The Missing Read online

  She knew she should be hysterical right now. After all, she was the most high-strung girl in all of Corpus Christi. But she wasn’t hysterical. Just scared. She’d been screaming about Armageddon for years, and now that it was here, she was all yelled out. So she smoked her cigarette, and watched its light glow and then recede, and thought about Enrique, and all the people who’d died, and the fact that vaccines only work on people who aren’t infected to begin with (so who were they kidding? The people who were sick were probably going to die), and wished her big brother was home.

  She finished her cigarette, and dropped it into the empty Snapple jar she used as an ashtray. Just then a pebble from the driveway sailed past her face. She flinched. What the hell? Then another one went flying. It zinged her square in the nose. Then someone called her name in stage whisper: “Mad-e-line!”

  She beamed: Enrique!

  “Where are you?” she stage-whispered right back. This was like Romeo and Juliet. She’d always wanted a boy to come to her window. It was awesome! Her life was a frickin’ movie!

  “Over here!” Enrique called, which didn’t help. But then she saw him standing on the porch underneath her window. He held a palm full of pebbles in his hand. “You jack-donkey! You hit me!” she scolded, only she was giggling. She raced down the stairs to the door, where, after fighting with the new deadbolt for a few minutes, she got outside and clobbered him with a hug. He rocked back and forth like a willowy tree, but managed not to fall.

  She grinned hugely. This was so fun. Thrilling! She squeezed tight through his nylon jacket. She could feel his warm skin, and ribs, and heartbeat. She wanted to cry suddenly, because she loved him so much.

  “I tried to call you but you forgot to charge your cell phone again,” she said. “My mom said I’m still grounded but we can see each other if you get your orders.”

  He didn’t answer for a second or two. He was smelling her hair, which was weird, but typical Enrique. He was always smelling her. “I got the letter. They sent it before the virus broke out. I’m supposed to ship out to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina tomorrow morning. I can’t get hold of anybody on the phone, so I don’t know if the quarantine applies. I should at least try, I might get arrested.”

  She squeezed him harder. Hard enough so that maybe she could burrow inside his chest, and stay there. She’d live inside him, and make him stay with her, where he belonged. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t really be happening.

  “I had to see you,” he said.

  She wanted to say something smart. Something girls were supposed to say when their boys left for war. She should tell him he was brave, and that she loved him. But all she could think about was his curly black hair. It was long for a boy, and they’d shave it in North Carolina. They’d snap their steel-jawed scissors until it was all gone.

  “You’re, like, the only person I even like in this town,” she said.

  “I’ll be back in a year. We’ll go to college together,” he said, but she knew it wasn’t true. He was leaving, and by the time he got back she’d be in her sophomore year at Brown. They were breaking up. She started sobbing then. She didn’t want to wake her parents, so she pressed her mouth into his shoulder, where she left a round, wet circle.

  “Why did you do this?”

  “I had to,” he said.

  It was warm out, even though it was September. All she needed was a light jacket, but she was wearing only cotton pajamas. Her bare feet smarted against the cold cement. “You did your job. You stayed here while your dad was sick. Why are you doing this? Do you want to get away from me?”

  “No,” he said. “Never.”

  “Is it your family?”

  “Maybe,” he answered.

  That made her cry even harder, because it was so stupid. “You ruined everything!” she said.

  His shoulders fell, and he opened his hands out wide to her. “Shh. Stop. I didn’t come here to fight, Madeline.”

  “I don’t care what you want!” she shouted loud enough to wake the neighbors, but luckily her parents’ windows were closed. “I’m not kidding. You ruined it. We could have been happy and then you went and screwed it up. I wish I’d never met you. And now you’re leaving and I’m not even special enough for you to pop my cherry.”

