Gus spent the balance of Wednesday afternoon posting more flyers. He made a special point of hitting restaurants Beth used to visit, her workout gym, her grocery store, her favorite shops. All those details came from Carla. She had called him on his cell phone, just to make it clear that she would be picking up Morgan from school. Morgan wanted it that way.
Gus didn't argue. He knew he had to talk with his daughter, and staying busy all day was perhaps a way of postponing further rejection. He wasn't sure what to tell her yet. He would deny ever abusing her mother, of course. But that wouldn't go far enough. He needed answers to the questions she would naturally ask. Was Mommy coming back? When? Where had she been all week? Was she safe? By nature, Gus hated any meeting or conversation in which he didn't have all the answers figured out beforehand. He knew he was going to have to get past that if he was going to be a single parent, whether it be for the short term or the long run.
His biggest fear was that he'd say the wrong thing, only make it worse. That seemed like the kind of problem a professional could help him work out. On the quick, he found a respected child psychiatrist who agreed to squeeze him in at the end of the day. He drove halfway to Bellevue, only to find that in rush-hour traffic he was never going to make it by six-thirty. A total waste of time. He called ahead and canceled, turned the car around, and went home.
By then it was eight o'clock. Carla met him at the door. She had picked Morgan up at Bertschi, spent the rest of the day with her, fed her dinner, and--to his dismay--already put her to bed.
"Poor little darling was wiped out," said Carla. "I don't think she's sleeping well."
"Thanks for looking after her," he said as he tossed his leather jacket on the kitchen table. "With all that's going on, I can really use all the help I can get."
"Glad to do it. Morgan's like a daughter to me."
That was hardly an overstatement. With no living grandparents, Morgan had grown very fond of her Aunt Carla. Somewhere, there had to be a softer side to her. The side that wasn't totally beaten down by an abusive old boyfriend who had truly done far worse things to Carla than had ever been made up about Gus and Beth. Knowing how Carla had suffered at the hands of a manipulative brute made Gus more understanding, more forgiving of a sister who had tried to convince his own wife that no man could be trusted. It took Beth's disappearance to make him finally realize how little he'd done over the years to convince Carla he could be trusted.
"Listen, Gus. I just wanted to say, I know you haven't been to work all week. You're out there looking for Beth. Doing whatever you can." She lowered her lead and dug her hands in her jeans pockets, struggling for words. "Anyway, I was pretty ugly to you right after Beth was missing. I'm sorry about that."
"Forget it."
"No, really. You've surprised me."
He looked askance, sort of a backhanded compliment But he would take whatever he could get. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Carla."
"Could be the only nice thing."
It was funny in a way, but neither one laughed. It was pathetic, too, but they just shared the moment, the simple pleasure of brother and sister having a somewhat normal conversation.
"There's brisket in the oven if you're hungry. Morgan didn't eat much of it."
"Thanks." He glanced down the hall, then back at Carla. "I was hoping to talk to her tonight. Didn't want to let this fester too long."
"She's out. Wait till morning."
"Yeah. Probably a good idea."
Carla grabbed her coat. "Well, good night. Call me if you need anything."
"I will." He followed her to the door, opened it.
She stopped at the threshold. "When you talk to Morgan, do me a favor."
"What?"
"Be the new Gus."
He gave a subtle nod. She walked to her car and pulled away. He watched her all the way, looking away only when the glowing orange taillights were completely out of sight.
He drove well below the speed limit. Used his blinker when turning. Was courteous to other drivers, avoiding any possibility of collision. His cargo was too precious to take risks. Lifeless, but precious.
Odor was not an issue. The windowless van was filled with flowers, literally dozens of beautiful, fragrant bouquets. He'd purchased them in bulk at wholesale, most of them on the verge of dying, so they were cheap enough. If he were stopped for any reason--a traffic ticket, a broken taillight--he was just a delivery boy for some mom-and-pop florist shop. Only a trained canine could sniff out the stench of death from beneath the bed of blossoms.