“Yeah. I wanted to see how he was getting on. I haven’t heard anything from him.”
Oscar tapped the puck over to Terry. “What did he say?”
“Not a lot. He doesn’t seem to be any further forward than he was when I filed the report.”
Terry hated badgering Holman like some lovesick teenager chasing after a girl. He knew how pathetic it looked. Holman’s progress amounted to a “We’re doing our best” and a pat on the head. Terry had stormed out before he lost his temper.
Terry was equally frustrated by how little else he’d learned about Sarah’s encounter with Pamela. He’d become persona non grata at work, at least when it came to Kyle. He’d tried talking to him several times since their lunch meeting, and Kyle had practically run in the other direction.
If Terry were honest, he wasn’t just angry with Holman or Kyle, but with himself. Cracks were appearing in his faith. Maybe Sarah hadn’t been abducted. She’d left the house under her own accord, albeit in a hurry. A belief was forming and even though it didn’t make sense, the belief grew—she’d run out on him. Suddenly, Holman’s words trampled through his mind. “You don’t seem to know squat about your wife.” Terry was starting to think he was right. All he wanted was to be wrong.
“You know, he could be keeping things from you to protect you,” Oscar suggested.
“I know, but I wish he wouldn’t.”
Oscar nodded.
“And in all honesty, I don’t think he knows where she is,” Terry said.
“Okay, Holman’s getting nowhere while Sarah is slipping farther and farther into the shadows. So what are you going to do about it?”
Terry went to answer, but held himself in check. He noticed the effect Oscar was having on him. The frustration he’d taken out on the trash was gone. Oscar had reasoned it out of him. Terry’s focus was on the constructive, not the destructive. He smiled and crouched over his goal with his hockey paddle ready to deflect any oncoming shots.
“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Terry said, “We’re going to find her.”
“Are we, now?” Oscar fired the puck across the table. “And how, exactly, are we going to achieve that?”
They spent the next half an hour knocking the puck back and forth, along with ideas for finding Sarah. They formulated a plan, deciding to pursue certain ideas and ditching others. The element Terry felt was most absent from Holman’s investigation was awareness. He hadn’t seen any appeals in the local newspapers or on television. Oscar scored the winning goal to seal the game. Terry slid his paddle across the table.
“We need to start our own milk carton campaign or something,” Oscar said.
“What’s that?” Terry asked.
“For years, they’ve been placing the pictures of missing kids on milk cartons and on junk mail flyers.”
That was a neat idea. It wasn’t one the police utilized in the UK. “Great, but wouldn’t we have to go through Holman or something to do that?” Terry asked.
“Yeah, but I’m not suggesting that we put Sarah’s face on a milk carton. We should do something similar, like a poster campaign. We’ll run up a batch of flyers and get the stores to post them in their windows and nail them to power poles. How many times has a missing dog notice caught your eye?”
“Sarah, a missing dog?”
Oscar frowned. “Okay, bad choice of words, but you get my point.”
“I’ll agree with you, it’s a nice idea, but that pretty much assumes that Sarah’s still local.”
“Granted, but we don’t know anyone who has even seen Sarah in the last week. A flyer might just jog their memory. It’s a start, don’t you think?”
It was. Sarah’s case seemed to have stagnated. Anything to get it going again was a good thing. If anyone came forward with
even the slightest sighting, it would be good for his faith, if nothing else.
The next evening, Terry pulled into his garage and Oscar parked his SUV in the driveway. They’d had a good night. Out of the two hundred flyers they’d printed, maybe two dozen were left. Terry was overwhelmed by the willingness of most store managers to post his flyer in their windows and at the checkout stands. His hand throbbed from stapling the flyers to every power pole they came across.
Oscar locked the door on his 4Runner and brandished his depleted stack of flyers. “Do you want these?”
The two of them had divided Edenville into halves and regrouped at the Gold Rush before returning to Terry’s house.
“Do you mind keeping them and handing them out at the Gold Rush?” Terry asked.
“Sure thing.”
