Nathan, ashamed, corrects: “Actually, it’s Jane, my youngest. But I think I know where she is.”
At this moment the detective should tell Nathan to call 911. He should make this official, but he cannot begin the process again. He needs to believe that Nathan knows where his daughter is. The wind has died down. He says, “Why don’t I go look for her?”
Nathan says, “Thank you, thank you. I would go look myself, but…”
And the detective waits, then finishes the sentence for him. “No, you should stay at the house in case she comes home.”
Nathan says, “Right. That’s what I thought too.”
Nathan Palm says that Jane’s trying to go to the beach where they found the missing boy. That takes the detective aback. Nathan admits that Jane has become a little involved with the case. He’s seen his daughter talking to someone who’s not there. And he found a window on the desktop with subway directions to Coney Island.
The detective says, “Hang on.” He puts on a raincoat. Walter makes horrible noises from under the bed. It must be the storm, the detective thinks. That or he’s finally dying. Before he leaves, he opens wide the bathroom window, the one without a screen.
The detective jogs outside to his car, clearing branches out of the way. He’s had enough of missing children, so he’s going to fix this before it begins. He’s happy to take this responsibility away from the father, because this father can’t keep his kids safe. He can’t keep his wife. This is the father’s fault, and if Nathan were a better man, none of this would have happened. If the missing boy’s mother had been a better mother, her kid wouldn’t have died. He’s disgusted by parents, and will sort their messes for them. Still, even in his proactive mania, he believes that Jane will be the next one to vanish. What would the city do for her if she was gone? It would bleed; it would tear its hair out. And what will happen to him? No one can ever learn that he failed to report a missing child. It won’t matter, he tells himself, because he is going to find Jane Palm. Jane Palm is not missing. The subway doors close on Marion Palm repeatedly.
The detective drives to the train station closest to the Palm brownstone. Nathan believes this is where Jane would begin her journey, as this is the train station she is most familiar with. The detective parks the car. He locks it, even though he doesn’t have to. This is the safest neighborhood in Brooklyn. He jogs down the steps into the dark train station. An odd sight to have this part of the city be still. He calls out Jane’s name and explains who he is. He says, “We talked before.” He says, “Your father asked me to come get you.”
The subway turnstiles are all gated shut, so there’s no way she could get into the actual tunnel, he tells himself. She’s not in any real danger. He thinks about repostering the city anyway. He thinks, Don’t think about that. It’s done now.
“Jane!” he yells. The name echoes back to him, and even though she couldn’t be in the train tunnel, he waves his flashlight beyond the turnstiles into the dark abyss of the nonfunctioning station. He sees movement, but when he focuses the light, he realizes it’s the movement of rats crawling out from the tracks. No humans deter them from the platform to scavenge for food. It’s also the hurricane. The rats feel it, just like Walter does, even though the storm has passed. He can’t look for long because it’s a revolting sight. Nothing should move like that. He turns, and the beam of light catches the girl in the face and she holds her hands up.
“Jane? Is that you?” the detective says. “Your father is worried about you.”
“I need to go to the beach,” she says. “But I couldn’t get by all the rats.”
“They shut the trains down. It would have been a long walk.”
“He’s alone.”
“Let’s take you home.”
“I don’t want to go back there.”
The detective needs to put some distance between himself and the rats, so he picks up the girl and carries her out of the train station. She’s kicking and punching, trying to wriggle away from him.
“Christ,” he says. “Can I put you down? Will you run away?”
From Jane’s silence, he infers that she will. He huffs to his car and must put her in the back with locked doors, as if she is a suspect. Inside the car, in the front seat, as he catches his breath, he wants to tell her that her mother is safe, but he can’t because he’s not sure. Instead he asks some mandatory questions: “Is there a reason why you don’t want to go home? Has anything bad happened to you?”
“No, nothing bad.”
“Do you feel unsafe?”
Jane shakes her head.
“Your father is worried about you—he misses you.”
“I don’t care,” Jane says. “I want to go to the beach. My friend is there.”
And the detective has had enough.
“Your friend is not there. Your friend is in the morgue and he’s going to be buried soon, so his mother can have some peace.”
Jane shakes her head; no, that is not her friend. The detective exhales and starts the car. The stubborn eight-year-old has made up her mind, and why should he try to change it? He’ll take her back to her father. It’s really not his problem.
Hurricane Dinner
Sveyta makes her phone call to her friend and gives the name. She says the last name in English and in Russian. Explains, “Like the palm of a hand.” From the background, Marion helps: “Like the trees in Hollywood.” Sveyta turns to her, surprised that she understood the Russian. Marion is nonchalantly sipping her wine, doesn’t know that she’s betrayed anything. Sveyta translates Marion’s suggested phrase into Russian. Her friend understands.
She hangs up and begins to prepare dinner for herself and Marion. The storm seems to be moving on, but neither woman checks the weather. They both want to watch from the window. Sveyta’s making blinis with the good canned caviar she bought and a dollop of sour cream. She makes blini after blini until she hears back from her friend.
“Whatever you do, don’t let her leave.”
“Why?” Sveyta asks in Russian, though aware that Marion seems to understand.
“There’s a problem. Some money is missing.”
“From the apartment?”
“No, from one of the daughters’ savings account. And other people are looking for her. A private school in Brooklyn Heights. They published an ad in the Bay News. We’re following up.”
Sveyta looks at the frumpy woman in her kitchen, middle-aged too soon, her shoes ugly, her skin sagging where it should not sag.
“Really?”
“Don’t let her go anywhere.”
Sveyta will make more blini.
Marion’s Fate
Anna receives a phone call from the private investigator while she’s driving Ginny back to her father’s house. She texts at a stoplight for him to call her in ten minutes. When she pulls up in front of the Palm brownstone, she waves to Nathan, who stands in the door frame. Ginny slinks from the street to the house and disappears inside. The PI calls again, and Anna picks up this time.