flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 19
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She patted me on theshoulder and began ddling with a printer. The volunteers arrived in bunches: Go and ahalf dozen of our late mother’s friends. Five fortysomething women, all in capri pants,like they were rehearsing a dance show: two of them—slender and blond and tanned—vying for the lead, the others cheerfully resigned to second string. A group ofloudmouthed white-haired old ladies, each trying to talk over the next, a few of themtexting, the kind of elderly people who have a ba ing amount of energy, so muchyouthful vigor you had to wonder if they were trying to rub it in.
Only one man showedup, a good-looking guy about my age, well dressed, alone, failing to realize that hispresence could use some explaining. I watched Loner Guy as he sni ed around thepastries, sneaking glances at the poster of Amy.Boney nished setting up the printer, grabbed a branny-looking mu n, and came tostand by me.“Do you guys keep an eye on everyone who reports to volunteer?” I asked.
“I mean,in case it’s someone—”“Someone who seems to have a suspicious amount of interest? Absolutely.” She brokeo the edges of the mu n and popped them in her mouth. She dropped her voice. “Butto tell the truth, serial killers watch the same TV shows we do. They know that we knowthey like to—”“Insert themselves into the investigation.”“That’s it, yup.” She nodded. “So they’re more careful about that kind of thing now.But yeah, we sift through all the kinda-weirdos to make sure they’re just, you know,kinda-weirdos.”I raised an eyebrow.“Like, Gilpin and I were lead detectives on the Kayla Holman case few years back.Kayla Holman?”I shook my head: no bell.“Anyway, you’ll nd some ghouls get attracted to stu like this.
And watch out forthose two—” Boney pointed toward the two pretty fortysomething women. “Becausethey look like the type. To get a little too interested in consoling the worried husband.”“Oh, come on—”“You’d be surprised. Handsome guy like you.
It happens.”Just then one of the women, the blonder and tanner, looked over at us, made eyecontact, and smiled the gentlest, shyest smile at me, then ducked her head like a catwaiting to be petted.“She’ll work hard, though; she’ll be Little Miss Involved,” Boney said. “So that’s good.”“How’d the Kayla Holman case turn out?” I asked.She shook her head: no.Four more women filed in, passing a bottle of sunblock among themselves, slatheringit on bare arms and shoulders and noses. The room smelled like coconuts.“By the way, Nick,” Boney said. “Remember when I asked if Amy had friends in town—what about Noelle Hawthorne? You didn’t mention her. She left us two messages.”I gave her a blank stare.“Noelle in your complex? Mother of triplets?”“No, they aren’t friends.”“Oh, funny.
She definitely seems to think they are.”“That happens to Amy a lot,” I said. “She talks to people once, and they latch on. It’screepy.”“That’s what her parents said.”I debated asking Boney directly about Hilary Handy and Desi Collings. Then Idecided not to; I’d look better if I were the one leading the charge. I wanted Rand andMarybeth to see me in action-hero mode. I couldn’t shake the look Marybeth had givenme: The police definitely seem to think it’s … close to home.“People think they know her because they read the books growing up,” I said.“I can see that,” Boney said, nodding.
“People want to believe they know otherpeople. Parents want to believe they know their kids. Wives want to believe they knowtheir husbands.”Another hour and the volunteer center began feeling like a family picnic. A few ofmy old girlfriends dropped by to say hello, introduce their kids. One of my mom’s bestfriends, Vicky, came by with three of her granddaughters, bashful tweens all in pink.Grandkids. My mom had talked about grandkids a lot, as if it were doubtlessly goingto happen—whenever she bought a new piece of furniture, she’d explain she favoredthat particular style because “it’ll work for when there’s grandkids.” She wanted to liveto see some grandkids. All her friends had some to spare. Amy and I once had my momand Go over for dinner to mark The Bar’s biggest week ever. I’d announced that we hadreason to celebrate, and Mom had leaped from her seat, burst into tears, and huggedAmy, who also began weeping, murmuring from beneath my mom’s smothering nuzzle,“He’s talking about The Bar, he’s just talking about The Bar.” And then my mom triedhard to pretend she was just as excited about that.
“Plenty of time for babies,” she’d saidin her most consoling voice, a voice that just made Amy start to cry again. Which wasstrange, since Amy had decided she didn’t want kids, and she’d reiterated this factseveral times, but the tears gave me a perverse wedge of hope that maybe she waschanging her mind. Because there wasn’t really plenty of time. Amy was thirty-sevenwhen we moved to Carthage. She’d be thirty-nine in October.And then I thought: We’ll have to throw some fake birthday party or something if this isstill going on.
We’ll have to mark it somehow, some ceremony, for the volunteers, the media—something to revive attention. I’ll have to pretend to be hopeful.“The prodijal son returns,” said a nasally voice, and I turned to see a skinny man ina stretched-out T-shirt next to me, scratching a handlebar mustache. My old friendStucks Buckley, who had taken to calling me a prodigal son despite not knowing how topronounce the word, or what its meaning was. I assume he meant it as a fancy synonymfor jackass. Stucks Buckley, it sounded like a baseball player’s name, and that was whatStucks was supposed to be, except he never had the talent, just the hard wish.
