The Missing Read online

  “I don’t want to fight,” Meg said, and in response, Maddie sniffled. The sound was shameful, because with it Meg understood that Maddie was frightened.

  “I’ll tell you what. You’re still grounded, but if Enrique gets his leave orders, you can spend the day with him.”

  Maddie burst into tears.

  “What is it? What’d I do now?” Meg asked.

  Maddie shook her head. Then she scooted over and flopped into Meg’s arms. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. Her weight pressed against Meg’s bad leg, but she didn’t want to ruin the moment so she gritted her teeth through the pain and let her daughter cry. “I’m so mad at him. I’m sorry I said that stuff. He’s the one I hate,” Maddie’s voice was muffled by Meg’s blouse. “Daddy never did this to you. Daddy never left you.”

  She bit back the response on the tip of her tongue (Sometimes I wish he had), and said, “Everybody’s not like Daddy.”

  Maddie nodded like she thought Fenstad was perfect, and Meg felt that familiar tinge. But this time she tried to let it go. All girls deserve to think their fathers are divine, even if it makes their mothers that much more human.

  “Maddie,” Meg said. “I shouldn’t have hit you. That was wrong. But what you said hurt me. You can’t say those kinds of things.”

  Maddie cocked her head. “Yeah,” she said. “That was totally out of hand.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The Dandy

  After dropping Maddie off at the school bus circle (she’d galloped cheerfully to the front entrance, oblivious of the handprint of her face), Meg opened the library. The volunteers had their own keys, but the parking lot was empty. Upon not seeing her at her desk, they’d probably declared a holiday and gone out for coffee. She entered the empty building, flicking overhead lights as she hobbled across the industrial blue carpet. There were no phone messages, and no one had returned a single book to the drop box since she’d left early yesterday afternoon. She wondered if the flu going around had confined her regulars to bed.

  The library was a wreck. She’d cleaned as best she could yesterday, which turned out not to be very much. Books and papers were scattered like snow. Albert’s bloody fingerprints were perfectly preserved on the iMac keyboard he’d thrashed against. The Plexiglas was scratched, and she couldn’t figure out where it came from until she saw the broken face of her three-year-old gold Seiko on the floor. She’d felt weightless as he’d thrown her. She hadn’t understood the sensation, but had still known to protect her face from the impact. She’d heard only the wind in her ears as she’d flown.

  She lifted the keyboard where Albert’s sausage-sized fingerprints had dried. Then butterflies started drowning in her stomach. Was he really out there, in the woods?

  She looked out the window, and that same unsettled feeling from breakfast returned. Something about the lawn, and the trees. The breeze was mild, and things were just beginning to dry up and die. A few cars were on the road, but not as many as usual. It was too quiet. Like one of those kid’s pictures from Highlights magazine that asked: “What’s wrong here?” while birds flew backward, and people had been drawn without lips or eyes.

  What if Albert was right? What if something really did live in the woods, and it had somehow gotten inside him? In a way it made sense. He hadn’t really been Albert at the library on Tuesday. He’d been…someone else (Where did I go wrong?).

  She knew she should feel sorry for him. He was probably dead. But mostly she was frightened of this empty place. She wanted to go home.

  The bloody smudge over the shift button was fine enough to show Albert’s fingerprint. She’d planned on washing the keyboard off, good as new. Instead she dumped it in the trash. Then she hobbled into the children’s room. The rainbow carpet’s fabric was gathered in the middle and stained with Albert’s blood. Specs of dust drifted against the light coming through the windows. The old clock ticked its seconds, half past ten. What if Albert came here today, looking for her? What if he wanted to finish the job he’d started, and break her neck?

  Where did I go wrong?

  Her ankle hurt. Weak thing, it had betrayed her to break so easily. She leaned against a wall. The tears came fast. Who was kidding whom? It wasn’t Albert’s eyes she’d looked into three days ago. Frank Bonelli had reached out from beyond the grave. Where did I go wrong? The phrase was haunting her, but then again, it always had.

