Chapter 1
She waited until noon to phone the sheriff. At one point she drove down Pink Souder Road searching for Cliff, calling his name out the window, then returned to the cabin and waited. She pulled her mat from the closet and tried to do yoga but went to the freezer for the open carton of ice cream instead, then stared past the glass doors at the gray sky.
The sheriff arrived shortly before two o’clock. He had the sturdy look of a man who’d spent the greater part of his life working outdoors. He introduced himself as Sheriff Louden Fisk.
“And this here’s my deputy, Elmer Bogan,” the sheriff said. Even though Bogan was much younger, he was heavier, and sweating as if the eleven steps up to the cabin had been taxing.
“Hello, Sheriff,” Michelle said, extending her hand. She nodded at the deputy. “My husband didn’t come back last night. Cliff. That’s his name.”
“Where did he go?”
“Down the mountain.” Michelle pointed over the railing. “Around midnight. I was in bed. He walked out on the deck to get air, then came back in saying he saw a light down the mountain. Down there through the trees.”
“A light?” the sheriff said. “What kind of light?”
“One of those dusk-to-dawn lights,” Michelle said, feeling nervous talking to the police. She wasn’t sure why. “You know, like people have in their driveways. The kind on telephone poles.”
The sheriff nodded. “You say he went down there in the middle of the night? With a flashlight? Is he an experienced hiker? Or outdoorsman?”
“No, he’s a used car salesman.” She hadn’t intended for it to sound flip. “What I mean is . . . he’s never hiked. He’s not outdoorsy or anything.”
Deputy Bogan stood by without a word, a sprinkle of perspiration on his upper lip.
“You folks just come up on weekends and such?” the sheriff asked. “Or you live here year round?”
“No, mostly just weekends. We bought the cabin last fall,” she said. The truth was, she’d had little to do with the decision. Cliff had come home from a car auction in North Carolina with a contract for a cabin in the mountains, less than three hours’ drive from Atlanta. That had precipitated another argument. Michelle liked the idea of the cabin—they could use some time together—but she hated that Cliff hadn’t consulted her first.
“What was he wearing?” the sheriff asked.
“Uh . . . a red cap, jeans . . . and a tan jacket,” she said.
The sheriff walked to the far edge of the deck. Rain clouds stacked along the mountain peaks like enormous gray ships. A misty breeze wet the boards and railing.
“He kept saying there was a house down there and that there wasn’t supposed to be one,” she continued “Then he said he heard noises or something. I was already in bed . . . I should have paid closer attention to what he was going on about . . . but I was exhausted from the drive up.”
“I don’t see anything down there,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t either, but that’s where he said it was,” Michelle said, zipping her coat. “Down there, through all those trees and rhododendron.”
“Why would he go down there in the middle of the night?” Sheriff Fisk asked, seeming confused. “Why go down there at all? Was he vexed about something?”
Michelle tried to explain again, the entire episode sounding so ridiculous she was embarrassed recounting it—Cliff standing at the edge of the deck pointing toward noises drifting up through the bare oaks and poplars, doors shutting, wood on wood, dull shadows of sound. “Down there,” Cliff had told Michelle. “The real estate agent said there wasn’t another house in any direction for a mile,” Cliff had said, pointing down the hill. “That’s no mile. I’m not driving three hours to listen to people banging around all night. I can stay in Atlanta for that.”
Cliff’s mushrooming impatience with people, customers, and even her over the past several years had become taxing to Michelle. Cliff had never been unflappable, but it now seemed nothing could satisfy him. His irascibility worried her. It had been responsible for conflicts among his sales force, his lenders, and on one occasion, the Highway Patrol over a broken taillight.
“Can you send out a search party or something?” Michelle said.
“Well, why don’t the deputy and me take a ride down there first and see if we can’t find something,” Fisk said, adjusting his hat. “You’re welcome to join us.”
She shook her head. She’d already driven down that road several times. There was nothing there. “I’ll wait here,” she said. “In case he comes back or calls.”
The police car backed out of the driveway, made a slow arc onto the road, and headed down the mountain. As she slid the glass patio door closed, Michelle wondered what her life would be like if they didn’t find Cliff. She stood by the window recreating her days without him. Everything she’d ever wanted had involved him—family, a home, children—but her pristine vision of a perfect family life vanished as she’d learned over the years to settle. Cliff had agreed to a big family—she’d wanted at least three children—until they had Cassie. Then everything changed. He said one was enough, that he didn’t have room in his heart for another child, that Cassie was his entire world. “Remember how unsure you were before Cassie was born?” she’d told him. “And how that all changed in the delivery room, Cliff. Remember? That overwhelming rush of love you felt for our beautiful girl? Your heart has plenty of room for more children. The heart doesn’t set boundaries on love.” Cliff hadn’t responded, just turned away from her.
Boundaries on love. What a queer notion that had seemed to Michelle. Maybe she’d been wrong. She certainly felt like she’d set boundaries on her love for Cliff since his affair.
The sheriff and deputy returned shortly, but this time the sheriff came to the door by himself. The deputy waited in the police car. Sheriff Fisk shook his head. “Nothing. I was fairly certain there was no house down there below your place, only Mattie Souder’s old shack at the end of the road. But the way things are building up so fast I wasn’t sure anymore.”
“Who’s Mattie Souder?” Michelle asked, recalling the dilapidated house. She had stood outside calling Cliff’s name, afraid to go in or even knock on the door.
“Mattie hasn’t been there in years,” the sheriff said. “Not since her and Pink disappeared—Pink was her son. I thought maybe your husband might’ve holed up there if he was hurt, but there wasn’t nothing in Mattie’s old shack but mice and ringnecks.” The sheriff gave Michelle the gas pump version of the Pink Souder story.
“Pink and his wife, Isabelle, were having some marital problems. One night, Isabelle just up and disappeared. Never even said anything to her sister, Claire. So when Claire reported her missing, we put on a countywide search. State police pitched in when we came up empty. Widened the investigation. But there wasn’t much to go on, since the last person to see her was Pink. According to Claire there’d been a big argument or something, but that was it. Isabelle was gone. No witnesses. No phone call. No note. Nothing.”