David Bell - Never Come Back

There were no pictures, just a story I skimmed through. It repeated the same fundamental details Gordon Baxter had told me in McDonald’s. “Fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Baxter went missing from her home… a sophomore at Haxton Senior High… no information about her whereabouts… police aren’t sure whether to call her absence a crime yet.”

What had the police known that they weren’t saying? At that point they would have already talked to Mom and Gordon Baxter. The police would have known about the troubles they were having with Elizabeth. Gordon specifically said they’d mentioned the drugs to the police. How hard were they really looking for her?

I skipped ahead to the next day. No story. And the same for the two days after that. September was over at that point. I reached down and brought out the roll of film for October, switched the reels, and started looking again. On October 1 a longer story ran—and for the first time, I saw a picture of my half sister, Elizabeth.

She looked just like my mother. If I hadn’t known my sister existed, I would have thought it was a portrait of my mother taken when she was a teenager. They shared the same eye and nose shape, the same high forehead. I didn’t know—or care—what Gordon Baxter contributed to the young woman. I saw only my mother. And, yes, even pieces of me. I lifted my hand and brought it to the screen. I touched the image gently, as though I expected some emanation to come through, some information that would explain everything that was going on. But of course it didn’t.

I leaned back a little and read the story. The police reiterated that they weren’t ready to call the missing girl the victim of a crime. In fact, this story reported that the girl’s father, Gordon Baxter, had informed them that the girl was “troubled” and “high-spirited.”

High-spirited? I knew what that meant. It was code for “strong-willed girl.” Not only could Gordon not control his daughter, he couldn’t even begin to understand her. So he labeled her a troublemaker in the newspaper, for all to see. The article ended with Gordon saying, “She started to run with a bad crowd. Maybe she just didn’t want to be here anymore.”

So the consensus had been reached even back then, from her father—Mom wasn’t quoted in the article—as well as the police: Elizabeth Baxter had run away. But Gordon insisted to me that she had been killed, probably by some serial killer the state had put to death. I remembered the name: Rodney Ray Brown.

I took out my phone and searched the Web. I entered “Rodney Ray Brown” along with “Elizabeth Baxter.” Just a few hits came up. One of them was from a Web site devoted to serial killers. A small note at the end of the entry on Brown mentioned that he was suspected in more killings, and it listed Elizabeth’s name as one of the possibilities. Beyond that, little seemed to tie the two together. Brown had killed in Ohio and Indiana during the 1970s. Elizabeth had run off in Ohio during the 1970s. That was about it.

“Who’s that?”

I jumped. Mrs. Porter had managed to sneak up on me and was looking over my shoulder. I reached for the on/off switch.

“Is that your mother?” she asked.

“It’s—”

I don’t know how bad her eyesight was, or whether she just didn’t look closely enough to see the headline, but she patted me on the shoulder and said, “It’s amazing how much you two look alike.”

My phone rang just as I was leaving the library. My heart jolted. I’d told myself to expect the same shock every time the phone rang while Ronnie was in the hospital. Any call coming in could be good or bad news.

But it wasn’t Paul. Or the hospital. And it wasn’t even Dan.

“Hello?”

“Elizabeth,” he said.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“It’s Gordon Baxter.”

“How did you get this number?” I asked.

“You gave it to me before you left McDonald’s. Remember?”

I thought about it. I might have. Those moments were a blur.

“You were upset when you left, Elizabeth.”

Just hearing him say that name gave me the creeps. He had called his daughter that name all those years ago. He might have even wept while he said that name or dreamed about her and called her name in his sleep. To have him call me by that name—even though it was my name—added a layer of weirdness to the whole enterprise.

“What do you want?”

“I hope your brother is okay,” he said.

“He’s okay.”

I didn’t like the idea of revealing anything to this man about my family, even though it was apparent he already knew far more about my family than I did. In a way, he was part of my family, whether I liked it or not.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. His voice sounded oily and insincere, even more than it had in the restaurant. I’d have to wipe the slimy residue of his voice off my ear. “I know our conversation got cut short earlier, so I was just calling to see if you had talked to Paul.”

“As you can imagine, we were a little more concerned about my brother’s health than your story.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding almost surprised not to be the center of attention.

“I talked to Paul,” I said, “and maybe he did confirm some aspects of your story.”

“See?” He sounded very pleased with himself.

“Yeah. I guess I’m still wondering what you want from me. Are you still asking me for money?”

“We didn’t really get to finish our discussion.”

“Right. You said you’d had some ups and downs. Some bad luck, as you put it.”

“Health problems too. I have a heart condition. A lot of medication.”

“Does your bad luck also involve being in jail?” I asked. “I understand that was part of it.”

I heard his breathing through the phone. It was heavy, but not from exertion. It sounded like the low huffing of an animal, the rhythm of a predator gathering his strength.

“That would be your uncle talking,” he said.

“It would be.”

“Well, he has his own side of the story to tell. Don’t we all?”

“I think I need to go, Mr. Baxter. As you can imagine, I have a lot of other things on my mind right now.”

“So your answer is no?”

“I don’t know why my mom gave you money, but I can’t afford to. I have a brother to take care of. I just became his guardian, and that’s enough for me. If you don’t mind—”

“You’re the guardian?” Gordon asked. He sounded surprised and knowing at the same time.

“I am. It’s in the will.”

“Hmm,” he said.

I expected him to say more, but he didn’t. He just left the conversation hanging there. I was tempted to hang up, but I also wanted to see how this would play out.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I thought for sure your uncle would be the guardian,” he said.

“I thought so too,” I said. “But he’s getting older. Mom was worried about having someone here for Ronnie, someone who would be here a long time.”

Gordon made a low, dismissive sound—the beginning of a laugh, bitten off and truncated.

“You’re such a good girl,” he said. “Believing whatever they tell you to believe.”

“What do you mean—?”

Without saying anything more, he hung up.

Since the police station was so close to the library, I took a chance and stopped by there, hoping to find Richland or Post hanging around. The station was quiet. It was getting on toward sundown, and I supposed the Saturday evening mayhem hadn’t kicked in. Everyone was resting up and saving their craziness for later.

The desk officer seemed indifferent to my presence and mustered a halfhearted “Help you?” when I stepped up. I asked for either one of the detectives and the desk officer asked me the nature of my problem.