Darkness My Old Friend

“I guess I don’t feel that young sometimes,” said Jones. “But anyway, some things have happened over the last couple of days.”

He told the doctor about the cases he was working on, about Maggie’s suggestion that he might hang out a shingle.

“And you’re happy to be engaged in this type of work again? It gratifies you?”

“It does. I guess I originally came to police work as a kind of penance,” said Jones. “A way to make up for wrongs I’d perpetrated.”

“And has that changed?” The doctor took a sip from his water bottle.

“It has.”

“What does it mean to you now?”

Jones thought about it a moment. But he didn’t have to think about it much. He had a strange clarity on the subject.

“You know, I think I’m a little lost unless I’m helping people.”

Part of Jones expected the doctor to praise him for his selflessness. But Dr. Dahl was quiet a moment, seemed to be turning over Jones’s words.

Then, “You know, I think that’s fine, Jones. As long as you don’t use the work of helping others to hide from things inside you that need tending. I guess we both know you did that for a long time, first with your mother, then in your profession.”

What was it with these guys? Was there some kind of manual they were all reading from? Maggie had said almost the same words. Jones didn’t respond, really, just mimicked that affirming noise the doctor often made.

“But we can talk more about that next time,” said the doctor. “Our time is up.”

This was the other thing that always irked Jones about therapy. When your time was up, you got booted. It was like you were just getting comfortable, getting used to confiding in someone, and then you were asked to leave.

Back in his car, he turned on the cell phone; he expected messages. But there was nothing. Nothing from Chuck about the bones they’d found, which were being analyzed, or about Michael Holt, who’d apparently disappeared into the mines and had not yet emerged. Nothing from Paula Carr’s parents; he’d called them twice, only to get voice mail. Nothing from Jack at the credit bureau on Paula Carr, or on Cole’s mother, Robin O’Conner.

This was the thing about investigative work that people just didn’t get. There were all these dead, waiting spots: waiting for DNA results-or in this case dental records-for contacts to wade through a river of other requests just like yours, for people who didn’t want to talk to you to call you back. That’s why cops drank after hours and overate on the job. How were you supposed to deal with the agitation, the urgency in the spaces where you had no control whatsoever? You went and got some food, scarfed it down in your car.

While he was still holding the phone, staring at it in frustration, it started to ring as though he’d willed it to do so. Ricky had set Jones’s cell so that it sounded like the ringing of an old rotary phone. The tone was oddly comforting, that solid clanging of a bell, that sound of a real mechanism working-even though it wasn’t that. The world had gone so quiet, all the noises that machines made now were soft and ambient, musical.

“Okay,” said Kellerman. “Here’s what I’ve got.”

“Great,” said Jones. He felt the relief that always came with action.

“Paula Carr hasn’t used her credit cards or made any bank withdrawals in forty-eight hours.” Kellerman paused to issue a hacking cough. The sound of it made Jones cringe.

“Sorry,” Kellerman said. “One interesting thing. I did a little digging and found an account under her maiden name, husband not listed as an account holder. Last week there was a large withdrawal. Ten thousand.”

Jones thought about this, and it made sense. She was planning a flight. She wanted to find Cole’s mother before she left with her kids; that’s why she’d called him. Something had happened to force her hand. Or maybe something worse.

“That’s interesting,” said Jones.

“Looks to me like she wanted to get lost.”

“Maybe.”

“Something else notable. Paula Carr hasn’t made any ATM withdrawals in years. Her paycheck from a small company was direct-deposited into a joint account. But that account only had one ATM card, and that was for the husband. Her credit-card purchases are strictly mom-type charges. I’m talking about grocery and big-box stores, kids’ clothing stores, online book retailers. There’s not a charge on there over a couple hundred dollars.”

“So her husband had her on a leash,” said Jones. “Controlling her spending.”

“I wish I could keep my wife on a leash,” said Kellerman. He started laughing, but the laugh turned into that horrible cough again.

“You all right, man?”

“Ah, got this cough,” Kellerman said. “I’m seeing a doctor on Friday.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Jones. “Allergies, probably.” The cough sounded bad, rattling and deep.

Controlling the money was a way of controlling the relationship. Jones thought about how Carr had referred to Paula only as “my wife,” how the house was spotless, no pictures, how nervous and apologetic Paula had been throughout the visit. Jones was starting to get the picture. Kevin Carr was all about control.

“If I find anything on her, I’ll give you a call. People get sloppy or careless after a while. Think no one is paying attention. Or they run out of cash.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“The other woman, Robin O’Conner,” Kellerman went on. “She’s broke. She was recently fired from her job. She’s got five maxed-out cards, about ninety-five dollars and change in her account. She’s been evicted from her apartment, with two months owed in back rent.”

“When was her last charge?”

“She tried to use her card yesterday at the Regal Motel in Chester. It was a charge for twenty dollars and twenty-three cents, and it was declined.”

Chester was about an hour from The Hollows, another small working-class town, but one that hadn’t developed in the same way as The Hollows had. He looked at his watch. He could go out there, try to find Robin O’Conner, as Paula had asked. But why? He didn’t have a client, really. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t even a PI. At this point it was costing him money to fulfill his promise to Paula Carr-the drive, the dinner he’d owe Kellerman for these favors-and his buddy could pack it away. Maggie would not approve.

“Want me to keep tabs on her, too?” Kellerman asked.

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll text you if either of them pops.”

They made arrangements to get together for dinner the following week. Once the call had ended, Jones put the car in drive. He almost didn’t realize he was heading to Chester until he’d pulled onto the highway. Why not? he thought. It was the only real lead he had on any of the three missing women. What was he going to do, go home and reflect on the future course of his life, his marriage, all the “work” he had to do on himself? He wasn’t going to do that. He just wasn’t. The very thought of it was suffocating.

As he drove, he found himself wondering what he would need to do to get his private investigator’s license. He wondered, too, if he should start carrying a gun again.

chapter twenty-nine

The rumor swirling around the school office was that the police had found human bones up by the Chapel, suspected to be the remains of Marla Holt. At first this news landed softly, like a false whisper in Henry Ivy’s ear. Something that could easily be denied and pushed away. But as the day wore on and the rumor spread and five separate people said to him “Did you hear?” he started to feel as if he were being buried alive under concrete blocks. By the late afternoon, the weight was crushing him. Was she up there? Had she been up there all these years? When he and everyone else had thought the worst of her? Had she been lying rotting in a shallow grave not