Terry examined the flyer on top of the pile he held. It was simple but effective. It was an eight-by-eleven sheet with a banner headline “MISSING—Have you seen this woman?” and a color photograph of Sarah he’d taken in Costa Rica. A short description and a phone number completed the flyer. He’d cobbled the affair together on his PC during his lunch hour, and Oscar had gotten them copied. Oscar had warned Terry not to expect every call to lead directly to Sarah and to expect a lot of crank calls. Terry wasn’t bothered by crank calls. He welcomed them. If he was receiving calls, then Sarah’s details were being seen; and if she were seen, then she would be recognized. He didn’t care if he received a million calls, as long as one led to Sarah. He hoped to find the answering machine dripping with messages when he got inside. He removed the first flyer from his pile and gave the rest to Oscar.
“You can take these too, but I’ll keep one, just in case someone asks.”
“Good idea,” Oscar said, taking the flyers. Both men knew Terry was keeping the flyer for quite different reasons. “I’ll put these in the car.”
Terry stopped him.
“Oscar”—Terry paused—“you know I have no way of expressing how grateful I am to you for all your help.”
“Hey, pal. Don’t go all misty on me.” Oscar laughed. “I’m doing this as a friend, and there’s no reason to thank a friend.”
Terry stuck out his hand. “Sometimes it needs to be said.”
Oscar shook Terry’s hand and smiled. “I’ll accept that.”
“I’ll get you a beer.”
Oscar returned to his Toyota to put the remaining flyers back and Terry skirted his rental car to the door leading into the house. As Terry opened the door, Oscar stopped him.
“Terry,” he said with trepidation.
“Yeah?”
Oscar didn’t have to say anything more. A sheriff’s cruiser slithered to a halt in front of the house. Its red-and-blue lights bathed the garage in alternating flashing colors. Sheriff Holman slid out from the Crown Victoria.
“Can I speak to you, Mr. Sheffield?” Holman asked. He glanced at Oscar and added, “In private.”
“I’ll go, Terry,” Oscar said.
“No, stay,” Terry said. “Sheriff, Oscar’s a friend.”
“Okay. Have it your way.” Red light then blue light continued to whip Holman’s back as he stood at the garage’s entrance. “Can you tell me if you have any idea what Sarah was wearing when she went missing?”
“No. It’s obvious from her closet that things are missing but what, I haven’t a clue.”
“Do you know if Mrs. Sheffield’s shoe size is a six?”
“Sounds right.”
“Do you know if she goes up to the reservoir?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Sheriff, I think we’ve already established that I have very little knowledge of my wife’s life or movements, so stop pussyfooting around.”
“Sheriff, this does seem a little over the top with the flashing lights and all, just to ask these petty questions,” Oscar said.
“Who are you?” Holman asked. “A lawyer?”
“No, I’m Oscar Mayer.”
Holman snorted. “And I’m the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“Can we move on?” Terry pleaded.
“Yes, Mr. Sheffield.” Holman glared at Oscar. “I think we’ve found your wife, sir.”
“Where? What did she say?” Terry’s next question died on his lips. He’d been incredibly dense. He realized what all Holman’s theatrics and silly-arse questions were about. His legs lost all strength and he collapsed into a sitting position on the steps.
“Mr. Sheffield, are you okay?”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Christ,” Oscar muttered, raising a hand to his mouth.
“Mr. Sheffield, could you come with me?”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Terry repeated, this time more insistent.
“I need you to identify a body.”
Six months earlier
“You’ll protect me, won’t you?” Sarah asked and pressed the crosswalk button.
“What do you mean?” Terry replied.
“During our vows you promised to protect me.”
Terry might have said it, but the vows were just words from a bygone age. The only words that counted were “I do.” Besides, it wasn’t like their ceremony had been the kind most girls dream about anyway. There was no white dress, no jealous bridesmaids, no mother weeping tears of joy, and no friends still beered up from the bachelor party. No one did anything to embarrass them or ruin their day. Eloping didn’t require any expensive or outlandish trappings. The ceremony had been carried out in a flat-roofed building that looked like a garden center thanks to its Astroturf carpeting and faux-stone walkway up to the altar. The minister did little to inspire authenticity, sporting an Elvis-style bouffant crispy from too much hairspray and silver from age. Terry wondered if he had an impersonation gig on the side. They were in Vegas, after all. Nevada sun rained through a skylight above the minister. Terry guessed that the skylight was meant to simulate the Lord’s light illuminating everyone. Instead, the scorching heat burned them like bugs under a magnifying glass.
