Ink and Bone(72)

“Hey,” he said. Merri could hear Claire’s voice in the background. He answered her gently. “It’s Merri.”

Is she all right? “Are you okay?” he asked, echoing his wife’s question.

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“She’s okay,” he said.

Merri listened to the covers rustling, heard their bedroom door close. She could envision their apartment as clearly as she could bring to mind her own. She could see the runner on the hardwood floor, the night light glow from the chaos of the girls’ room. He probably walked into the gourmet kitchen, the white door swinging.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. The sound of his voice calmed her. “No news. I’m sorry. I was just dreaming of Abbey.”

He breathed on the line, and she could see him. He’d be hunched over the phone, leaning against the counter, his brow wrinkled with worry. He’d be wearing a tee-shirt, some kind of flannel pajama bottom. Not like Wolf, who always insisted on sleeping naked. It’s the only time I’m ever free, he’d say. What if someone breaks in? What if there’s a fire? Merri wanted to know. That he could allow himself to be so vulnerable always annoyed her.

Blake had never touched her except as a friend—a warm embrace, a kiss on the cheek. The night they met didn’t hover between them, not really. There was no wondering: what if? It simply didn’t matter. The currents of their lives had swept them along parallel paths, close but never to touch. Neither of them could ever be unfaithful, even if they wanted to—which they didn’t. Now there was friendship, deep and abiding. Somehow that was more solid than anything else in her life.

“I saw Wolf tonight,” said Blake. “He’s a wreck.”

“He’s coming up here,” she said.

“Good,” he said. He had a kind of relief in his voice, a tone he got when Wolf managed to do the right thing. “He should. You shouldn’t be up there alone.”

The wind was wailing outside, and Merri pushed back the covers to walk over the creaky floor to the window.

“It’s snowing,” she said, peering through the curtain. The streetlamp across the road gave off a weak amber light, the flakes glittering as they fell. The sight of it filled her with dread. Abbey. The second winter.

“He asked me about that missing real estate developer,” said Blake.

This surprised Merri. It wasn’t like him to indulge Jackson that way.

“Jackson told me about it, too,” Merri said.

“Well, apparently the guy had some kind of chip in his car put there by the leasing company. It’s a new technology, allows them to locate and even disable the vehicle in the event that someone doesn’t make their payment.”

She didn’t quite know why, but she felt a little lift, a rush of hope. It was ridiculous to think this had anything to do with Abbey.

“When I got home, I made some calls,” he said. “I was debating whether to call Wolf or not. It’s probably nothing.”

“What is?”

“The leasing company released the GPS coordinates, and local police are mobilizing, probably as we speak if they’re not up there already.”

“Where?”

“About twenty miles north of The Hollows.”

“Do you have the coordinates?”

“Merri,” he said. “This probably has nothing to do with Abbey.”

“I know that,” she said. And she did know that. But then why was her whole body tingling? And why had she hired a psychic? And why had Abbey been dreaming about a monster in the woods? And why did Jackson know that something bad was going to happen that day? And why was he obsessed about the missing developer?

She thought about those pills all the time. She was thinking about them even now as she pulled on her jeans and her boots, her long-sleeve tee-shirt, and fleece, putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on the desk. Those pills that dulled her fears and her anxieties, that numbed her anger at Wolf and at herself, that quieted all the million shitty things she had to say about herself. Those pills, and the white sheet it draped over her ragged thoughts. If she had them, if she popped two in her mouth right now, in an hour she’d be sleeping or at least lying down, knowing that there was nothing she could do for Abbey, wherever she was. But she didn’t have those pills. All she had was this vibrating feeling that wouldn’t be quieted.

“What are they, Blake?”

“If I tell you, do you promise not to do anything reckless?”

She thought about it. They were too close, their friendship too strong for her to lie. “No,” she said.

He told her anyway.


*

The first time Wolf did it, it was a big nothing. Honestly, it was little more than an embellishment. Everybody did that; it was part of being a storyteller, wasn’t it? Your interviewee was somewhat less articulate than you might have hoped. You rearrange sentences so that they come closer to what the moron actually meant, so that the words on the page have more impact. It wasn’t lying, not really.

It was a piece about New Orleans after Katrina, how the city was struggling back to its feet. The article he wrote wasn’t even for a major publication, just an online travel blog called The Road Less Traveled. Wolf liked writing for them because they were light editors. They basically proofed his pieces and posted them. They paid peanuts, but the trips were always covered—air and ground transportation, and decent lodging—and they weren’t looking for the kind of fluff that trade magazines wanted. Sure, those trade assignments were plum, all expenses paid trips to spas and resorts, guided excursions, luxury treatments. It was unspoken, but it was expected that the articles written after such star treatment be complimentary. Otherwise, you no longer got invited on press trips. But there wasn’t much negative to say about five-star luxury, was there? The scallops were a little chewy? The massage therapist didn’t use enough oil?