Part 19 (2/2)
Nigel was smiling down at me, his gla.s.ses pinching the end of his nose.
I blinked and sat up. ”Sure.”
Blue light velveted the room. Jade was upstairs, Milton had gone home (”home,” I suspected, meant a motel rendezvous with Joalie) and Lu was sound asleep on the paisley couch, her long hair ivying over the armrest. I rubbed my eyes, stood and blearily plodded after Nigel, who'd already slipped into the foyer. I found him in the Parlor Room: walls painted mortified pink, a yawning grand piano, spindly palms and low sofas that resembled big, floating graham crackers you didn't dare sit on for fear they'd break and you'd get crumbs everywhere.
”Put this on if you're cold,” Nigel said, picking up a long black fur coat that'd been left for dead on the piano bench. It sagged romantically in his arms, like a grateful secretary who'd just fainted.
”I'm okay,” I said.
He shrugged and slipped it on himself (see ”Siberian Weasel,” Encyclopedia of Living Things, Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th ed.). Frowning, he picked up a large, blue-eyed crystal swan that had been swimming across the top of an end table toward a large silver picture frame. The frame featured not a photo of Jade, Jefferson or some other beaming relative, but the black-and-white insert it had ostensibly been purchased with (FIRENZE, it read, 7” x 91/2”). 4th ed.). Frowning, he picked up a large, blue-eyed crystal swan that had been swimming across the top of an end table toward a large silver picture frame. The frame featured not a photo of Jade, Jefferson or some other beaming relative, but the black-and-white insert it had ostensibly been purchased with (FIRENZE, it read, 7” x 91/2”).
”Poor fat drowned b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” Nigel said. ”No one remembers him anymore, you know?” ”Who?”
”Smoke Harvey.”
”Oh.”
”That's what happens when you die. Everyone makes a big deal about it.
Then everyone forgets.” ”Unless you kill a state employee. A senator, or-or a police officer. Then everyone remembers.” ”Really?” He looked at me with interest, nodding. ”Yeah,” he said cheerfully. ”You're probably right.”
Customarily, when one stopped to consider Nigel-his face, ho-hum as a penny, his fiercely gnawed fingernails, his thin, wired gla.s.ses that forever evoked the image of an insect brazenly resting its tired, transparent wings on his nose-one was hard pressed to imagine what, what, exactly, he was thinking, what was the reason for the eyes that sparked, the tiny smile, reminiscent of those cute red pencils used to mark voting ballots. Now I couldn't help but a.s.sume he was thinking of his exactly, he was thinking, what was the reason for the eyes that sparked, the tiny smile, reminiscent of those cute red pencils used to mark voting ballots. Now I couldn't help but a.s.sume he was thinking of his real real parents, Mimi and George, Alice and John, Joan and Herman, whoever they were, tucked away in maximum-security prison. Not that Nigel ever looked particularly glum or brooding; if Dad were ever permanently incarcerated (if a handful of June Bugs had their way, he would be) I'd probably be one of those kids always jaw clenching and teeth grinding, fantasizing about killing my fellow students with cafeteria lunch trays and ball point pens. Nigel did a remarkable job of remaining positive. parents, Mimi and George, Alice and John, Joan and Herman, whoever they were, tucked away in maximum-security prison. Not that Nigel ever looked particularly glum or brooding; if Dad were ever permanently incarcerated (if a handful of June Bugs had their way, he would be) I'd probably be one of those kids always jaw clenching and teeth grinding, fantasizing about killing my fellow students with cafeteria lunch trays and ball point pens. Nigel did a remarkable job of remaining positive.
”So what do you think about Charles?” I whispered.
”Cute but not my type.”
”No, I mean.” I wasn't exactly sure how to phrase it. ”What's happened between him and Hannah?”
”What-you've been talking to Jade?”
I nodded.
”I don't think anything's happened except he thinks he's madly in love with her. He's always always been madly in love with her. Since we were freshmen. I don't know why he wastes his time-hey, you think I could pa.s.s for Liz Taylor?” He set down the gla.s.s swan, twirled. The mink dutifully Christmas-treed around him. been madly in love with her. Since we were freshmen. I don't know why he wastes his time-hey, you think I could pa.s.s for Liz Taylor?” He set down the gla.s.s swan, twirled. The mink dutifully Christmas-treed around him.
