Stephen White - Missing Persons

Sherry was Sam’s ex. She was living in Northglenn, a suburb north of Denver, and attending school at Auraria. She’d sold her flower business and was studying to be an EMT. The custody arrangement that she and Sam had negotiated was so complicated that I thought it would require single-variable calculus equations to put it on paper. But the plan worked; I’d not once heard Sam complain about the convoluted logistics.

He opened the door to his old navy Cherokee. In the thin light the dried muck on the lower third of the squat body made the car appear to have a custom paint job. Almost. “How many miles you have on this thing?” I asked.

“Odometer broke at one-forty-seven-something. That was on the day that the Supreme Court decided who our president was going to be. So more than one-forty-seven. Plenty more than one-forty-seven.”

“How old is it?”

“It’s a ’90.” He climbed in. The concave driver’s seat accepted his rear end the way Lauren’s out-thrust hip supported our daughter’s cute butt. Naturally. With just the slightest trace of a smile in his eyes-it was impish, almost ironic-he said, “You know what? That makes this car the same exact age as Mallory Miller.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

He wasn’t done. “And the other girl, too. I’m sure you remember her. She was a 1990, too.”

The one who had been murdered in the dark hours overnight on another Christmas Day. The pretty little blonde whose one-time beauty-queen momma wanted her daughter to be a beauty queen, too. The one whose pathetic father had carried her lifeless body up the stairs from the basement like a spray of damaged flowers. Yes, I remembered that other girl. Too well.

“See you,” Sam said. “Thanks for the run.”

The Cherokee chugged north down the lane. Before it was out of sight the rumble of the old Dodge Power Wagon signaled that the newspaper delivery guy was heading in our direction. I watched his headlights dance in the grasses before I stepped inside and started a pot of coffee. A few minutes later I was still wet from the shower when Grace announced the beginning of her day. My sleepy wife crashed into me in the doorway as we rushed toward our daughter’s room.

I cherish morning in our home. I love the soft carelessness of my wife after she’s slept, her flesh exposed near the unbuttoned top button or two of her pajamas. I love the fragrance at the nape of my daughter’s neck after a night of sweet dreams. I love the frantic energy that the dogs bring to each and every dawn.

I adore the tang of fresh juice and the texture of bananas and the yeasty smell of toasted Great Harvest bread. I adore the first sip of hot coffee almost as much as I adore the aroma, and I relish the light that pours over the infinite plains and fills our little kitchen seconds before it jumps up and causes the crystalline formations on the Flatirons to sparkle like the facets of diamonds.

No, that day I wasn’t necessarily thrilled about running around like a madman in order to make it to my office for my 7:15 appointment downtown, but it was, I figured, all part of the package.

And all in all, it was a damn good package. I felt that way almost every morning and felt great fortune that almost every day in my home started with the unspoiled promise of fresh bliss.

A year and a half earlier, Lauren had bought me a new BMW Mini as a gift. The generous gesture was intended to snap me out of a professional funk that I’d been sliding into, and her choice of cars paid homage to an old love of mine, a classic Mini Cooper named Sadie that I’d adopted in my youth. I drove the gift Mini on nice days for over a year before I sold it. I didn’t sell it because I didn’t like it. I sold it because every time I drove it I felt as though I was taking a holiday from responsible parenting. All the data said it was a safe car for its size. The problem, though, was its size. Compared to an elephantine Ford Expedition-and way too often on Boulder’s roads that was exactly the comparison I was forced to consider-my little Mini felt like a dainty ladybug.

I’d put an ad in the paper after the previous autumn’s aspen season had peaked and ended up selling the Mini to a sophomore volleyball player from CU who had apparently convinced her parents that the little car was safe enough for her.

When I pressed the button that opened the garage door the car that was waiting to take me downtown to my office was a three-year-old, four-wheel-drive Audi wagon with 27,000 miles on it. I’d bought it from Diane’s next-door neighbor when she moved to Phoenix to trade the cold of Colorado’s winters for the heat of Arizona’s summers. The Audi was a fun car. Not as much fun as the Mini. But fun enough. It could handle all but the deepest snow, there was room in the back for both dogs, and-most important-it had more airbags than cylinders, much more sheet metal than the Mini, and, rational or not, I didn’t feel like a lunatic when I strapped Grace into the backseat.

I was only two steps away from the open garage door when I spotted a fresh set of headlights snaking down our lane.

I stopped. Four cars at my house before 7 A.M.? For us, that constituted a parade.

The approaching car had a throaty rumble, not as thumpy-thumpy as the newspaper guy’s Power Wagon, but certainly not that of a lightweight, well-mufflered, catalytic-converted Honda or Subaru either.

Despite the incipient dawn the headlights were aimed right at my eyes and they blinded me until the car was about twenty feet away. I stood still, waiting for the reveal. Finally, the driver turned the car abruptly to the left and pulled it to a stop that was short enough to cause the vehicle to slide a foot or so on the dirt and gravel.

The car was a shiny black Camaro that was much, much older than Sam’s Cherokee, but still a modern automotive wonder compared to the paper guy’s ancient Dodge truck.

Bob Brandt climbed out from behind the wheel. He didn’t kill the engine, however, and the growl of the big motor in the Camaro continued to thunder off the hillsides. Bob didn’t say “Hi,” or “Good morning,” or “Sorry to intrude,” or anything else that most people might say in similar circumstances.

I didn’t say some things, too. I didn’t say, “What are you doing here at this hour?” or, “How the hell do you know where I live?”

My home phone number wasn’t listed. My home address was a carefully guarded secret. I didn’t encourage patients to call me after hours. I certainly didn’t encourage them to drop by whenever the hell they felt like it. Whatever early-morning calm the serenity of my family in my home had afforded me evaporated like the steam from pancakes on a hot griddle.

I was feeling violated by Bob’s presence in front of my garage. But at some level I also felt grateful for another opportunity to connect with Bob about Mallory Miller.

Bob spoke first. That was fine; it was definitely his turn. “What do you think about my car?” he asked. The Camaro’s motor-had he told me once, or twice, or ten times that it was a 396?-provided a percussive accompaniment that sounded like a big sub-woofer with an electrical short.

I had no intention of chatting about cars with Bob at seven o’clock in the morning only steps from my front door and my darling daughter. “Good morning,” I said, while I told myself that Bob must have a reason-a good reason-for mounting this kind of intrusion.

Bob was dressed in his ubiquitous outfit. Chinos, long-sleeve blue dress shirt, denim jacket-the fleece-lined one. Trail runners. He appeared nervous. I’d never before seen him outside the confines of my office, though, and was more than prepared to believe that he spent much of his life appearing nervous.

“I have something…” He was looking at my Audi. “That yours?”