  She wiped her eyes. Another day with the library closed wasn’t going to kill the rich Barnes & Noble lovers of Corpus Christi. Nobody borrowed books when they could buy them instead. She was going home. She grabbed her crutches and started turning out the lights just as a red Porsche cruised into the library parking lot. Her pulse raced. Oh, no.

  She looked fast in every direction. The office was transparent. He’d find her. The women’s bathroom? That might work. Then she shook her head. Forget it. He’d probably gotten lost on his way to the country club, and was looking for directions. She doubted he remembered that she worked here.

  Just then Graham Nero strode through the library’s double glass doors. He didn’t stop at checkout, but instead wove his way toward her office. She’d never seen him here before, so it surprised her that he knew where to look. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the Plexiglas, looking for her. Then he coughed a few times. A gob of spit smacked against the plastic. It clung there, unmoving, and he didn’t clean it up. The sun shone brightly through the reference section. He turned and drew the blinds.

  She swallowed deeply, even though this was just Graham. But he’d made the place dark, and suddenly she didn’t like the dark. She limped through the side door and tapped him on the shoulder. “Looking for someone?”

  He turned. His breath smelled so strongly of peppermint Altoids that her eyes watered. Then he coughed. This time he covered his mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief: GUN in big, gold letters. His hair was coiffed with pomade, and she thought it was less receding than when they’d last met. She looked closer: a toupee! She rolled her eyes. The man was such a dandy.

  “Caitlin told me what happened. I wanted to come to the hospital but…” He spread his hands open, as if the answer was self-evident. Then he smiled warmly, like the thing between them had been love.

  “It’s fine. Thanks for the thought,” Meg told him.

  Graham squeezed her waist in his hands. His soft fingers had never raked leaves or washed dishes. Even his chin was soft. Funny that for a while she’d imagined running away with him.

  “I was so worried. You saved my family.” His voice was flat, like he was reading from a speech.

  “Get your hands off me, Graham.”

  He cocked his head and grinned. “I’m grateful to you, but I shouldn’t have expected anything less.” His skin was pale, and his eyes were lined with dark blue circles. His business-casual tan trousers were wrinkled, and upon his shirt pocket was a round, red stain. Frumpy attire for a man who primped in front of the mirror for an hour every morning.

  She slapped his hands. He held her tighter, like this was all part of their foreplay. Through her blouse, his cold fingers chilled her skin. “Go home to your wife,” she said.

  Graham frowned. He didn’t actually look sad. It was a handsome frown. “I can’t go home. Caitlin’s gone,” he said.

  Meg slapped his hands again, hard, and this time he let go. Unfortunately he’d been holding her steady. She lost her balance and fell.

  He caught her by the underarms. His fingers touched her breasts as he held her steady. “She figured out about you. And then she was gone. It was the attack that changed her,” he said. The Altoids on his breath were beginning to fade. In their place was something rancid.

  Meg’s face got hot, and everything was spinning. She’d broken up a marriage, or at least helped it fray. Meanwhile, this jerk was copping a feel. She tried to pull away but he held her tighter. “Graham. I’m sorry to hear this.”

  “Yes.” Graham affected a hangdog expression like his heart was broken. “I hate
being alone. I keep thinking about you. Caitlin knew that. That’s why she’s gone.”

  Meg was flabbergasted. In the month they’d spent together, they’d never gotten past impersonal niceties like please and thank you. She didn’t know whether he believed in God, or just went to church out of habit. She didn’t know how he took his coffee. She didn’t even know whether he was any good at picking up large objects with his toes. “Graham,” she said, “that’s nice. But be honest. I’m not the first woman you brought to a sleazy motel.”

  Graham turned his head and coughed. Spit landed on the carpet. She saw a rash through his open shirt collar. In places, the rash had come to a head, and blood dotted his smooth, hairless neck. “Let’s get something to eat, Meg. I’m so hungry.”

  A chill ran down her spine. She thought about sweet Albert Sanguine, and the monster that lived inside him. What if it was real, and now it was in Graham, too? Soon all the men in her life would turn on her. They’d hold her down and break her spirit like she’d always expected. Like her dad had always wanted to do. Was this her dad, haunting her?

