I don’t need the drugs. I can do this without help.
What, you think you’re still undercover and all on your own?
I don’t like how they make me feel.
Oh, and this is so much better? Feeling like the sky is gonna fall, like you’re up on the high wire without a net? You used to like that, didn’t you? Living on the sharp edge, until it cut you to ribbons.
Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!
Blessed silence. At least in my head — the traffic on Marine Drive echoes up between the buildings, making a constant background roar. A log truck blasts its horn and the downspout vibrates against the siding. In front of the door is a Welcome mat with a rainbow, and a plant wilting in a bright blue pot. The door itself is solid, no window or peephole. As expected, no one answers my knock. Shaded windows keep me from seeing anything of the interior. I stand in the shelter of the porch roof and count slowly until my breathing calms enough to begin canvassing the neighbors.
The second floor apartment door is answered by an elderly white man leaning on a red chrome walker. I introduce myself and say I'm looking for his upstairs neighbor and wonder if he knows when she went out. He scratches the scruffy whiskers on his chin.
“Usually I can hear her walking around up there, but not today. Are you a friend of hers?”
I hesitate, but disclosing her disappearance might make him more inclined to help. You know, honesty. Sometimes it works. So I tell him.
“Missing? That’s concerning,” he says.
“You haven’t heard anything suspicious upstairs, have you? Like the sound of a person falling?” At this stage, I still can’t rule out a medical emergency.
“No, nothing like that.”
“Are you here most of the time?”
“Yeah, I’m retired, not much to do besides watch the boob tube and look at the ships come in and read about conspiracies on the internet.” He smiles and shakes his head. “You gotta ask yourself why folks believe the things they do. I mean, take these Flat Earthers. I thought we laid that one to rest a few centuries ago, but here there’s folks who think the whole space program is nothing but a hoax and we all live under a dome.”
Must herd the cat away from the rabbit trail. Even if I agree with him. “Have you heard anyone else upstairs, any voices or arguing?”
“No. Nothing comes to mind.”
I think about Claire and Daniel banging on the door. “What about last Thursday night?”
“Thursday? I mighta heard something. Or it coulda just been the TV. I turn it up so I can hear it good. I’m binging Law & Order.”
I note the hearing aids. Not a good chance he’d notice a lot of noise. “When was the last time you heard anyone moving around upstairs at all?”
The old man thinks for a minute. “It’s not easy to say. You get used to your neighbors’ noises and kind of don’t notice after awhile, unless something out of the ordinary happens. But it’s been some time. Maybe even two or three days. Maybe longer.”
“Listen, Mr. —”
“Bateson. George Bateson.”
“Mr. Bateson, is there a property manager or maintenance person I could get in touch with? Someone who could open up the apartment and make sure she isn’t hurt or unconscious?”
“Yeah, just a sec.” He totters away, and I stand on his doorstep listening to the traffic and the distant guttural bark of sea lions. He has a nice view, at least. In a few minutes he comes back with a business card, spindled and mutilated.
“Here’s the property manager.”
“What about the other apartments? Do you know anything about your neighbors?”
“The one below me is vacant. Good thing, too. I’m sure I sound like a herd of cattle.” He bangs his walker on the floor to demonstrate. “Basement is a young couple, new last month. Don’t hardly ever see them. They work all the time.”
I thank him for his help, and he thanks me for livening up his day.
“If I do hear someone up there, should I call you? Now you’ve got me involved, I’ll be paying more attention.”
“Yes, if you would.” I give him my number and we exchange a few more pleasantries — he obviously doesn’t get many visitors and is prolonging our interaction — but at last I find my way back to ground level. I knock on the basement apartment, but get no answer.
Back in the parking lot, I check Victoria’s car. The green Subaru Forester is at least twenty years old, and a crack scrawls across the windshield. The inside is uncluttered, no coffee cups or clothing or candy wrappers. All the doors are locked. I check the tires for mud or gravel, and the grill for dents or bloodstains, in case Victoria ran over someone and vanished to avoid the rap. The left rear tire is low. Without attention, it’ll be flat in another day or two.
Despite the lack of evidence so far, it seems likely there has been something suspicious, if not outright foul play. Most people don’t just walk away from their lives and leave everything behind, not without a reason.
Except for you, of course.
The tone of the inner voice is really starting to annoy me.
Did Pastor Harkness have something she wanted, or needed, to get away from? If uprooting her church is any indication, she seems to have a penchant for physically distancing herself from her problems. Maybe she’s now chosen a more permanent form of running away.
Like, being dead? Drowned in the river?
I refuse to take a hallucination seriously. Because that would be crazy. And I’m not.
From the front seat of my car, I call the property manager and leave a message, explaining that there is a concern for one of their tenants’ welfare and could someone please come and check. Then I sit there, stewing, squeezing the steering wheel like I’m trying