  He shook his head, like he didn’t know where to begin with his response. Then he shrugged and gave up trying. “I’m scared,” he said. She saw that his eyes were wet, too. It made her want to kick the crap out of him. What a dumb thing to do: enlist in the army because your family won’t cut you enough slack. Or maybe because underneath it all you think you’re supposed to marry the first girl you have sex with, just like your dad, only you’re not ready to trade one responsibility for another, so instead you decide to go to Iraq. Real smart. She punched him in the arm. It was a girly punch, even though she tried with all her might. Her big brother, David, had taught her how to punch, and David was a pussy. Freaking David! She punched him again.

  “You should be scared. People are gonna shoot at you.”

  His body was hunched from his shoulders to his knees, like he was carrying a large weight. “It’s too late. I can’t change my mind. If I don’t go, the military police will arrest me.” He buried his face in her hair, mostly, she thought, because he was trying to hide his tears.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said. “But I can’t explain…I have to.”

  “Yeah.”

  So now they were both crying, which maybe some people thought was romantic, but she thought was stupid. Then a solution occurred to her, and she brightened. “My room,” she said. “Tonight. Now.”

  He didn’t answer for a second, and she waited until he understood. Then she nodded, to let him know she wasn’t whistling Dixie; she meant it.

  “Won’t they wake up?” he asked. From his lightning-straight posture, she could tell he liked the idea. She also knew for certain that she was one of the things he was running away from. He wanted to be with her forever, yes. But he didn’t want forever to start right now.

  “My parents? What are they going to do, send you to Iraq?” Before reason reared its ugly head, she turned back into the house. He had no choice but to follow. He took off his sneakers, and she showed him where to step so that the stairs didn’t creak. When they got to her room, they sat without touching on the edge of her bed. She took off her pajama top, a purple tank with matching paisley bottoms. They sat. Goose bumps rose on her arms. He looked around bedroom. Along its walls were framed museum prints. The furniture was teak. Stored in her drawers were her papers, makeup, and old books. But on the surface, the room was as anonymous as a hotel.

  “Weird, right?” she asked. He’d probably expected candles, sexy lingerie, a bulletin board covered with old movie stubs and photos, at least. But in this way she was like her mother: Clutter gave her the willies.

  He shook his head. “It’s how I expected. You didn’t pick out the Hoppers and Rockwells, did you?”

  “No. I don’t care about much except for you and my books.”

  He kissed her cheeks and mouth. Her tears, she imagined, were salty on his tongue. Soon, they were naked. He climbed on top of her, but held himself up by his elbows. He looked serious, which made her want to giggle, but she didn’t. He tore the condom from its wrapper with his teeth and rolled it on. From the relieved expression on his face, she understood what had happened in the woods and smiled. He hadn’t thought she was too ugly, after all.

  They stayed under the sheets: She didn’t want him to see her body. It happened fast, and his hips were sharp. She pulled him close so that he was pressed against her. It felt a little lonely, because it hurt, and he didn’t seem to notice, but then she looked at him, and he smiled, and she wasn’t lonely anymore. She was surprised when he rolled off her that it was over.

  “Did you come?” he asked.

  “Maybe?” she said. He was sweating even though he hadn’t exercised, and he looked a little drunk.

  “Did it hurt?” he asked.r />
  “No, I liked it…” Since he was leaving for a year, she figured it didn’t matter if she confessed the truth. “I’ve been practicing with my finger so I think it hurt less. Is that crazy?”

  He didn’t say anything, and his eyes got wide. She thought maybe she’d finally gone too far and convinced him that she was deranged. But then his face softened and he chuckled. She covered his mouth with her hand to keep him quiet. “For you? For you it’s not crazy,” he said. Then he added, “I love you, Madeline.”

  “Me, too. About you,” she told him. “Are you mad I called you a spic?”

  He took a second to answer. “Are you mad that I am one?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not mad,” he said, which relieved her so much that she started crying all over again. The room was pitch black, and she held on to him tightly.

