The Missing Place (9 page)

When Shay rolled down her window, the only scent on the air was of the cold. A man bundled head to toe came out of the shack
with a clipboard in his hand. He was wearing cloth gloves with the fingertips cut off, clutching a pen.

“Me again,” Shay said. “Shay Capparelli. I'm here to see Martin.”

“He know you're coming?” The man spoke from underneath a fleece hood with a mask covering the lower half of his face. The shack must have no insulation at all.

“Yup.” The two stared at each other for a moment, the wind blowing snow up from the ground and into his eyes, then the man waved them on and retreated into the shack.

“I said I'd be back,” Shay said defensively. “So yeah, he
ought
to know.”

The parking lot was only about a third full, but many of the spaces had recently been occupied, judging from the snow pattern. Shay parked next to one of the few scraggly trees in the lot, the Explorer dwarfed by the massive pickup trucks on either side. Colleen followed Shay to a cedar-sided lodge at the intersection of the long, plain buildings. The doors and railing were festooned with dry brown pine garland, and a wooden deck and steps out front had been shoveled and salted.

“They put some money into the main building,” Shay said grudgingly. “It's pretty nice. You know what the dorms are made of, though? Shipping containers. Just like they send over from China. They freight them in, weld them together and cut holes for windows, and put up the lodge practically overnight. Martin, he's the manager we're going to see, he says when they dismantle this place you won't be able to tell it was ever here.”

“Paul told us this boom will last for twenty years. At least. That seems like a long time for a temporary structure.”

“Yeah, Taylor said some people are saying that. But the boom in the seventies? That ended pretty much overnight, left a lot of people
out of work,” Shay said in disgust. “I had an uncle, down near Galveston, showed up one day and the company was gone. Not just the rig, not just the portable office, the
whole company.
He was out a month's pay, didn't find work for the rest of the year. That's why these camps are all temporary now, nobody wants to get stuck with a building down the road.”

Their boots clanged against the metal tread embedded in the steps. They entered a tiled vestibule with another set of doors leading inside, a sort of air lock that kept the wintry air from blowing into the building. In a box on the floor were dozens of pale blue fabric booties and a hand-lettered sign reading
WATCH YOUR FEET! WEAR BOOTIES PLEASE! THIS IS YOUR HOME—ACT LIKE IT!

“Wow,” Colleen said, reaching in the box. “Just like at an open house.”

“That doesn't mean you,” Shay scoffed. “That's for when the guys come in with mud all over their boots. Believe me, you don't qualify.”

Colleen tried to ignore a flash of irritation as she stomped off as much caked snow as she could. She was growing tired of Shay pointing out the chasm between them every chance she got. Inside, two girls who couldn't have been more than twenty-five sat on high stools behind a rustic wooden counter. They had been laughing together, but they went silent when they saw Shay. The one whose plastic name tag read
BRIT
got off her stool and busied herself with something under the counter. The other one blushed and looked at her nails. She was wearing a lot of eye makeup, dramatic wings of silver shading to black, and had tried to cover up the ravages of acne with heavy foundation that didn't quite match her skin. Her name tag read
JENNIE
.

“Martin said to tell you he's sorry but he can't talk to you anymore,” Jennie said without preamble.

“That right?” Shay said, slamming her purse down on the counter.

“He said. Um. I'm just telling you what he told me to tell you. He said he'd call the cops if he had to this time.”

“Well, you can tell him to—”

Colleen grabbed Shay's arm. Shay twisted away from her and shot Colleen a look full of raw fury and aggression, but Colleen held on. Shay blinked a few times, breathing noisily through her nostrils, and then the intensity was gone. Colleen was learning the rhythm of Shay's temper, and now she tugged her away from the counter, grabbing Shay's purse and slinging it over her arm.

“They can't tell me I can't—” Shay muttered.

“Stop it,” Colleen hissed. “Now come on.”

