“Rachel—”
“No, I’m sorry,” she says, “I have to go. I’ll see you at the reunion, okay?” There’s a click, and the phone goes dead.
Chapter 23
Early the next morning, sitting in the Bagel Shop with a cup of coffee and a sesame bagel with blueberry cream cheese, Kathryn pulls out a notebook and pen. She remembers what her editor at the News-Sentinel told her once, when she was stuck on a story: “Just jump in anywhere. Don’t think. Write. Get those words on the page, and sooner or later the story will come.”
For years, she writes, I have had a recurring dream. Standing on the deck of a cruise ship, I see someone fall overboard and I turn the other way, until the cries for help are swallowed by the sound of the waves and the ship’s engine. When I turn back to look, I see only the placid ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction.
What is violated when someone disappears? A parent’s trust, the safe borders of a small town—a town where people walk their dogs down dark streets at midnight, sleep in unlocked houses, pay for coffee on the honor system at the Gulf Station. Sleep is violated, the ease and elasticity of everyday interactions. Casual conversations with strangers. A neighbor’s goodwill.
The town lost Jennifer. Not finding her was the same as losing her. The police, with their high-tech equipment, failed her. Her brother, her mother, the search party. The town.
Two men in yarmulkes are sitting at the next table, deep in animated discussion. Kathryn’s been watching them for a while, slicing through the air with rigid hands, pounding on the table, before she realizes they’re speaking a language she doesn’t understand.
I’ve been feeling this way a lot lately, either not understanding what people are saying, even when it seems I should, or thinking that it makes perfect sense when it’s unintelligible.
When I think back over those years and try to make sense of them to myself, whole areas are blotted out, like sunspots in my memory.
We used to play Truth or Dare in Jennifer’s attic. “Dare,” she always said. “I’d rather take a dare than tell the truth.”
I didn’t know her. I don’t know anyone who did.
And then, finally, she finds a beginning:
I’m going to tell you the story of a girl who disappeared, in the hopes that you might make better sense of it than I can.
Chapter 24
“Kathryn!” Her mother’s voice swims in her head, winnows up toward the surface. “Are you awake?”
Kathryn opens her eyes, blinks a few times, squints at the clock: 7:15 A.M. “No,” she mumbles, shutting her eyes and falling back on her pillow. She hears her mother pattering up the stairs, and then she feels a soft thwack on the bed. She looks up. Her mother is standing there wearing an old University of Virginia T-shirt and shorts, with an artificially bright smile on her face. “Page one,” she says, gesturing toward the paper. “Pretty darn good. There’s a picture and everything. Your grandma called, said she told you you’d find a way in. Whatever that means.”
Kathryn struggles up onto one elbow, reaches for the paper. There’s her story, just above the fold on the right-hand side. TEN YEARS LATER, A QUESTION STILL HAUNTS THE CLASS OF ‘86: WHAT HAPPENED TO JENNIFER PELLETIER? Under the headline is an old snapshot of Jennifer, which, with its eighties eye makeup and dangling earrings, now appears as dated as a photo from the fifties. The caption reads: “Missing since June 13, 1986.”
Sitting on the bed, Kathryn’s mother pats her legs under the thin cotton blanket. “I’m very proud of you, sweetheart,” she says. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure you were going to pull this off.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“But you did!” She squeezes her knee. “And it’s very thought-provoking. The only thing I wonder is—did Linda or Will see this before you handed it in?”
“No, of course not.”
“Hmm.” Her mother nods, looking slightly troubled.
Ignoring her, Kathryn scans the first paragraph to see if anything has been cut.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine about it,” her mother continues. “It’s just that—you know, some of this is quite personal.”
Kathryn looks up. “That’s the point.”
“I know, dear.” Kathryn goes back to reading the piece. “But there’s personal and there’s invasive,” her mother says, “and I just think it’s a very fine line. People’s feelings are involved. Which is not to say that I don’t think you’ve done an excellent job here, because I do. But I just wonder if you needed to be quite so … provocative about some things.”
