Misery Loves Company Page 2
“That’s why you have your house and I have mine.”
“Your way of turning down my offer, again, for you to come live with me?”
“I like it here,” she said. “Trust me, I’d get on your nerves very fast. I get on my own nerves.”
“Not possible. I want you to give it another thought. Think it through completely, not just your first instinct. Like I told my men, instinct can carry you an awful long way, but full analysis can save your life.”
She smiled warmly at him, the kind of smile that lets a dad know his little girl is going to be okay. She’d become good at faking that smile. He looked like he was about to burst at the seams, so she threw him a bone.
“I sort of got a story idea last night while I was—”
“Go with that! Yes! Someplace to start already and it’s not even lunchtime. There’s a reason Marines rise before sunup. We put more into life before breakfast than most people put into their whole day. You got my blood in you, baby.”
“I am fully pepped.”
“When you were born,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist as they walked to the door, “I was disappointed. I already told you this story.”
“You wanted a boy.”
“I wanted a boy. I’m so glad it was you instead.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Dad, don’t worry so much about me, okay?”
“I wouldn’t if you ever left this house.”
“This is a good, safe place for me.” And it was. She still felt connected to the world, through a twenty-inch screen.
“I may go fishing tomorrow.”
Doubtful. It was starting to get too cold, for one thing. He had good intentions, but they rarely saw the light of day. “Have fun.”
“Maybe we can have a fish fry, invite some of these neighbors you refuse to get to know.”
“I know all the people I need to know.” She gave him a little help out the door. “Off you go.”
He gave her a white-flag wave and climbed into his truck. A sadness sank into her soul as she watched him go. That was the best part of his day. It was all downhill from here.
Back at the computer, she took a long, slow sip of her coffee and stared at the blinking cursor. Ugh. It was so hard to say what she needed to say about Patrick Reagan, but at the same time, she knew people read her blog for her honest opinion. And her honest opinion was that he just didn’t have what he used to.
She typed the words carefully: I can’t put my finger on it.
His stories still contain the fast-paced plot, the heroic law enforcement character, and the surprise twist.
But it’s like he had magic in his fingers once. And now that magic is gone. He can still type, still use his fingers in remarkable ways, but maybe the curtain has been pulled back a little and we’re seeing the wizard as he is for the first time.
What causes writers to lose their magic? Maybe they don’t even know. Maybe every writer has only so many genuinely birthed stories, and after that, they’re just cranking the levers and using the smoke and mirrors to try to sell us on the idea that we should suspend our disbelief.
I’m his biggest fan. Patrick Reagan is still one of the finest American writers with which we’ve been gifted. He always will be. But maybe our expectations exceed what he is capable of.
THE LION’S MOUTH had all the right elements. Great premise: a Secret Service agent must determine if a president under whom he once served is corrupt. But at the end of the read, I didn’t really care what happened to the character. Any of the characters. And that’s the very first thing a reader must do: care.
Everything from the plot to the dialogue seemed to fall flat. I felt like grabbing the book by its jacket cover, shaking it, and saying, “Don’t tell me it’s terrifying. Terrify me!” And that’s where the most problematic issue lies, I believe. He’s telling me how I should feel about what he writes. Yet every great storyteller knows it’s the fine art of taking me by the hand and showing me that has the most effect on a reader’s soul. It’s how writers slip it all into us while we’re not looking. While we’re reading words, they’re making magic happen, and when that magic lands right in our hearts, we’re theirs forever.
I am in mourning. But I am confident that one day soon, Patrick Reagan will capture me again.
IN WISSBERRY, MAINE, the speed of traffic was never a problem. In fact, from a law enforcement perspective, it was one of the best places to work if you weren’t a thrill-seeker type.
Today, for Chris Downey, the traffic was unnerving, like the drawl of a slow-talking Southerner you needed fast information from. Chris gripped the steering wheel and clenched his jaw, trying not to lose his temper. This wasn’t an emergency call at all. It was barely a call that should be taken seriously. But Chris knew—when this man was involved, it would be no ordinary call.
On Bartleby, he accelerated even though it was a narrow, graveled road that was going to force him to rinse the dust off his car later.
At the top of the small hill, the house came into view. His stomach turned at the sight of it. His skin instantly dampened and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
On the front porch, Chris saw him—a hulk of a man who filled any doorway he passed through. It was the first day of bitter cold temperatures, and even from a distance, Chris could see the Lt. Colonel’s breath freezing in front of his face in rapid bursts.
Chris parked his car and composed himself. Lt. Colonel Franklin was an overbearing brute and Chris needed to be as professional as possible. Emotionally detached. And firm. He took in a deep breath and started to open the car door.
But before Chris could get it all the way open and stand up, the Lt. Colonel was standing so close he could barely climb out. Chris maneuvered to shut the door behind him and then turned, staring up six inches to meet his eyes.
Chris wondered if the man would even remember him. He stood straight and adjusted his jacket, pulling on his winter gloves after taking off his sunglasses.
