She turned to Cliff, but he looked worried, frightened. Some part of her wanted to drive to Pink’s office to confront him, see what he would say about the cabin, the sheriff’s story.
“You never talked to Sheriff Fisk,” Cliff said. “How could he have told you anything about anyone?”
“Then how did I know Fisk’s name?” Michelle said. “And Deputy Bogan?” Now she remembered everything and realized that talking to Cliff was futile. He teared up anytime she tried to explain what had happened or asked him a question. He couldn’t listen. It was obvious he thought she was crazy. Michelle readily admitted something was amiss, but she couldn’t explain it. And she didn’t understand Cliff. She felt like she hardly knew him.
“I don’t know, Michelle,” Cliff said. “Let’s just go home.”
Michelle turned back toward the car, not waiting for Cliff. She missed Cassie. The rest of this could be figured out later. She glanced briefly back at the billboard, back at Pink Souder, then opened the door of the Rover.
Chapter 5
He would fire Clarence as soon as he got back to the office. “Put your eyeballs on that view out there, folks,” Pink said, pointing at the picture window in the living room. While his clients stared out at the mountains, nodding their heads in sync, Pink brushed mouse shit off the kitchen counters. “Goddamn you, Clarence,” he said under his breath.
“Hey, folks, let me show you the deck,” Pink said, wedging himself between the elderly couple, guiding them out with a hand on each of their backs. “Breathe that air. None finer in all of North Carolina.” The woman took a short breath, while the man ignored Pink’s inducement. His attention was on the railing, more exactly, on something between the railing and the exterior wall.
“That looks like termites,” the man said, taking a step closer to the dried mud trail between the board and the siding.
“Not in these parts, Mr. Hodges,” Pink said. “No termites up here, not at this altitude. They can’t breathe up this high.” Pink had immediately recognized the telltale sign though. He knew termites, as pesky and ornery as they were, could probably survive on the moon.
“Those are mud daubers. They build their nests out of mud, on walls, just like that one. Probably got little ones in there right now. Mud daubers are good for the place, keep the mice away. Something about their scent or something. Pheromones, I think they’re called.”
Clarence had been reading a fishing magazine one day and told Pink how injured baitfish gave off pheromones that drove bass crazy. “If we get us some of those pheromones,” Clarence had said. “We could put ’em in little spray bottles for fisherman to use on their lures. Make a million dollars. I’m not kidding, Pink. We’d become goddamn millionaires!” Pink had tried to explain to Clarence that if scientists had already figured out this pheromone business, certainly they would have bottled the shit themselves. But Pink had bigger problems right now: the old man kneeling on one leg examining the mud trail.
“Don’t get stung there, Mr. Hodges,” Pink said, trying to discourage the inspection. “They won’t harm you most of the time, but if they got young’ins in there, they could get riled.”
“Oh, Kenneth,” the wife said, “maybe you better get away from there. Besides, you’re getting your pants all dirty.”
“Mr. Souder,” the man said, using the rail to pull himself back up. “I may have spent my whole life working behind a desk, but I know a goddamn termite trail when I see one!”
Pink bent over and gave the rail a hard and steady look, even squinted his eyes and jiggled his head back and forth. He straightened slowly then nodded. “I would have swore on a truckload of gold hubcaps those were mud daubers, Mr. Hodges, but they aren’t. You were right, and now that I know, I wouldn’t sell you this property if you begged me. Now why don’t we hop back in my Suburban and I’ll show you and the missus some real properties, views that would make this dump look like swampland.”
Chapter 6
Michelle finally fell asleep on the drive back to Atlanta. When they pulled into the driveway, she rubbed her eyes and focused on the house, the green shutters, the red rock Cassie had found in Arizona on the front porch—familiar and reassuring signs. Michelle was glad to be home. She tottered a bit, unsteady from the long nap and the Xanax, as she walked to the back of the Rover. Cliff handed her a small duffle and the Playmate cooler then lurched ahead of her, pulling the big suitcase to the front porch.
“Cassie!” Michelle called as soon as she was in the door. “We’re home.” She carried the cooler to the kitchen then rushed upstairs to check on her daughter. She heard Cliff at the bar making a scotch and water. Some things never changed, she thought.
“Cassie?” she called again, knocking lightly on Cassie’s door. “Sweetie, are you sleeping?” She pushed the door open and padded slowly across the dark room toward the bed until she tripped over something. “Jesus, Cassie, you need to clean up this room.” Michelle got to her feet and rubbed her knee, the one she’d cut out in the forest. “Cassie? Sweetie, are you awake?”
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, shapes in the room grew unfamiliar. Michelle groped empty air when she reached out to switch on Cassie’s nightstand lamp. She stumbled her way back across the carpet and snapped on the overhead light. The scream that shot from her throat didn’t feel like her own.
Nothing of Cassie was left in the room. “Cliff! Come quick! Cliff!” Michelle screamed. The only piece of furniture in the room was Cassie’s dresser, pulled away from the wall, the drawers yawning open and empty. Michelle’s first thought was that Cassie had been kidnapped. But why would they take the furniture? Her clothes?
Michelle went to the closet and threw open the louvered doors. The empty space sucked her breath away—nothing but a few hangers dangling haphazardly from the bar.
“Cliff! Hurry!” She fixed her eyes on the dresser before she felt someone behind her. She spun around hoping to find Cassie, but it was Cliff who filled the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other hand holding a scotch. His eyes were locked on her, seemingly disinterested in the room. It was obvious that whatever had happened was not news to him. She could feel her head shaking back and forth but couldn’t force a sound from her throat.
Cliff sighed and glanced at the floor. “Please come downstairs, Michelle.”
“Tell me what’s going on!”
“Come downstairs with me,” he said, stepping toward her, offering his hand across the empty room.
“No. Tell me here. Tell me right now!” Michelle felt her legs grow cold and rubbery, her hands beginning to tremble. She shuffled in place giving the room another cursory look, hoping it had changed, wondering where Cassie’s bed had gone, the nightstands, the lamp. And her books, her stuffed animals, her posters of Annie Lennox and Nora Jones—where were they? Michelle felt Cliff’s hand on her arm and jerked it away.