Kissing the Beehive (26 page)

_I know the kings of England and I quote the_

_fights historical,_

_From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical._

There was no intonation in his voice. The words must have meant nothing to him. He was simply singing the song Jitka taught him and he wanted to do it correctly. He only stumbled on one line but that didn't stop him. He closed his eyes and nodded as if to reassure himself, then pressed on and finished without a hitch. Most of the people in the restaurant started out smiling at this unique event, but by the time Johnny reached the end of that funny, complicated song, we were in tears. All of us wished we could take a photograph of him singing and send it to Jitka, wherever she was, to show her how well he had done, how well she'd taught him.

Three

When I reached my house in Connecticut, there were nine messages on the answering machine, all of them from Cassandra's mother. Woe is me. I do not want to talk about the woman because to this day she is a never-ending toothache in my soul. Normally she called when she was out of money or boyfriends to support her insanely lavish lifestyle. Chump that I am, too often I'd grind my teeth and reach for the checkbook, if only to keep peace with the mother of my daughter.

Next to dying, talking to her was the last thing I wanted to do after that emotional day, but nine phone calls was a record even for her and there was always the chance something bad had happened to Cass. Standing in my overcoat, the dog staring accusingly at me from across the room, I called.

"Is she with you?" Her voice was as loud as it could go without creating a sonic boom.

"Is _who_ with me?" This woman had the most maddening habit of beginning a conversation in the middle of some private context and then expecting _you_

to locate where she was on the map.

"_Cassandra_, Sam! Is Cassandra there?"

My mouth twitched involuntarily. I'm sure my voice echoed that instant alarm. "No. Why? Why would she be with me?"

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"Because she's not here. She went out last night and hasn't come home.

Ivan's here and doesn't know where she is either. Where were you? I've been trying to reach you all day. Why wasn't the phone in your car working?"

"Because I turned it off. I went to a funeral today and didn't feel like talking to anyone afterward.

Is that okay with you? Let me talk to Ivan."

Her voice flew up into a mad, birdy falsetto that made the situation worse. "Don't you dare be an asshole! Our daughter's missing, Sam! Don't talk to me like that."

"I'm sorry, you're right. Would you please let me talk to Ivan?"

She said his name and there was a rustling on the other end as she handed over the phone.

"Mr. Bayer?"

"Hi, Ivan. What's going on?" Even before he spoke I thanked God he was there.

"I don't know. Cassandra and I were supposed to go out today. I came over and we've been waiting ever since. It's not like her. She's never late.

She stayed out all night and we don't know why. She always lets me know if something's changed."

"What do _you_ think happened? Did you two have a fight?"

"No, not at all! Actually, we've been very close lately. She said you two talked and since then she's been really sweet to me. No, there's nothing wrong with us. That's what's so _strange_

about this. She's just gone."

We spoke for a few minutes and then he handed the phone back to my ex-wife. I tried to reassure her but the hitch in my own voice said I didn't have any faith in what I was saying.

Cass was gone. She was the most dependable, trustworthy person I knew.

She kept not one but two pocket calendars with her day's business printed in careful block letters in both. She promptly wrote thank-you notes for everything. You could always set your watch by hers because it was never off.

The moment I hung up, I called McCabe and then Durant to ask their advice. Frannie said to sit tight because even the police didn't start looking into a disappearance until twenty-four hours had passed.

"I don't give a shit what _procedure_ is, Frannie! It's my daughter.

She's disappeared. The girl doesn't _do_ things like this. Don't say sit tight. Tell me what I can do."

"Take it easy, Sam. You want me to come over and sit with you?"

I almost lost it. I had to lick my lips a few times and swallow repeatedly, or else I would have reached through the phone and torn his head off. "You're a cop, help me on this. Will you, Frannie? Just do whatever you can."