“Lt. Colonel, Sergeant Chris Downey.” He offered his hand and the Lt. Colonel shook it with the force of a man who could probably kill him using his bare hands. Marines were kind of crazy anyway, but this one was known around town to be, at the very least, pushy and peevish. Although the Marines typically called lieutenant colonels simply Colonel, Jim Franklin insisted on the full title. And he’d always gotten his way.
Chris stood straight, trying to grow out of his shadow. “We met a couple of years—”
“I remember.”
“So tell me what the problem is.”
His face turned red. “The problem? My daughter is missing! What are you, some kind of moron? Didn’t they tell you that when I called?”
Chris pulled out a notepad. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. When is the last time you saw—?”
“At 0900.”
“What day?”
“Yesterday.”
Chris kept his expression even because he didn’t want to upset the already-upset Lt. Colonel, but Jules had been missing barely over twenty-four hours. There were a billion reasons that could apply.
The Lt. Colonel stepped forward into space that wasn’t really there. “Downey, I’ve got a gut feeling. Analytically, I get that this isn’t alarming. But my gut feeling, coupled with intelligent analysis, has saved my life and my men’s lives in places that you’ll only see in your nightmares.” He stopped, took a deep breath, cutting his hand back and forth over his flattop. Then, quieter, he said, “Something is wrong.”
“Tell me what makes you think that.”
“I visit her often, always at the same time. She’s always up, has always made coffee, is always at her computer working on that ridiculous blog she thinks is going to change the world. I told her she needs to publish a book but . . .” He stopped himself, put his hands on his hips. “The point is, she is always here.”
“Maybe she’s out for coffee or ran to the store?” Chris looked around. “Is her car here?”
“Does she usually walk to the store or drive?”
“Both. She prefers to walk, to cut through the woods. But this is when she writes. She would be here.”
“Any chance there was some kind of emergency with someone she knows, that she would leave unexpectedly?”
“No.”
“No? No possibility?”
“Young man, if you know anything about my daughter, then you know she doesn’t leave her house often, and she doesn’t have friends.”
Chris looked down, trying to hide the guilt he knew would be shining in his eyes. “I do know about her. . . . I mean, not a lot. Not like you. But . . .” He looked away, up to the house. “We used to be friends.”
The Lt. Colonel nodded. “I know he was a great loss to you.”
Chris tucked his notepad away. “Why don’t I step inside.”
“It’s locked.”
“You have a key?”
The Lt. Colonel looked sheepishly at his shoes. “She took that away about a year ago. I guess I was getting on her nerves.” But he unexpectedly smiled. “Of course, the absence of a key never stopped me before.”
Chris laughed. “Okay, well, technically I shouldn’t encourage a break-in, but let’s see what we can do here, trusting there will be minimal property damage.”
“Nobody will even know we were here. Pay attention,” the Lt. Colonel said, walking toward the house. “I learned this in special ops.”
Using a splintered matchstick, he had them inside in less than three minutes. The house was quiet, tidy, and smelled like vanilla and some kind of fruit, maybe blackberries. Chris walked around, carefully observing, but nothing seemed out of place. He remembered Jules being very neat, a product of having a military father. Her bed was made. There looked to be no signs of distress anywhere in the house. From what he could tell, she’d taken her wallet, purse, and keys. Adding that to the fact that the front door was locked, he concluded she’d probably walked somewhere, which wasn’t unusual for this town. It was awfully cold, and when the cold weather hit, fewer people walked. But no snow yet.
The Lt. Colonel followed him everywhere. “See what I mean? Something is off here.”
Chris opened the dishwasher and peered in. The dishes were dirty—but not freshly dirty. Coffee had dripped from the top shelf to the bottom but was dry.
Chris stood and faced the Lt. Colonel, whose arms were crossed above a slightly round belly that Chris was sure had emerged since retirement. “I’ll be honest with you, sir. There does not seem to be evidence of foul play of any sort here. Everything is pointing to the fact that she simply left and will be back. Obviously you’ve tried her cell phone?”
“She keeps it off most of the time. It went to voice mail, but that’s not unusual. She doesn’t really like to talk on the phone.” He stared at his feet. “She doesn’t really like to talk at all.”
Chris stepped forward. “Sir, this should be an encouragement. It appears that everything is fine. I’ll tell you what. I’ll drive around town, keep my eye out for her.”
“I’ll do that too. No reason to just stand around inside this house.”
“Exactly.” Chris walked to the door. “I don’t suppose you can get this locked again with a matchstick?”
The Lt. Colonel only smiled.
“How long do I give her,” he asked at the doorway, “before I should be really worried?”
Chris tried to reel in what was certain to be a pained expression emerging on his face. The department wasn’t going to take this thing seriously for at least another forty-eight hours. Even after that, with no evidence of foul play, she could have just as easily gone on a trip, maybe to get some space. But none of those explanations were setting well with him. He didn’t admit this out loud, but he knew Jules had become a woman of rigid habits, which were not easily broken.
“Sir, you know the personal connection I have to Jules.” Chris pulled out a card, took his pen, and jotted down his cell number. “If she’s not back by sunup, go ahead and call me.”