She pulled Shay back to the vestibule, waiting until the first set of doors closed behind her before speaking. The air felt barely above freezing after the warmth of the lodge.

“What happened when you came here before?”

“The manager—Martin—I don't know. I mean, I maybe pushed him kind of hard, I mean, just
talking
, but nothing to make him react like that. I swear.”

“It's just, I don't think he would have threatened to bring the police into it unless something
happened.
Would he? I'm not judging,” Colleen lied—in truth she wished she could slap some tape over Shay's mouth. “I'm just trying to understand what the situation is.”

“Yeah?” Shay's eyes blazed, but in seconds she dropped the stormy glare. “Okay, look. I got kind of mad when they wouldn't let me see Taylor's room. They said they'd already rented it out.”

“They probably had. With the occupancy rates what they are . . .”

“All I wanted was a
look.
I wasn't going to touch anything. I told him he could come with me and watch to make sure I didn't disturb
anything, but he kept talking about liability. Like whoever had the room would even notice. And if he did, he wouldn't care. I mean, these guys are working twelve-hour days and coming back to a shared shower and cable TV. Quality of life isn't like their main concern, you know?”

Colleen bit her lip, trying to figure out how to handle this. She'd known Shay less than twenty-four hours and she already could trace the arc of her volatility. And it was easy to imagine that in whatever low-paying job Shay worked, conflicts were probably settled with direct confrontation.

But throwing a temper tantrum would quickly burn through strangers' sympathy. Since arriving, Colleen had learned nothing that could lead her to Paul, and due to Shay's behavior this could end up being another dead end. And she didn't have a whole lot of other ideas. They had to make this work.

“Let me try. I'll talk to the girls. And fast, before they decide to go tell their manager we're here.”

“Trust me, they aren't going to listen to you. You don't have any idea how places like this run. They got the girls out here for one reason and it ain't what's between their ears. It keeps the men settled down.”

Colleen tightened her mouth. “All right. Duly noted. Now will you just let me try?”

Shay rolled her eyes and then gave a small, tight nod. “Fine. Knock yourself out. I'm going to smoke outside.”

She held out her hand for her purse, which Colleen had forgotten she was holding. Shay stomped outside onto the deck without another word. Colleen took a moment to breathe deeply and figure out what she wanted to say. Then she faked a pleasant smile and went back inside.

“I'm sorry about that,” she said before the girls could speak. They gaped at her with more curiosity than suspicion. “You have to understand, we're mothers, we get emotional.”

Her face felt brittle. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it up. But she'd learned the technique—smile before speaking, even when disagreeing—at a conflict-resolution workshop she'd taken back when she was on the PTA regional board, and it really did help. Something about tricking the brain, redirecting one's impulses. “Did either of you know my son Paul? Paul Mitchell?”

The girls glanced at each other. Brit wouldn't meet Colleen's eyes. But Jennie twisted her long blond ponytail and nodded. “I knew him a little. Just to say hi. He was nice.”

Colleen's heart skipped—she hadn't been expecting that. “You knew him from working here? Or socially?” she asked, knowing it was the wrong question, asked out of her hunger for Paul to be well liked, to have made friends. But it was as irresistible now as it was when she volunteered in the third-grade classroom and watched her boy shyly approach the table where his boisterous classmates sat, her heart full of longing on his behalf.

“Just from here. He was quiet, you know? But real sweet. Sweeter than most.”

“We really
are
sorry they're missing,” Brit said. “Only Mrs. Capparelli, she like threatened Martin or something, and now we aren't supposed to talk to her.”

“He called Alaska,” Jennie said. “That's our main office? I heard him on the phone with them. They don't want the publicity.”

Colleen nodded, aware that it was only a matter of time before Martin or someone else saw her and Shay on site and then this narrow window would be closed.

“Listen,” she said, “is there somewhere we can go to talk in private?
Please? I don't want you to get into any trouble. I promise I would never tell anyone you talked to me. I swear it. But I haven't talked to my son in over two weeks—” Her voice wobbled, and she paused, steadying herself. “And I'm just so worried about him.”

