Aric Davis - The Fort

The apartment smelled like cigarettes and had amateurish paintings hanging on the walls. Van Endel stopped briefly to look at one—it was signed MP and was of a sunset—then stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Peterson was sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, and talking to a uniform. But the talking stopped when they saw Van Endel.

“Mrs. Peterson?” he asked, and she nodded. Van Endel extended a hand that she shook with her own cold and clammy hand, her fingers small and thin. “May I have a seat?”

“Of course, and please, call me Sam.”

Van Endel sat and nodded to the uniform at the table, a vet named Walt Summers. Walt and Dick had been to a few of these over the last couple of years, late-night calls that never seemed to turn out how anyone wanted, and almost always found their end in the expansive lawns of Riverside Park.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Peterson, though I can’t help but imagine we could do so under better circumstances. I’m Detective Richard Van Endel, Dick for short. I want you to tell me everything that you can recall about your daughter’s plans this evening. I know you’ve probably already done this, but please humor me. I want your daughter home safe and in bed almost as badly as you do.”

“She went to the drive-in with her friends,” said Sam. “I was sort of on the fence about letting her go, but…Do you have kids, Detective?” Van Endel shook his head. “Well, Officer Summers here and I were just talking about how it’s all about balance with raising children, especially a free spirit like Molly. If you don’t let them do some of the stuff that you don’t want them to do, then they’re going to do all the stuff you don’t want them to, only it’ll be behind your back.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. What kind of stuff are we talking about, if I may ask?”

“Oh, nothing awful,” she said. “Boys. Molly likes to play the wild thing, but I know she’s not. Not really.” She smiled. “A parent’s greatest asset can be making your child forget that you’re not an authority figure, but a friend. You still are a parent, of course, but especially raising a girl alone, it’s good that she can tell me things I don’t want to hear. It’s how I know she’s OK. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” said Van Endel, who was wondering, and not for the first time, if he would ever have children. The chances seemed remote at this point. Nights like this, he was OK with it. “What time did she leave?”

“Just after seven. Her friend Jammi Walther drove them, they were meeting some other friends there.” She took a long drag from her cigarette, then continued. “Rebecca Benchley was in the car as well. Could have been someone else too, for all I know.

“Here’s the thing. Molly had a strict curfew, and she knew it. I don’t worry much about what she does when she’s out—she’s got common sense and tells me everything about her life—but the curfew is something she knows she has to respect. That was why I called. She’s never late, not ever. I didn’t want to be one of those crazy people calling her friends, but I finally snapped and called Jammi’s mom, since Jammi drove.”

“What did they have to say?”

“That Jammi saw Molly necking with some boy, and then they were just gone. There was a big scuffle between one of the other girls and a boy—Becca, I think—and then all the teenagers were clearing out of there. That was why I called. All the other kids were home on time, and they saw my daughter go off with some boy that no one knew, and no one could call me?”

“Sam, you need to relax,” said Van Endel, reaching across the table to take one of her forearms in his hand. “Molly has only been gone a few hours. You need to get some rest, take a Valium if you have some, and in the morning, call all of her friends. That is, if she doesn’t come home in between, of course.” He smiled thinly. “Kids, good kids even, do stupid, disrespectful things all the time. Hopefully this turns out to be nothing more than a family problem.”

“Then why are there so many police in my home, Detective?” Sam asked bitterly. “If everything is still OK, why is it so far past curfew and my daughter isn’t home? I read the papers. I know all about the bodies at Riverside—”

“Mrs. Peterson,” said Van Endel, interrupting her and raising a hand. “Those girls are not like your daughter. They were all known prostitutes, and they were all taken miles from that drive-in. Molly was nowhere close to that area, and there’s no reason to be drawing that conclusion.” He took a card from his pocket with his name and contact information on it, and slid it across the table to her. “This phone number goes directly to my desk. Get some sleep—just read a book and relax if you can’t—and then call me in the morning, either way.” He stood. “I hope to hear in the morning that she’s home.”

“You won’t,” said Sam, as she lit another cigarette. “Like I said, she respects a curfew, and this isn’t how she is.”

8

When Tim woke Tuesday morning, he stripped off his pajamas and quickly dressed. Next, he brushed his teeth and headed off to the kitchen, not totally sure that the events of the night before had actually taken place. Everything sure seemed like a dream, but when he got to the kitchen, he knew it wasn’t. His dad was nowhere to be found, but his mom and Becca were sitting at the table. His mom looked angry now, instead of sad like before, and Becca looked miserable.

Ignoring them, or at least trying to, Tim filled a bowl with Cheerios, topped them with milk, then grabbed a spoon and sat at the table. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Becca stood. “I’m going to my room.” She stomped off, looking tired, furious, and indignant all at the same time.

Tammy called after her, “We’re not done talking about this, young lady!”

A door slammed in the distance in answer. Tammy took a slow drink of coffee and then set the mug on the table before turning to look at her son.

“Your sister made some questionable choices,” she said. “As did some of her friends, and some boys made those bad decisions almost turn out a whole lot worse.”

“Tyler Cranston?”

“No,” Tammy said, frowning. “At least I don’t think so. Becca hasn’t told me exactly who it was, just that they met some older guys and things didn’t go as planned.”

“Dad said he wasn’t really going to kill anybody.”

“Good. I’m not sure your father has that in him. Which is a good thing, Tim. My brother—your uncle Mike—he thought he was a pretty rough guy, and he signed up for the army along with a bunch of other guys who thought they were too, and a whole lot of them came back in boxes.

“There’s nothing wrong with just being a regular guy like Dad. In fact, it’s a really good thing. There’s also nothing wrong with being a gentleman, unlike those guys your sister met. Do you know what I mean when I say that? If you want, I can get Dad and you two can talk a—”

The ringing phone cut her off, but as she moved to stand, it stopped. She waited for Becca to yell that it was for one of them, and when she didn’t Tammy opened her mouth to continue. Seeing an opening, Tim cut her off.

“I know what you mean,” said Tim, having no idea what she meant at all. “I don’t need to talk to Dad about it either. Besides, he’s probably really busy.”

Tammy turned, leaning back in her chair to look out of the blinds into the backyard. She had excellent timing: as she turned, Stan heaved a transfer shovel to the ground in disgust. “You may be on to something, Tim. Your father does seem to have his hands full.” A sad smile pulled at her lips, but then gave up. She looked at him. “But if you want to talk about this, we can. Just give your sister some space, and try and be nice without being obvious about it.