I remember this much:
It was about four o’clock. We sat in the bar of the Fireside, a nearby restaurant, quiet in the downtime between lunch and dinner. The place was empty, but that suited us-missing persons stories aren’t exactly best told while competing with happy hour in the background. Donovan seemed a little nervous, so I wasn’t surprised when he offered to buy me a drink-figuring he needed one more than I did, I accepted. He went to the bar, answered a cell phone call while he was waiting for the drinks, then came back to the table with a tray holding a pitcher of margaritas, two glasses already filled from it, and a little dish that contained a few slices of lime.
“A pitcher?” I said, as he handed one of the glasses to me.
“A friend called. She’s going to try to join us a little later-if that’s okay?”
“No problem, but I do need to get home-”
“If she’s not here by the time you need to leave, I’ll still walk you to your car. I’ll just text her and let her know what happened.”
He picked up his own drink and began to tell me of Denise, his first wife, whom he had married at eighteen. Although he had done well in high school, he didn’t have the money for college and, after a couple of years of trying to get by on low-paying jobs, decided to go into the service. He joined the army and was soon sent overseas. Denise filed for divorce less than a month after he left the States.
“Sorry.”
“No need to be,” he assured me. “We had already started to have trouble getting along-about what you’d expect from a couple of immature idiots-and I think, somewhere in the back of mind, I knew I’d be getting a Dear John letter. I’m not really sure how we managed to stay married as long as we did, except that I wasn’t home much during training.” He paused. “It wasn’t a nasty divorce. For reasons I didn’t really understand at the time, she didn’t ask for alimony or stake a claim on my pension-which apparently made her attorney crazy-and we were renting, so there wasn’t a lot of property to be divided. She took a few personal things, put my stuff in storage for me, and went back to living with her mother.”
He fell silent. I sipped at my drink, wondering if he expected me to help him find his ex. If so, I was probably going to have to disappoint him. I was concerned about missing persons cases, and if I could determine that she really was involuntarily gone, I’d do what I could. But so many adult missing persons are hiding of their own volition. Some are avoiding responsibilities, some trying to escape arrest. Plenty of others are trying to survive, to stay safe from someone-especially if their situation is one in which law enforcement can’t effectively provide protection. It was entirely possible that Denise was afraid of him. Although I felt relaxed sitting in that quiet restaurant with Donovan, I didn’t know what he was like at home-for all I knew, she had good reasons to hide from him.
“Not long after the divorce was final,” he said, “I got a letter from her mother, telling me that Denise had died in a car accident.”
“Oh-sorry,” I said again, thrown completely off stride.
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but to be honest, it didn’t affect me much. Although I thought it was a shame she had died so young, I was more surprised than sad.”
He fell silent again, so I drank and waited.
After a time, he said, “The biggest surprise was yet to come.” He reached inside his jacket, brought out a photo, and pushed it across the small table. I picked it up.
A beautiful, golden-haired child smiled back from the photo. A little girl, four or five years old, I’d guess.
I looked up at Donovan.
“My daughter. I’m told her name is Miranda,” he said. “She’s ten now.”
“I don’t understand…”
“At first, I didn’t, either. A year ago, someone sent me an anonymous letter with that photo in it. Said the girl was my daughter, that Denise was pregnant when she divorced me, that she had convinced another man the child was his. I started to do some investigating but didn’t need to make much of an effort, because the ‘other man’ called me himself-his name is Charles Chasten. The letter had been sent by his wife. As it turns out, Mr. Chasten had started an affair with my wife about two days after I left the States.”
“Jesus. Denise didn’t wait long, did she?”
He shrugged. “I was disappointed that she chose a married man with children-he had two boys and wouldn’t leave his wife. I don’t think much of him. I have to admit, though, he was generous when it came to giving money for the care of the child to Denise-and, after she died, to Denise’s mom. Secretly, of course-until one day his wife, who had long thought he was too stingy, saw a browser window he’d left open after doing some online banking.”
“And discovered he had a second bank account she never knew about?”
“Exactly. A joint account with Denise’s mom. He’d put money in it for Miranda’s needs.”
