Stephen White: Missing Persons

“I have to be here, at home, if they call back. I can’t leave. Can you come over?”

“I’ll be right there,” I said. I tossed the opah on top of a display of organic butter in the dairy case, and sprinted to my car.

Maybe it was the time of day, just past dusk. Or maybe, as Sam predicted, the fierce assault of the Chinook blitzkrieg had scared everyone off. But the media encampment outside the Millers’ home was deserted, the street peaceful. Doyle’s house was dark.

Bill met me at the front door. I didn’t even have to knock.

“Thank you for coming,” he said as he ushered me inside. “Can I get you something? Some tea? I make good hot chocolate. That’s what the kids tell me, anyway.”

“No, thank you.”

His cordial greeting left me off-balance as he led me to the back of the house and a battered oak claw-foot table with some mismatched pressed-back chairs. “Sit, please.” He pointed me to a seat that faced the service porch and the rear yard. “Thank you,” he repeated.

“What can I do to help, Bill?” I wanted to get down to business, whatever it was. I wanted to get home. I wanted to convince myself that I hadn’t made a big mistake by agreeing to this impromptu house call.

“You being here helps.”

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear from him. “Bill, I’m glad you find my presence comforting. But my advice to you is simple: Tell the police everything you know. The journal, everything. If you have new information, they need to know it. Mallory’s welfare is more important than anything else.”

“I appreciate your counsel. You were absolutely right about Rachel years ago. But I’m not sure you really understand the dilemma I’m in. Calling the police isn’t an option.”

“Mallory’s safety is the most important thing. Your legal situation is secondary.”

“I’m her father. She needs me. Both kids do.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but-”

“But nothing. If someone had your daughter, or your wife, or both, you would do anything to get them back, wouldn’t you? Anything?”

Once I had. Once when a madman was trying to break into my house I’d closed my eyes and pulled a trigger to protect my pregnant wife. I’d do it again if I had to. And again after that.

Bill had continued talking through my silent reverie; I wasn’t sure if I’d missed anything. When I tuned back in he was saying, “Like right now, if you didn’t know where your family was, I bet you would do anything to find them, to make sure they were safe. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you know where your wife and daughter are right now?”

What? “What do you mean?” I was trying to keep my voice level. I was certain I was failing.

“Your family? Do you know where they are right now?”

No, I didn’t know where they were. “Right now? What are you saying, Bill?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to describe my situation in a way that might make sense to another father. The desperation I’m feeling. Do you understand the desperation?”

“Are you threatening my family, Bill?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Have you done something to my wife or daughter?”

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Right now? I think you’re beginning to get it. My desperation. That’s good.”

“Answer my question.” I stood up. “Have you done something to my family?”

A creaking sound pierced through the house. The floor? A door? Had I caused that?

“Did you hear that?” Bill asked. He stood, too.

“Yes. Is someone else here?”

“No. Maybe it was nothing. Old houses, you know.”

Was he unconcerned, or merely cavalier? I couldn’t tell.

Another creak disturbed the quiet.

“Then again,” Bill said. “I’m going to check around a little. You want to call your wife and daughter, ease your mind, you go right ahead.”

Bill stood and left the kitchen. Immediately, I pulled out my cell and phoned home. No answer. I tried Lauren’s cell. No answer. I placed the phone in front of me on the table. My heart was pounding. Bill came back into the room.

“See anything?”

“No.” He spotted the phone on the table. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re fine,” he said, as though he knew I hadn’t reached Lauren.

Any pretense of patience gone from my voice, I asked, “What can I do to help, Bill? You said this was about Mallory. Tell me what’s going on or I’m leaving.”

Certain sounds are as clear as photographs. Glass breaking is one of those sounds. The stark retort of shattering glass filled the house.

“Shit,” Bill said. He stood.

I stood, too. “Where?” I whispered.

“Sounded like the basement.”

I wasn’t so sure, but it wasn’t my house.

He moved toward the stairs. “I’m going down. Probably just some neighbor kid trying to scare me. It’s been like that around here.”

“I’ll call nine-one-one.”

“No, this is my home. No police. I’ll handle it. Stay here.”

He flicked on a light and disappeared down the basement stairs. I spotted a rack of knives on the kitchen counter and shuffled a little closer to them.

Before I reached the counter, all the lights in the house flashed off, at once.

I stumbled back toward the table to grab my phone and as I reached out I managed to push it over the edge onto the floor. The phone clattered and slid away into the darkness. I dropped down to my hands and knees to try to locate it.

“Alan!” Bill stage-whispered from the basement. “Down here, please, hurry.”

“I’m calling for help.”

“Please, it’s Mallory!”

The tunnel? I scrambled to my feet and felt my way toward the basement stairs, found them, and slowly started descending. A solitary step into the basement I ran into someone. The shock of the collision took my breath away.

“It’s me,” Bill whispered. I could feel his breath on my face. “Come on.”

He took my wrist and led me across a room and through a doorway. “This is where the glass broke, I think.”

I couldn’t see broken glass. But then, I couldn’t see much. “You said it was Mallory. Where is she?”

“What are you talking about?”

What? “Where’s the tunnel?” I asked.

“In the crawl space.”

Somewhere nearby, a door closed in the house. Bill released my arm and stepped away from me, back toward the door we’d just come through.

I moved in the same direction.

“Shhh,” he said.

“Is there a phone down here?” I whispered.

“Quiet. I need to listen.”

The door at the far side of the room we were in opened slowly. A figure paused in the doorway-a black silhouette against an almost black background. Burnt food on a cast-iron skillet.

Mallory? No. Too large, too masculine.

Bob? Maybe.

I was about to call Bob’s name when the person’s right arm began to rise and a brilliant flash blinded me and a deafening roar blasted my ears. Before I could even process the first explosion, another one erupted. Then, I thought, another. The figure’s knees began to buckle and he grasped at the door frame with both hands.

The support did him no good. A second later he heaved forward and collapsed to the floor.

My hearing temporarily gone, my eyes useless in a basement dark as a moonless night, I was most aware of the smell of the burnt powder from the gun. I was trying to figure out what had just happened. Bill touched my arm and forced a flashlight into my hand. I flicked it on and saw the gun he was holding. It was a revolver. A big thing.