The Boy from the Woods(14)

“His father loved the movie Bull Durham or something. Can you believe that?”

He shrugged. “When your name is Wilde…”

“Touché.”

Darkness had fallen. The lullaby of crickets played, his constant comforting companion. “I better go.”

“Wait.” Laila dug into her jeans pocket. “No need to play mountain man.” She pulled out her key fob and tossed it to him. “Take my car.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I may not be gone long.”

“I’ll be here, Wilde.”

Laila closed the door.

*



Eight months ago, when Wilde first encountered Ava O’Brien, she was living off Route 17 in a sprawling condo development of dull grays and beiges. That night, as they stumbled under popping fluorescent streetlights back to her place, Ava had made a joke about how the condos looked so much alike that she often stuck her key in the wrong door.

Wilde had no such issue. He still remembered the exact address and location.

No one answered on the first knock. Wilde knew the condo layout. He checked the window on the upper right. The light was on. That didn’t mean much. He looked for a passing shadow. Nothing.

He knocked again.

Shuffling feet. A pause. It was nearly nine p.m. now. Ava O’Brien was probably looking through the peephole. He stood and waited. A moment later he heard a sliding chain. The knob turned.

“Wilde?”

Ava wore a big terry cloth robe. He knew the robe. He had even worn it.

“Can I come in for a second?” he asked.

He tried to read her face to see whether she was happy or sad to see him. Not that it would change anything. Her expression, however, seemed mixed. There was maybe surprise. There was maybe some joy. There was also something else—something in her expression that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Now?”

He didn’t bother replying.

Ava leaned forward, met his eye, and whispered, “I’m not alone, Wilde.”

Ah, so now he could quite put his finger on it.

Her face softened. “Ah, Wilde,” she said in a voice too tender. “Why tonight?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should have left this to Hester.

“It’s about Naomi Pine,” he said.

That got her attention. She glanced behind her, stepped out onto the stoop, and closed the door.

“What about Naomi?” she asked. “Is she okay?”

“She’s missing.”

“What do you mean, missing?”

“She’s one of your students, right?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“What do you mean, she’s missing?”

“Did you notice she’s been absent?”

“I assumed she was sick.” Ava tightened the terry cloth robe. “I don’t understand. What’s your interest in this?”

“I’m trying to find her.”

“Why?” When he didn’t reply right away, Ava asked, “Did you ask her father?”

“My colleague”—easier than trying to explain about Hester—“did.”

“And?”

“He claims that Naomi is with her mother.”

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

Now Ava looked genuinely concerned. “Naomi’s mother hasn’t been a part of her life for a long time.”

“So we’ve been told.”

“How did you end up coming to me?”

“A source”—again easier—“claimed that you’re close to her.”

“I still don’t understand. Why are you looking for Naomi? Did someone hire you?”

“No. I’m doing it as a favor.”

“A favor for whom?”

“I can’t tell you. Do you have any idea where she is?”

The door behind her opened. A big man with one of those superlong beards filled the doorway. He looked at Ava, then at Wilde. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Wilde said.

He looked back at Ava. “I better be going.”

“No need,” Wilde said. “This won’t take long.”

The bearded man looked at Ava some more. Then, as if he’d seen an answer there, he nodded to himself. “Rain check?” he asked her.

“Sure.”

He kissed her on the cheek, slapped Wilde on the back, and jogged down the steps. He slid into his GMC Terrain, headed out in reverse, and waved goodbye. Wilde turned back toward Ava and considered making an apology. She waved that away.

“Come on in.”

*



Wilde sat on the same red couch where he and Ava had first kissed. He quickly scanned the room. Nothing much had changed since he’d spent those three days here with her. On one wall, there were two new paintings hung the slightest bit crookedly—one watercolor of what looked like a tormented face, one oil painting of the Houvenkopf Mountain, which wasn’t far from here.

“The paintings,” he asked. “You do them?”

She shook her head. “Students.”