“I never said she was having an affair.”
“And you never said Pete committed suicide, but the implication is there. I just wish you’d thought about the whole picture, is what I’m saying. Linda may have moved, but we still have some mutual friends, you know, and this could be a little awkward.” She laughs nervously.
“Mom, you knew I was writing this,” Kathryn says, sitting up and tossing the paper to the foot of the bed. “You talked me into it.”
“Well, I know,” her mother concedes. “I guess I had a different idea of what it would be.”
In the next room the telephone rings, and then downstairs, in a faint echo. As long as Kathryn can remember, the phones have never been in sync. They look at each other while it rings again. “Are you going to answer that?” Kathryn asks.
“Let’s let the machine get it.” Her mother bites her lip, waiting for the click.
“Hello, is anybody there? It’s a little early on a Saturday to be out, isn’t it? Or late to be sleeping!” Kathryn’s father chuckles, then clears his throat. “Well, Sally, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m calling about Katy’s article in the paper today. Front page, very impressive. I assume they pay well for that. Hope they know the value of talent when they see it.”
Kathryn’s mother is shaking her head with her lips pursed and her eyes closed, as if she’s in pain. She can’t stand it when he talks about money. Flinging back the covers, Kathryn bounds off the bed and runs into the next room. “Hello?” she says breathlessly into the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad, it’s me.”
“What were you, asleep?”
“Talking to Mom.”
“Well, I won’t interrupt. I just wanted to congratulate you on a job well done.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t realize that girl was so unstable,” he says. “If I’d known, I never would have allowed you to spend so much time with her.” He says it like he’s kidding, but Kathryn can tell he means it. “So what do you think?” he demands. “Did she run off to join a cult?”
“Maybe,” Kathryn says, not wanting to engage him. “What do you think?”
“I think it has something to do with the mystery boyfriend. Or possibly the brother. But you like him, right?”
“Yeah. Why would you think he’s involved?”
“Oh, it could be some kind of gay thing. That’s Margaret’s theory.”
“Really.” Kathryn looks up; her mother is standing in the doorway. She rolls her eyes. “That’s interesting. Well, I’ve got to go, Dad.”
“Sure, okay,” he says. “But just tell me one thing: Is this going to be a regular gig?”
“I think Jack wants a couple more pieces.”
“What about after that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think you can parlay this into some kind of job?”
“I don’t know,” she says again, resisting the pressure in his voice, trying to keep it light. “I don’t know if I want to.”
“Might be nice to have a steady paycheck.”
“Yeah. Well, listen, Dad, thanks for calling.”
“Sure. Oh, hey, Margaret says hi, too.”
“Great.”
“We’re expecting you to solve this thing, Katy!” he says. “Don’t leave us hanging!”
“Okay, Dad. Talk to you soon.”
When she hangs up the phone, her m
other says, “What a jerk.”
“You didn’t even hear anything,” Kathryn says. “I heard enough.”
Kathryn doesn’t answer. Her mother is still so bitter, it makes her resent them both—her father for acting like a jerk, and her mother for pointing it out.
Her mother looks at her watch. “I’ve got a showing later this morning, so I think I might do some errands while I’ve got an hour. I need mulch for the garden. Anything I can get for you?”
“Hmm.” Kathryn pretends to think. “I could use a husband and a high-powered job, if you happen to run across any while you’re out.”
“Oh, that’s right—your reunion is tonight, isn’t it?”
“Ay-uh,” she says in her best Maine accent.
“A little nervous?”
“Nah. I’m going there on assignment, like a reporter in Bosnia. It’s not my war.”
Her mother grins. “Keep telling yourself that. What are you wearing?”
“I was thinking flak jacket, combat boots. Maybe a bulletproof vest.”
“You might want to bring a helmet,” her mother suggests. “Just in case they aim for your head.”
