Fear Collector

CHAPTER 17

Grace Alexander and Paul Bateman were standing in the Angstroms’ living room when Oliver emerged from his basement lair, rubbing his eyes a little and hoping against hope that the police didn’t think they were too red.

Shana Angstrom, a large woman with room-filling hair and a rope of gold around her neck, introduced her son, while Clark Angstrom, a stump of a man with twitchy eyes, just stood mute.

“Ollie,” she said, in her nails-on-chalkboard voice, “there might be some trouble and you can help out.”

Oliver blinked hard. “I don’t know anything about Emma.”

Grace nodded, a little surprised that the young man standing in front of her in a T-shirt and jeans and smelling of bong water had immediately invoked the missing girl’s name.

“What do you know about her?” Paul asked.

Clark Angstrom seemed to fade into the background while his wife directed the group to the living room, where they could talk “more comfortably.”

“Clark,” she said, “be helpful, will you? Offer them a drink.”

“No,” Paul said. “We’re fine. Thank you.”

“Ollie,” Shanna Angstrom said, “sit up and answer their questions. These are busy people and they wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t of some importance. Right, Detectives?”

Oliver Angstrom, it seemed, didn’t have it easy.

“Work called and told me Emma’s missing. That’s all I know.”

“Really? You don’t know where she is?” Paul asked.

He shook his head and slumped low in to the sofa next to his father. “I don’t know her that well,” he said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I asked her out, but we just didn’t click that way.”

“What way is that, Oliver?” Grace asked.

Oliver glanced at his parents, his mother, now seated on his other side. “Hook up,” he said, sheepishly. “We didn’t hook up. She was cool and all, but we just didn’t, you know, hook up like…”

“Like what?” Paul asked. “Like how you wanted to?”

Oliver didn’t say anything.

Shana got up and started for the kitchen. “Would you like a beer?”

“No,” Paul said. “No thanks. We’re working.”

“I’ll take a water,” Grace said, more to be polite than anything. “Let me help you.”

She followed her into the kitchen and Shana fished a couple of glasses from the cupboard.

“Your son seems like a nice boy,” Grace said.

Oliver’s mother smiled nervously. “Oh, he is. I mean, I wish he’d get a real job. Trying to make video games all day and night.”

“Really? That’s cool,” Grace said, almost choking on the word “cool.” She considered video games the scourge of a generation of young people. Sure, they had stellar reflexes from working the controls with faster than lightning speed, but many were almost handicapped-incapable of dealing with humans. Oliver, she noted, almost never made direct eye contact.

“Is he working on a new game now?”

“I think so. He’s always hanging around in the basement. Maybe he’ll show you around. Probably a pigsty, but that’s the way kids are. No respect for what their parents do for them day in and day out.”

Grace took the water and returned to the living room.

“Oliver, your mom was telling me about the video games you’re producing. I’d love to see what you’re working on. I’ve always loved video games. I think of them as the art form of a generation.”

Oliver brightened slightly. At least he seemed to.

“Me, too.”

Grace set down her glass. “Do you mind showing me where you work on your latest? I have a nephew who wants to be a game developer. He’s just a kid, but I think I’d earn some cred if I said I saw what someone with his same dreams was actually doing.”

“Sure. Messy down there, but I’ll show you.”

Grace followed Oliver down the stairs, while Paul remained with his parents.

The basement was dark and smelly. The couch in front of the TV was a thrift market reject.

“This is a great space. Really private,” she said.

“Thanks.” Oliver looked over at the door to his grow room. Grace followed his gaze.

“Mom’s doll collection’s in there. Off limits to all,” he said.

Grace nodded and backed off. “When did you last see Emma?”

“At work,” he said.

“Right. Did you leave together? See where she went?”

Oliver shook his head and fiddled with the controls next to his TV.

“Not really. I had to clean up.”

The TV went on and he started to demo his game, Babe Hunter.

Grace watched for a moment, but something else caught her eye. On the coffee table in front of the TV was a picture of Emma.

Oliver stopped what he was doing. “Oh, that? I found it. Just kept it. She could get another.”

“Get another?”

“Yeah, it was her mall photo ID. No biggie. Just kind of wanted to keep it. You don’t think that’s weird, do you?”

Grace did, but she shook her head no.

“No,” she said. “Not at all.”

After a few more moments watching Oliver Angstrom play the world’s worst video game, she thanked him for his time.

“We’ll be in touch,” she said.

“Do you want me to burn a disk of my game for your nephew?”

“That would be great, but no thanks. He’s too young for your game. Looks kind of adult for his age.”

Oliver nodded and went back to the screen.

The detectives waited until they got back into the car before saying anything. It had been one of those kinds of interviews.

“What did you find out downstairs in the creepy kid’s crash pad?”

“He had a picture of Emma. Said he found it. Seems like he might be a stalker or something. Maybe obsessed with her. Wouldn’t let me go in one of the rooms. He said his mom had a doll collection that was off limits. You? Anything with the parents?”

“Mr. Angstrom said about two words, maybe three. Mrs. Angstrom went on and on about what a disappointment her boy was and how she wants to kick him out. She actually said she wished he was a suspect in Emma’s disappearance because that would mean he’d made a move on a girl. Think about it. Domineering mother, creepy basement, if there was a dead dog and wet bed we’d have the address of a serial killer.”

Grace smiled, but it was a grim smile. “Oliver’s no serial killer. He’s a dope. I’m kind of with his mother,” she said. “Even with all that, I’m kind of curious about what’s behind that basement door. Doll collection? That really would be the topper.”

“Agreed,” Paul said as he turned the ignition.

“You mind dropping me off at my mom’s?” Grace said.

“Wednesday night, is it?”

“Yeah. Love my mom, you know I do. But since Dad died I made a promise. Every Wednesday is our night.”

“At least you’ll have lots to talk about,” he said.

She nodded. “That we will.”