Missing Persons

29

Raoul had my pager number. I’d told him to use it as soon as he knew anything about Diane and that I’d call him back as soon as I could.

Lunchtime came and I didn’t hear from him. I tried his cell phone. My call was routed to voice mail; I left a message asking him to phone me with news immediately.

Nothing.

Midafternoon I went through the same routine with the same result. Just to be certain that my bases were covered, I left an additional message on Raoul’s hotel room voice mail at the Venetian.

Nothing.

When 4:45 came around and the red light on the wall in my office flared on, I found myself becoming alarmed that almost an entire workday had passed with no news about Diane. My level of concern for her was approaching ten on a ten-scale.

I walked down the hall to get Bob. My apprehension about the session was high. I had almost convinced myself that Bob really did know something important about Mallory.

Bob wasn’t sitting in the waiting room. No one was.

My first reaction? Who flicked the switch that had turned on the red light?

I checked my watch. Four forty-four.

I waited a minute. Four forty-five. Had Bob ever before been late for therapy? Maybe once or twice, but his absence from the waiting room was certainly an anomaly. Had he forgotten that we’d made this appointment the day before? How could he have? Given the drama in front of my house at dawn, I was sure Bob would have remembered his usual appointment time.

I flicked off the switch that illuminated the red light and returned down the hall to check my calendar and my voice mail. I was still thinking that Bob would show up any minute.

I was wrong.

Five o’clock came and went, then five fifteen, and finally five thirty, the time that Bob and I would usually be finished with his session.

The reality was that patients missed scheduled appointments all the time. If I had a busy week I could usually count on at least one no-show among my patients. Sometimes patients forgot their appointments and that was that; other times patients spaced out their appointments and the fact that they’d forgotten was ripe with therapeutic meaning. Sometimes life intervened. An injured child, a traffic accident, a late flight.

But Bob? He’d never missed a scheduled appointment. Never.

I thought about the midnight-blue box with the Kinko’s logo that was sitting in the file cabinet near my desk. Bob had said, “Don’t read it yet. I’ll tell you when.”

After he’d handed it to me I thought I’d said, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

I thought Bob had replied, “Sure.” Was it possible that Bob had known he wouldn’t be showing up for this appointment? With most patients, I would have simply packed up my things, gone home, and not given the missed session another thought. But Bob wasn’t most patients: Bob was Doyle’s friend, and Bob knew Mallory.

Bob thought he knew what Mallory had been thinking. Bob had been next door the night that Mallory had disappeared. Bob had written a story about Mallory’s disappearance. Bob thought Mallory was scared.

I had a copy of what he had written.

But he’d told me not to read it.

Powered by the pair of fresh batteries that I’d installed that morning, the pager on my hip vibrated with irritating insistence. The number that flashed on the screen was for Raoul’s cell.

I dialed immediately. “Raoul, it’s me: Alan.”

“I’m ready to kill these people. Tell me something: Does Nevada have the death penalty? I think I’m becoming a proponent.”

“Which people?”

“Take your pick. The Las Vegas police. The fascists in Venetian security. Even the damn minister at the Love In Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. He might be first.”

“What?”

“I gave the housekeeping manager two hundred more bucks to look for Diane’s calendar in her room. It wasn’t there, but she let me see the notepad by the telephone. Diane was visiting wedding chapels. She wanted to talk with somebody named Rachel at a wedding chapel. She had a list of them on the notepad. I visited all three. Love In Las Vegas was the most promising.”

Without much thought, I said, “I’m glad you found that…” I didn’t know how to end the sentence.

Raoul did. “On my own, you mean,” he said.

“Yes. Did you talk to this… Rachel?”

“Nobody at the chapel will tell me anything. But they know her, that’s clear enough. The minister is a guy with a fake British accent who prances around like he’s on holiday from his day job in the House of Lords. He acted really cagey when I mentioned Rachel’s name. I’ll find her tomorrow.”

“Diane?” I said, hopefully.

“I pray. But I’ll find Rachel, and she’ll help me find Diane. Despite the neon carnival and depraved World’s Fair ambiance of the place, Las Vegas feels like a small town. Money is ammunition here. That works in my favor. I’m well armed.”