  After a while her tears were dry. Her legs felt strangely sore, and his boy sweat had rubbed off and was drying on her skin. Her eyes adjusted to the dark room, and she could see the framed prints that her mom had brought home from the Portland Museum (a man at a gas station, a pig-tailed girl with a black eye at the principal’s office), and her pink elephant slippers that doubled as her Mr.-Lefty-Extinct and Mr.-Righty-Extinct stuffed animals, peeking out from under the bed.

  She’d had sex with a boy she wasn’t going to marry. She’d fallen in love with him, knowing that it would never work. Right now the pain seemed worth it because she was in his arms. It wasn’t true what they said. She felt different now that she wasn’t a virgin. She felt sad.

  Before long, she was sleeping. A piercing sound awoke her from a dream, in which she was swimming in rough ocean waters. “Help!” a man shouted in the stillness, and it took her a few seconds before she realized that she was awake, and someone out her window had shouted.

  She bolted toward the window. Outside, everything was dark, and the screaming was gone. A cop car was parked outside the Walker house, but its lights weren’t flashing. Next to it, a group of people whose faces she couldn’t make out were crowded together in the street. They were bent over something, and a bad feeling filled her, like swallowing cold ocean water. They moved strangely, and with too much grace. The word that came to mind was murder.

  Something touched her shoulder and she jumped, but it was only Enrique. He’d pulled on his jeans, and was rubbing his dark, flat belly. She put her hand against it, because she wanted to feel his warmth.

  “Who’s down there?” he asked. He was still half sleeping.

  She pointed at the crowd. “I don’t know. It’s bad, though.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t see. Everything’s dark.”

  “We’d better call the police. There’s a curfew. No one should be out there,” she said. And then she added, even though she didn’t want to acknowledge this part. “Is that police car empty? Do you think something happened to the cops inside it?”

  He wasn’t next to her anymore. He was sitting on the bed, lacing his tennis shoes. She followed suit and pulled on her purple pajamas. She tried to hide it from him, but her lower lip quivered. “He cried for help,” she said. Then the obvious answer came to her. She reached for her cell phone, and dialed 911. It rang. And rang. And rang.

  Finally, the line connected, and a message informed her that due to unusual traffic, the wait time to speak to an operator was thirty minutes. “What if someone’s dying out there!” she hissed.

  “I’ll go check it out,” he said.

  “No. It’s the virus. It makes people crazy. And even if it’s not the virus, it’s some kind of riot. We need the cops.” She banged the phone against her night table in frustration, then dialed again. “Why won’t anybody answer!”

  He was at the door. “We have to go see,” he said.

  She nodded, because she knew he was right. Somebody screams for help, and you pretty much have to try to help. But she also knew it was a bad idea. They could get the virus this way, or worse. Murder, she thought. Though she had no proof, she could feel it in her bones. Outside her house someone was doing murder. “We should wake my dad. He’ll know what to do.”

  Enrique shook his head. “Let me look first. I have to leave anyway. It might be nothing. If they don’t find out I’m here, you can meet me at the bus station in the morning to say good-bye. Otherwise, this is the last time we see each other.”

  She nodded. She hated what he’d just said. She hated that he’d said it out loud. “Fine,” she said.

  He crept down the stairs. She followed. Her stomach was queasy like she was going to vomit. He opened the front door. The stoop was lit by a single lamp, and no one was standing on the porch or front walk. The street was empty. No one was inside the cop car, and its lights were out. She squinted into the darkness and listened. She thought she heard something, but maybe it was the wind.

  “Where’d they go?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Maybe they were just out for a walk.”

  The air smelled strange. A little rancid, like rotten eggs. “Do you smell that? Aren’t people with the virus supposed to smell bad?”

  Enrique rested his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been reading The Smoking Gun again.”

  “So?”

  He bent down and kissed her forehead. “So, I have to go.”

  She tried not to cry. He’d never take her seriously unless she was strong. “Don’t go,” she said, “please. Wait until it’s light out.”

