David Silva - The Disappeared

He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then put them back in place, and grabbed the empty Styrofoam cup off the counter next to the microscope. It was a few minutes past eleven, the lab quiet with the blanket of night. It would remain that way until well past seven in the morning when the receptionist would be the first to drive into the parking lot and the sounds of the back door heavily creaking open would mix with the beeps of the alarm pad as she pressed the keys. Her high heels would echo sharply off the hollow walls downstairs, and if he were still here at that time, he would be able to hear them as clearly as if they were marching right down the hall outside the lab. But for now… the building had given itself to the night, and Childs supposed he liked it that way.

He poured himself his third cup of coffee, added a single packet of sugar, took a sip, and felt some of the tension ease out of his body. Anything to keep going a little longer, to keep him from having to go home to an empty house and a lonely bed.

As he passed by his desk on his way back to the microscope, he absently ran his hand across the photograph of his wife, Audrey. It was a habit he had acquired shortly after her death. An act of appreciation for the better times in his life, he supposed, though he tried not to allow himself to dwell upon it any longer than necessary.

The photo had been taken just before they had gone ballroom dancing while on their cruise to Alaska last year. She was wearing the white-and-pink floral gown she had bought especially for the occasion. Her eyes seemed not at all to reflect the pain she had been going through in her battle with cancer at the time. They were bright, even hopeful. It was the way Childs wanted to remember her, the way she was before the cancer: resilient, confident, optimistic, and incredibly beautiful.

The hole her death had left had gradually consumed more and more of him as the months had passed. A cancer of its own, it had begun metastasizing to other parts of his life, sending his thought processes on wild manic-depressive swings through the darkness of suicide to the elation at the potential breakthroughs of his work and back again.

Home had become a reminder of the times he would never have again.

Childs sat on the stool again, his energy mildly recharged.

The quiet of the night moved silently in around him.

And that was just fine.

“Know what’s wrong with this shitty world?” Richard Boyle asked.

The bartender, a heavyset man in his late fifties who had heard it all before and had little appetite for venturing down this particular road again, looked at him over the top of his glasses without answering.

“Everyone thinks they’re fucking untouchable. That’s what’s wrong.” Boyle finished off his fifth beer, and slammed the mug down against the counter with a gleam in his eyes that dared the man to say anything about it. “They think they can send you to hell and back and… you… you’re just gonna take it. Like a fucking Twinkie. You’re gonna let ’em suck your insides dry without doing nothing.”

It had been nearly a week since Boyle had last shaved, a little longer since he had taken a bath. There was a dark desperation in his face that had been taking form there since early childhood and though it was often masked by the man’s meanness, it was not invisible. He looked up from his glass, one eye slightly off-center, both eyes dead to the alcohol, and winked.

“One more,” he said.

The bartender thought about it, decided it wasn’t worth the hassle, then poured him another tap.

“You wanna survive; you don’t let nobody get the best of you. Nobody. You see?” Boyle took an indulging swig from the mug and dropped it back to the counter, not as heavily this time, though a wave of suds made their escape over the rim of the glass. “My wife, she’s gonna learn that lesson real well. So’s that shithead of a detective she hired. They’ll see.”

The bartender nodded noncommittally, paying Boyle as little mind as he did most of the drunks who came in here with their stories of misery and promised revenge.

“Know how to hurt a man so’s he feels it?” Boyle asked.

No response.

“You get after the thing that’s ’portant to him. That’s what you do.” Boyle grinned and bobbed his head in perfect agreement with himself. Yup, that’s what you do. You get after the thing that’s important to him. That’s what he was gonna do. Because that was what worked. Hit ’em where it hurts, his daddy used to say.

Boyle finished his drink, mumbling incoherently into the mug before laying his head down to rest against the counter. His thoughts drifted lazily through the alcoholic fog that had become his companion and he gladly drifted with them.

The phone was ringing.

A shudder rattled through Walt’s body, and he opened his eyes, finding himself already sitting up on the living room couch. The room was washed in dark shadows, made all that more ominous by the ill-defined glow of the city lights slipping in through the window.

He got up and fumbled his way into the kitchen, half-blind from sleep. He was still yawning as he leaned against the wall and brought the receiver to his ear.

“Walt? It’s Sarah Boyle. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. What’s up?”

“Richard’s in town.”

“What makes you think that?” Walt came fully awake with the stark realization that he had never told her about the episode at the apartment the other night. He should have called her immediately and warned her that her husband was back in the area, and that he might be dangerous.

“He took his anger out on my car yesterday.”

“Oh, Christ. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. But I’m staying with a friend for awhile.”

“Good idea. You’ll be safer there.”

“The police finally seem to be showing some interest.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah, miracles never cease.”

A moment of silence fell into the gap between them and Walt kicked himself for not having called her right away. “I’m sorry I’ve had such a hard time tracking down the children, Sarah.”

“Any new leads?”

“I can tell you that until a couple of days ago, he and the kids were living down in the Bay Area, under the name of B.L. Richards. I didn’t miss him by much. My guess is he’s probably just passing through on his way to somewhere new, and he’s probably got the kids with him. Whatever he’s up to, we’ll have to start all over again from scratch.”

“What about Garrett and Christy? Are they all right?”

“I asked around and the neighborhood kids seemed to think they were doing just fine.”

“Thank God.”

“He’s making mistakes, Sarah. He’s getting arrogant and he’s making mistakes and eventually that’s what’s going to lead us to him.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Sorry about calling so late.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You want my friend’s number?”

“Sure. Let me grab a piece of paper.”

Sarah gave him the number where she could be reached, and said, “Okay. Well, I guess that’s all.”

“I’ll call you if anything comes up; I promise.”

For a while after the call, Walt tried to get back to sleep again. But every time he closed his eyes he kept thinking about how he should have called Sarah as soon as he had heard Boyle’s voice on the answering machine. When that thought wouldn’t let go of him, he finally pulled back the blanket, got up off the couch, his muscles stiff, and turned on the nearest lamp. The shadows that had owned the room quickly scurried back into the corners.