Gillian Flynn - Gone Girl:

“Well, then let’s go to the other end of the mall,” Rand said.

“Come out, you fuckers!” Joe yelled, his head tilted back, eyes scrunched. His voice echoed through the building. We began walking ragtag, trailing our bats alongside us, except for the Hillsams, who used theirs to bang against security gates and doors, like they were on military patrol in a particularly nasty war zone.

“Better you come to us than we come to you!” Mikey called. “Oh, hello !” In the entryway to a pet shop, a man and woman huddled on a few army blankets, their hair wet with sweat. Mikey loomed over them, breathing heavily, wiping his brow. It was the scene in the war movie when the frustrated soldiers come across innocent villagers and bad things happen.

“The fuck you want?” the man on the floor asked. He was emaciated, his face so thin and drawn it looked like it was melting. His hair was tangled to his shoulders, his eyes mournful and upturned: a despoiled Jesus. The woman was in better shape, with clean, plump arms and legs, her lank hair oily but brushed.

“You a Blue Book Boy?” Stucks asked.

“Ain’t no boy, anyhow,” the man muttered, folding his arms.

“Have some fucking respect,” the woman snapped. Then she looked like she might cry. She turned away from us, pretending to look at something in the distance. “I’m sick of no one having no respect .”

“We asked you a question, buddy,” Mikey said, moving closer to the guy, kicking the sole of his foot.

“I ain’t Blue Book,” the man said. “Just down on my luck.”

“Bullshit.”

“Lots of different people here, not just Blue Books. But if that’s who you’re looking for …”

“Go on, go on, then, and find them,” the woman said, her mouth turning down. “Go bother them.”

“They deal down in the Hole,” the man said. When we looked blank, he pointed. “The Mervyns, far end, past where the carousel used to be.”

“And fuck you very much,” the woman muttered.

A crop-circle stain marked where the carousel once was. Amy and I had taken a ride just before the mall shut down. Two grown-ups, side by side on levitating bunny rabbits, because my wife wanted to see the mall where I spent so much of my childhood. Wanted to hear my stories. It wasn’t all bad with us.

The barrier gate to the Mervyns had been busted through, so the store was open as wide and welcoming as the morning of a Presidents’ Day sale. Inside, the place was cleared out except for the islands that once held cash registers and now held about a dozen people in various states of drug highs, under signs that read Jewelry and Beauty and Bedding . They were illuminated by gas camping lamps that flickered like tiki torches. A few guys barely opened an eye as we passed, others were out cold. In a far corner, two kids not long out of their teens were manically reciting the Gettysburg Address. Now we are engaged in a great civil war … One man sprawled out on the rug in immaculate jean shorts and white tennis shoes, like he was on the way to his kid’s T-ball game. Rand stared at him as if he might know the guy.

Carthage had a bigger drug epidemic than I ever knew: The cops had been here just yesterday, and already the druggies had resettled, like determined flies. As we made our way through the piles of humans, an obese woman shushed up to us on an electric scooter. Her face was pimply and wet with sweat, her teeth catlike.

“You buying or leaving, because this ain’t a show-and-tell,” she said.

Stucks shone a flashlight on her face.

“Get that fucking thing off me.” He did.

“I’m looking for my wife,” I began. “Amy Dunne. She’s been missing since Thursday.”

“She’ll show up. She’ll wake up, drag herself home.”

“We’re not worried about drugs,” I said. “We’re more concerned about some of the men here. We’ve heard rumors.”

“It’s okay, Melanie,” a voice called. At the edge of the juniors section, a rangy man leaned against a naked mannequin torso, watching us, a sideways grin on his face.

Melanie shrugged, bored, annoyed, and motored away.

The man kept his eyes on us but called toward the back of the juniors section, where four sets of feet poked out from the dressing rooms, men camped out in their individual cubicles.

“Hey, Lonnie! Hey, all! The assholes are back. Five of ’em,” the man said. He kicked an empty beer can toward us. Behind him, three sets of feet began moving, men pulling themselves up. One set remained still, their owner asleep or passed out.

“Yeah, fuckos, we’re back,” Mikey Hillsam said. He held his bat like a pool cue and punched the mannequin torso between the breasts. She tottered toward the ground, the Blue Book guy removing his arm gracefully as she fell, as if it were all part of a rehearsed act. “We want some information on a missing girl.”

The three men from the dressing rooms joined their friends. They all wore Greek-party T-shirts: Pi Phi Tie-Dye and Fiji Island . Local Goodwills got inundated with these come summer—university graduates shedding their old souvenirs.

The men were all wiry-strong, muscular arms rivered with popping blue veins. Behind them, a guy with a long, drooping mustache and hair in a ponytail—Lonnie—came out of the largest corner dressing room, dragging a long length of pipe, wearing a Gamma Phi T-shirt. We were looking at mall security.

“What’s up?” Lonnie called.

We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground … the kids were reciting in a pitch that was close to screaming.

“We’re looking for Amy Dunne, you probably seen her on the news, missing since Thursday,” Joe Hillsam said. “Nice, pretty, sweet lady, stolen from her own home.”

“I heard about it. So?” said Lonnie.

“She’s my wife,” I said.

“We know what you guys’ve been getting into out here,” Joe continued, addressing only Lonnie, who was tossing his ponytail behind him, squaring his jaw. Faded green tattoos covered his fingers. “We know about the gang rape.”

I glanced at Rand to see if he was all right; he was staring at the naked mannequin on the floor.

“Gang rape,” Lonnie said, jerking his head back. “The fuck you talking about a gang rape.”

“You guys,” Joe said. “You Blue Book Boys—”

“Blue Book Boys, like we’re some kind of crew.” Lonnie sniffed. “We’re not animals, asshole. We don’t steal women. People want to feel okay for not helping us. See, they don’t deserve it, they’re a bunch of rapists . Well, bull shit . I’d get the fuck out of this town if the plant would give me my back pay. But I got nothing. None of us got nothing. So here we are.”

“We’ll give you money, good money, if you can tell us anything about Amy’s disappearance,” I said. “You guys know a lot of people, maybe you heard something.”

I pulled out her photo. The Hillsams and Stucks looked surprised, and I realized—of course—this was only a macho diversion for them. I pushed the photo in Lonnie’s face, expecting him to barely glance. Instead, he leaned in closer.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “ Her? ”

“You recognize her?”

He actually looked stricken. “She wanted to buy a gun.”

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

OCTOBER 16, 2010

DIARY ENTRY

Happy anniversary to me! One full month as a Missouri resident, and I am on my way to becoming a good midwesterner. Yep, I have gone cold turkey off all things East Coast and I have earned my thirty-day chip (here it would be a potato chip). I am taking notes, I am honoring traditions. I am the Margaret Mead of the goddamn Mississip.