HER HEAD FEELS slick and oily, like a seal’s. The conditioner smells of eucalyptus. “It’s all natural,” Lena, the Norwegian hairdresser, is saying. “Exactly what you need to repair this damage. We sell it up front for eleven ninety-five.” Kathryn looks up to see Lena descending on her with a towel. “Let’s see what we can do with you,” Lena says, vigorously scrubbing her head.
Both of them scrutinize Kathryn’s reflection in the mirror. Her face is pasty and her hair hangs down in wet red clumps, a thin skunk stripe of brown at the top. Next to Lena, who is tan and blond, she looks distinctly unwell. She wishes she’d at least worn makeup—lipstick, anything.
“You did this to yourself?” Lena asks, frowning at Kathryn’s part.
“Yeah. You can tell, huh?”
“It’s brassy.” She peers closer. “And see this breakage here? And here?” she says, holding up the frayed ends.
Kathryn nods. “Can you fix it? My mother says you’re a wizard at this.”
Drying her hands on a towel, Lena shakes her head. “I can’t turn a pigeon into a swan!” She laughs. “I saw that once on David Copperfield. He’s amazing. And so good-looking.” She purses her lips at Kathryn’s reflection. “But maybe we can do something. What do you want?”
Kathryn looks at Lena, with her tanning-booth glow and shining white-blond hair, and suddenly she knows. “I want to look like you,” she says.
AN HOUR AND a half later, when Kathryn gets to her car, there’s a manila envelope with “KATHRYN CAMPBELL” written on it in capital letters propped on the front seat. She opens the envelope and pulls out a black Maxell cassette. She turns it over; it’s unlabeled. She upends the envelope and a color photograph falls onto her lap. Picking it up, she looks at it closely. The picture is wrinkled and out of focus, and at first it’s hard to tell what it is. In the foreground is a blurry hand, as if someone is trying to hide from the photographer. Behind the hand Kathryn can see a swing of blond hair, part of a cream-colored sweater, a sliver of faded jeans. The girl in the photo appears to be in some sort of clearing, surrounded by pine trees and some distant birches. No sky is visible.
It’s Jennifer, of course. Kathryn recognizes the sweater and the hair. She turns the photo over; the back is blank.
Her hands are trembling, and her fingertips are cold. She picks up the cassette again, slips it into the tape slot, fumbles in her shoulder bag for her car keys, and turns the key in the ignition. After a moment, a girl’s voice says, “What do you want me to say? Testing one, two, three.” The girl giggles. “Don’t just make me talk. Tell me what to say.” Then the voice ends abruptly, and a song begins. The opening strains are familiar, but Kathryn can’t quite place it until the ragged voice starts singing: “Every time I think of you I always catch my breath / And I’m standing here, and you’re miles away / And I’m wondering why you left …”
It’s that song from high school, the one Jennifer used to call her anthem, the one she used for her yearbook quote. Kathryn listens to it for a moment, then fast-forwards to the end of the song to see if there’s anything else on the tape. Silence. She pushes the reverse button and stop-rewinds through the other side. It’s blank.
At the police station, it takes Lieutenant Gaffney a moment to recognize Kathryn. “Well, I’ll be darned,” he says, when he finally does. “What are you trying to do, go undercover? You look like a different person.”
She shrugs self-consciously. “I needed a change.”
“Oh. Well, it’s a change all right. I wouldn’t have recognized you in a lineup.” He listens to her story carefully, interrupting to ask questions, and pulls on latex gloves before he handles the photograph. “I’ll send this to the lab to see if we can get anything off it. You touched it with your bare hands?”
“Yes,” she admits. “Stupid. Sorry.”
“I doubt there were any prints on it anyhow. Whoever left this stuff in your car was pretty careful. There’s not much in the picture to pin it to a time or place.” He holds the photo under a bright desk lamp, studying it carefully. “But I’d say this is probably contemporaneous with the disappearance,” he says after a moment. “The photo’s faded, and the clothing appears dated.”
“I recognize the sweater. She wore it all the time senior year.”
