never had anything like this growing up. It was all convenience stores and
Slushees for me. So whose memories are they?"

"Jimmy Stewart's," Ethan said. "You've seen soda fountains like this in a million movies."

"No. This ...
feels
familiar."

"In your soul?"

"In my tailbone. The vibration of the ball bearings when I spin around. I've done this before."

"You did. You just forgot."

"I can't imagine where."

"It'll come to you. You'll remember a vacation or something. It'll come."

"Maybe," she said in a way that could have meant anything.

* * *

They'd arrived in Meddersville around dinnertime. Ethan didn't want to impose on Cat and Flo in the middle of a meal, especially with a guest in tow. He'd kept forgetting to call and now it seemed pointless. Even more importantly, he was curious as to Cat's state on a Sunday night. If she was indeed an alcoholic, how drunk would she be on a Sunday night? He didn't want to see the made-up, well-prepared Cat. He wanted to catch his cousin in her natural condition.

When he expressed this sentiment to Heather, she'd said something about old animosities running deep.

He tucked the newspaper under his arm. They crossed the street to the town's only restaurant, the Meddersville Cafe. Meddersville's dwindling population had so far spared it the incursion of the fast food restaurants that lined the highway, their massive signage at every exit rising from the flat earth like monuments to the crassification of America.

They entered under the watchful eyes of the locals who bent their heads together and whispered
, "Isn't that—" and "What's
he
doing here?" and "The Proost boy's dead, then, if he's talking to Ethan Opos."

They took a booth in the corner
. They ordered dinner—stuffed pork chops for Ethan, a chicken Caesar salad for Heather. The lone waitress slipped away. A moment later, Ethan noticed her on the phone.

"She's made a call," he said.

"Maybe someone phoned in an order."

"The phone didn't ring. She's calling out. We're going to have a visitor. A
reporter, or a cop."

Minutes later, Sheriff Sammy Morse, Jr. walked in.

"You must be psychic," Heather said.

"Funny."

Sammy ambled their direction. All conversation in the diner died out. At least two patrons seemed ready to dive for cover.

"Do you know him?" Heather said.

"He looks familiar. But it's been a long time."

"Ethan," Sammy said. "You
prob'ly don't remember me. I'm Sammy Morse. My father was sheriff back in ... that summer. I was datin' your cousin Catherine."

"You're
that
Sammy."

Ethan felt the muscles in his neck tighten
. It wasn't just Sammy's uniform that set them off. He realized that he'd been clenching his teeth ever since they got off the plane. He was out of his element and his body knew it. It was preparing the classic fight-or-flight response.

Sammy Morse didn't smile. He looked over at Heather, waiting for an introduction that wasn't offered.

Heather stuck out her hand and smiled.

"I'm Heather."

"Pleased."

"I remember your father," Ethan said. "I spent a number of hours being interrogated by him."

"Well, this ain't no interrogation," Sammy said. He looked at Heather and, for the first time, Ethan thought he detected a gleam in the sheriff's eye. "So, you two work together, or—"