"Gotcha. Hold on and I'll get to work. Give me some time. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

I hung up and rubbed both hands over my face. I had to calm down if I was going to accomplish anything. It was so hard. A ghastly picture grabbed hold of my shivering mind and refused to let go: an anchorman on the six o'clock TV news. Projected behind him is a huge photograph of Cassandra. He is solemnly describing what terrible thing has happened to her. Only later did I

realize part of that vision came from having spent so much time thinking about the life of Pauline Ostrova, another young woman who went out one night and never came back. I have always hated those news photographs. Invariably TV

chooses pictures that portray the victims as either beautiful or doing something festive or domestic -- decorating the Christmas tree or eating a chicken wing at a picnic.

In contrast to McCabe, Edward Durant reacted like a guardian angel. When I described what had happened, he got off the phone quickly, saying he had to talk to certain people. He called back half an hour later, having mobilized every troop he knew and, reading
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between the lines of what he said, calling in many favors from professional people who could help. I could imagine how great he must have been in court. His voice was calming and authoritative. You felt he was a man who would take care of everything. Here was the man who knew exactly what to do.

Later Cassandra's mother called, indignantly asking who was this Edward Durant, and who the hell did he think he was, giving _her_ the third degree? I tried to explain, but she was so tied in knots that only some of what I said seeped through to her.

Once again, I had to ask for Ivan. I told him to tell her about Durant and that he was one of the few people who could actually help us in this situation. While we spoke, she kept shouting in the background.

"Why are you _talking_? Ask him why he's not out there looking for her?

_Why aren't you doing something, Sam_?"

When my mother was in the hospital for the last time in her futile battle against cancer, she developed a certain pattern of behavior that is common among seriously ill people. I cannot remember the formal name of it now but that isn't important. In essence, what happens is because the patient's world has narrowed down to only that room and a daily schedule, the few things left take on tremendous importance. Where is my orange juice? The nurse promised me a glass of orange juice half an hour ago but it still isn't here!

Fury, frustration, real bitterness. Did you move my _Time_ magazine? I know I put it on that table but now it's gone! Frequently I saw that good-hearted, forgiving woman fly into a tearful rage at the lateness of a doctor, or the fact they had had green Jell-O for dessert two days in a row.

It makes complete sense because they know their world is evaporating and the _only_ thing they can do about it is to hold fast to their few remaining objects and events with the tenacity of a person clutching a life preserver a thousand miles out to sea. That doesn't make it any less searing to witness, however.

In the two days we waited for news of Cass, I found myself acting exactly the same way my mother had. The house became my hospital room, the smallest detail my largest concern.

At the beginning I was able to do some work. Writing has always been both my shelter and escape. When things went wrong in the past, I would scurry to my room, close the door and hide behind whatever work was in progress. The great thing about writing is it enables you to cast aside your own world for a while and live in the one you are creating. Raise the drawbridge against the outside world, pick up a pen and go to work.

But not when your child is missing. Not when you know that outside your safe little study, inches beyond the glow of the green lamp and the drying ink on the half-filled page, the worst thing in the world might be happening while you are powerless to do anything about it. There was no way on earth I could either write my way through this nightmare or ignore the growing stillness around my heart.

On that first day, I tried to cling to the writing. As long as words came out sounding right, as long as something familiar stayed logical and fixed, I was still in control; life still made some sense. But Pauline's story only made matters worse. Not very surprising.

I desperately needed something concrete to do while waiting for the telephone to ring. I decided to clean the house. I think I vacuumed the large living room rug in forty-five seconds. But I mean _thoroughly_, not just a couple of quick shoves into the curled corners. I was the Road Runner moving through the house at such speed that if it had been a cartoon, smoke clouds would have been wafting up behind me. I sprinted from room to room wiping, mopping, polishing, scrubbing. I stepped on the fleeing dog twice in my crazed assault on the house. For once, his bad temper didn't put me off or shame me.

