Lance scanned the page Harold had been looking at, and then flipped open the ledger to Gerald Rhinelander’s last week of entry dates. “What does ANN stand for?” Lance asked, sliding the ledger over to Harold and pointing at entries in the notes column. A full week’s worth of the abbreviation had been entered in line with Gerald’s name and then had ceased, along with the name itself.
“Absent, no notice, I believe,” Harold said. At this, the historian reached across the table to where the tray lay and pulled an envelope that Lance hadn’t noticed from it. “I found this with the other documents about his disappearance. It was actually the photo his ex-wife provided for the police when she filed a missing-person report.”
Lance opened the envelope and pulled a dull photograph from within. It had the odd colors and shades characteristic of a picture from the late sixties. Gerald stood leaning on the front fender of a classic Mustang, his smile radiating the happiness he must have been feeling at the time. The license plate read 189-GRR.
“I remember him driving that car,” Harold said. “He was so proud of it. He bought it new off the line back in ’67. He said it was meant for him since it had his initials on the license plate.”
Lance stared at the picture. The man leaning so casually on his machine. The sleek shape of the muscle car, its radiant blue color apparent even in the old photo.
Lance remembered Harold’s description from before. Nothing had been touched in Gerald’s home, his wallet left behind as if he hadn’t planned on being gone long. It was as if he and his car had been picked up and pulled straight from the earth, plucked from existence without remorse.
“What happened to his ex-wife?” Mary asked, her coffee untouched on the table before her.
“She left town about a year after Gerald’s disappearance. I’m not sure what happened to her after that,” Harold answered.
Lance looked around the basement. His spine hurt from sitting in the hard-backed chair, and despite the empty cup of coffee in front of him, he still felt his eyelids drooping.
He rose from the table and began placing the ledgers into the box. “Would you mind if I took these home with me? I’d like to look through them a little more, if that’s possible.”
Harold’s face only held a sliver of reserve before he smiled and nodded. “Go right ahead, they’re not doing any good sitting down here in the dark.”
A few minutes later Lance slid the box into the back of the Land Rover while Mary stood a few paces away, leaning against her Honda. Harold had locked the door of the historical society and bustled off shortly thereafter, murmuring that Josie would be worrying about him. The failing fall sunlight still felt warm on Lance’s back as he shut the rear hatch of the SUV. Shadows were beginning to freckle the street, the outlines of cars and trees taking on sinister, elongated shapes. Lance stepped away from his car and looked at Mary.
“So, anything you want to tell me?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrows at him.
Lance frowned. “Like what?”
“Like whatever’s been bothering you since I set foot in that basement? I could see it on your face between your questions earlier.” She paused, waiting. “You can tell me.”
Lance looked away, toward the blank eyes of the building they had exited. He hadn’t realized his anxiety had been so transparent during their meeting in the basement. The events of the night before had taken their toll on him, and he realized now that he wasn’t in any shape to absorb what had happened while maintaining a steadfast fa?ade.
“I had a nightmare last night, that’s all,” Lance said, looking back at her.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” he lied, hating every second of it. He watched Mary’s face for a challenge to what he’d said. In actuality, it hadn’t been a complete lie, just a half-truth, but he could live with it if it meant keeping Mary out of the reach of the cold hands that had grasped his flesh the night before.