But I can assume he wasn’t hugged a whole lot. His family didn’t pray before dinner. They didn’t go camping or snuggle together on the couch for movie night. I can assume his father never helped him with his algebra homework. I can guess that at least once, someone forgot to pick him up from school. I can guess that at some point in his life, no one was paying attention to what he watched on TV. And I can guess that he’s been smacked across the face by someone who should’ve known better, someone he trusted.
I flip through the stations on the TV: the Bulls have an off day, Illinois just got beat by the Badgers. Not a good TV night for me. Before settling on It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, I do a final run-through of the hundred-plus channels on my TV—who says money can’t buy happiness?—and, as luck would have it, come across Judge Dennett’s face, giving a press conference on the six o’clock news. “What the hell,” I snap, turning the volume louder so I can hear. You’d think the lead detective would be there, at the press conference, or at least know the damn thing was going on. But there, in my place, is the sergeant, friends with Judge Dennett ever since the judge’s stint in the D.A.’s office, long before he went into private practice. Must be nice to have friends in high places. The illustrious Eve stands by Judge Dennett’s side, holding his hand—I’m sure that was prearranged since I’ve never seen any hint of affection between the couple—with Grace beside her, giving goo-goo eyes to the camera as if this might just be her acting debut. The judge seems truly pained by his daughter’s disappearance and I’m certain some lawyer or political advisor told him what to say and what to do, down to every last, minute detail: the hand-holding, for example, or brief lapses and efforts to regain composure that I, for one, know was never lost. It’s all a sham. A journalist attempts to ask a question but is denied as the family spokesman steps in and the judge and his family are ushered off the sidewalk and into their stately home. The sergeant steps on air long enough to let the world know he’s got his best detectives on the case, as if that’s supposed to appease me, before the scene jumps to a studio on Michigan Avenue where some news anchor recaps the Mia Dennett case—flashing an image of our John Doe across the screen—before jumping to a high-rise fire on the South Side.
Colin
Before
I hate to do this, but there just isn’t any other way. I don’t trust her.
I wait until she’s in the bathroom and then follow her in with a rope. I thought about the duct tape we’d picked up in Grand Marais, but there’s no need for it. There’s no one around who would hear her scream.
“What are you doing?”
She’s standing before the sink, brushing her teeth with a finger. Terror fills her eyes, just the sight of me coming unsolicited into the bathroom with the rope.
She tries to run, but I trap her in my arms. It’s easy. She’s fragile these days; she doesn’t even try to fight. “There’s no other way,” I say and she’s raving about what a liar and an asshole I am. I tie the rope to each of her wrists, then around the base of the sink. Boy Scouts. She’s never getting out of there.
I make sure the front door is locked before I leave, and then I go.
I learned most everything I know from Scouting as a kid. My fourth-grade teacher was a leader, back when I actually gave a shit what teachers thought about me.
I can’t remember how many merit badges I earned—archery, hiking, canoeing, camping, fishing, first aid. I learned how to fire a shotgun. How to tell when a cold front was coming. How to survive outside in a blizzard. How to build a fire. I learned how to tie knots, a figure eight follow-through and a water knot and a safety knot. You never know when that might come in handy.
When I was fourteen Jack Gorsky and I attempted to run away. He was this Polack who lived down the street. We were gone for three days. We made it all the way to Kokomo before the cops found us, camping out in an all-but-abandoned cemetery beside hundred-year-old graves. They found us drunk on a bottle of Mrs. Gorsky’s vodka that Jack stuffed in a backpack on his way out the door. It was March. We’d built a fire from nothing but wood. Jack had tripped over a rock and scraped the shit out of his knee. I bandaged it up with a first-aid kit I’d brought, bandages and gauze I took from home.
I tried hunting once, with Jack Gorsky and his dad. I spent the night at their house, woke up at 5:00 a.m. the next day. We dressed in camouflage and headed out into the woods. They were professionals with all the gear, crossbows and rifles, binoculars, night vision, ammunition. I was the amateur, dressed in forest-green sweats I picked up at Wal-Mart the day before. Jack and his dad wore combat clothes from when Mr. Gorsky was in the Vietnam War. Mr. Gorsky spotted a whitetail deer. The damn thing was gorgeous, a male with antlers I couldn’t take my eyes off. It was my first time hunting. Mr. Gorsky thought I should have the first shot. It was only fair. I crouched into position and stared it down, into these black eyes that dared me to shoot.
“Now take your time, Colin,” he told me. I was sure he could see my arm shaking like a pansy. “Steady.”