”Sure,” I said. If he was Liz, I was Bo Derek in Ten. Ten.
Smiling, he pushed his gla.s.ses higher onto his nose. ”So we need to find the loot. The bounty. The big payoff.” He spun on his heel, then darted out the door, across the foyer, up the white marble stairs.
At the top of the landing, he stopped, waiting for me to catch up. ”Actually I wanted to tell you something.”
”What?” I asked.
He pressed a finger to his lips. We were outside Jade's bedroom, and though it was completely dark and silent, her door was half open. He motioned for me to follow him. We crept down the carpeted hall and into one of the guest rooms at the very end.
He switched on a lamp by the door. Despite the rose-colored carpet and floral curtains, the room was claustrophobic, like being inside a lung. The musty, forsaken smell doubtlessly was what National Geographic National Geographic correspondent Carlson Quay Meade was talking about in the account of his excavation of the Valley of the Kings with Howard Carter in 1923, in correspondent Carlson Quay Meade was talking about in the account of his excavation of the Valley of the Kings with Howard Carter in 1923, in Revealing Tutankhamen: Revealing Tutankhamen: ”I daresay I was troubled of what we might find in that eerie sepulcher, and though there was most certainly an air of excitement, due to the sickening stench, I was forced to remove my linen handkerchief and place it over my nose and mouth, proceeding thus into the cheerless tomb” (Meade, 1924). ”I daresay I was troubled of what we might find in that eerie sepulcher, and though there was most certainly an air of excitement, due to the sickening stench, I was forced to remove my linen handkerchief and place it over my nose and mouth, proceeding thus into the cheerless tomb” (Meade, 1924).
Nigel closed the door behind me.
”So Milton and I went over to Hannah's early last Sunday, before you showed up,” he said in a low, serious voice, leaning against the bed. ”And Hannah had to slip away to the grocery store. While Milton was doing homework, I went outside and took a look inside her garage.” His eyes widened. ”You wouldn't believe believe the stuff I found. For one thing, there's all that old camping equipment-but then, I checked out some of the cardboard boxes. Most of them were full of junk, mugs, lamps, stuff she'd collected, a photo too-guess she went through a serious punk phase-but one huge box only contained trail maps, a the stuff I found. For one thing, there's all that old camping equipment-but then, I checked out some of the cardboard boxes. Most of them were full of junk, mugs, lamps, stuff she'd collected, a photo too-guess she went through a serious punk phase-but one huge box only contained trail maps, a thousand thousand of them. She'd marked some with a red pen.” of them. She'd marked some with a red pen.”
”Hannah used to go camping all the time. She told us about that incident when she saved someone's life. Remember?”
He held up his hand, nodding. ”Right, well, then I came across a folder sitting right on top of everything. It was full of newspaper articles. Photocopies. A couple from The Stockton Observer. The Stockton Observer. Every single one was about a kid disappearing.” Every single one was about a kid disappearing.”
”Missing Persons?”
He nodded.
