Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Miss,” said the diver. “We…” He searched for words. He was young- not much older than she. Freckled, with a downy blond mustache under a peeling nose. A thread of algae clung to his chin. His teeth began to chatter and he had to clench his jaws to make them stop.

The other diver, just as young, said, “We did use lights, miss.” He bent over and picked something off the ground. Black-cased bulb attached to a rope lanyard. He let it swing a few times and put it back down.

“ Swat Submersible, miss. We used the yellow bulbs- they’re excellent for this kind of… The problem here is that even during the day it’s pretty murky. At night…” Shaking his head, he rubbed his arms, looked down at the ground.

The blond diver had seized the opportunity to move several feet away. Standing on one leg, he pulled off a flipper, switched legs, and began to tug at the other. Someone brought him a blanket identical to the one around Melissa’s shoulders. The other diver looked at it longingly.

“It’s a reservoir, dammit!” said Melissa. “It’s drinking water- how can it be muddy?”

“Not muddy, miss,” said the dark-haired diver. “ Murky. Kind of opaque. It’s the natural color of the water- minerals. Come here during the day and you’ll see the color’s this real deep green-” He stopped himself, looked to the crowd for confirmation.

The deputy stepped forward. A brass tag above one pocket said GAUTIER. Below it were rows of ribbons. He looked about fifty-five. His eyes were tired and gray.

“We’re going to do everything to find your mother, Miss Dickinson,” he said, showing even, tobacco-stained teeth. “The helicopters will keep going, covering a twenty-mile semicircle above the highway, which will take us well above the Crest Highway. As far as the reservoir, those boats the dam people sent out right at the beginning went over every square inch of surface. The copters are going over it again, just to make sure. But in terms of below the surface, there’s really nothing we can do right now.”

He spoke softly and deliberately, trying to communicate horror without being horrible. If Gina was below the surface, there was no need for urgency.

Melissa kneaded her hands, glared at him, working her mouth.

Chickering frowned and took a step closer.

Melissa shut her eyes, threw up her hands, and let out a wrenching cry. Slamming both hands over her face, she bent at the waist, as if gripped by cramps. “No, no, no!”

Milo made a move toward her but I got there first and he retreated. Taking hold of her shoulders, I drew her to me.

She fought, kept repeating the word no.

I held her fast, and gradually she loosened. Too loose. I put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. She was cold and plastic to the touch. It was like positioning a mannequin.

Conscious, breathing normally. But her eyes were static and unfocused and I knew if I let go, she’d sink to the ground.

The crowd of uniformed men watched. I drew her away.

She moaned and some of them flinched. One man turned his back, then others. Gradually, most of them began drifting back to the Rolls.

Chickering and Gautier lingered. Chickering stared at me, puzzled and irritated, shook his head, joined the car crowd. Gautier watched him leave with a raised eyebrow. Turning back to me, he glanced down at Melissa and gave a look of concern.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re going to get out of here if that’s okay with you.”

Gautier nodded. Chickering was looking at the water.

Don Ramp stood alone, in muck up to his ankles. He’d somehow turned into a frail-looking, stooped man.

I tried to catch his attention, thought I had when he turned toward me.

But he was staring past me with eyes as muddy as his shoes.

The helicopters had moved on, emitting fly-on-carrion buzzes from somewhere in the north. Suddenly, my senses expanded, like the lens of a camera. I heard water lapping against the shore. Smelled the chlorophyll tang of the underbrush, the hydrocarbon stink of leaking motor fluids.

Melissa stirred, opening, too.

Like a wound. Crying softly, rhythmically. Her grief rising to a high mewl that danced above the water and the hard-data chorus of the men at the shore.

Milo frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He’d been standing behind me and I hadn’t noticed.

Maybe it was that movement that snapped Ramp out of his trance. He walked toward us, took half a dozen halting steps before thinking better of it and turning around.

Milo and I half-walked, half-carried Melissa up to my car. He returned to the Rolls and I drove her home, prepared for therapy. She put her head back and closed her eyes, and by the time I reached the bottom of the mountain road, she was snoring lightly.

The gates to the house on Sussex Knoll were open. I carried her up to the front door and knocked. After what seemed like a long time, Madeleine answered, wearing a white cotton dressing gown buttoned to the neck. No surprise on her broad face; she had the weathered look of one used to grieving alone. I walked past her, into the huge front room, and deposited Melissa on one of the overstuffed couches.

Madeleine hurried off and came back with a blanket and a pillow. Sinking to her knees, she propped up Melissa’s head, slid the pillow under it, removed Melissa’s sneakers, spread the blanket over her, and tucked the corners under her feet.

Melissa turned on her side, facing the back of the sofa. There was squirrely movement under the blanket. A couple of shifts of position, then a hand peeked out, thumb extended. The hand wormed its way totally free and the thumb came to rest on Melissa’s lower lip.

Still kneeling, Madeleine brushed the hair from Melissa’s face. Then she stood, straightened her dress, and gave me a hard, hungry look that demanded information.

I curled a finger and she followed me across the room, out of Melissa’s earshot.

When we stopped, she was standing very close to me, breathing hard, heavy bosom heaving. Her hair was braided tightly. She’d put on some kind of rosewater cologne.

“Only the car, monsieur?”

“Unfortunately.” I told her about the helicopter search.

Her eyes remained dry but she brushed them hastily with her knuckles.

I said, “She may still be in the park somewhere. If she is, they’ll find her.”

Madeleine said nothing, pulled at a finger joint until it cracked.

Melissa made sucking sounds around her thumb.

Madeleine looked at her, then back at me. “You stay, monsieur?”

“For a while.”

“I am here, monsieur.”

“Good. We’ll take shifts.”

She didn’t respond.

Not sure if there’d been a language problem, I said, “We’ll take turns. Make sure she’s not alone.”

She didn’t acknowledge that, either. Just stood there, eyes like granite.

I said, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Madeleine?”

“ Non, monsieur.”

“Then feel free to rest.”

“No tired, monsieur.”

We sat together on opposite sides of the couch where Melissa dozed. Madeleine got up a few times to fuss with the blanket, even though Melissa had barely moved. Neither of us talked. Every so often, Madeleine cracked a knuckle. She was working on the tenth one when the doorbell chimed. Hurrying to the entry with as much grace as her bulk would allow, she opened the door and let in Milo.

“Monsieur Sturgis.” Once more eager for news.

“Hello, Madeleine.” He shook his head, gave her hand a quick pat. Looking past her, he said, “How’s our girl?”

“Sleeping.”

He came into the room and stood over Melissa. Her thumb was still in her mouth. Some hair strands had come loose, veiling her face. He made a move, as if to brush them away, stopped himself, and whispered, “How long’s she been out?”