The Drowning Child

‘Do they believe he had help from someone in BRCI before he ever got to the hospital?’ said Ren.

Ruddock nodded.

‘Any incidents between him and John Veir?’ said Ren.

‘Nothing we know about,’ said Ruddock.

‘Could we take a look at the Veirs’ questionnaires?’ said Gary.

‘Sure,’ said Ruddock. ‘I’ve got them right here.’

He handed them the forms that every parent of a missing child fills out as soon as they make the initial report. Gary and Ren scanned them.

John Veir, fifty-seven years old; born and raised in Tate, Oregon; joined the military in 1977, US Navy – 00D, married Teddy Veir in 2000; did one tour in Afghanistan; three tours in Iraq; one son – Caleb, born 2004; left the military in 2009, worked in different businesses around Tate, employed as a corrections officer in BRCI since 2010; mother deceased, father living in Madison, Wisconsin; one sister – Alice Veir, lawyer, living in Spokane, Washington.

Teddy Veir, fifty-four years old; born and raised in Tate, Oregon; married John Veir in 2000; one son – Caleb, born 2004; works part-time in Gemstones, Tate, suffers from anxiety, no family living in the US, but has a brother and sister-in-law in Australia.

‘What’s 00D?’ said Ren.

‘Double-oh Delta,’ said Gary. ‘He was a navy diver.’

Part of the questionnaire asked parents to name anyone they might want law enforcement to take a look at; anyone who might have given them a bad feeling or may have an issue with the family.

‘Teddy Veir’s written the names of five men she thinks we should take a look at,’ said Ren. ‘And John Veir has ten.’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, some of his include former inmates at BRCI,’ said Ruddock. ‘We’re going through the list.’ He glanced at his wall clock. ‘The press conference is about to start. Let’s walk.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I was wondering – I saw a couple of black ribbons on the trees on the drive in …’

‘That’s not about Caleb,’ said Ruddock. ‘Two young boys died here – one in January, one last month.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren. ‘What happened to them?’

‘Aaron Fuller – he was only eleven years old – drowned in Lake Verny. And a couple of weeks later, little Luke Monroe choked on a sandwich,’ said Ruddock. ‘Seven years old.’

Jesus. ‘That’s heartbreaking,’ said Ren.

‘And in such a small community,’ said Ruddock. ‘And now this …’

‘Well, let’s hope there’s a favorable outcome to this,’ said Ren.

The conference room was packed with police officers, reporters, photographers, Tate residents. Three tables were lined up at the top of the room. Mounted behind them on a whiteboard at the center was the Missing poster of Caleb Veir, blown up to four feet by three feet. There were twenty rows of chairs, divided by a central aisle. Gary and Ren stood toward the front, close to the wall, neither aware that they were in the exact same pose – arms folded, stiff, frowning.

Ren turned to Gary. ‘What a sad little face that boy has. There’s pain in those eyes.’

Ruddock walked over to them. ‘We’ll be starting soon.’

A man appeared suddenly in front of them, no hellos, no introductions, no eye contact with anyone. He had a buzz cut, a scowl, and flaming red razor burn on his neck.

‘Just so you know,’ he said to Ruddock, ‘both parents have refused to take polygraphs.’

What an extraordinary voice. Like it’s being scrambled.

Ruddock turned to Ren and Gary, irritated. ‘This is Lieutenant Gil Wiley – FBI agents, Ren Bryce and Gary Dettling from CARD.’

Ah, the sharp upward nod, thank you, Mr Wiley.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ren, shaking his hand. Gary stayed silent but shook Wiley’s hand. Wiley said nothing to either of them.

Ren looked at Ruddock. Beneath the endearing, doughy face, his jaw was tight.

5 (#ulink_53031b36-e6b9-52d9-a491-ab2f5c0f123d)

Shannon Fuller gripped the edge of the bar like she was about to do a push-up, her head bent over the newspaper, her broad back hunched. She stared at the photo of Caleb Veir under the headline MISSING FROM TATE. Her chest tightened. She thought of her son, Aaron, and how he had been in the lake in the pitch-black all night. But his body had gotten lodged in a shallow spot, where the water was clear, so he was found. He wasn’t MISSING. She was lucky.

Lucky … her only child, found under an icy, glassy surface, like a sleeping beauty who might wake up. But it was better than being down in the grim depths, rock bottom, decomposing, flesh falling from his bones. A shiver crawled up her spine. She reached out to grab a cloth, a pen, a beer mat, anything to take her mind along a different path – another useless pursuit. So many useless pursuits.