“Jennie,” Brit said reprovingly. “We can't.”

A look passed between them. “I didn't take my break yet,” Jennie finally said. “Come
on
, Brit. It's his
mom.
”

It was that last plea that seemed to make the difference. Brit huffed a breath and turned away, typing furiously on the keyboard.

“Listen, around the corner is the rec room and past that's a little meeting room they use for Bible study. Go in there and wait, okay? I'll come in a few minutes. Martin comes out to the coffee machine all the time, you don't want him to see you. And make sure
she
doesn't come back in.” She pointed at the front entrance.

“Got it. Thank you.” A couple of men had come in, stomping snow off their feet and putting on the required booties, joking loudly. The girls ignored Colleen to focus on the men, and Colleen walked briskly around the corner with her head down, hoping not to attract attention. The halls were quiet. It was already after one p.m.; the men who'd gotten off work at seven, and would return to the rigs this evening, were surely asleep now.

The rec room was spacious, a row of windows looking out to the parking lot on one side. A giant timber-manteled fireplace burned gas logs in front of an arrangement of sofas and chairs and coffee tables. On the other side of the room were pool and foosball tables, poker tables, and bookcases full of board games and paperbacks.

Colleen found the small meeting room, its door standing ajar. It held the same sort of furniture, tweedy sofas and a couple of La-Z-Boys and oak tables. On a side table were a Bible on a stand, a vase full of silk flowers—tulips and daffodils, which seemed especially
out of place in the wintry setting—and a stack of flyers reading “JESUS in the Camps” and, in smaller letters, “He wants to hear from YOU!”

Colleen chose a chair in the corner that couldn't be seen from the rec room. She dialed Shay.

“Hello?”

“Shay. One of the girls is going to come talk to me. You can't come back in here, okay? You have to wait out there, if they see you I don't think this is going to work.”

“Do you have any idea how cold it is out here?”

“Well, sit in the car and run the heater if you have to.”

“That'll burn so much gas, my car doesn't—”

“Forget about the gas, I'll pay for it. Come on, this is important.”

“You think I don't fucking
know
this is important?”

“I didn't—”

“Just don't talk to me like I'm a child, okay?”

Colleen took a breath, let it out slowly. “I'm sorry.”

“And I can pay for my own gas.”

“I'm
really
sorry.” Although she wasn't—she was angry and frightened and resentful and probably a lot of other emotions she wasn't even aware of.

After a pause, Shay said, “Okay, look. Remember, they have the boys' things. That fuckwad Martin let it slip when I talked to him. See if you can get them back.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“I don't know, Col—maybe you could
buy
them?”

She hung up and Colleen was left staring at the phone. But there wasn't time to worry about feelings. Besides, the money thing was ridiculous. If throwing money around helped find their sons, Colleen would do it and not apologize.

And maybe she
could
buy a little help. When Jennie arrived a moment later, Colleen was still working out how to frame the offer.

“I got the keys to a room that was vacated today,” Jennie said. “Maid service hasn't been through and they're on their lunch, so we have a little time, is that okay with you?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

“Look . . . I don't think anyone's going to try to talk to you, but best if you didn't let on who you are. I guess headquarters got on Martin pretty hard. They don't want it getting on the news that the boys were here if . . . if it turns out it's something bad. Sorry.”

Colleen knew what she meant by “something bad.” The fear fluttered and tugged around her as she followed Jennie down a hall that intersected an even longer one, branching out in corridors of rooms on both sides. There were no windows, only the soft glow of muted fixtures every few yards. Colleen tried to get oriented, to figure out where they were in the warren of rooms.

“How many rooms are there?”

“Four hundred, most of them singles. We have a few doubles, but the guests don't like them. Guys prefer to have a space of their own while they're here, especially since they have to share the bathroom.”