The Searcher(23)

“She won’t notice.”

“If she does, she’s gonna know you weren’t in school.”

“She won’t care.”

“Your call,” Cal says. He sets about levering the lid back off the primer can with a screwdriver.

Trey examines the shirt, turning it over in his hands. Then he puts it on. He turns to Cal, holding up his hands and grinning: the cuffs flap, the shirt comes down past his knees, and it’s wide enough to fit about three of him.

“Looking good,” Cal says, grinning back. “Hand me those there.”

He’s pointing to the paint trays and rollers, in a corner. He bought two sets; they were cheap, and he figured they would come in handy even if the kid quit showing up. Trey has clearly never seen contraptions like these before. He inspects them and gives Cal a question-mark look, brows pulled down.

“Watch,” Cal says. He pours primer, dips the roller and rolls off the extra on the grid, then gives a patch of wall a fast going-over. “Got it?”

Trey nods and copies him, exactly, down to the little angled shake to get any drips off the roller’s edge. “Good,” Cal says. “Don’t get too much paint on there. We’re gonna do a few coats; we don’t need them to be thick. I’ll start here and do the top half, you do the bottom from over there. Meet you in the middle.”

They work easily together, by now; they know each other’s rhythm, and how to make the right space for it. The rain has eased off. The cries of geese limbering up for their long journey come to them from high up in the sky; far below, in the grass outside the window, the small birds hop and dart after worms. They’ve been painting for about twenty minutes when Trey says, out of the clear blue sky, “My brother’s gone missing.”

Cal manages to freeze only for half a second before his roller starts moving again. He would know from the tone, even if he hadn’t heard the words: this is why Trey is here.

“Yeah?” he says. “When?”

“March.” Trey is still rollering his patch of wall, meticulously, not looking at Cal. “Twenty-first.”

“OK,” Cal says. “How old is he?”

“Nineteen. His name’s Brendan.”

Cal is feeling his way, toe by toe. “What’d the police say?”

“Didn’t tell them.”

“How come?”

“Mam wouldn’t. She said he went off, and he’s old enough if he wants.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Trey’s face, when he stops painting and looks at Cal at last, has a terrible, tight-wound misery. He shakes his head for a long time.

“So what do you think happened?”

Trey says, low, “Think someone’s got him.”

“Like, kidnapped him?”

Nod.

“OK,” Cal says carefully. “You got any idea who?”

Every cell in Trey’s body is focused on Cal. He says, “You could find out.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Kid,” Cal says gently. “More than likely, your mama’s right. From what everyone tells me, people mostly do take off from here, soon as they’re old enough.”

“He’d’ve told me.”

“Your brother’s still a teenager. They do dumb shit like that. I know it’s gotta hurt, if you guys are close, but sooner or later he’ll grow up a little bit and realize it was a crappy thing to do. He’ll get in touch then.”

That stubborn chin has hardened. “He didn’t go off.”

“Any reason you’re so sure?”

“I know. He didn’t.”

“If you’re worried about him,” Cal says, “you oughta go to the police. I know your mama doesn’t want to, but you can do it yourself. They can take a report from a minor. They can’t make him come home till he’s ready, but they’ll look into it, put your mind at ease.”

Trey is looking at him like he can’t believe anyone this dumb is still breathing. “What?” Cal says.

“Guards won’t do anything.”

“Sure they will. It’s their job.”

“They’re fucking useless. You do it. You investigate. You’ll see: he didn’t go off.”

“I can’t investigate, kid,” Cal says, even more gently. “I’m not a cop any more.”

“Do it anyway.” Trey’s voice is rising. “Do the stuff you said, for finding people. Talk to his mates. Watch their houses.”

“I could do that stuff because I had a badge. Now that I don’t, no one’s gotta answer my questions. I stake out someone’s house, I’m the one who’s gonna get arrested.”

Trey isn’t even hearing him. He’s holding the roller high in a clenched fist, like a weapon. “Tap their phones. Check his bank card.”

“Kid. Even when I was a cop, it wasn’t around here. I don’t have buddies where I can call in favors.”

“Then you do it.”

“Does this place look like I have the technology to—”

“Then do something else. Do something.”

“I’m retired, kid,” Cal says, still gently, but with finality. He’s not going to leave the kid hoping. “There’s nothing I could do, even if I wanted to.”