She’d replayed that evening on a loop ever since. Aaron had been at his middle school dance, she had been in The Crow Bar alone, feeling sorry for herself, drinking herself into oblivion, crying into beer after beer after beer. She had chased it all down with a row of shots to remind her of times when a broken heart was something other people got. She had staggered into the house behind the bar, fallen asleep on the sofa, never knew her baby hadn’t made it home.

She sucked in a breath, stood up straight, shoulders back, head high. She figured all bars were a desolate place in the early morning, but when she bought The Crow, she thought that would change. It didn’t. And, now, without Aaron, the desolation had seeped into every cell of her body too; she felt a part of the bar, as worn as the timber, as faded as the drapes, as stained as the surfaces.

She remembered walking into The Crow Bar seven years earlier, with four-year-old Aaron, and sixteen-year-old Seth, who she could feel was already pulling away from her, already worrying her with his behavior, and his friends, and his recklessness. Her sweet, handsome, loving, affectionate little nephew had turned into someone she couldn’t understand. He had effectively been her son since he was eight years old, when her sister, Jessie, was killed in an instant by a brain aneurysm. Seth’s father had OD’d when he was six months old, and the only family he had left was Shannon who had always adored him, and adored him still, even in this troubled teenage incarnation. She wanted to give Seth everything her sister had dreamed of for him.

Shannon hadn’t known that Jessie had been saving for years, and along with her insurance policy, had left Shannon quite a large sum of money. Shannon had added to it, and by the time the battered and abandoned thirty-five-year-old Lake Verny resort was put up for sale, at its knock-down price, she could afford to buy it. It made sense to her: she had spent time there as a child, she worked in a bar, Aaron loved the water, and Seth used to love it. He used to be a champion little swimmer, and Shannon wanted to reintroduce him to what was once his passion. She also wanted to employ people in town, bring business to Tate, she wanted to do good in Jessica’s honor. That day, she said yes to the real estate agent, yes to the Lake Verny Resort with its twenty brokedown cabins, yes to The Crow Bar, and yes to years and years of struggling to make ends meet. But she also said yes to something that brought her joy … until now.

In the six weeks since Aaron had died, along with thoughts of beautiful boy, along with her tears and her paralyzing grief, she was struck with hot stabs of shame when she thought of how she must have looked to Pete Ruddock and Gil Wiley that morning, captured, as she was, like a shabby Polaroid with Bad Mom scrawled on the white strip underneath – hanging out of the doorway of a bar, puffy-eyed, messy-haired, liquor-soaked, unaware of her only child’s whereabouts, neglectful, undeserving, trash.

Tears slid down her face. She thought of her pain, she thought of John Veir’s, she thought of Teddy’s. She pictured Gil Wiley and Pete Ruddock walking up to the Veirs’ front door, as they had walked to hers, with their white faces and their terrible news.

Then, for a guilty moment, Shannon thought of John Veir and how his hands felt on her body, how his lips felt against hers, how she loved him, how she feared she always would.

They had gone their separate ways before, found their way back to each other, until the last time – the time that sent her diving, heartfirst, into an alcohol haze. Now here they were, through tragedy, entwined again.

6 (#ulink_2b036554-4c30-59b2-8851-908e19ec2783)

Ruddock appeared at the top of the conference room and silence fell. He paused to guide John and Teddy Veir ahead of him. John Veir pulled out the chair for his wife as he passed. He was a muscular, hard-looking man with a stern face, thick eyebrows and a solid jaw that he was clenching and unclenching. His wife was a delicate skinny-limbed woman. She had clear skin, huge brown eyes, and wavy light-brown hair. She shifted in her seat, pulling her cardigan closed over a floral blue-and-yellow shirt dress, holding her hand there in a white-knuckle grip.

You fragile thing. This environment is all wrong for you. But is this you as you always are or you as the mother of a missing child?

When the Veirs were settled beside the photo of Caleb and their three faces were lined up in a row, Ren could see that though Caleb had his mother’s eyes, the steel in them came from his father. John Veir’s stare was moving around the room like a drunk looking for a fight.

Ruddock tapped the microphone, once, twice, and started to speak.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said. ‘We’re here today to appeal for information on the whereabouts of Caleb Veir, who has been missing from his Burton Street home in Tate since seven forty-five yesterday morning. Caleb is five feet tall, weighs one hundred pounds, and is of medium build. This photo beside me was taken two weeks ago. Yesterday, Caleb was wearing the same gray Puffa jacket, blue denim jeans, a navy-blue long-sleeved sweatshirt with a red-and-gray graphic print, and white-and-red Nike sneakers. You will find photographs of all these items of clothing pinned to the noticeboard at the back of the room.’

Teddy Veir was rigid, her elbows pressed tightly to her body, her ankles crossed underneath the table.

‘To my right here are Caleb’s parents,’ said Ruddock. ‘John and Teddy Veir. Teddy would now like to say a few words.’