Authors: John Rector

Already Gone (7 page)

– 12 –

I spend the rest of the day finishing off the beer in my refrigerator. It helps with my headache, and for a while I don’t feel too bad. It’s not until I call Nolan and open the missing-persons report that I start thinking about something stronger.

The sun is going down, and the house is turning dark. I toy with the idea of walking down to the campus liquor store and picking up a bottle, but I don’t want to be away from the phone, just in case.

Eventually, things get worse, and I grab my coat from the closet and force myself to leave.

The wind outside is cold and cuts against my skin. I zip my coat tight around my neck as I walk. There are no cars on the street until I get to the university. Then they are everywhere.

I can’t take another step.

I stand on the side of the street, unable to move. My knuckles ache from squeezing my hands so tight. I pull them out of my pockets and massage the pain away, then I cross over to Main Street and cut through someone’s yard, heading north toward Fifth Avenue.

There’s a party in one of the houses up ahead. I see several people standing outside on the porch, shouting and laughing. When I get close, I hear glass shatter, then more laughter.

I keep walking, head down, trying to stay calm.

Fifth Avenue is at the end of the street, and I can see the liquor store on the corner. There’s a crowd out front, students mostly, all smoking and talking, sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the building.

I don’t look at them as I walk by.

The chances of running into one of my students is slim, but it’s a chance I don’t want to take.

Once inside, things get worse.

The liquor store is tiny and crowded. People move through the lanes in loud groups, talking and laughing and turning the air stale.

I stay focused.

I know exactly where I need to go.

I weave my way through the crowd and grab a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black off the shelf then head to the counter at the front of the store. I get in line behind an older couple and wonder if they feel as out of place as I do.

The line inches forward.

To my right, the front door opens and several girls come inside, followed by an equally excited group of boys.

I reach for my wallet.

The couple in front of me is buying two bottles of red wine. They are both well dressed, and from behind they look respectable enough. I wonder how I must look with my uncombed hair, the dark circles under my eyes, and the yeasty, wet smell of stale beer on my breath.

I decide I don’t care.

The line moves, and the couple in front of me buy their wine. When they turn to leave, I step forward and set the Johnnie Walker bottle on the counter.

“Mr. Reese?”

It’s a woman’s voice, and when I look up, Anne Carlson smiles back at me.

At first I don’t say anything. I haven’t spoken to Anne since she came to my office, and seeing her makes me realize there are worse people to run into than students.

I’m not sure what to say.

Luckily, she speaks first.

“You were behind us this entire time and I didn’t even recognize you.” She turns to the man she’s with and says, “Walter, this is Jake Reese, one of our new instructors.”

Walter holds out his hand and says, “Yes, of course. Nice to meet you, Jake. I read your book.”

I shake his hand and thank him.

“And I knew your father,” he says. “Well, I met him once. I did some work on his case before he passed away.”

The clerk scans the bottle and gives me a price.

I hand him my credit card.

“Walter is an attorney with the city,” Anne says. “We were on our way to a dinner party.” She looks down at the bottle of Johnnie Walker on the counter and fakes a smile. “Big plans tonight?”

I open my mouth to tell her, no, just a typical Wednesday night, but thankfully Walter interrupts before I get a word out.

“I have to say, I don’t know how much of it was true, but it was fascinating to read about your life, and your father’s. He was an interesting man.”

“I suppose he was.”

“What did he do?” Anne puts a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

I shake my head and tell her it’s okay. “He hijacked a truck. The entire thing was caught on a surveillance camera.”

“By himself?”

“There were other people involved, but he was the only one who stepped in front of the camera.”

“That’s bad luck.”

“That’s alcohol,” I say. “They knew where the cameras were mounted. He just got sloppy.”

The clerk puts the bottle in a brown paper bag and hands it to me along with my receipt and a pen.

I sign my name, then walk out with Anne and Walter.

Once outside, I do my best to smile. I tell Walter it was nice meeting him and that I hope they enjoy their dinner party.

As I turn away, Anne stops me.

“Did you walk here, Jake?”

I motion down the street and say, “I’m close.”

“Why don’t you let us give you a ride? It’s getting colder out here by the minute.”

“I don’t mind the walk.”

“Come on,” Walter says. “We insist, really.”

I look down the street in the direction of my house. The cold doesn’t bother me, but the idea of walking down those dark streets tears at me.

