The Moon Pool (4 page)

As for the rest of his life, Taylor reported that it was all fine, nothing new, the job was a job, the guys were great. Taylor was never one to complain; the thing he said most often was “you do what you gotta do.” Which was amazing because his father used to say the very same thing, may he rest in peace. Maybe it was in the blood, though Shay liked to think she'd had a hand in turning out a boy who wasn't afraid of hard work. Lord knew she'd done her share.

Deep in the night was the only time Shay couldn't keep the fears away. She listened to Colleen breathe; she heard a dog bark somewhere. The generator cycled on and off; the heater blasted hot, dry air. She'd be glad to get out of this tin can, but she had no idea where to go next, a fact she hadn't yet shared with Colleen.

The other mother. She'd known there was one—assumed, anyway—and it was even on the list Shay was keeping, written on the outside of a manila file folder. “Other parents”—it was right below “Call Lawrence.” Lawrence was Brittany's husband's uncle, a lawyer. Shay had met him at a wedding. Maybe he could help somehow.

But Shay hadn't gotten that far on the list yet. By the second day Taylor didn't call her, she knew something was wrong. By the third day, she was frantic. She quit her job on the eighth day, after the guy at Hunter-Cole stopped taking her calls and the police sergeant who'd been assigned her case told her tersely that he'd let her know the minute they had anything and to stop calling. And on the morning of the ninth day, before the sun rose in California, she was on the road, drinking truck-stop coffee and listening to preachers on the radio.

Twenty-two hours in the car, with just a few hours' sleep in her backseat at rest stops—a trip like that wasn't for the weak. Shay had a hundred and thirty-five dollars in her purse and her last paycheck ought to hit her account tomorrow. It wasn't much, but she'd been down that far plenty of times before and frankly it didn't scare her much.

What scared her was the fact that North Dakota seemed to have swallowed up her baby—whom she'd raised tough like her, tough enough to play the last quarter against Noble Hills with a torn oblique—and left no trace behind.

But fuck North Dakota. Fuck the cops and fuck the oil company and fuck everyone and everything that stood between her and what she needed. Shay would not stop until she found her son—or died trying.

T.L. WAITED FOR
the sound of Myron's key in the front door. It didn't come until twenty minutes after midnight, and T.L. did the math quickly in his head. Ten minutes to close the store, ten to get to Griffon's, ten to get home—so his uncle would have been at the bar only forty-five minutes.

When had it all turned upside down like this, with Myron going out late and T.L. waiting up like a nervous housewife? Of course T.L. knew exactly when. On the day that changed everything. Only it wasn't that simple, was it? Because if he'd never met her... if the Wolves varsity baseball team hadn't made the finals in the NDHSA West tournament... if she hadn't shaken her blue-and-silver pom-poms in the frosty spring air as he came up to bat for what would turn out to be the game-winning triple.

If he hadn't got that hit—surely then. T.L. knew what he could do and what he couldn't. The triple was a fluke. He could draw an eastern cottontail so realistic it looked like it might leap off the page; he could unload and stack three dozen eight-pound baler bags of ice into the freezer in ten minutes; he could rattle off the name of every elder who'd served on the tribal business council since 1997, the year his mother died and Myron took him in. But what he could not do, on an ordinary day, was capture the attention of a blond-haired, blue-eyed pom-pom girl from Lawton High and so impress her that she got her friends to give him her phone number. The triple had made the difference: there were several hundred people in the Lawton High stadium, more than had turned out for any other game of the season, stamping their feet in the stands and shouting. Nearly forty of those people packed the visitors' area, Myron and his buddies and a few of the guys' moms, and they all started chanting “T.L.” Then someone on the other side picked it up, and his name echoed back and forth across the field, and everything in the world had seemed possible, including a girl like Elizabeth walking across the parking lot toward him after the game.

Right there. That would have been the moment to freeze in time.

T.L. leaned up on his elbows. The curtains didn't close all the way, and light from the parking lot leaked through, casting a narrow stripe of yellow across his bed. That stripe had been there for thirteen of his nineteen years. He had once driven his Matchbox cars along it, long after Myron told him to go to sleep.

He heard Myron's keys landing in the dish on the hall table, his boots heavy on the linoleum, a glass of water being poured at the sink, seconds later the empty glass being set down on the counter. The walls in the house were thin, the doors hollow. Myron had bought the place for nothing, after the first boom was only a memory, when he got back from serving in the Gulf: a shitty house set back on a badly poured parking lot with a two-pump service station and convenience store fronting the highway. Myron struggled for years, but now it was boom times again and the location, right past the turn-in for the reservation, was genius: shift workers passing by four times a day, on the way to the rigs, on the way back to town. They might not always gas up, but they stopped for cigarettes, tall boys and jerky and sleeves of cashews, cupcakes and skin magazines and Red Bulls.

Myron's boots, on the way to his room. Steady. Slow. Worn-down... T.L. could hear it in the tread. Pausing outside T.L.'s door, only for a moment.

Forty-five minutes at Griffon's, for Myron that was one beer. He might not even have finished it. T.L. lay back down and closed his eyes. He'd sleep now. This new vigilance, as unfamiliar as a Sunday suit, wasn't costing him any rest that he'd be getting anyway, not with the shadows and specters and fears that jammed his mind. Myron had come home drunk only a handful of times, and he was a calm drunk, usually getting a ride home. Besides, if his uncle decided to start leaving his money on the bar, what could T.L. have done about it?

