Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

“You mean... she hasn’t run away for good, just to go back to prom?”

“Right. If we didn’t do a thing, she’d probably come strolling in that front door tomorrow night or Sunday, and face the music.”

Pat’s eyes narrowed. “You could be right. I think... I think you are right. She’s just run away for the weekend. But with our... like you said, ‘situation’... it’s so very awfully terribly dangerous.”

“Yeah.”

He held Pat, and she cried into his chest.

For a long time he squeezed her, patted her, and then he said, “Should we eat something? I haven’t eaten all day.”

“ Could you eat? I don’t think I could eat any -thing.”

“We probably should.”

He was thinking of keeping her busy; but he was also thinking about keeping himself sharp and straight — he’d be flying via that red-eye tonight, after all. With a big day tomorrow...

Fifteen minutes later they were eating ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table. Pat was drinking a glass of milk, Michael a Coke.

“Funny,” he said.

She smirked humorlessly, half-eaten sandwich in hand. “I can’t imagine what’s ‘funny.’”

“Took me back a second. When we were kids in DeKalb... teenagers like Anna... this is what we’d drink. Woolworth’s soda-fountain counter. Glass of milk for you, Coke for me.”

Her smile was bittersweet. “We’ve been together a long time, Michael.”

“I know. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

She reached across and squeezed his hand. “What now? I’ll go crazy, waiting.”

He told her about the ticket on the red-eye.

“You have to stay here,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow. “Hold down the fort?”

“Home fires burning,” he said, nodding. “I’ll keep you posted, every step of the way.”

“I know you will. But I... I...”

She put her sandwich down and began to cry again. He got up and went around to her, knelt by her, slipped an arm around her shoulder, and said, “I know it’s hard to be strong. And there’s not much you can do, now. You really should get some sleep.”

“Sleep? I don’t think that’s possible.”

“You didn’t think you could eat, either, and what happened to half of that sandwich?”

She laughed a little. “I still have those pills, from when... when we heard about Mike.”

She meant the sedatives.

“Can you take those, along with the, uh, other?”

“Valium, Michael. It’s not a bad word. Yes. The same doctor prescribed both, nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll feel better on that plane, not thinking you’re tossing and turning and, uh, just...”

“A mess?” She sighed, managed a small smile. Then she yawned. “My God, I am tired, at that...”

She took the pills at the kitchen counter, and he walked her into the bedroom. She got undressed and into her preferred nightwear, baggy black silk men’s pajamas. Either the time they’d spent talking and eating, or the medication, had relaxed her.

He took her in his arms. “You look beautiful.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

“But you do.” He kissed her on the mouth, tenderly. “Get some rest. And I’ll hold down the fort...”

“Love you,” she said, and got under the covers of the four-poster. She switched off the nightstand lamp, and he slipped out of the dark bedroom into the hall, closing the door, tight.

He went back and finished his sandwich. Considering what she’d been through, Pat was doing all right; he was glad she’d had the presence of mind to get some sleep, even if a somewhat medicated one. He cleared the kitchen table, put the dishes in the sink, and ran water over them. He got out of the suit he’d been wearing all day and into a black Banlon shirt, some gray Sansabelt slacks, and crepe-sole loafers. Then he took some time getting an overnight bag together, including a change of clothes, some toiletries, and a box of .45 ammunition.

Though exhaustion was nipping at his heels, he didn’t allow himself to fall asleep; he sat in his recliner in the rec room, sipping another Coke (the caffeine was just the ticket), and watched television, volume low so as not to bother Pat. The Rockford Files he enjoyed — Jim Garner was just doing Maverick again, but that was okay with Michael — but halfway through Police Woman , he was thinking that Angie Dickinson’s good looks weren’t enough to justify this nonsense when, on the end table beside him, the phone rang.

He looked toward the hall, and the bedroom, wondering if it would wake her, expecting Pat to come rushing out.

“Smith residence.”

“Say,” an amiably gruff male voice said without preamble, “it’s Sid Parham. Listen, Cindy’s come home.”

He sat up. “What does she say about Anna?”

“Why don’t you come over and talk to her yourself. She says Anna’s fine, but...” Embarrassment colored the perhaps too-friendly voice. “...You come talk to her yourself.”

He went in to tell Pat, but she was sound asleep.

Deciding not to disturb her, he shut her back in, and soon stepped out into another chill, clear night, though the streetlamp on this block was out and the full moon was on its own. Almost running, he crossed the street to the Parhams; on the front stoop, he glanced at his watch, thinking about the red-eye flight: quarter till eleven.

Stocky bald Sid Parham, in a two-tone burnt-orange leisure suit (was he going skydiving?) met Michael at the door and led him, once again, to the kitchen. Molly was wearing an identical leisure suit. And parents these days wondered why kids rebelled ...

All four chairs were taken at the square glass kitchen table, mother and father framing the daughter, with Michael across from the girl, a small, petite blonde who had drawn the best features from both her parents, and still wasn’t pretty.

But maybe that wasn’t fair — the girl looked tired, and sat slumped with more than just sullenness. Her light blue eyes were hooded, emphasizing her robin’s-egg eye shadow, their industrial-strength mascara matched by dark circles that could pass for Halloween makeup.

She didn’t look at him, at first. He’d seen this teenager with his daughter numerous times, and she’d always been well-groomed, for the type; but tonight her hair — blonde with dark roots, straight to her shoulders — looked unwashed and bedraggled. She wore a green tank top, which flattened the perk out of her small breasts, and cut-off denim short-shorts and sandals.

She was playing with her car keys.

Had he been her father, Michael would have already taken those away from her.

But he kept his voice friendly. “Cindy, what’s the story? Where is Anna?”

“How should I know?” Cindy asked.

Her father said to her, “You told me she’s all right.”

“Well, she is.”

Michael said, “When did you see her last?”

“Yesterday.”

“Where is she?”

Half a smirk dimpled a cheek. “When was I put in charge of her?”

“You weren’t. Where is she, Cindy?”

A weight-of-the-world sigh came up from her toes; my gaaaawd, adults were stupid! “Look, I dropped her off at a Denny’s on Speedway yesterday evening.”

“Why?”

“She met up with some friends in the parking lot. They were going to a party.”

“What friends? What party?”

“I don’t know — I didn’t go to it. And they were her friends, not mine. I had this other party to go to.”

Michael shook his head; but he kept all anger and irritation out of his voice. “Cindy, you’re Anna’s only friend, her only contact in this town. We’ve only been here six weeks.”