Transience (3 page)

"So?" Carl asked.
 
Jack wore a poker face that betrayed no emotion.
 
He knew Carl sensed the disconnect.
 
If there was any good news to report, Jack would have answered his call, or phoned back.
 
Instead, Jack chose to come see him in person.
 
Carl sat down.
 

"They're not going to allocate any more manpower to her search.
 
They're shutting it down.
 
I'm sorry, Carl."

Carl lowered his head and nodded a few times.
 
Jack relaxed his shoulders, it seemed Carl was taking it well.
 
Jack turned away and looked out the window.
 
He caught a glimpse of a young Hispanic woman sitting on a fire escape across the alley, a few floors below.
 
She was nursing a baby at her breast.
 
In this cold?
 

"I don't understand." Carl said hushed, "is she any less of a human being now than she was three months ago?"
 

Jack was still watching the woman, concerned. "I understand how you must feel."

"You got any kids?"
 

Jack turned to him.
 
He knew where this was going, but played along out of sympathy. "No."

"You have no idea how I feel."
 

Jack knew he was going to say that, he'd asked him several times before.
 
Jack allowed Carl the free punch.
 
Had Carl opted to cry on Jack's shoulder, he probably would have let him do that too.
 
But like Jack, Carl was a tough hombre and he wasn't about to let the tears slip in front of another man.
 
Those were reserved, for the ultimate bad news.
 

Jack did know how he felt.
 
Not in a direct comparison, since it was true, Jack had no children.
 
But he had suffered loss.
 
Unbearable loss.
 
The kind that wipes the smile from your face permanently.

Jack took a step forward and placed his hand on Carl's shoulder. "Carl, given the amount of time that's passed, the chances of—" Jack could feel Carl's muscles tense into stone.

"She's alive. I know it."
 
Carl turned with a jerk and placed his hand on Jack's, gripping it.
 
Carl was a small man, but his palm was like alligator skin, with a grip like a wrestler from years of carrying heavy machinery at his warehouse job for minimum wage.
 
"Jack… you—"

Here it comes.

"You promised me." The words were like a bucket of ice cold water on Jack's head.
 
Jack imagined Carl on his knees, holding his daughter's mutilated corpse in his arms, looking up at Jack — as if how could he have let this happen.

Jack was about to say something when he felt that familiar pinch in his throat; it swiftly traveled down to his stomach and back up to his larynx.
 
He coughed loud and wet, covering it just in time.
 
For a moment, he lost his composure and had to brace himself on the back of Carl's chair to keep from doubling over.
 
It was a raw, painful cough, and his normally pale face turned ketchup red.
 
Carl stood and offered his seat to Jack, who refused.

"I just gotta catch my breath," Jack said, the phlegm and wheezing made him sound like some kind of alien.
 
Carl gave him some space.
 
After a few more stomach churning hacks that looked like he might crack a rib, he grew silent.
 
The fit over, Jack stood up straight.

Carl poured some water into a glass.
 
Jack nodded a thank you and drank a sip.
 
He took a deep breath, apprehensive of triggering another attack, but his body was finished embarrassing him for now.

"I've searched for your daughter as if she was my own.
 
If she's alive, I'll find her." Jack paused — he wasn't finished.
 
This time he insisted on prefacing his words with a disclaimer:
 
"But you need to prepare yourself for the worst."

Jack took some time to sit with Carl and go over all of the things he'd done during the complex process of searching for Angelina.
 
Interrogating witnesses, visiting all of the places she was last seen, questioning the locals, checking video tapes from any surveillance cameras in proximity to where she might have traveled that fateful day.
 
How he used sophisticated FBI databases to search the surrounding cities and states to see if any unidentified bodies had been recovered and lay unclaimed.

Carl sat and listened, but Jack could tell he knew this was just by the book procedural bullshit.
 
The only real hope for finding his daughter alive was a miracle.
 
And there was no investigative police procedure for conjuring miracles.
 
Carl had just as much hope praying, which is what he seemed to do as Jack spoke.

"I have to go now," Jack said, courteously pausing for permission before he got up.
 
Carl nodded and Jack pushed back on his chair.

"Thank you, Jack.
 
You…" Carl shook his hand firmly. "You were the only one who cared."

"That's not true, Carl."

"Yes, it is."

Jack walked to the door.
 
Carl sat back down and resumed staring at the wall.
 
Jack figured he'd probably been in that same position before he'd arrived too, like he was just on pause — awaiting his daughter's return so he could come back to life again.

"This isn't over, Carl.
 
I haven't given up."
Shut up Jack, you asshole.

Jack closed Carl's apartment door and walked through the hallway.
 
On his way to the stairs he passed a little boy wearing only underwear, standing alone picking his nose.
 
A woman, maybe his mother, was cursing in Spanish behind the door of their apartment.
 

The little boy smiled a toothless grin at him.
 
Jack slowed his pace — how easy it would be to walk off with this little boy.
 
How far could he get before he would be missed?
 
The boy's vulnerability angered him.
 
Had he become too paranoid?
 

The work had planted these worms of dread inside Jack's brain; years of picking through the aftermaths of worst-case scenarios.
 
Maybe that was why searching for Angelina kept him so motivated.
 
The possibility, even if remote, she was still alive.
 
A chance for a happy ending.
   

He entered the street.
 
Two young Dominican men were leaning on Jack's car, talking.
 
They took one look at him and made way, crossing to the other side of the street.
 
Jack looked like he was in no mood to be trifled with.