The ceremony had been fast, but what did they expect for a hundred bucks? Still, Terry wondered if the wedding vows had been read incorrectly. Although he hadn’t attended many weddings, and hadn’t taken much notice of what was being said at those times, the matter of saying “I do” came up a little too early in the proceedings for his liking. After the shock of having bound himself body and soul to Sarah for an eternity, everything else dissolved into a blur and the reverend’s words were reduced to a low-level humming in Terry’s ears.
The signal changed from D
ON’T
W
ALK
to W
ALK
and they crossed Las Vegas Boulevard. Smiling, Terry answered, “I don’t remember saying I would protect anybody.”
“Well, you did, buddy boy, so you’re stuck with me. You’re my protector. What have you got to say about that?”
“How do we get this thing annulled?”
Sarah backhanded him across the stomach. The blow, although gentle, took him by surprise and winded him. He coughed once, shaking off the effects.
She carried on with the debate as they entered the Sahara. They sidestepped the gambling floor and went to the restaurant for their wedding breakfast. The hostess greeted them at the entrance and told them they could sit anywhere. The restaurant was as sparsely populated as the desert it was supposed to represent.
“So are you saying you wouldn’t protect me?”
An Asian woman wandered among the tables brandishing Keno slips. Las Vegas couldn’t afford to let a gambling chance slip by, even if you were eating. Terry couldn’t imagine how much revenue was being lost while the patrons ate, used a restroom, or paused to breathe, but he supposed the casino owners did. They’d probably worked it out to the last penny.
“Why do you need me to protect you? Isn’t that what the police are for?” Terry asked with a smile. “My protection extends as far as dialing 911.”
Sarah frowned. Her face said it all. She wanted him to be serious, but he couldn’t help teasing. A waitress came over and the newlyweds hastily ordered. The waitress was five years past the age for the length of the skirt she was wearing. When she turned to leave, Terry stopped her.
“Excuse me, miss. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you married?”
She examined Terry quizzically for a moment, then held up her left hand, waggling her fingers to show off a simple gold band. “I don’t wear this for looks.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“What’s it to you?” she asked.
Terry pointed to Sarah then himself. “We just got married
.”
“Congratulations,” she said without much enthusiasm.
A Las Vegas marriage. It wasn’t exactly original. She’d probably seen it a million times before.
“Thank you. We were discussing my role as my wife’s protector, and I was wondering if you expect your husband to act as yours.”
She gave Terry the once-over before turning to Sarah. “You landed yourself a real winner.”
Sarah waited for the waitress to move out of earshot. “You’d better tip her big for that,” she said with a smile that fought back a grin.
“Was I rude?”
She shook her head, the grin escaping its bonds. “No, you were a butt…and you still are.”
“We’ve been married”—Terry checked his watch—“exactly twenty-two minutes and you’re already calling me names. Are we on the rocks?”
Sarah’s grin disappeared, replaced with a serious expression. She took his hand, squeezing it tight. “Be serious for a moment?”
“I am,” he said grinning
.
“I mean it,” she said and gave his hand another tight squeeze.
“Okay, serious Terry now. What’s up?”
“Would you be my protector, if it came down to it?”
Terry was concerned. His grin receded into the depths. “What’s wrong?”
“My job can be invasive at times. To get a story, it sometimes means going the extra mile. It’s not really dangerous—just risky—so I really need to know.”
“You need to know if I’m the kind of guy that will look out for you?”
“Are you?”
Terry took Sarah’s other hand in his and squeezed both of them just as tight as she’d squeezed his hands. “If you’re wondering whether I would take a bullet for you, just be reassured you married your own personal Kevlar vest.” Terry squeezed her hands again. “I don’t need some tin pot, Las Vegas minister to tell me that I’ve got to protect you. I’m your protector already.”