The Lt. Colonel regarded the number, then tucked the card in the front pocket of his shirt. “I just have a hunch.”
“You’re her father. It’s your job.”
He stepped off the front porch. “Just make sure you do yours.”
Chris nodded and walked to his car. As he drove off, he glanced in the rearview mirror. The Lt. Colonel stood on the porch, the door behind him wide-open, drinking from a flask.
SHE’D SLEPT WRONG. Already, before she even got out of bed, her back ached, and the fact that both her shoulders felt like they’d been pulled out of their sockets might have been her first indication that she should adopt a new sleeping position. She was on her back now, though, which wasn’t how she usually woke up.
Jules hated waking up. Opening her eyes left everything behind. Memories of Jason were fine, but it was in her dreams that she felt him. There, she talked with him, and they weren’t remembered conversations. It was a new adventure when he showed up. Maybe once a week she’d at least glimpse him in a dream. Sometimes he’d just appear in a doorway and stand there. Sometimes he’d be walking far away in a garden, barely visible to the naked eye. It didn’t matter. Even a few seconds was enough to make her feel he was still there. Just to see him. Just to hear his voice.
But then it came time for her to open her eyes. Always at the same time in the morning. And always with deep regret.
She stared upward, expecting to see the ceiling. But the room was pitch-black. Had she awoken in the middle of the night? It happened sometimes, but rarely. Of all things, she tended to be a good sleeper.
Turning her head caused pain to shoot through her right shoulder. Where was her clock? She tried to reach for the lamp she could not see. But her arm stopped and yanked backward.
Jules cried out in pain. Her eyes, wide-open now, could barely make out her room. Nothing was making sense. The window was on her left, not her right. She stared through the darkness, trying to find the doorway, but her eyes weren’t adjusting quickly enough. Her gaze cut back to the window. The tiniest sliver of light was slicing through what looked to be heavy curtains. At the very top, where they weren’t quite pulled together . . . moonlight.
But she didn’t have curtains in her room.
She yelled and tried to sit up. But again, she barely moved. She had a sense that her arms were above her but couldn’t feel anything beyond her shoulders. Why couldn’t she feel her hands? Where were her hands?
“My hands! Jason!” It flew out of her mouth even though she knew he wasn’t around. But maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe he would come.
Jules thrashed her legs, tried to twist her body, but it only caused more pain. She screamed, and this time light filled the room with a loud creak. She looked toward it. A doorway. And in the doorway, a dark figure.
“Help me!” she cried.
The figure walked forward. His footsteps didn’t make a sound. “Stay quiet,” he said. “And calm.”
“Where are my hands?”
He was by her bedside now but still backlit, so she couldn’t see any features of his face.
“I told you to stay calm.”
“What is happening?”
“Drink some water.”
She didn’t know why, but she lifted her head to drink. And he put a glass to her lips. The water was barely cold, just the right temperature. She hadn’t realized it, but she was thirsty. He took the water away too soon.
“What is happening?” she asked again, trying to remember to stay calm.
“You will know in time.” His voice was smooth and low, like a growl or a purr—she couldn’t decide which. He reached for something. Suddenly she felt her hands, high above her head, prickly and tingling. But they were there.
She felt warmth and realized his hand was on hers. Then a peaceful drowsiness settled over her, and her body relaxed. Her shoulders stopped hurting. She did not care at all whether she had hands or not.
Jules turned her gaze to the window again. The white light absorbed part of the darkness, swimming peacefully through the air. Its line waved like water in an ocean and she swore she could hear crashing waves.
She closed her eyes and went to find Jason.
“Chris!” Addy’s frantic voice cut through the quiet night air. “Chris!”
Chris jerked to a sitting position. He threw off the covers and reached for the gun in his nightstand. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Addy standing by the other side of the bed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Someone is knocking,” she said, her voice a terrified whisper. “At the front door.”
Chris heard it now. He looked at the clock—3:12 a.m. The pounding continued.
“Stay here.” Gun in hand, he hurried out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and into the foyer. As usual, his little sister didn’t listen. She was right on his heels. “I’m coming!” he yelled. Then he turned to Addy. “Get on that couch and don’t move.”
He flipped on the porch light and peered through the peephole. Then groaned. He slid the gun into the drawer of a small entryway table.
Unlocking the dead bolt, he opened the door. “Lt. Colonel.”
The man was standing in the middle of the porch, swaying like a tall weed against a moderate breeze. His eyes were bloodshot and angry. He snarled as he regarded Chris. “Why aren’t you out there looking for her?”
Chris stepped out and closed the door behind him, catching a whiff of alcohol on his breath. “Sir, it is the middle of the night.”
“I know what time it is,” he said, waving his hand toward nothing definitive. “Don’t you think I’ve been counting every single second?”
“Lower your voice,” Chris said. He didn’t have a lot of tolerance for drunks. Especially those who drove. Chris glanced at the Lt. Colonel’s pickup truck, lights still glowing through the dark, the driver’s side door wide-open.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt whatever carousing you’ve got going on in there. Whatever woman. Whatever she’s doing in there. Heard her screaming, making all kinds of noise.” He swayed again.