I decide to cut my losses.

“Thanks,” I say. “A ride would be great.”

I follow them around the liquor store to the parking lot. On the way, Anne asks about my classes and how the semester is shaping up. I tell her things are moving along, which seems to make her happy.

When we get to the parking lot, Walter presses a button on his keys, and the lights flash on a Mercedes next to us.

“Anne did say you worked for the city, right?”

Walter smiles, doesn’t answer.

Anne sits in front, and I climb in the back. The seats are leather and soft. It’s like sitting on kittens.

Walter asks if I’m comfortable.

I laugh, tell him I’m fine.

He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street. “Where am I going?”

I lean forward. “Take a right up here, then a left about a mile down. I’ll tell you when.”

After a few blocks, Walter looks back at me in the rearview and says, “I hope you don’t mind me saying something, but Anne told me about what happened.” He pauses. “About the attack, and your finger.”

I glance down at my hand. “It’s in the past.”

“That’s good to hear.” He reaches up and pulls a white business card from a clip on his visor and hands it to me over his shoulder. “But take this, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case it’s not,” he says. “You might want someone to talk to if they ever catch the guys, and I’ll be happy to help out in any way I can.”

I start to tell him he’s wasting his time, but instead I pocket the card and remind myself that he’s still my boss’s date, and I need to be nice.

“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“Call anytime. I mean it.”

We don’t say anything else until we get to my street. I tell him where to turn, and as we come around the corner toward my house I say, “Third one from the—”

I stop. No one says a word.

Detective Nolan’s cruiser is sitting in my driveway.

Walter pulls up in front of the house.

“Is everything okay?” Anne asks.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. When I do, I tell her everything is fine, even though I know better.

I grab my bottle off the seat and open the door.

Walter says, “Call me if you need anything.”

I barely hear him.

I close the door then step up onto the sidewalk.

Detective Nolan is sitting on my porch. When he sees me, he gets up and starts across the lawn to where I’m standing.

I don’t move.

Walter pulls away, slow, and I watch them until their red tail-lights disappear around the corner. I watch them because I don’t want to look at Nolan.

I know what’s coming.

The dead leaves on the lawn hiss under his feet as he walks. Then there’s silence, and he’s in front of me.

“Mr. Reese?”

Now I look at him.

I see it in his face, and I’m sure he sees it in mine. I wait for him to say something, and I don’t wait long.

He says, “I’m sorry, Jake.”

– 13 –

I’m riding in the passenger seat of Nolan’s cruiser with the bottle of Johnnie Walker on my lap. I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t ask.

All I know is I’m supposed to identify Diane’s body.

When I saw Nolan outside my house, he tried to tell me what had happened, that Diane had been in a car accident. When I didn’t respond, he stopped talking.

I wasn’t ready to hear about it.

Now I am.

“Her car went off the road on highway one sixty. It happened late last night, and no one found the vehicle until this evening.”

I don’t say anything.

“She must’ve fallen asleep while she was driving, probably on her way to Arizona.”

“How do you know she was going to Arizona?”

“I don’t,” Nolan says. “But that’s where the road leads, so I assumed—”

“Who reported it?”

“A retired couple was hiking through the canyon and saw the car. It doesn’t look like anyone actually witnessed the accident.”

I nod, not surprised.

“The rescue team took her to the county coroner in Fairplay. We’ll see her there, then I’ll drive you home.” Nolan looks at me, then back at the road. “There was nothing anyone could’ve done. It was just an accident.”

“You believe that?”

Nolan hesitates, says, “Don’t, Jake.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I do.” He looks at me. “I believe this was an accident, because that’s what it was.”

I take the bottle from my lap and break the seal.

“Not in here,” Nolan says.

I stare at him. “Are you kidding?”

He frowns, doesn’t speak.

I take a drink.

Soon the city lights are behind us and the road narrows. We follow it into the mountains. I stare out my window at the endless blur of passing pine trees, dark against the darkness.

We don’t say anything else, and by the time we get to Fairplay I’ve put a good-sized dent in the bottle, and I can feel it.

Nolan turns off the highway and drives through town. All the shops are closed, and the light from the streetlamps reflects white against black windows. There are a few couples outside, walking slowly along the sidewalks, hand in hand.

The county building is at the end of the street, tucked out of sight behind a line of aspen trees. There are no lights in any of the windows.

