Don't Look for Me(45)

Kurt had been right about Thursday nights. The lot was nearly full. Nic parked in the back.

Through the front doors, across worn, turquoise tile that matched some kind of island-themed decor, she made her way in the crowd past the registration desk to the casino. The bar was at the far wall, after rows of slot machines with people gathered around each one, playing, watching. Loud bursts of cheers came from a craps table through an archway to the right. The noise was oppressive. The air thick with cigarette smoke. Nic could not imagine her mother here. Not for an hour, let alone four days. Or a week. Or longer.

The security cameras were up high, as the police reports had described. Looking straight down, looking for acts of theft more than faces. It would be hard to spot one blond woman among the sea of humanity that now surrounded her. People had seemingly come from all over—skinny blondes in fancy dresses and heels, overweight blondes in jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers. Plenty of brunettes as well, and men wearing everything from tailored sports coats to muscle shirts.

Nic was looking for Chief Watkins. But her eyes were drawn to the women, each one pulling at her, wanting her to see her mother so she could take her home and have all of this be over.

Her phone rang when she reached the bar. She took a spare stool between two sets of couples and picked up the call.

“Sweetheart? Are you all right? Where are you?”

Nic heard the concern in her father’s voice. Yes, she was at a bar. But for once, she waved off the bartender who stopped to offer a drink.

“I’m fine. I’m just out. Meeting someone who might have information.”

“What information? Is it about the truck?” He was beginning to panic.

“No. Something else. Probably nothing.”

He waited, but Nic didn’t offer more. It was hard to hear with the noise in the room, but more than that, she didn’t want to say the words out loud.

Chief Watkins may have …

And then what? May have helped her mother disappear? Kurt Kent’s story felt absurd now.

She changed the subject.

“Dad—Evan told me you saw a fence behind the inn. He said you told him that you had to stop searching the woods because of it.”

“Why? Did something happen? Tell me!” His fear was a tinderbox. She chose her words carefully.

“No, Dad. Calm down,” she lied. It wouldn’t do him any good to picture her like that. Alone in the woods in the town where her mother disappeared.

“Okay, okay … yeah, I remember that. I went with one of the search parties. We walked straight back from the road through the property behind the inn and diner. The Booth property. We walked until we hit a fence.”

“With coiled barbed wire?”

“Yes. It was pretty tall. One of the locals said it was probably left there by the old chemical company. They thought the two properties might back up to each other. It was hard to tell how old it was. Why? What’s going on?”

Nic thought about this, about the property that might be on the other side.

“Did anyone search that property—the one on the other side of the fence?”

“I’m sure they did, sweetheart. They searched over thirty miles of land. What is this about?”

Nic fought for a way to tell him about the hole she’d found, but then she’d have to confess to going back there. Maybe she could say Roger Booth went with her …

Something caught her eye before she could decide. A man. Tall. Stout. Full head of hair.

Chief Watkins sitting down at a blackjack table.

“I have to go,” Nic said.

He started to protest but Nic hung up the phone. She clicked it to silent, then slid it back into her purse.

What now?

She watched and waited from the adjacent room.

Watkins played blackjack. Then craps. Then roulette. Laughing. Drinking. He wore a button-down shirt and loose-fitting jeans. His hair looked groomed with gel or spray. He had a more youthful look about him, like he was trying not to be the man in charge of a dying town, but a man who could be any man, from any place. Maybe he came here to pretend he was that man.

As he moved from table to table, he was greeted by other patrons, waitstaff, dealers. He was known here. And it filled him up. Nic watched from the far corner of the bar, sipping water. Wanting vodka. Desperately wanting vodka. Thinking about her father and Evan—God, Evan and his guilt and tears. Then her mother’s email—the one about her marriage and how she couldn’t accept love.

I’d rather he punch me in the face.

And the one about her fear—I can’t lose another child.

Anger stirred, then attached itself to the man who was now indulging himself without a care in the world.



* * *



Finally, Watkins got up. He was on the move. A young woman in a tight minidress and thick platform boots had sidled up next to him half an hour before, and now she was convincing him to leave. She wasn’t attractive but she’d been wearing him down. Touching his arm. His back. Laughing boisterously when he spoke. He had already bought her two martinis and a pack of cigarettes.

They walked to another table where she’d left her coat. He helped her put it on. She led him to a back door.

Shit!

Nic ran out the front entrance, then turned right to where she thought they might have exited. She saw no one as she walked around the side of the building. Then she heard it—the laughter of a woman. Drunk laughter. Then the deep voice of her companion. The voice of Chief Watkins.