David Silva - The Disappeared

Nearly three hours had dragged by since then.

It was getting late.

Walt flipped on the radio, listened to fifteen or twenty seconds of the local news, then flipped it off again. The thing that had been bothering him since his meeting with Aaron was this: why? If this Mitchell character was freelancing for the CIA, then why was he interested in Gabe? How on earth could an eleven-year-old kid do anything that would matter to the CIA? And if Mitchell wasn’t working with the CIA, then who in the hell was he working for?

Across the street, the back door of the clinic opened.

Walt sat up.

Two women stepped out into the dim halogen light over the parking lot. Childs followed close behind. He locked the door, and the three of them chatted casually on their way out to their cars. The women were apparently pooling, because the one dressed in a white nurse’s uniform climbed into the driver’s side, and her companion climbed in and sat across from her. Childs started up his own car, the engine sounding sticky, and began to back out. As the others drove off, he stuck his arm out the window and waved good night to them.

At the street, before finally turning west, he seemed to debate which direction he wanted to take. It was a couple of minutes before six. Twilight had begun to lower its dark blanket over the landscape. Childs moved out of the parking lot apparently in no particular hurry.

“And we’re off,” Walt said to himself.

He started up the car, pulled out into the street, and followed along a block or so behind. Not only was Childs in no particular hurry, he seemed to go out of his way to take a number of back streets. He stayed just above the speed limit, backing off only once when a patrol car passed going the other direction.

What a wuss , Walt thought.

There was a short stop at the Holiday Market, and Childs came out pushing a cart with two bags of groceries. By the time the doctor finally arrived home, it was a quarter past six.

Walt parked across the street. He took down the license plate number of the doctor’s Buick, and made a note of the street address. It was getting late now. He had promised to meet Teri at the apartment at six. Although that was already a lost cause, he didn’t want to make it any worse. The last time he had been late to meet her… well, that had turned into something of a disaster, hadn’t it?

“Home again, home again,” he said out loud, haplessly.

He hoped Teri had had better luck than him.

Forty-five minutes later, after a Swanson Hungry Man dinner of chicken, corn and mashed potatoes, Childs emerged from his house, carrying his briefcase. Twilight had surrendered to the wholeness of night. The stars were out in full force, unspoiled by the usual haze hovering over the cityscape. A sliver of moon shone above the distant mountains like an afterthought to a perfect sky.

He stopped at the corner of the garage and gazed up to the heavens, amazed at how beautiful and infinite the night could be. Sometimes it was frightening to think how small and insignificant we human beings really were. For a moment, he wondered if we had any real control over our lives at all, or if we were simply puppets acting out a scripted tale of life and death.

Not without a fight , he thought.

He threw the briefcase in the back seat of the Buick, backed out of the driveway, and thirty minutes later, only a few miles away, he pulled into the parking lot of the Devol Research Institute.

Lunch hadn’t settled well with Mitch. He had pulled into a small Mexican drive-through and ordered himself a couple of tacos and a burrito, and they had gone down just fine. But as the day had worn on, they had begun to come back at him.

He went out to the car and rummaged through the glove compartment until he came up with an old box of Mylanta II Chewables buried under a map. The doctor had recommended them after a long bout with stomach acid. Mitch had gone in worried that he was having some sort of gallbladder problem, but much to his relief it had only been a bad case of gastritis.

He closed the glove compartment, sat back in the seat, and popped two of the tablets into his mouth. They were dry and powdery, and left a funny taste that wasn’t much different from the taste this day had left. It had not been a good day.

Around noon, Travis had driven the Knight woman down to a small car rental place off Cypress. They had parted company shortly thereafter, and Mitch had stayed with the woman throughout the entire day. She had not seemed like the cornered, dangerous mother D.C. had painted her to be. Instead, she had done something Mitch’s grandmother used to do: she had gone visiting. When Mitch had been growing up, his grandmother had often taken him visiting. She would take him to see how the Matthews were doing, and maybe take some fresh baked bread over to Molly Jenkins, or drop off some quilting material at Miss Winter’s, who had never married. It was one place of visiting after another, morning till night. As that little boy, Mitch had been just as bored tagging along with his grandmother as he had been bored tagging along with the Knight woman today.

The two tablets finally disintegrated.

Mitch locked the car up, and headed toward the laundry room where there was a Coke machine in the corner next to the utility closet. In two days, he had learned his way around this apartment complex far better than he had ever intended. It was quiet here, not much coming and going. Most of the renters were middle-class working stiffs, who put in their eight hours then came home and plopped down in front of the television set.

The Coke machine was out of Cokes, so he got himself a Sprite instead. He guzzled down half of it in a single tug, washing away the chalky film that coated his mouth from the Mylanta tablets. A huge belch came up from the depths, and instantly his stomach began to feel better.

Outside the laundry room, he paused long enough to finish the Sprite then toss the can into a nearby flower box. The Travis apartment was upstairs, across the commons. Mitch made his way around the outer edges, silently hoping Travis and his guest would retire early tonight so he could get back to the motel before Letterman. Across the way, a woman yelled to her husband that dinner was on. The husband yelled back that he was in the bathroom and he’d be out when he was done doing his business.

Then surprisingly, out of nowhere it seemed, Walter Travis came strolling around the corner.

“Evening,” Mitch said.

“Evening.”

The two men passed, Travis barely glancing up from his thoughts. Mitch turned and watched him climb the stairs. It had never occurred to him before, but suddenly he found himself wondering about the man’s relationship with the Knight woman.

Boyfriend , he decided. Has to be a boyfriend .

Mitch stopped at the corner, leaned against the wall and stared up at the apartment window. The lights were on in both the kitchen and the living room. Like it or not, he had the feeling that tonight was going to be another long one. He took out his notebook, marked down the time, and noted that W. Travis had just arrived home.

By the time Walt arrived at the apartment it was thirty-five minutes after six and he was feeling appropriately guilty about being late yet a second time. He closed the door behind him, and immediately saw Teri sitting on the couch in the living room. The sight brought him a quick exhale of relief. At least she was home, alive and well.

“Sorry I’m late.”

She looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face streaked. She sniffled, touched a handkerchief to her nose, and tried on a smile that was part embarrassment, part surrender.