“It looks closed,” I say.

“It is.”

Nolan pulls into the parking lot and drives around to the back of the building. There is a single bright light mounted over a short flight of stairs leading down to a green metal door.

He stops across from the stairs and turns off the engine. “The coroner knows we’re coming. He agreed to meet us when he called.”

“He’s dedicated.”

Nolan looks at me. “How are you feeling?”

I repeat the question then look down at the bandage covering my missing finger. I want to answer him, but I can’t. I feel nothing, no sadness, no anger, no fear.

Just emptiness.

Nolan waits, then says, “Let’s get this over with.”

My first steps are a struggle, but once I get my legs under me I feel pretty good. I follow Nolan across the parking lot to the stairs then down.

Nolan knocks on the green metal door. The sound echoes in the stairwell. He glances back at me on the steps and shakes his head.

“I told you not to open that goddamn bottle.”

I tell him I’ll make it, and I do.

We wait another minute, then Nolan knocks again. This time a bolt clicks and the door opens. The man standing inside is older, dark hair peppered with gray, and well over six feet tall. He’s carrying a manila file in one hand and wearing a white lab coat that looks two sizes too small for his frame. The word
coroner
is stitched across the front pocket in heavy black thread.

He looks from Nolan to me, then back.

“Detective Nolan?”

Nolan nods, then introduces me and says, “We appreciate you sticking around tonight. I realize it’s late.”

The man mumbles something I don’t quite hear, then stands aside and motions for us to come in. As we pass, I notice deep lines around his eyes and a smooth pink burn scar along the side of his jaw.

I start to ask him about it, but I change my mind.

It occurs to me that my focus is on everything except Diane and what I’m about to do. I went through too many group therapy sessions in detention not to know that this is a defense mechanism and that I’m trying to distance myself from what’s coming.

This realization brings me back.

The coroner closes the door and slides the bolt, then walks past us down a long hallway.

We follow him.

The building is deserted. All the rooms are dark. The only light I see comes from one of the offices at the far end of the hall. The glow is soft and white and reflects silver off the polished tile floor.

Once inside the office, the coroner takes a set of keys from behind the desk. He looks at me, then opens the manila file he’s carrying and reads, “Diane Reese, age twenty-seven. Husband, Jake Reese.”

It’s not a question.

He closes the file and says, “Is there anyone else we should notify? Any other family members?”

The air in the office feels thin and smells sharp, like ammonia. It doesn’t mix well with the sour taste of alcohol in the back of my throat, and my head starts to spin. I can’t think clearly.

“No, it’s just the two of us.”

“Okay.” The coroner drops the file on the desk and says, “Follow me.”

We walk back into the hall and head down, farther into the dark. There’s no light, and all I see is the back of the coroner’s white coat.

I try to stay focused.

A moment later I feel Nolan’s hand on my arm, then hear him say, “You okay, Jake?”

“I’m fine,” I say, and I almost believe it.

“All you have to do is look and say yes or no. A positive ID, that’s it.”

I tell him I know.

I tell him I’ve done this before.

The coroner stops in front of a large metal door and pulls back on the handle. He steps inside and flips a switch. A row of fluorescent lights flickers to life across the ceiling and turns the room a pale green.

There is a white autopsy table to the right, and six small doors built into the far wall.

For the first time since we arrived, I start to feel sick. I’d convinced myself, on some level, that this was all a mistake, that Diane wasn’t really here, that she wasn’t really dead.

Now I’m not sure.

The coroner crosses the room to the six doors along the far wall. I don’t move.

Once again, I feel Nolan’s hand on my arm, guiding me.

I pull my arm away and walk.

One step at a time.

The coroner waits. When I get close, he reaches down and pulls one of the handles. The door slides out like a drawer. There’s a dull black body bag inside.

My lungs ache, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

The coroner looks at me and says, “Ready?”

I nod, don’t speak, can’t speak.

He unzips the top of the bag, then pulls away the sides and steps back.

When I look down, my breath comes out in a moan.

I can’t hold it in anymore.

For a while, I just stare.

Behind me, the coroner says, “Can you confirm that this is the body of Diane Reese?”

I close my eyes. I can’t find my voice.

All of my memories come racing back, one after another, too fast to hold on. All I can do is breathe.

I hear Nolan say, “Jake?”

Something inside me breaks, and I open my eyes.