“The police are uninterested?”

“ ‘Uninterested’ is a generous word.”

“And Venetian security?”

“I think they went ahead and looked at the videotapes of whatever happened while Diane was walking out of the casino. When she lost her phone.”

“Did you get the impression it seemed significant to them?”

“It raised an eyebrow or two. But they won’t tell me why.”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?”

“Like that. There’s one woman on the security team who wants to talk with me. I flirted with her a little, and I’m going to see if I can catch up with her later on when she gets off work. Her shift ends at eight.”

I tried to imagine Raoul’s frustration. His determination was apparent, but whatever he was doing to mask his frustration was admirable. I asked him, “Why aren’t you bugging me for more information about Rachel?”

“Diane wouldn’t want me to. She didn’t talk to me about her clients. One of the things she respects about you is how you’ve kept your mouth shut through all the… difficult situations you’ve been in over the years. I’m trying to respect what she respects.”

“I appreciate that. I’m in another difficult position right now. I’d really like to be more helpful, but Diane’s not the only one who’s…”

“Who’s what?”

“Mixed up with Rachel’s… problems. I’ve already told you more than I should.” I knew I sounded lame. If I were in Raoul’s shoes, I think I’d want to string me up by my thumbs.

In a tone that was intended not only to sound calm but also to communicate his increasing desperation, he said, “It’s a reprieve, not a pardon, my friend. As soon as I run into a dead end with this Rachel person I’ll be back in your face, insisting. Or worse.” At the end he managed a little laugh.

“I can’t wait,” I said.

“I have to go. Before my date with this security lady later I’m going to try to see if I can find any gamblers who remember seeing Diane at the craps tables last night. I hope that some of the same people will be playing again. I’ll be in touch. Adeu.”

“Adeu” is Catalonian for good-bye. Other than profanity, the only other Catalonian Raoul had taught me during the many years of our friendship was how to ask if there was a good bar nearby. At that moment, had I been on a beachfront up the coast from Barcelona, I would have been sorely tempted to try out the phrase.

I said, “Adeu, Raoul.” But he’d already hung up.

After only a moment’s hesitation I opened the drawer to the file cabinet and withdrew the Kinko’s box that Bob had given me. Almost reverentially, I lifted the lid off the box, and raised the title page in my hands.

My Little Runaway

By R.C. Brandt

A quick, surreptitious glance at the open box revealed that the top sheet in the pile of paper that remained in the box wasn’t the beginning of Bob’s story. The second page was handwritten. In his familiar, neat, incredibly cramped script, Bob had written me a note.

Dr. Gregory,

If I’ve told you to go ahead and read this, this is the page that I want you to throw away. You can go ahead.

If I haven’t given you permission, this is where you should stop. Remember, I’m trusting you. I’ll tell you when.

Bob

His tiny scrawl seemed indecipherable, a missive intended for selected residents of Lilliput. I guessed that the first line was my name and the last line was Bob’s, but I couldn’t read the two lines in between all the way through, not at first. Only by holding the paper farther and farther from my eyes until I got it all the way out to arm’s length did the script come sufficiently into focus. “Dr. Gregory,” it read. “If I’ve told you to go ahead and read this, this is the page that I want you to throw away. You can go ahead. If I haven’t given you permission, this is where you should stop. Remember, I’m trusting you. I’ll tell you when. Bob.”

Reluctantly, I replaced both pages-the title page and the warning page-and fit the lid back onto the box.

What could be the harm of reading the damn thing?

Bob’s handwritten note had spooked me. How had he anticipated that a second caution to me about not reading his manuscript would be necessary? I decided to ask him. After checking my address book for the number, I called his home.

The phone rang and rang. No answering machine ever kicked in. As I hung up, I admitted to myself that I’d just done something that I rarely, if ever, did. I’d just tried to check in with a patient because they’d missed a session. What was my typical practice? I usually just let the issue simmer until the next scheduled appointment.

This time, that didn’t sound like a judicious plan.