Lost Girls

goalie's rib cage.

''NICE SAVE! NICE SAVE!''

''What about the Literary Club, all the time Thom was spending with the girls. Did anyone think that was unusual?''

''Absolutely. The way he was all hush-hush about it, like he was running a goddamn cult instead of a discussion group or whatever it was. Even rigged up a little curtain he threw over the window of his classroom door on Thursdays after school so nobody could look in. Definitely weird. But those girls, they just loved it. Pretty much dropped everything they used to be into except for that club of theirs, which wasn't a club at all, really, just the three of them. All top secret. And that's probably what they liked about it. Girls that age love to keep their secrets.''

''So you really don't know what they might have been doing in there?''

''Like I told you, I don't have a clue. Nobody did. And Thom wasn't telling.''

Within seconds the drizzle turns to rain that may be the coldest yet, the play before us now obscured by a shifting wall of gray. But it isn't stopping them. I can still hear the crack of sticks meeting each other, the strained cries working to hack the ball to the opposing end.

''Would you agree to be a witness if I need you?'' I raise my voice another notch to be heard through the patter of the rain on Miss Betts's nylon shoulders. ''To testify as to Thom's character? I know you two were friends, and he could use your help.''

''You know what?'' she replies after a time. ''I really hope you're a good lawyer. Because that's the only kind of help Thom Tripp needs now. And as for me being a witness for him? After what he did? Let me tell you this: Ashley used to be on this team. I used to be her coach. She was a good kid. She had a spark. Krystal too. There's nobody around here that doesn't miss the both of them like hell.''

For the first time Miss Betts turns her head away from the field to look at me, her broad face glazed in moisture.

''I'd rather be the first to throw the goddamn switch than help that bastard one inch,'' she says, then turns away from me again and blows her whistle. Three sharp blasts through the freezing rain that call her players in.

Even with all the lights off behind me the gray of the laptop's screen is giving me a headache. One of those dull, not-going-anywhere numbers that lead you to seriously consider knocking your skull against the nearest door frame. Turn off the computer and watch the last traces of color flee into the corners. The room swelling in the darkness.

I'm feeling around for a pen, making a list I can't see. There on the legal pad before me in oversize handwriting so that I might make sense of it in the morning. A descending column of invisible names. ''Don't just deny. Blame it on somebody else.'' Another fundamental Grahamism, but it was a rule I knew already.

McConnell Flynn

The dads. Always a good bet. McConnell almost too happy with the way things are turning out, too quick with an angry, vengeful word for the press. And those threats. If I can get all that in we might be in business. Flynn a poor second, but was so certain his daughter was dead, he didn't even want to consider the possibility that it could be otherwise. Maybe parents have their instincts. But they're also the most likely to do their own children harm, statistically speaking. A patriarch who can't control his anger. A lonely, disposable depressive. Snapshots any jury could recognize from miles off.

Laird J.

Any kid who keeps a detailed scrapbook on two female classmates who end up going missing has got to be considered suspicious. And if I could dig up some evidence of an interest in Satanic heavy metal or an obsession with horror movies, we could be onto something.

Runaways

They're not dead at all. Or might not be. The lake's not that big, but the wide world certainly is for girls who had something to run from. Krystal's house couldn't have been a barrel of laughs, and Ashley was surely smart enough to figure out that a job somewhere on her own offered better prospects than sticking around with her going-nowhere old man. And best of all: still no bodies.

Unidentified third party

Get one of the profilers from the RCMP to shock the courtroom with the number of violent psychotics currently at large on the continent. Just the suggestion of a stranger-passing-through-town scenario might be enough. People know the warped psychologies of serial killers better than their own these days. Or they've at least seen The Silence of the Lambs.

T.'s assistant

Even if the lake-disposal scenario sticks, it's still a hell of a job for the teacher to have pulled off all on his own. If I can fish a name out of him, we could sell his friend and plead our way down to something reasonable. Sometimes five years can feel like you've gotten away with it.

I close my eyes and roll my head back on my neck, grind a satisfying pop from the cartilage. Time for bed, if I can find it. But for a time I stay at the desk and face the wall, not sure if my eyes are closed or whether the dark is all that I can see.

The Lady

I write this without seeing it on the page but feel its shape in the slow L, the coiled y of my hand. Then I fold the paper into the smallest square I can squeeze between my fingers and flip it back over my shoulder. Wait to hear the sound of it meet the floor, but there's nothing but my own breathing and the touch of rain against the glass.

chapter 21

The next morning delivers blue sky, clear light, and even a swirl of warmth in the air, and with these invitations Ontario Street is the busiest I've seen it. This is to say that at any given moment half a dozen squinting mouth-breathers could be observed scuffling along, wiping at their noses and waiting for the light to change. I head up toward the courthouse, nodding at those I pass. Nobody responds but I pretend not to notice, chin held up to the sun. Why not? Things--the whole confused lot of them--may not be as bad as they seem. And after all, even if they are, they bear no direct personal consequences. It's not me who sits languishing in a prison cell awaiting his fate. No, sir. I'm out here on the sunny street, overcoat unbuttoned, fresh oxygen and Colombia's finest replenishing my blood.

When I reach the top of the street I make a left and soon find myself standing at the library's front door. Ten after nine and it's still locked. Consider turning around but knock instead, and in a moment the door is opened by little Doug Pittle, his eyes blinking up at me in amusement.

''Been here eighteen years and that's the first time anyone's knocked to be let in before nine.''

''It's ten after, as a matter of fact.''

''Ten after, then. It's still the first time anyone's ever knocked on this door. Period.''

We walk down the hall to his desk where he picks up a paperback of The Catcher in the Rye in the advanced stages of decay.

''The library's most popular selection,'' he explains, cutting off a strip of duct tape and wrapping it around the book's spine as I hold it for him. ''There's a long-standing rumor at the high school that it contains an explicit sex scene. They'd be so much better off going with D. H. Lawrence. Or even Wuthering Heights.''

''Don't you subscribe to Sports Illustrated? Surely the swimsuit issue would be in the highest demand.''

''It would be. But the town council banned it after it was discovered that photocopies from it were being distributed at the school. Black-and-white photocopies.''

''Desperate times require desperate measures.''

When he's finished snipping off the excess tape I put the book back down and look out the narrow window