  “Graham, I’m at work. This is where I work,” she said. “I’m not going out to eat with you.”

  He tugged on a curl in her hair and she swatted his hand. His eyes narrowed. For a second she thought he was going to strike her. She flinched and he smiled. “You ought to be a good girl, and not make me angry,” he said.

  Meg backed into the office wall behind her. What the hell was going on? Graham Nero was a vacuous dandy. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t care about anybody enough to have strong feelings, or even declare his love, unless she was really good-looking and willing to wash his sheets.

  “Come on, Meg. A little drink. You and me. I rented the same room. I have the key.” He pulled it out. Just looking at the plastic keycard made her blush. What a Jerry Springer thing she’d done.

  “You should go,” she said. Her tone was forceful, and betrayed nothing but a cool head. If he’d looked at her hands, though, he would have seen that she was shaking.

  He squeezed her shoulder. She tried to turn, but her bum leg buckled. This time he didn’t catch her. She used the wall for support and slid down the side of it. Sparks radiated from her foot to her groin, all the way into her stomach. Her ankle hurt so much that she wished, for a moment, she could amputate it. “Ooohhhh.” She was crying. She couldn’t help it. The only thing that kept her from fainting was that it would mean leaving this lunatic alone with her body.

  At first she hardly noticed how close he’d gotten. Hardly noticed his hot, rotten breath until a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. It dripped onto her cheek. His eyes got strange. The pupils dilated so they looked almost black. They shone, and inside them, she saw her own terrified reflection. It was getting closer. Its mouth opened into a silent scream. He was getting closer, too. “I love you,” he whispered.

  She clenched her fists, and remembered what every Italian mother tells her daughter: Go for the balls, then the eyes. “Get out. Now. Don’t come back. I don’t love you. I never did. I don’t even like you,” she said.

  The smell was worse. It wasn’t just his breath. His body was rotting.

  “Go!” she shouted, and then she flinched, because her voice echoed throughout the library, and no one came running. She was alone here, with this predator, and now he knew it.

  He was almost close enough to kiss her. She scooted in the opposite direction and her ankle twisted. “Oooshttt,” she cried out with closed eyes and gritted teeth. Sparks of pain ignited anew, and she shivered, as if strapped inside an electric chair. His breath was strong against her cheek. Then something wet. It couldn’t be, could it? The blood drained from her face and for a very short instant, her revulsion outweighed her pain.

  Graham Nero ran his sandy tongue along her forehead, and her cheek, and all the way down her chin, to her neck. Where did I go wrong? he asked, only it didn’t sound like him. It sounded like her father.

  Then he was standing. He straightened his shirt, put on his sunglasses, pulled a tin of Altoids from his pocket, opened it, and emptied its entire contents into his mouth. “The woods, Meggie. Tonight. It can be nice or it can hurt. Don’t make me do it the hard way,” he called over his shoulder as he walked out.

  As the saliva dried on her skin, she watched him get into his Porsche and pull away. She realized then what was wrong with the view out her window. Not once today had she seen any birds.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bloody Carpet

  It was mid-afternoon, and the sun’s rays were turning red. They shone through the newly colored leaves. Fenstad drove, but he didn’t notice any of it. Not even the fact that there was no traffic near the hospital, and hardly any of Corpus Christi was out enjoying the pretty day.

  He’d just come from Lila Schiffer’s hospital room, where he’d convinced her to sign self-commitment papers. First Albert, now Lila. He was starting to take this personally. Lila’s blood alcohol had been three times the legal limit. In session she’d told him that she drank Robitussin infrequently, and only late at night. He knew now that wasn’t true. She drank all the time, and in front of the kids, and in doing so had damaged herself and everyone around her. He should have tried harder. He shouldn’t have been daydreaming about Meg Bonelli while people with real problems had sat across from his desk every week, begging for help. Maybe that was why he’d agreed to drive to Lois Larkin’s house even though the last time he’d seen a genuine house call, it had been on an episode of Dr. Kildare. He didn’t want to lose another patient. Well, that, and the hospital was a Petri dish full of mystery cough.