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His resentment was nothing compared to my frenzy, the maniacal need to keep moving, working, busy hands, not thinking. Trying so hard not to think. I was crazed, scared and enraged in equal measure, but helpless above all. Jesus

God, I felt helpless.

The first time I finished cleaning, the house shone. The _second_ time I finished, it was in shock. I had taken a toothbrush to the cracks in the wooden floors, a steel brush to the stones in the fireplace. The blades on the exhaust fan above the stove shone, the dog's food bowls had been exorcised with liquid bleach. I realized things were on the verge of going too far when

I decided to wash all my hats.

I took a shower and two hours later a long bath, the telephone always within arm's reach. I watched television until there was nothing left but midnight-hour evangelists. I wept at what they said. I prayed whenever they told me to. Please God, let Cass come home. That first night I fell asleep on the floor, the TV remote still in my hand.

The next day I would have taken the dog for a walk around the United States but was petrified to leave the house in case _the_ call came. One moment the silent telephone was the monster ready to strike; the next, the only angel that could bring deliverance.

For all her seriousness and good habits, Cass's secret vice was playing video games. Nintendo, Play Station, Sega . . . the brand name didn't matter.

She loved them all -- chest-pounding monkeys jumping over barrels, Ninja fighters throwing death punches, or knights weaving their way through mazes. I couldn't stand them. To make things worse, the noises they made were as annoying as anything ever heard on planet earth. I had bought Cass these games, but begged her to wear earphones whenever she played because half an hour of listening to the saccharine music from, say, Final Fantasy 3 drove me close to the border of dangerously unhinged.

The second day, I had been playing Final Fantasy 3 since five in the morning when the telephone rang. I was so upset both by the ring and what the call might mean that suddenly I couldn't put down the controls for the game.

For some seconds while the phone rang, I kept pressing the buttons to keep Super Mario alive. I was terrified, frozen in place.

"Sam? It's Edward Durant. Veronica Lake has your daughter. That's for certain."

"_Veronica_? What is she doing with Cass? Is she all right?"

As always, Durant's voice was composed and even. "We don't know yet. She picked her up outside your ex-wife's apartment in New York. Two witnesses saw it happen. Veronica got out of a yellow cab just as Cassandra was about to enter the building. I assume she had a convincing story to lure her into the car. Didn't you say they don't like each other?"

I was about to say no, but then remembered with ice-cold clarity Veronica mentioning how they'd spent an afternoon together and that Cass wanted her to meet Ivan. I told him that.

"Yes, well, then she convinced Cass to go with her. That's all I know now, Sam. But it's a beginning and it's concrete. The police know who to look for now. They've already checked Veronica's apartment but didn't find anything that could help. One last thing, and it's a difficult but necessary question:

Do you think Veronica would hurt her?"

"Normally I'd say no, Edward. This doesn't have anything to do with Cass. But now? I don't know. It's another way for Veronica to get to me."

"Then we must assume she will be in touch with you about it. All right, let me get off now. I'll call as soon as anything new comes up. And you do the same."

I called McCabe and told him. He sounded both surprised and irritated.

"How the fuck did _he_ find out? I pulled every string I know, but nobody came up with dick."

"Frannie, Durant was a federal prosecutor for thirty years. He must know hundreds of people
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who could help. And you said yourself, cops always wait a day before they go into action.

Durant started as soon as I talked to him."

"So did I. I'm just being a cop, Sam. Anything that makes me wonder, I ask about. Try to understand that, and if I come across as a jerk it's only

'cause I care. That's all, nothin' more."

My brain and soul were spinning in a centrifuge, getting the full flap and flop. The worst part was I didn't know if it would ever end.

The doorbell rang. I hoped when I opened it there would be Cass, smiling, already assuring me all was okay. She was back, the nightmare was over. Instead, a boy in a Mohawk haircut wearing a brilliant lilac parka stood on the porch holding a flashy bouquet of flowers. "Mr. Bayer?"

"Yes."

"Flowers for you."