He had no idea, but he still had to be vigilant.
Someone
had to stay on guard. To keep hidden things hidden and danger at bay. T.L. was a man now, and he meant to do a man's job.

COLLEEN WOKE TO
the remains of some fitful dream splintering and vanishing, leaving behind only a scattered sense of dread. Next came the terrible realization that Paul was missing, the running calculus of his absence ticking up automatically to nine days, and she felt the loss of him like a gaping hole inside her.

Only after the waking and remembering did her other senses kick in. Everything was wrong and unfamiliar. The surface she was lying on was cold and hard. The air she breathed held an unpleasant mélange of her own odor and faint notes of spoiled milk and industrial cleaner. And there was a rumbling that she not only heard but also felt, a mechanical, knocking-engine sound.

Generator. Colleen remembered. She opened her eyes and recognized the inside of the motor home faintly lit with gloomy dawn. There, maybe eight feet away, was Shay, huddled into a lump under a pile of clothes and a single blanket. Guiltily, Colleen realized she had the lion's share of the blankets, a fact she hadn't registered last night, when the whiskey had gone down all too easily, followed by a fluster of preparations in which she hadn't exactly participated. She hadn't been drunk. But she hadn't been sober, either. Nothing but the protein bar and the half sandwich, the milk Shay insisted that she drink, and the whiskey. Then peeing and brushing her teeth in that tiny closet of a bathroom. In fact the last lucid thought Colleen remembered having was to wonder where the water went when she flushed, while she rinsed the toothpaste down the sink.

No, wait. A hand-lettered sign taped to the mirror—Sharpie on a lined index card—read
USE AS LEAST WATER AS POSSIBLY PLEASE
, and Colleen's
last
lucid thought was the one she always had when confronted with grammar mistakes on public display, which was to wish she had the ability to fix them without anyone ever knowing. A Johnny Appleseed for the postliterate generation, she would sow grammar skills everywhere she went.

Colleen sat up slowly, trying to make no noise. If there was light in the sky, it had to be nearly eight o'clock, didn't it? Which was what—nine her time?

What time had they gone to bed last night, anyway? It had been after eleven on Dave's dashboard clock when she climbed in the truck, she remembered that. She and Shay had stayed up talking for maybe an hour. Colleen couldn't believe she had slept seven hours straight, something she hadn't come close to managing the last few nights. Was she simply exhausted? Or could it be a sense of relief at having someone to share her burden with? Immediately Colleen felt guilty. It was only because another boy was missing—and another mother frantic—that she wasn't alone.

And then she felt even more guilty because she wasn't alone, at least not as alone as Shay. She had Andy. Who she had forgotten to call last night. He would already have been up for nearly two hours this morning. She eased her legs over the side of the bed—not a bed, but the motor home's tiny table, which Shay had somehow flipped over to create a sort of cot—and immediately felt the cold air slide into her sleeves and under the legs of her pants. The floor was freezing, even through her socks. Wedged in the narrow space between table and kitchenette was her suitcase. She remembered pawing through the contents last night to find her toiletry case; when she'd returned from the bathroom the table/bed was made, the lights were turned off save a dim overhead night-light, and Shay was sitting cross-legged on top of the tiny bed, as though the two of them were at sleepaway camp. Colleen had considered digging through her clothes for her nightgown, but that would mean changing in front of Shay, and she was too tired to contend with her own modesty, her embarrassment at her pouchy abdomen and jiggling upper arms and thighs.

She'd left the suitcase open and crawled gratefully under the covers, mumbling a good night. She must have gone to sleep immediately, because she remembered nothing after that.

Now she considered Shay's sleeping form while she slipped her boots on, pulling up the zippers slowly so as to make no noise. She wondered if Shay had looked through her suitcase or her purse. Had it been her, she wouldn't have attempted the suitcase, mostly because it would be hard not to muss the contents yet leave no evidence that she'd been snooping. But she might have looked in the purse to see if there were any obvious clues. Shameful, but true.

Shay's purse, if she had one, was nowhere to be seen. Besides the bottle of whiskey, the cigarettes, and the small CorningWare ram-ekin she was using as an ashtray, there was a mound of folded clothing, a laptop plugged into the only outlet in sight, two Mountain Dew cans, and a stack of magazines.

Colleen tiptoed to the narrow counter and dug her phone from her purse. There were three calls from Andy, but just one voice mail. Colleen hesitated for only a moment before taking her coat from the foot of the bed and slipping it on, winding her scarf around her neck.

Despite her caution, the door squeaked and rattled. Colleen didn't look at Shay; if she'd woken the woman, she hoped she'd have the courtesy to feign sleep until Colleen got outside. Just these few moments of privacy, just long enough to talk to Andy.

As she eased the door open, she spotted something she'd missed the night before: tucked into the window, curling from the moisture condensing on the glass, was a photograph of a young man. Colleen's breath caught in her throat: Shay's son, Taylor, was beautiful, broad-shouldered and strong-jawed, with the same startling blue eyes as his mother. His dark blond hair was so thick it refused to stay flat. He had a tan and a smattering of freckles across his nose, which, combined with the dimple at one corner of his confident grin, gave him an air of wholesome mischief. He was the sort of boy you wanted to believe in, the boy who was a shoo-in for class president and dated the prettiest girls.