He wasthe best in town, growing up, but that wasn’t good enough. He got the shock of his lifein college when he was cut from the team, and it all went to shit after. Now he was anodd-job stoner with twitchy moods. He had dropped by The Bar a few times to try topick up work, but he shook his head at every crappy day-job chore I o ered, chewing onthe inside of his cheek, annoyed: Come on, man, what else you got, you got to havesomething else.“Stucks,” I said by way of greeting, waiting to see if he was in a friendly mood.“Hear the police are botching this royally,” he said, tucking his hands into hisarmpits.“It’s a little early to say that.”“Come on, man, these little pansy-ass searches? I seen more e ort put into ndingthe mayor’s dog.” Stucks’s face was sunburned; I could feel the heat coming o him as heleaned in closer, giving me a blast of Listerine and chaw.
“Why ain’t they rounded upsome people? Plenty of people in town to choose from, they ain’t brought a single onein? Not a single one? What about the Blue Book Boys? That’s what I asked the ladydetective: What about the Blue Book Boys? She wouldn’t even answer me.”“What are the Blue Book Boys? A gang?”“All those guys got laid o from the Blue Book plant last winter. No severance,nothing. You see some of the homeless guys wandering around town in packs, lookingreal, real pissed? Probably Blue Book Boys.”“I’m still not following you: Blue Book plant?”“You know: River Valley Printworks. On the edge of town? They made those bluebooks you used for essays and shit in college.”“Oh. I didn’t know.”“Now colleges use computers, whatnot, so—phwet!—bye-bye, Blue Book Boys.”“God, this whole town is shutting down,” I muttered.“The Blue Book Boys, they drink, drug, harass people.
I mean, they did that before,but they always had to stop, go back to work on Monday. Now they just run wild.”Stucks grinned his row of chipped teeth at me. He had paint ecks in his hair; hissummer job since high school, housepainting. I specialize in trim work, he’d say, and waitfor you to get the joke. If you didn’t laugh, he’d explain it.“So, the cops been out to the mall?” Stucks asked. I started a confused shrug.“Shit, man, didn’t you used to be a reporter?” Stucks always seemed angry at myformer occupation, like it was a lie that had stood too long. “The Blue Book Boys, theyall made themselves a nice little town over in the mall.
Squatting. Drug deals. The policerun them out every once in a while, but they’re always back next day. Anyway, that’swhat I told the lady detective: Search the fucking mall. Because some of them, they gangraped a girl there a month ago. I mean, you get a bunch of angry men together, andthings aren’t too good for a woman that comes across them.”On my drive to the afternoon search area, I phoned Boney, started in as soon as shesaid hello.“Why isn’t the mall being searched?”“The mall will be searched, Nick.
We have cops heading over there right now.”“Oh. Okay. Because a buddy of mine—”“Stucks, I know, I know him.”“He was talking about all the—”“The Blue Book Boys, I know. Trust us, Nick, we got this. We want to nd Amy asmuch as you do.”“Okay, uh, thanks.”My righteousness de ated, I gulped down my giant Styrofoam cup of co ee anddrove to my assigned area. Three spots were being searched this afternoon: the Gullyboat launch (now known as The Place Nick Spent the Morning Of, Unseen by Anyone);the Miller Creek woods (which hardly deserved the name; you could see fast-foodrestaurants through the treeline); and Wolky Park, a nature spot with hiking and horsetrails. I was assigned to Wolky Park.When I arrived, a local o cer was addressing a crowd of about twelve people, allthick legs in tight shorts, sunglasses, and hats, zinc oxide on noses.
It looked likeopening day of camp.Two di erent TV crews were out to capture images for local stations. It was the JulyFourth weekend; Amy would be squeezed in between state fair stories and barbecuecooko s. One cub reporter kept mosquitoing around me, peppering me with pointlessquestions, my body going immediately sti , inhuman, with the attention, my“concerned” face looking fake. A waft of horse manure hung in the air.The reporters soon left to follow the volunteers into the trails. (What kind ofjournalist nds a suspicious husband ripe for the picking and leaves? A bad low-payjournalist left behind after all the decent ones have been laid o .) A young uniform coptold me to stand—right here—at the entry to the various trails, near a bulletin boardthat held a mess of ancient yers, as well as a missing person notice for Amy, my wifestaring out of that photo.
She’d been everywhere today, following me.“What should I be doing?” I asked the o cer. “I feel like a jackass here. I need to dosomething.” Somewhere in the woods, a horse whinnied mournfully.“We really need you right here, Nick. Just be friendly, be encouraging,” he said, andpointed to the bright orange thermos next to me. “O er water. Just point anyone whocomes in my way.” He turned and walked toward the stables. It occurred to me that theywere intentionally barring me from any possible crime scene. I wasn’t sure what thatmeant.As I stood aimlessly, pretending to busy myself with the cooler, a latecomer SUVrolled in, shiny red as nail polish. Out poured the fortysomethings from headquarters.The prettiest woman, the one Boney picked as a groupie, was holding her hair up in aponytail so one of her friends could bug-spray the back of her neck. The woman wavedat the fumes elaborately.
She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. Then shestepped away from her friends, let her hair fall down around her shoulders, and beganpicking her way over to me, that stricken, sympathetic smile on her face, the I’m so sorrysmile. Giant brown pony eyes, her pink shirt ending just above crisp white shorts. Highheeled sandals, curled hair, gold hoops. This, I thought, is how you not dress for a search.Please don’t talk to me, lady.“Hi, Nick, I’m Shawna Kelly. I’m so sorry.” She had an unnecessarily loud voice, a bitof a bray, like some enchanted, hot donkey.
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