  “I have to pack, still. And it would be an insult to your father if I stayed.”

  “I don’t care. It’s not safe.”

  He didn’t argue with her. Instead he took her in his arms and squeezed. “I’ll call you in the morning. If it’s running, you can meet me at the bus, and if it’s not, then I’m here for a while,” he said. Then he was off. She watched him walk across her lawn, where the grass was wet with dew. His body was a shadow that became smaller and smaller. The only indication of his sadness was his hunched shoulders. She stood frozen on the porch, thinking that as long as her eyes were on him, he’d be safe. But then he strode past the street lamp and into the darkness. He was gone. She stood there, marking with her mind the way the wet lawn felt between her toes, and the quiet of the street, and her house behind her that had suddenly become less familiar. Her heart was heavy, and she knew she’d get over this, deep down she was the kind of girl who could get over anything, but right then, she didn’t want to get over it.

  Finally she turned, and went back into the house.

  If she’d carried a flashlight with her and shone it in the street, she might have seen the human bones that lay next to the police car. If she hadn’t shut her window when she went back to her room, she might have heard Enrique Vargas scream.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A House in Ruins

  Saturday night, somebody had secretly replaced Danny Walker’s regular Lay’s potato chips with butane-coated granite. They were clogging his stomach right now, and his body was about to explode. And let’s not get started on the smell. Seriously. If he lit a match, his whole friggin’ room would explode. On the plus side, a fire would burn off the stink.

  His family had done this to him. Turned him into a nervous bag of gas. His blisters from digging the hole at the dump without gloves were raw, and the salty Lay’s weren’t helping. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have smeared salt on his wounds, which led him to the conclusion that his family had made him not only gassy, but stupid. So he started scraping the dirt crammed inside his fingernails, and let out another stinker.

  The thing with Lou McGuffin went down fast. At the crack of dawn this morning, Lou started hammering his fists against the front door. Danny’d been awake, thinking about James. He’d wanted to let his parents sleep, so he’d run down the stairs and swung open the door.

  “Where’s your father?” Lou had snapped.

  “What do you want?” Danny had countered, because what the hell? He was fifteen years old, and he deserved a little respect.


  McGuffin was holding a brown paper grocery bag. Its bottom was red and wet, like it was full of butcher meat. The paper broke open all of a sudden, and pink and white lumps of wet fur landed in a heap on the stoop.

  Danny could make out multiple sets of ears. Like pelts from the Old West, the animals’ insides were gone, and all that remained was their heads and coats. On top of the pile, he saw a mouth partly open to reveal a tiny pink tongue.

  “Where’s Miller?” he asked again. His voice was hoarse.

  Was this guy out of his fucking mind? Danny wanted to close the door and lock it. But a split second later he understood, even though he didn’t want to believe it. He’d told his parents about finding James and the rabbit in the bushes the other night, but they hadn’t believed him. Hadn’t wanted to believe him. And now, looking down at the porch, Danny understood. James, his kid brother, had killed Lou McGuffin’s animals. “I’ll get my dad,” he said, but by then his father was already standing behind him.

  Miller shoved Danny aside and faced Lou McGuffin. He pointed at the hill of dead rabbits. “What the hell is this, Lou?”

  Lou didn’t flinch. “You tell me,” he said.

  A vein in Miller’s neck throbbed. “Get off my property before I kick your ass from here to Florida.” He was tired or he would never have lost his cool. Don’t ever let ’em know you’re coming, was one of his favorite aphorisms, like life was one big guerrilla warfare circle jerk.

  Louis didn’t budge. “Your son,” he said, and then he looked up at Danny. His eyes were full of hate, even though before this he’d always been Danny’s friendly next-door neighbor. The guy had taught him how to shuck corn, play cribbage, and tie an anchor hitch, all while his mom had orbited the earth. “Not him,” Lou spit out, looking at Danny. “The other one was at my rabbits last night.”