The Drowning Child

Fuck, the light.

She dimmed the screen and googled the town of Tate.

Tate, Oregon, nestled in the Willamette Valley, fifty miles south-east of Portland, fifteen miles east of Salem, home to 3,949 residents.

The first images were of a quaint, well-kept town, built around one intersection, its most prominent building a two-story red-brick family restaurant with Bucky’s written in red cursive at a jaunty angle on the front.

The public announcements of Tate PD were about fallen trees, storm damage, and buckling up to avoid getting a citation.

Caleb Veir’s disappearance had hit the news and there was a photo of him alongside the article. He was a sturdy-looking boy with dark, side-parted hair, pale skin with freckles across his nose and cheeks, and a naturally downturned mouth.

A mournful-looking kid.

Ren jumped as a figure came into her peripheral vision.

Gary. Jesus. Fuck hangover jumpiness.

‘Hey.’ He sat down beside her. He glanced at the watery pineapple juice pooled in the dying ice of her glass. He knew it was her hangover cure of choice.

Please just smell my beautiful wintergreen smokescreen breath.

‘Caleb Veir was last seen by his father, John, at seven forty-five yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘When did you get the call from Tate PD?’

‘Right before I called you last night,’ said Gary. He nodded. ‘Yes – it’s strange. The kid didn’t make it to school, but when his teacher called his mom, she couldn’t get hold of her. She left a message, then left one for the father on his cell phone and at work. He’s a corrections officer at Black River Correctional Institution outside Salem. An inmate escaped the previous day, so the teacher figured John Veir would be caught up with that and didn’t want to bother him: she figured Caleb was at home being looked after by his mom anyway – a lot of kids had been off school with a virus.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘Wouldn’t the teacher have persevered? And why wasn’t the mom answering her phone?’

‘She wasn’t home the previous night and no one could reach her the following day.’

‘Why not?’ said Ren.

‘I don’t have all the details,’ said Gary.

‘So, Caleb was alone with his father the night before he disappeared?’ said Ren. ‘What’s the father’s deal?’

‘John Veir, fifty-seven years old, ex-military, CO at BRCI for the past five years.’

Military man, corrections officer, son about to hit his teens … hmm.

There was a short silence.

‘Sylvie Ross is flying in too,’ said Gary. Sylvie Ross was an agent and child forensic interviewer. ‘I’m still seeing her.’

Loving the defiant tone. ‘That’s your business,’ said Ren.

‘I just wanted you to know,’ he said.

Why – so I’ll know to exercise the muscles of my blind eye again?

‘Thanks,’ said Ren. Honored to be part of your cheating ways.

He turned to Ren. ‘Paul Louderback’s coming too.’ There was weight to his gaze.

Tou-fucking-ché.

Paul Louderback was Ren’s former PT instructor at Quantico. He was ten years her senior, married throughout their emotional affair, then briefly separated from his wife when he and Ren slept together. He was her kill-your-curiosity fuck, the eliminate-years-of-buildup fuck. After they slept together, Ren had officially gotten together with Ben, and Paul got back with his wife. Contact had dropped since then, until he called her when he heard about the shooting.

What will my heart do when I see you again, Paul Louderback? Because I’ve no control over that.

Your heart will betray Ben and you’ll feel like shit.

The plane landed in Portland in torrential rain. Ren drove to Tate without music, listening, instead, to the sound of the rain pounding the car. It was soothing at first, but as it fell harder, faster, louder, she turned on the radio to drown it out. She focused on Gary’s car, up ahead, copied every move he made.

I am on autopilot.

What the fuck was I doing, driving last night?

Jesus. Christ.

Cliff. God bless him.

I am a shitshow.

She shook her head.

Paul Louderback … his mouth … his hands … his … one night … sexy and just a little dirty … not dirty enough … like he was unleashed but didn’t know what to do with it … an old-school gentleman trying to be filthy … he just didn’t have that thing …

That Ben and I had. That fuck-me-always-any-way-you-want-to thing.

Ben.

Stop.

As Ren drove past the Welcome to Tate sign, she saw black ribbons tied around some of the trees.

Not very hopeful.

As she approached the gates to Tate PD, she felt her stomach clench: it was chaos – news vans, reporters, law enforcement, volunteers, a K-9 Unit.

Gary slowed to a crawl in front of her, and a young Tate PD officer parted the crowd and guided them both through and into two reserved parking spaces. The building was single-story, red-brick, with a parking lot on three sides and a strip of grass planted with trees along the other.

Inside, the lobby was small, clean, and pine-scented, with fresh plants and a wall covered with community photographs that spanned decades of sporting events, picnics, barbecues, charity drives, swim meets – beaming police officers, teachers, schoolchildren, and senior citizens.

Ren and Gary checked in at the desk and took a seat.

Within minutes, a short man with a tight, round stomach came out to meet them. He looked to be in his late fifties, with sad dark brown eyes and a puffy face, pockmarked on the left side. Ren and Gary stood up.

‘Pete Ruddock,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ As he shook Ren’s hand, he gave her a smile that was all about the warmth that radiated from those sad eyes.