Chapter Thirteen

We drive in silence for a few minutes.

I want to say something to Augie. I want to apologize for unearthing what he’d worked so hard to bury. I want to tell him that I’m going to turn around, that I’m going to drop him back off at the station, that I can handle this entirely on my own. I want to tell him to call Yvonne and maybe give it one more try and forget I said anything about his dead daughter.

But I don’t.

Instead I say, “My theory isn’t adding up anymore.”

“How’s that?”

“My theory—if you want to call it that—was that this all has to do with what happened to Leo and Diana.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Augie deflate. I push on.

“I figured that it has something to do with that Conspiracy Club. Six possible members that we know of—Leo and Diana—”

“We don’t know Diana was a member.” There is a snap in his voice, which I completely get. “She wasn’t wearing one of those silly pins in the yearbook.”

“Right,” I say slowly, carefully. “That’s why I said possible members.”

“Fine, whatever.”

“If you don’t want me to talk about this—”

“Do me a favor, Nap. Just tell me what’s now wrong with your theory, okay?”

I nod. As the two of us get older, we get more equal. But Augie is still the mentor, I the mentee. “Six possible members,” I say again. “Diana and Leo—”

“—are dead,” he says. “So is Rex. That leaves Maura, who was at the scene of Rex’s murder, that cardiologist out west—”

“Beth Fletcher née Lashley.”

“And Hank,” Augie says.

“And he’s the problem,” I say.

“How so?”

“Three weeks ago, before Rex was murdered, someone posted that viral video of Hank. Then Hank goes missing. Then Rex gets killed. I don’t see how there can be a connection. Whoever posted the video—that was a random thing by a school parent. That can’t be connected to the old base or the Conspiracy Club, right?”

“Seems unlikely.” He rubs his chin with his right hand. “May I make an observation?”

“Shoot.”

“You want this too much, Nap.”

“And you don’t want it enough,” I fire back, which is a dumb thing for me to say.

I expect and deserve fireworks. Instead Augie chuckles. “Anyone else, I’d punch them in the mouth for that.”

“That was out of line,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I get it, Nap, even if you don’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You aren’t just in this because of Leo and Diana,” he says. “You’re in it for Maura.”

I just sit and let the words sting.

“If Maura hadn’t run off, you’d have been able to put Leo’s death behind you. You’d have questions, of course, like I do. But that’s the difference here. Whatever answer we come up with, even if it changes what we know about Leo and Diana, it doesn’t really change anything for me. My daughter’s dead body will still be rotting in that cemetery. But for you”—there is a deep sadness in Augie’s voice, and I think it may be pity for me—“for you, there’s Maura.”

We pull up to the gate in front of the condo development. I shake it off. Focus. Concentrate.

It is easy to poke fun at these sorts of real estate developments—the placid sameness, the lack of any sense of individuality, the snap-together structuring, the overly orchestrated landscapes—but I’ve thought of moving into one ever since I reached adulthood. The idea of paying one monthly maintenance fee and doing no exterior work appeals to me. I hate to mow the lawn. I don’t like to garden or barbecue or do any of the classic homeownership rites of passage. I wouldn’t care in the slightest if the exterior of my home looked exactly the same as my neighbors’. I don’t even feel any special connection to the physical structure where we were raised.

You, Leo, would stay with me wherever I would go.

So why don’t I move?

I’m sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with that one, but I don’t think the answer is that deep. Maybe it’s easier to stay. Moving is an effort. Classic science: A body at rest stays at rest. I don’t buy that explanation, but it’s the best I’ve got.

The condo guard is armed with nary a nightstick. I flash my badge at him and say, “We’re here to see Tom Stroud.”

He studies the badge, hands it back to me. “Is Mr. Stroud expecting you?”

“No.”

“Do you mind if I call and let him know you’re here? I mean, it’s kinda policy.”

I look at Augie. Augie nods. I say, “No problem.”

The guard places the call. He hangs up, gives us directions to make the second left past the tennis courts, and sticks a parking pass on the windshield. I thank him and drive.

Tom Stroud is standing by an open door as we pull up. It’s odd when you see the echo of the son in the father. There is no doubt he’s Hank’s father, but in a bizarre-world way. Yes, he’s obviously older, but he’s also better dressed, shaved, groomed. Hank’s hair sticks up as though it’s a science experiment gone wrong. His father is perfectly coiffed, the gray slicked down and parted by a divine entity.

As we open our car doors, Tom Stroud is wringing his hands. He rocks back and forth. His eyes are a little too open. I glance at Augie. He sees it too. This is a man expecting bad news, the worst sort of news. We have both delivered news of that sort—and, of course, we’ve both been on the receiving end.

Tom Stroud takes a shaky step forward. “Augie?”

“We don’t know where Hank is,” Augie says. “That’s why we’re here.”

Relief floods his face. His son is not dead. Tom Stroud ignores me and heads toward Augie. He opens his arms and embraces his old friend. Augie hesitates for a second, almost recoiling in pain, before relaxing and hugging him back.

“It’s good to see you, Augie,” Tom Stroud says.

“Same, Tom.”

When they let go, Augie asks, “Do you know where Hank is?”

Tom Stroud shakes his head and says, “Why don’t you come inside?”

—

Tom Stroud makes us coffee with a French press.

“Doris liked to use one of those K-Cup machines, but I think the coffee ends up tasting like plastic.” He hands me a cup, then Augie. I take a sip. It’s excellent, by the way—or maybe it’s my Francophile bias popping up again. Augie and I sit on stools in the small kitchen. Tom Stroud stays standing. He looks out a window that faces a building that looks exactly like this one.

