"No. We kept the file open. Hell, the file's probably still open. For years we'd get reports of unidentified Jane Does from all over the country, and we'd check them out as best we could. We had her dental x-rays." He cleared his throat. "I'm just saying that it was a different time. It was a different time in the life of this town. We didn't have cell phones and email. People didn't talk to their parents every day. A lot of kids dropped out and ran off. Every other week we had a parent in here who couldn't find their kid. We'd take the report, ask a few questions, and then a few days or a week later we'd get a call. 'Little Muffy was in Denver seeing the Grateful Dead and forgot to tell us.' Or 'Junior came home and all is forgiven. We bought him a Porsche to make him feel better.'"
"And you don't think there's any way to find out what happened to her?"
Dan shook his head. "No." He leaned forward again and spoke in a low voice. "Either one of two things happened here. Either that girl wanted to run away, she wanted to leave behind her kooky mother and whatever trailer park they were living in, and she's off in Oregon or Florida living a life of some kind. It might not be a good life, but it's hers and she's living it."
"Or?"
"Or somebody killed her twenty-five years ago, and they put her body someplace no one's ever going to find it—a cornfield or the woods—and all that's left are some scattered bones, if that."
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Because it's probably true," he said. "It's almost always true in these cases."
Diana knew Dan believed in tough love, and whatever he thought about Margie Todd, he also thought about Rachel. He was sending her a message—give up, let it go, move on. Good advice in the abstract, but easier for some people to take than others.
"And you think those are the only two options?"
"I do."
"Did you do everything you could to find her?"
He paused, as if really giving the question a lot of thought. "We did, given the circumstances we had to deal with."
"You're certain?"
"Why wouldn't we have?" Dan said.
"Because, like you said, those were different times. And because Margie Todd wasn't from a rich family."
Now Dan's face flushed, a red wave that started on his cheeks and moved out to the tips of his ears. A tendon in his neck flexed, then relaxed.
"It's easy to sit on the sidelines, isn't it, Diana?" His voice remained low and level, almost without inflection. "To have no connections, to have no job even. It's easy from that perch to judge the actions of others. I hope you enjoy the view from there, even though it's a lonely one." He stood up. "I have my meeting to go to."
"Dan..."
He grabbed his coat and his hat and went through the office door, turning back to say to Diana, "You know how to find the way out."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Professor Nate Ludwig strode to the lectern in Woodard Hall, room 171, and waited while the students settled into their seats. It was the first day of the semester, and he knew mostly freshmen would be taking his class, so they were unusually sedate and quiet as the class began. Ludwig knew that in just a few weeks friendships and alliances would form, and this group of strangers before him would be acting as though they had all known each other for ten years. At that point it would be harder and harder to get and keep their attention. For this reason, Ludwig really liked the first day of class.
"Welcome to Introduction to Folklore," he said. "I'm Doctor Ludwig. I'll give you a syllabus in a moment, but first I want to cover some basics in case you're uncertain about whether you want to take this class or not." He meant the comment as a joke, but the students didn't take it that way. Give them time, he thought, they'll start laughing at jokes around week three. He knew they didn't know what to make of him anyway. His bushy beard and spectacles made him look like a typical academic, but he was also tall and broad-shouldered, with a deep voice that boomed through the room. A lot of students thought he was crazy. At least, their end of semester evaluations said so.
"Folklore, for those of you who come here with no prior knowledge of the subject, is the study of the expressive culture—and by expressive culture I mean the stories, songs, tales, legends and myths—of a particular population of people." He looked them over. "And in case you're wondering, you should be writing this down. I won't be repeating it." One hundred pairs of hands scrambled for pens and notebooks. He loved the feeling of power that comment gave him. It never grew old. "So, can we think of examples of this so-called 'expressive culture,' things that are used to pass on the traditions of a particular population?"
Silence and stares.
"Maybe, perhaps, the culture we all live in." Silence. "Our American culture."