He disappeared inside and returned a beat later with a folder full of waivers.
“We have sixty-five. Pretty much in order,” Cody said. “You know, in sequence of when we get them turned in. The most recent ones on top. The first ones of the morning on the bottom.”
“I get it. Thanks.”
“Hey, you promise to get those back to me, right? I’m the assistant manager here and I need to follow procedure. It’s a superimportant part of my job.”
She looked down at the papers. “I know. I’ll copy these and get them back to you before the end of the day.”
“You better,” he said.
“No worries, Cody.”
Esther walked across the hot asphalt, got inside the hot car, and immediately turned on the air-conditioning. It had to be one hundred degrees. The last gasp of summer was a scorcher. She practically melted into the seat. As she let the air flow over her face, Esther leafed through the papers Cody had given her. She removed any with female names or whose ages indicated they were children.
Carole wasn’t sure about the age of the inner-tuber she’d seen, or really anything about his physical description. “He was white,” she’d said. “I really didn’t look at him. At the time there was no reason to. He was just another vacationer floating by. Maybe in his thirties. I don’t know, maybe older. I don’t know.”
“Think. Take a second. Nothing remarkable about him?” Esther had asked.
Carole, shattered as she was, came up with one more detail, although she was hazy on it. “I think he had a U of O T-shirt on,” she had said, before adding, “but that’s about half of the floaters around here.”
As the air-conditioning cooled her, Esther identified five names that seemed like possibles among the sheaf of waivers. Their ages ranged from twenty-eight to forty-two. Three were Oregon residents, though not locals. One was from Los Angeles, the other from Dayton, Ohio. All were staying in summer rentals. All included their home addresses on their waivers.
Esther called the names in to Jake, who had returned to the office to enter more details into the national database on missing and exploited children.
“What are we looking for?” he asked.
“We need to know where they are so we can talk to them,” she said. “One of them may have seen something. Maybe they didn’t even know what it was that they’d seen or why it could be important.”
“If they saw something, then why haven’t they called us? It’s been all over the news.”
“Like I said,” she went on, “they might not have believed they’d seen anything relevant.”
“Or just maybe they’re staying quiet because of something they did see. Or something they did. Any line on the canoe guy?”
“No,” she said. “Carole couldn’t remember anything about him except that he had a dog and was listening to music. Riparian doesn’t rent canoes.”
“Canoe color?” Jake asked.
“Red.”
“Anything on it?”
“Nothing. Have PR make sure to get the word out that we’re looking for the canoe paddler who was on the river at the time with a dog.”
“Okay, I’ll work the names.”
On her way back to the office, Esther stopped at the Miller place and rang the bell, but there was no answer. The heat of one of the hottest days of the year had turned a pot of geraniums into a brittle, lifeless display. The woman next door called over from her front porch that she’d seen Dan leave for the store.
“You could set a clock by his routine,” she said. “He’ll be back soon. Like clockwork, that guy.”
Esther tucked her business card into the doorway. “If you see him, have him call me.”
“Hope you find that kid,” the neighbor said, quickly adding, “I have a scanner.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Nope. Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MISSING: EIGHT HOURS
Drake Park was Bend’s civic centerpiece, a verdant expanse next to Northwest Riverside Boulevard speckled with mature trees and highlighted by a body of water that seldom failed to live up to its namesake. Mirror Pond was created early in the last century as a hydroelectric power source for the growing high-desert city, the largest in Central Oregon. Few think of that when they gaze out at its pristine, reflective surface. They think of the beauty of nature, of the forethought of the pioneer families who settled Bend and had the presence of mind to create a gathering place for all time.
The afternoon Charlie Franklin went missing, a classic car show had commanded nearly all of Drake Park’s space along the pond. It was one of the last events of the season, with visitors from all over the state and beyond. Old Fords, Corvettes, and T-birds shimmered in the ponderosa-filtered sunlight as classic rock pummeled the scene from a temporary stage set up for the event. The band, the Rock and Rollers, segued from Steve Perry to Chuck Berry with barely a break between songs.
At first no one noticed the two divers as they geared up and went into the water. Subtlety was an asset when a city is as dependent on tourist dollars as Bend. The summer season was nearly over, then a short lull before Oktoberfest events, and then the start of the ski season. Distinct seasons and nearly guaranteed good weather were among the area’s strong suits.
“What are they looking for?” asked a woman who’d grown bored of the chrome grill on a ’57 Chevy that was mesmerizing her boyfriend.
“Dunno,” he said, scarcely looking up. “Maybe a body.”
“That’s so gross,” the young woman said, moving closer, unable to look away.
Another man, also fixated on the same old Chevy, a turquoise-and-cream-colored beauty, spoke up: “I heard some kid drowned upriver.”
“No,” she said.
“Yeah. That guy has a police scanner.” He indicated a man in a lawn chair next to his classic Mustang.
“Seriously,” she said. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Come on, Carmen,” her boyfriend said. “Let’s go get a beer.”
She stood there for a beat, watching, before leaving for that cold one.
The dive team disappeared under the shimmering surface, then a few minutes later reemerged before repeating the process. They were working in a grid, methodically searching what many considered the jewel of the city. A small crowd gathered as word got out about what was going on. In time, another pair of divers from out of the area joined in the search.
Three young white men with dreadlocks and miners’ headlamps at the ready ignored the scene and continued doing what they did every day, methodically picking through the garbage containers next to Northwest Riverside Boulevard in search of aluminum cans, mostly untouched food, and whatever else they could scrounge.
Unable to go right home, Liz Jarrett sat on a bench at the water’s edge, watching the scene. It was nearly an out-of-body experience. She couldn’t feel her legs. She could barely breathe. A little girl looked at her as though she were a wax figure in a California tourist town. She couldn’t go home just then, although she knew she had to.
Instead, she sat there as the divers searched for something they’d never find.
While she was remembering what she had done.