Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

It was a quarter after seven by the time I got back to my house and searched the Triple-A map of California to find Anson. It was a tiny red dot on Highway 86, southeast of the Salton Sea. I called information, told the operator I wanted a listing in Anson, then asked if he had any Reinnikes. I spelled it for him.

"No, sir, I don't show any listings for that name."

The nearest two towns were Alamorio and Westmorland.

"How about in Alamorio and Westmorland?"

"Sorry, sir."

I went to the next town.

"Calipatria?"

"Here you go, Alex Reinnike in Calipatria."

He punched me off to the computer before I could ask for more, so I copied the number, then called information again. This time I told the operator I wanted to check several towns, and asked her not to hand me off to the machine.

Three minutes later, we had covered six more outlying towns, and I had one more name, Edelle Reinnike, who was listed in Imperial.

I looked at the two names and their numbers, then went into the kitchen for a glass of water. I drank it, then went back to the phone. At least it wasn't gin. My hands were shaking.

I dialed Alex Reinnike first because Calipatria was closest to Anson. Alex Reinnike sounded as if he was in his thirties. He listened patiently while I explained about George Reinnike from Anson, and asked if he was related.

When I finished, he said, "Dude, I wish I could help, but I only moved here last April when I got out of the navy. My people are from Baltimore. I never heard of this guy."

I thanked him, then called Edelle Reinnike.

Ms. Reinnike answered on the fourth ring with a phlegmy voice. Her television was so loud in the background that I could hear it clearly. Wheel of Fortune.

She said, "What is it? Yes, who is this? Is someone there?"

I shouted so she could hear me.

"Let me turn this down. It's here somewhere. Where is it?"

She made a little grunting sound like she was reaching for something or maybe getting up, and then the volume went down.

She said, "Who is this?"

"Edelle Reinnike?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Cole. I'm calling about George Reinnike from Anson."

"I don't live in Anson. That's up by the lake."

"Yes, ma'am, I know. I was wondering if you know George Reinnike."

"No."

"Are there other Reinnikes in the area?"

"They're dead. We had some Reinnikes, but they're dead. I got two sons and five grandchildren, but they might as well be dead for all I see them. They live in Egypt. I never knew an American who lived in Egypt, but that's where they live."

You hear amazing things when you talk with people.

"The dead Reinnikes, did any of them live in Anson?"

She didn't answer, so I figured she was thinking.

"This goes back a while, Ms. Reinnike. George lived in Anson about sixty years ago. He was a child then, probably younger than ten. He had surgery on his legs."

She didn't say anything for a while.

"Ms. Reinnike?"

"I had a cousin who had something with his legs. When we all got together, he had to sit with his parents and couldn't come play with the rest of us. That was my Aunt Lita's boy, George. I was older, but he had to sit."

"So you did know a George Reinnike?"

"Yes, the one with the legs. That was them up in Anson. I didn't remember before, but that was them."

"Does George still live there?"

"Lord, I haven't seen him since we were children. We weren't close, you know. We didn't get on with that side of the family."

"Would you have an address or phone number for him?"

"That was so long ago."

"Maybe in an old phone book or a family album. Maybe an old Christmas card list. You know how people keep things like that, then forget they have them?"

"I have some of Mother's old things, but I don't know what's there."

"Would you look?"

"I have some old pictures in one of those closets. There might be a picture of George, but I don't know."

She didn't sound thrilled, but you take what you can get.

"That would be great, Ms. Reinnike. Would it be all right if I come see you tomorrow?"

"I guess that would be fine, but don't you try to sell me something. I know better than that."

"No, ma'am, I'm not trying to sell anything. I'm just trying to find George."

"Well, all right, then. Let me tell you where I live."

I copied her address, then hung up. I was still standing by the table. My hands were still shaking, but not so badly.

I studied the map of Southern California. Anson was in the middle of nowhere. What would have been the odds? My mother had vanished for days and sometimes weeks when I was a child. I never knew where she went, but Southern California was so far from where we lived it was unlikely she had gone so far. Still, I didn't know. She had vanished again and again. More than once, my grandfather hired someone to find her.

Ken Wilson

Miami, Florida

Wilson sat in the dark on his porch, feeling old and disgusted as he listened to the frogs squirming along the banks of the Banana River. Moths the size of a child's hand scraped against the screen that was the only thing saving him from the clouds of mosquitoes and gnats that filled the night with a homicidal whine. Wilson figured all he had to do was punch one finger through the screen and so many goddamned monsters would swarm in they could suck him dry before sunrise. He thought about doing it. He thought it would be pretty damned nice to be done with the whole awful mess of his life.

He took a sip of watered Scotch instead, and spoke to his dead wife.

"You should've never left me. That was damned lousy, leaving me like this, just damned awful of you. Look at me, sitting out here by myself, just look at me."

He had more of the Scotch, but didn't move, alone with himself on the porch of his little bungalow that felt so different now with her gone.

Wilson had buried his wife three weeks ago. Edie Wilson had been his third wife. It took three times for him to get it right, but once he found her they had stayed together for twenty-eight years and he had never once, not once, well, not in any meaningful way, regretted their marriage. They didn't have children because they were too old by the time they hooked up, which was a shame. Wilson 's first wife hadn't wanted children, and his second marriage hadn't lasted long enough, thank God. Such things hadn't seemed important back then, him having the concerns of a younger man, but a man's regrets changed as he grew older. Especially when he got into the Scotch.

Wilson drained his glass, spit back a couple of wilted ice cubes, then set the glass on the floor at his feet.

He said, "Come to Papa."

He took the.32-caliber Smith Wesson from the wicker table and held it in his lap. It had been his gun since just after Korea, purchased for five dollars at a pawnshop in Kansas City, Kansas; silver, with a shrouded hammer and white Bakelite grips that had always felt a little too small for his hand, though he hadn't minded.

He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Snap.

Sixteen years ago, Wilson sold his investigation business and retired. He and Edie had packed up, moved to south Florida, and bought the little place on the river, her liking it more than him, but there you go. The day they packed, he unloaded the gun, and had never seen a need to reload it; those days being gone, him needing "a little something" on his hip in case events grew rowdy, long gone and done. The gun had been unloaded for sixteen years.

But that was then.

Wilson had a nice new box of bullets. He opened the box just enough, shook out some bullets, then put the box down by his glass. Those.32s were small, but they had gotten the job done. He pushed the cylinder out of the frame, carefully placed a bullet into each tube, then folded the cylinder home until the axle clicked into place. He grinned at the sound.