“And how did the wife take this news?”
“Madder than hell. Understandably. Chasten found out that she had sent me the photo and the letter. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He lifted the pitcher, gestured to my half-full glass, but I shook my head. He poured another margarita for himself then said, “After she discovered the account, and after some… very heated discussion, let’s say… Chasten’s wife insisted on a DNA paternity test. He was confident of the outcome, but he got a kit and took a cheek swab from Miranda on a visit. Later she told her grandmother, who gave him some additional heat, but he’d already sent the test swabs off by then.”
He paused and took a drink.
“Since you’ve told me she’s your daughter,” I said, “I can see what’s coming.”
“Right. He learned he wasn’t the father-his turn to be outraged. Although he told me that he had mixed feelings-he says he’s attached to Miranda, but he felt like he’d been duped. He was in for yet another surprise-when he called to talk about the test results, the number was disconnected. He went over to the house, but Miranda and her grandmother had disappeared. Along with everything in the bank account.”
“Disappeared? It’s actually not that easy to disappear, especially not with a child in tow.”
“That’s what I thought, at first. Even though I was coming in on all of this a little late-they had been gone two weeks when Mrs. Chasten sent that letter-I thought I could use my skills and contacts to find them.” He saw my brows rise and added, “I-I can’t give you details, but some of my experience in the military would, I thought, be useful.”
I let it pass. I was suddenly feeling a little light-headed and wondered if I should get something to eat. He glanced at his cell phone and read a screen. He looked at me said, “Oh, sorry-my friend’s not going to join us after all.” He hesitated, then said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, “just shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, I guess.”
“Should I order something? An appetizer at least?”
“That might be a good idea.” We settled on bruschetta. He went up to the bar again, spoke to the bartender, and came back with a bowl of pretzels. “He’s going to bring us an order, but maybe this will help in the meantime.”
I thanked him, but my stomach started to feel unsettled, so I let them sit on the table.
“Tell me what happened next,” I said, feeling that the most insensitive thing I could do would be to end the conversation at this point but finding it took real effort to concentrate on anything other than my gut.
He studied me and said, “We could save this for another time.”
I shook my head, a bad idea, but he went on.
“I sent a swab of my own DNA in, and sure enough, it matched Miranda’s.”
“Were you happy about that?”
“Yes-but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I was also scared.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“I looked for her, but I kept hitting brick walls. I even tried to get the police interested, but they felt convinced that Miranda’s grandmother had disappeared with her voluntarily.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Forgive me, but you seem to be feeling unwell. Would you like me to give you a ride home?”
At that point, I was feeling very unwell indeed, and also as if I might pass out. “Thanks,” I murmured, hearing myself slur it.
From there my memories of that afternoon become less reliable. There are whole periods of time that I can’t remember at all. Some of what I do remember, I wish I could forget.
I recall the sound of a chair scraping on the bar’s wooden floor. I recall reassuring bits of words from Donovan, my face forming a giddy smile as he helped me stand. I remember being guided into an SUV, and a drive that seemed to last for days but could have taken a few minutes or several hours.
At some point we stopped. He guided me out of the vehicle and into a room. I have no clear memory of the room or what happened there, or much of anything before we were traveling again. I remember cold air and the smell of pine trees, and being helped out of the car again, and immediately throwing up.
I remember Donovan saying something about telling me the truth, and that he’d help me, that I must understand he had no choice, but I’m not sure that really happened. I felt confused, especially about one odd thing he said repeatedly: “Try not to let them take your parka.”
I was barely aware of what was happening at that point, in a state not unlike being roused from a deep sleep-much more interested in falling back to sleep than in anything going on around me. Whole patches of time disappeared-I am sure that I saw Nicholas Parrish, and that he spoke to me, but my only response was to throw up again, which angered and disgusted him. At some point, I was indoors with no idea how I got there or any ability to comprehend where I was. I grew dizzy, and I think Donovan picked me up and carried me.
Parrish argued with Donovan and was saying something to me, and then, just as I felt myself sliding back into unconsciousness, there was gunfire.