Jack reeked of cop, thugs could spot him a mile away.
 
He would never have lasted 5 minutes undercover, any self respecting hood would have made him instantly.
 
Jack had this chiseled, purpose-filled face that shouted authority figure.
 
Gather him with any ten men at random, Jack would be the one you'd approach if you were lost and needed help.

As he reached for the handle, he felt another coughing fit well up.
 
He braced, trying not to throw his back out, as his chest tightened.
 
A wave of awful hacking followed that turned his insides out.

CHAPTER 5

The secretary wiped her glasses with an alcohol cloth and checked them for spots.
 
Not satisfied, she rubbed them again.

Rebecca sat patiently in the waiting room chair, her little feet dangling just above the ground.
 
She swung them back and forth whenever she got nervous or bored.
 
The secretary admired Rebecca's blonde hair with a slight wavy curl women would spend extra money for at the salon.
 
Her pretty big blue eyes contrasted the dark circles underneath, puffy and purplish.
 
Her overall complexion was pale, tired, and listless.
 

She exchanged glances between the sketch pad braced on her knee and the secretary behind the desk opposite her.
 
Every now and again, the secretary's eyes would leave her computer screen and lock with Rebecca's.
 
Rebecca studied the contours of her face, memorializing each line on paper with her chewed pencil.
 
Its swishing point sounded like whispering as it crisscrossed the paper.
 
Combined with Rebecca's intense gaze, it unnerved the secretary a little.
 
She craned her neck to get a glimpse of what Rebecca was doodling.
 
She figured it was probably of her,
some cartoonish rendition, with a giant disproportionate head, for sure.
 
Rebecca looked up and their eyes met again.
 
The secretary smiled, but Rebecca kept right on sketching as if she were working to meet a deadline.
 
This was serious business to her.

"Would you like some candy?" The secretary smiled, holding up a bowl of outdated mints.

"It'll give me cavities." Rebecca's pencil didn't break stride.
 
The secretary shifted in her chair and made a "tut" sound with her tongue.
 
She returned to her invoices, and never gave Rebecca another thought.

On the interior door was a plaque that read:
Doctor Leonard Hellerman, MD
,
Child and Adolescent Psychiatry
.
 
Inside, the doctor sat behind an enormous mahogany desk.
 
The walls were decorated with rows of awards and plaques, enough to convince any parent of a child with a busted mental spring that they'd come to the right repair shop.
 
Leonard was 55, but the hair dye helped him pass for 49.
 
He wore glasses, more for intellectual show than anything else, as if people expected their psychiatrists to wear them like a chef wears a tall hat.
 

Laura Lowell sat uncomfortably across from him.
 
She looked like she'd rolled off the mattress into her clothes before tying her hair in a knot.
 
She was subtly beautiful; if she made an effort, she could turn heads.
 
She looked like she hadn't made an effort in a long time.
 

She tapped her fingernails on the arm of the chair, anxious to get this over with.
 
Leonard noticed and kept his speech soothing and metered.
 
He always chose his words carefully, and right now he was being extra careful.

"I think terminating Rebecca's sessions now would be a mistake."
 

Laura paused before replying.
 
Leonard often spoke slowly and deliberately, with long pauses allowing you to absorb the importance of his words.
 
There were several times she'd opened her mouth to speak during a conversation, only to see his hand go up like a crossing guard, politely instructing her that he wasn't quite finished yet.
 

"I just don't think this is helping."
 

"The regressive therapy is working; I think we're close to a breakthrough.
 
In fact, I was going to recommend you bring her in twice a week from now on."

"I haven't slept in weeks; I'm up every night with her now.
 
This whole thing, I hear what you're saying, it's just—"

Leonard's hand went up. "Have you been giving her the medication I prescribed?"

"She's getting worse, not better."

Leonard quickly switched gears, sitting back. "Laura, the best advice I can offer you is to stay the course.
 
As I said early on, these things often get worse before they get better."

"She was fine before we moved here.
 
There's been so much stress; the divorce, the new house, new school."

"Ms. Lowell, Rebecca isn't reacting to the stress of a new environment.
 
Her episodes were triggered by some sort of traumatic event."

Laura straightened in her chair, her lips turned inward.

Leonard continued, "Until we find out exactly what happened to her, we'll never get to the root of the problem."

"Nothing happened to her," Laura said defensively, her eyes now locked with his.

"Look, Laura, if it's the money, I'll even waive my fee."

"Why are you so interested in her?"
 

"…I want to help you."

Laura abruptly grabbed her coat and stood up.
 
She stammered a moment for the right words, not wishing to be rude.

"I'm sorry… Thank you, doctor."

Laura exited the room quickly, not allowing him the chance to persuade her into giving him any more time with her daughter.
 
She didn't even want to look back for fear he might be following her, which he was.

Laura raced through the waiting room and grabbed Rebecca's arm, yanking her along without stopping.
 
Rebecca dropped her sketch pad on the floor.

"My book!" Rebecca said, dragging her feet.

"Come on, we're leaving." Laura grabbed Rebecca's jacket, adding it to her own under her arm, and bolted from the room.

Leonard stopped beside the secretary's desk, who looked up at him confused.
 
They could hear stomping down the staircase in the hallway.
 

The secretary came around her desk and stooped down to pick up Rebecca's sketchbook, still open.
 
She saw Rebecca's drawing of her and gasped.
 
It was no cartoonish doodle. It was an anatomically perfect rendering, startling in its detail.