He squints at the photo, holding it up to his nose. “Looks like early spring. It’s hard to tell with the pines, but that birch behind there doesn’t have leaves yet.” Tracing a faint line down the photo with his finger, he muses, “And the light is cold. There might even be snow on the ground. We’ll get this blown up and see if we can get any clues as to where it is.” He slips the photo back into the envelope and puts the envelope into a clear plastic bag. “Now let’s hear that tape,” he says. He leads her to the back of the station, into a small room with a sophisticated recording system on one wall. When he puts the tape in and Jennifer starts talking, a strip of small red lights jump and flash.
“Tell me what to say.”
Gaffney rewinds the tape.
“What do you want me to say? Testing one, two three.” He rewinds again. “Testing one, two, three.”
“Can you hear that tremor? She’s nervous,” he says. “Eager to please.”
The tape rolls; Jennifer giggles. “Don’t just make me talk. Tell me what to say.”
“She looks up to this person,” Gaffney says. “She’s intimidated by him.”
“You think it’s a he?”
“I’m guessing. If it were a woman, or a girl, she’d probably have more of an edge in her voice. You know, like ‘This is stupid.’ I doubt she’d be this hesitant.” Gaffney adjusts some knobs—turns up the treble, turns down the bass—and they listen to it again. This time, at a higher pitch, the voice sounds quavery. Kathryn can hear the anxiety in it. Flipping a switch, Gaffney mutes the voice, amplifies the background noise. A bird calls, another answers. A horn sounds twice.
“That’s not a car,” Gaffney says. He replays it at a lower speed. “It’s not a truck either.” He sits forward, his head cocked to one side, listening to it again. “That’s a train,” he says. “They’re outside, near some tracks. And if this recording of her voice was made when the photograph was taken, they were in a wooded area somewhere.” He adjusts the controls so that Jennifer’s voice is audible again. “Yep,” he says, “I’d say this was made a long time ago, and then transferred onto this tape. Hear how scratchy it is? Also, she sounds young, like a teenager.”
When the song comes on, it fills the room.
“What do you think this is all about?” Gaffney asks.
“It was a big hit when we were in high school,” Kathryn tells him. “For a while Jennifer was kind of obsessed with it. She used part of it for her yearbook quote.”
They listen in silence for a moment. “I spend my time thinking about you / And it’s almost dri
ving me wild …”
“Did she associate this song with anybody in particular?”
“I don’t think so.” Kathryn tries to remember. “She must have had some kind of emotional connection to it, but it probably didn’t mean much. We overreacted to pretty much everything.”
Gaffney is holding up the flat of his hand, signaling her to stop talking. “Wait a minute. I want to hear that again,” he says. He rewinds the tape, stops, runs it back a little more. “There’s a message in the wild and I’m sending you the signal tonight / You don’t know how desperate I’ve become and it looks like I’m losing this fight …”
The song plays to the end, and then there’s an audible click. “Anything else on the tape?” Gaffney asks.
Kathryn shakes her head.
Holding his chin in his hand, he looks at her. “Somebody is trying to scare you,” he says.
“Well, it’s working.” She laughs nervously.
“I guess that article you wrote smoked him out.”
“So what do I do now?”
Gaffney leans back in his chair. “Well, number one, don’t publish another story until you run it by me. You made some inferences I’m not sure it was wise for you to make. Remember, Miss Campbell,” he says, hunching over the desk, “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. This case is wide open. You could be putting yourself in danger by messing around in it.” He sighs. “Try to think now. Is there anyone-anyone you know—who might have sent this to you?”
She looks up at the ceiling tiles above their head, gray and porous like the surface of the moon. “I really don’t know.”
“Well, be careful,” Gaffney says. “We don’t know what this person is capable of.” He gets up, adjusting his belt with both hands. He isn’t smiling, but Kathryn can tell he’s pleased. “This could prove to be quite a break in the case,” he says, walking her to the front desk, “but it has to be handled right. If anything out of the ordinary happens, anything at all, I want you to call me right away. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she says, “I understand.”