“Doris and I got divorced when Hank was ten. The two of us, Doris and me, we started dating when we were fifteen. That’s too young. We got married when we were still in college. I ended up working for my dad. He manufactured pallet nails and staples. I was third generation. The factory was in Newark when I was a kid, until the riots. Then we moved it overseas. My job, it was the most boring job in the world. At least that’s what I thought at the time.”

I look at Augie. I expect an eye roll, but Augie is either faking paying attention to keep the guy talking or he’s genuinely moved by his old friend’s story.

“Anyway, I’m in my thirties, I hate my job, we’re not doing well financially, I’m getting old before my time and I’m miserable and . . . it’s all my fault. The divorce, I mean. You reach an edge and then you step off and you just keep tumbling down. Doris and I fought. We started to hate each other. Hank, my ‘ungrateful’ son, started to hate me too. So you know, the hell with them, right? I moved far away. Started a fish-and-tackle business with a gun range in the back. I tried to come back a few times, visit Hank. But he was just sullen when I came around. A pain in the ass. So why bother, you know? I got married again, but it didn’t last. She left me, no kids this time, no big deal, neither of us ever really thought it was forever. . . .”

His voice drifts off.

“Tom?”

“Yeah, Augie.”

“Why did you come back?”

“I’m out there in Cheyenne. I’m living my life, doing my thing. Then Doris calls and tells me she has cancer.”

There are tears in his eyes now. I look at Augie. He’s close to welling up too.

“I catch the next flight back here. Doris and me, we don’t fight when I get back. We don’t talk about the past. We don’t rehash what happened or even ask why I’m back. I just move back in. I know that makes no sense.”

“It makes sense,” Augie says.

Tom shakes his head. “So much waste. A lifetime of it.”

No one says anything for a moment. I want to move on, but this is Augie’s play now.

“We had six healthy months and then six not-so-healthy months. I don’t call them ‘good’ or ‘bad’ months. They’re all good if you’re doing the right thing. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Augie says. “I know what you mean.”

“I made sure Hank was here when Doris died. We were both with her.”

Augie adjusts himself on the stool. I stay very still. Tom Stroud finally turns away from the window.

“I should have called you, Augie.”

Augie shakes it off.

“I wanted to. I really did. I was going to call, but . . .”

“No need to explain, Tom.” Augie clears his throat. “Does Hank ever come by?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I’ve been thinking about selling this place. Putting the money in a trust for him. But I think the condo gives Hank some semblance of stability. I try to get him help. Sometimes . . . sometimes he’s fine. Which makes it almost worse. Like he gets a glimpse of what his life could be and then it’s snatched away.”

Tom Stroud looks toward me for the first time. “You went to school with Hank?”

“I did, yes.”

“Then maybe you know this already. Hank is ill.”

I give him a small nod.

“People don’t get it’s an illness. They expect Hank to behave a certain way—to get over it or snap out of it or something—but it’s like asking a man with two broken legs to sprint across a field. He can’t.”

“When was the last time you saw Hank?” I ask.

“It’s been a few weeks, but it’s not like his visits are consistent.”

“So you weren’t worried?”

Tom Stroud hems on that one. “I was, and I wasn’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning even if I was, I didn’t really know what I could do about it. Hank’s an adult. He’s not committed. If I had called you guys, what would you have done?”

There is no need to answer. It’s obvious.

“Did Hank show you the video someone took of him in the park?” I ask.

“What video?”

I take out my mobile phone and play it for him.

When it is over, Tom puts his hand to his face. “My God . . . who posted that?”

“We don’t know.”

“Can I . . . I don’t know . . . can I issue a missing person’s report for Hank or something?”

“You can,” I say.

“Then let’s do that. Augie?”

Augie looks up at him.

“Find my boy, okay?”

Augie gives a slow nod. “We’ll do our best.”

—

Before we leave, Tom Stroud leads us to a room his ex-wife set aside for Hank.

“He never stays here. I don’t think Hank’s been inside this room since I’ve been back.”

When he opens the door, you can smell the stale. We step in and see the far wall, and I just turn to look for Augie’s reaction.

The wall is blanketed with black-and-white photos, newspaper clippings, and aerial shots of the Nike missile base in its prime. The material is mostly old, the photos rolling in on the corners, the clippings yellowing like tobacco-stained teeth. I scan for something recent or maybe something that I couldn’t just find routinely online, but I don’t see anything special.

Tom notices us staring. “Yeah, I guess Hank was pretty obsessed with that old base.”

Again I glance at Augie. Again Augie is having none of it.

“Did Hank ever say anything about it to you?” I ask.

“Like what?”

I shrug. “Like anything?”

“Nothing that made sense.”

“How about stuff that didn’t make sense?”

Tom Stroud looks over at Augie. “You think this base has something—?”

“No,” Augie says.

Tom turns back to me. “Hank just ranted about it. You know the kind of crazy stuff—they were keeping secrets, they were evil men, they were doing mind experiments.” A sad smile comes to his face. “Funny.”

“What?” I say.

“Well, not funny, but ironic. Like I said, Hank was really obsessed with the place. Even as a kid.”

He hesitates here. Augie and I say nothing.

“Anyway, Doris used to joke that maybe Hank was right—maybe some secret lab did do weird experiments at the base. Maybe one night, when Hank was a little kid, he walked up that path and the bad guys grabbed him and did something to his brain and that’s why he’s like he is now.”

The room is silent. Tom tries to laugh it off.

“Doris was only joking,” Tom says. “Gallows humor. Something like this happens to your kid, you grasp at any straw, you know?”