Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

“You still keep pretty close tabs on them, then?” Alan asked.

“’Til he’s suffering in prison,” Burns had replied, his voice as flat as a machine.

Alan parks next to the curb in front of the house, pulling up so that Burns can ease in behind us. I notice a white Honda Accord in the driveway. We climb out and I wince at the sudden cold turn the air has taken during the short drive. February in Southern California remains capricious, as always.

“How do you want to work this?” Burns asks, coming up to us.

“He’s already going to be on his guard when he sees you,” I say to him. “That’s good. I’ll introduce us, and Alan and I will show him our FBI credentials. That should make him even more nervous. After that we’ll let Alan run things.”

Burns squints at Alan. “I heard rumors about you. You’re supposed to be some kind of ass-kicker when it comes to interrogation.”

Alan shrugs. “It’s all just science, really. Body language, eye movements. Anyone can learn it.”

“Anyone can play golf too,” Burns says, “but there’s only one Tiger Woods.”

“Putting him on the defensive is good,” Alan says, “but our vocal tones need to be soothing. Body language, nonconfrontational. Like we’re coming to give him some bad news, not as if we think he’s any kind of a suspect.” He glances at Burns. “You think you can handle that?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll try to look contrite.”

“Good. We get him to let us in. I’ll do all the talking. Let me sit closest to him. I need to be able to watch him when I tell him that his wife is alive. The most important reaction is the one he has right after I deliver the news.”

We walk up to the door. It’s a simple gray concrete walkway. The driveway, I notice now, had been redone. Laid with brick or something like that. A number of the houses in my neighborhood have done something similar, but I hate the look. Paint your house, plant a tree, put in a beautiful garden. Driveways? They’re for getting your car from the garage to the street.

“Let me knock,” Alan says.

He raises a huge fist and pounds the door so hard it shocks me a little, and I was half expecting it. He waits a moment, winks at me and Burns, and then knocks again, practically bending the door inward.

More time passes than I would have expected. I’m watching the front windows; no one’s pulled back a curtain to see who’s knocking. I have no sense of anyone staring through the peephole.

Alan shrugs. “Nothing to do but knock again.”

I brace myself as I see him getting ready to really lean into it. He hammers the door so hard I almost laugh out loud, except that none of this is funny.

Alan lifts his fist again, but Burns holds his hand up. “Wait. You hear that?”

I don’t hear anything, but maybe Burns has bat ears. Then I hear it. The soft swish swish sound of socks against a wood floor. We all straighten. The sound stops and the peephole darkens.

“Yes?” It’s a man’s voice.

Alan glances at me. We want to make him nervous, but later, after he’s let us into the house. A woman’s voice will be better for now.

“Mr. Hollister?” I ask.

“Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Smoky Barrett, from the FBI. We need to talk to you, sir.”

A long pause.

“Sir?” I query.

More silence. Then:

“Hang on.”

We hear the deadbolt turn. The door opens and Douglas Hollister stands before us. He has some gray in his hair now, and weight has settled into his face and around his middle, but not too much. If anything, he looks more fit than in the hotel photo. Perhaps, before today, he looked happier too.

But not right now.

Right now he reminds me of Al Pacino in Scarface. He looks like he just buried his head in a gigantic pile of pure cocaine and breathed deep. His eyes bounce from me to Alan to Burns, then back to me. There are bags under those eyes. He’s unshaven and, from the brief scent I catch, unbathed as well. I glance down and see something stranger: One of his feet is missing a sock.

He smiles, but it’s a parody, something hideous, as though it had been commanded at gunpoint.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice squeaking a little. He clears his throat, gives us the death’s head grimace again. “Sorry. Can I help you?” A little better this time, but he’s started to sweat. A line of small, fine beads has formed at the hairline.

I show him my ID, as does Alan. “My partner, Alan Washington. And you know Detective Burns.”

The slightest hint of a new emotion breaks through the barely suppressed terror. It shows only in his eyes, and only for a moment, but I catch it before it’s gone. Resentment, a brief petulance, the this is all your fault of a four-year-old child.

“What’s this about?” he asks, turning his attention back to me.

“We have some important news, sir. May we come in? I’d prefer if you were sitting down for this.”

His eyes widen, and he wrings his hands. For some reason, it seems contrived. “Is it Dana? Did something happen to her?”

I reassure him with my reassuring smile, well honed. “No, sir. Can we come in?”

The nonthreatening and deferential manner of my approach seems to be working. He’s relaxed a little. He runs a hand through hair that’s probably needed to be washed for days. “Sure. Sorry. Of course.” He steps aside so we can enter, which we do. “I’m a little out of it. I’ve been ill and I was napping. I thought the pounding on the door was from a dream.”

“Sorry about that, sir,” I say, giving him my “shrug” smile, the one that says, What can you do? “It’s a habit we develop. You see, if we knock hard enough and no one answers, we can assume they’re either hurt or dead or possibly drugged.” I’m making this up on the spot, but right now it’s all about feeding Alan’s observation machine. I know he’s watching every tic and eye movement Hollister makes.

Hollister stares at me, taking in the idea of needing to learn to knock hard enough to determine if someone’s dead or just sleeping. “Wow,” he says.

“Where can we talk, sir?” I ask, prodding him gently.

“This way,” he says, turning and walking toward the back of the house.

We follow, and I take in the surrounds. It’s a beautiful home in that SoCal way. Light-hardwood floors polished to a mirror sheen. Vaulted ceilings with no acoustic popcorn. Recessed lighting. A stairway with wood railing and beige carpeting leads up to a second floor. It’s a big house. I’d guess five bedrooms. Probably three up top, including the master, and two downstairs. Nice.

We pass the kitchen, which is spacious and gleaming; granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances shine. It’s not cold, though, I notice. There are knickknacks and plants and mismatched doilies. It’s not the kitchen of a neat freak. The refrigerator door is covered with various things held down by various magnets. A God Bless This Home plaque hangs on the wall.

We reach the living room, which matches the rest of the house. A fifty-inch plasma TV faces a large sectional couch. I see an Xbox and a stack of games. A DVD shelf is filled with DVDs stored in agreeable disarray. A fine layer of dust covers the coffee table, probably three or four days’ worth.

I recognize this house. It’s the home of busy people, doing their best to balance time in the fight against entropy, and not doing a bad job. Sloppy imperfection is everywhere, but it never overwhelms, and the place is never dirty. I find the same thing every night when I get back to my own house.

Hollister indicates that we should sit on the couch. Alan puts himself in the position closest to Hollister. Burns sits next to him. I stay standing. Nothing like a little unevenness to keep things uncomfortable.