  He’d learned through the grapevine that the feds were in town. This bug had spread fast enough to warrant their notification by the hospital’s public health advocate, and since no one had determined whether its source was viral, bacterial, or chemical, the Centers for Disease Control and the Environmental Protection Agency were each conducting investigations. Right now scientists from both teams were interviewing the patients clogging the emergency room halls, and measuring toxicity levels in the water, air, and public buildings. By the time Fenstad left the hospital, ambulances were being redirected to neighboring towns for two reasons: There wasn’t room for them in Corpus Christi, and the town might soon be under quarantine.

  So far today seven patients had moved from the emergency room to the morgue. It had happened with stunning speed, and Fenstad was still reeling. Every one of them had suffocated—drowned in his own phlegm. He’d seen a boy Maddie’s age with black hair and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass coughing one second, and dead the next. He’d gone out smiling, like he’d wanted to reassure everyone that he was fine, please don’t worry, Mom and Dad.

  Something broke loose inside him when he saw that grinning corpse that somebody had once called “son.” He thought of Maddie, and how he’d feel if she was gone. Like a hurricane had smashed the house he’d spent his whole life building. This mystery infection wasn’t Meg’s long-suffering ennui, or the slight social embarrassment of a gay son and a purple-haired daughter, or even a lost job. This was serious.

  He called Meg’s cell phone. As soon as she answered he told her, “Pull Maddie out of school, buy a few gallons of bottled water, and a HEPA filter and purifier from Target. I promised I’d stop by Lois Larkin’s house—I’m afraid she might be suicidal, but after that I’m coming straight home.” Turned out she’d had a bad day at the library and was already at the house watching the soaps. As soon as he told her how many people were sick, she was hobbling into the Saab to get Maddie. “We’ll be waiting. Take care of yourself. I love you,” she said.

  Ten minutes later he was on the road, headed for Lois. Police cars and government sedans were parked at the top of the hill near the woods. They were still searching for James Walker, and rumors had spread at the hospital that a lot of other people were missing, too.

  He wasn’t sure what it all meant. The bug caused chest congestion, light sensitivity, rash, foul breath, and if
Lila was to be believed, it altered the personality. In less than two days, it had spread to at least twenty-five percent of the town, which meant either it was airborne, or it had contaminated the water supply. So far no one had gotten better, and at least seven people had died. It didn’t look like a regular infection; it looked like immune response. Something got in their systems that their bodies recognized as an enemy, but couldn’t kill. White blood cells and oxidative damage inflamed organs and tissues at an accelerated rate. These caused the rash and lethally wet lungs, while the infection persisted unharmed. The same thing had happened during the 1918 influenza epidemic. Two million people died. In an obscene perversion of the natural order, the young and the women, whose metabolisms and immune responses were the most reactive to foreign invaders, were the first to fall. A dread settled over him, because he remembered that in 1918, people had gone missing, too. Only they weren’t missing: Entire families expired overnight in their homes, and no one found them until the epidemic was over.

  With luck the CDC would know more tonight. The hospital or perhaps the government would issue a press release. If the news was bad, he and Meg needed to give some serious consideration to leaving town.

  At the end of Micmac Street, he pulled his Escalade in front of the Larkins’ wooden ranch house. Its white paint was peeling, and the lawn was brown and short, as if someone had lit it on fire. On the front porch was a dead bluebird. Its head and half its chest were missing, but its wings were still spread, as if captured in mid-flight.

  He rang the bell and waited. It chimed the tune of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore, Hallelujah!” He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to shiver. He rang the bell twice more while the chimes continued. To his relief, Jodi Larkin finally opened the door. She stepped aside without speaking, and he entered the house. The place was dark, and all the shades were drawn. Its furniture was frozen in 1980s gold-gilded wallpaper and worn velvet couches like a shrine to better times, or perhaps just younger ones. Jodi was a small, shriveled woman who reminded him of the photos he’d seen of dust bowl survivors from the Great Depression: mean and ugly.