I was surprised how the reappearance of two simple words, Missing Persons, Missing Persons, could instantly make me feel so, well, could instantly make me feel so, well, disturbed. disturbed. Obviously, if Hannah hadn't launched into that hair-raising sermon about The Gone, if I hadn't witnessed her stonily reciting all those Last Seens, one by one, like some sort of severely unbalanced person, I wouldn't have been unsettled by what Nigel reported in the least. We knew Hannah, at some point in her life, had been a seasoned mountaineer, and the folder of photocopies as an isolated item didn't mean much. Dad for one, was a person with a highly impulsive intellectual mind and he was forever taking sudden explosive interest in a variety of haphazard subjects, from Einstein's early versions of the atomic bomb and the anatomy of a sand dollar, to gruesome museum installations and rappers who'd been shot nine times. But no subject matter for Dad was ever a fixation, an obsession-a Obviously, if Hannah hadn't launched into that hair-raising sermon about The Gone, if I hadn't witnessed her stonily reciting all those Last Seens, one by one, like some sort of severely unbalanced person, I wouldn't have been unsettled by what Nigel reported in the least. We knew Hannah, at some point in her life, had been a seasoned mountaineer, and the folder of photocopies as an isolated item didn't mean much. Dad for one, was a person with a highly impulsive intellectual mind and he was forever taking sudden explosive interest in a variety of haphazard subjects, from Einstein's early versions of the atomic bomb and the anatomy of a sand dollar, to gruesome museum installations and rappers who'd been shot nine times. But no subject matter for Dad was ever a fixation, an obsession-a pa.s.sion, pa.s.sion, sure; mention Che or Benno Ohnesorg and a gauzy look would appear in his eyes-but Dad did not memorize random facts and recite them in a brutal Bette Davis voice while puffing on cigarettes, his eyes whizzing madly around the room like balloons losing air. Dad did not pose, posture, cut off his own hair leaving a bald spot the size of a Ping-Pong ball. (”Life has few absolute pleasures and one is sitting back in that barber chair, getting one's hair trimmed by a woman with capable hands,” Dad said.) And Dad did not, at unantic.i.p.ated moments, fill me with sure; mention Che or Benno Ohnesorg and a gauzy look would appear in his eyes-but Dad did not memorize random facts and recite them in a brutal Bette Davis voice while puffing on cigarettes, his eyes whizzing madly around the room like balloons losing air. Dad did not pose, posture, cut off his own hair leaving a bald spot the size of a Ping-Pong ball. (”Life has few absolute pleasures and one is sitting back in that barber chair, getting one's hair trimmed by a woman with capable hands,” Dad said.) And Dad did not, at unantic.i.p.ated moments, fill me with fear, fear, a fear I couldn't put my hands on because as soon as I noticed it, it slipped through my fingers like steam, evaporated. a fear I couldn't put my hands on because as soon as I noticed it, it slipped through my fingers like steam, evaporated.
”I have one of the articles if you want to read it,” Nigel said.
”You took took it?” it?”
”Just a page.”
”Oh, great.” great.”
”What?”
”She's going to know you were snooping.”
”No way, there were fifty pages there at least. least. She couldn't notice. Let me go get it. It's in my bag downstairs.” She couldn't notice. Let me go get it. It's in my bag downstairs.”
Nigel headed from the room (before disappearing out the door he gave a sort of delighted bulge of the eyes-a silent-movie Dracula expression). He returned a minute later with the article. It was a single page. Actually, it wasn't wasn't an article, but an excerpt from a paperback published by Foothill Press of Tupock, Tennessee, in 1992, an article, but an excerpt from a paperback published by Foothill Press of Tupock, Tennessee, in 1992, Lost But Not Found: People Who Vanished Without a Trace, and Other Baffling Events Lost But Not Found: People Who Vanished Without a Trace, and Other Baffling Events by J. Finley and E. Diggs. Nigel sat down on the bed and wrapped the mink tightly around himself, waiting for me to finish reading. by J. Finley and E. Diggs. Nigel sat down on the bed and wrapped the mink tightly around himself, waiting for me to finish reading.
Violet May Martinez.
So do not fear, for I am with you; so do not be dismayed, for I am your G.o.d. -Isaiah, 41:10 41:10 On August 29,1985, Violet May Martinez, 15, vanished without a trace. She was last seen in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park between Blindmans Bald and the parking lot near Burnt Creek.
Today her disappearance remains a mystery.
It was a sunny morning on August 29, 1985, when Violet Martinez took off with her Bible study group of Besters Baptist Church in Besters, N.C. They were heading to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park for a nature appreciation trip. A soph.o.m.ore at Besters High, Violet was known by her peers as fun and outgoing and had been voted Best Dressed by the yearbook.
Violet's father, Roy Jr., dropped her off at church that morning. Violet had blond hair and was 5'4”. She was wearing a pink sweater, blue jeans, a gold ”V” necklace and white Reeboks.
The church trip was chaperoned by Mr. Mike Higgis, a favorite church leader and Vietnam Vet who'd been active at the church for seventeen years.
Violet rode in the back of the bus next to her best friend, Polly Elms. The bus arrived at the Burnt Creek parking lot at 12:30 P.M. Mike Higgis announced they'd hike the trail to Blind-mans Bald, returning to the bus by 3:30 P.M. ” 'Stand still,' ” he said, quoting the Book of Job, ” 'and consider the wondrous works of G.o.d.' ”
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