Herrera peers, then looks up when a middle-aged woman comes in. He greets her by name and she returns the greeting. Then he gives the iPad back to Holly. “He looks familiar, but that’s all I can say. Those skateboard kids come in all the time. They buy candy or chips, then ride their boards down the hill to the Whip. Do you know the Dairy Whip?”
“Yes,” Holly says. “He’s missing, too. Since November of 2018.”
“Hey, you don’t think we’ve got some kind of predator in the neighborhood, do you? John Wayne Gacy type?”
“Probably not. This young man and Bonnie Dahl are probably not even related.” Although she’s finding this ever tougher to believe. “I don’t suppose you can think of any other regulars who just suddenly stopped showing up, can you?”
The woman customer—Cora by name—is now waiting to pay for an Iron City sixer and a loaf of Wonder Bread.
“Nope,” Herrera says, but he’s not looking at Holly anymore, who isn’t a customer. Cora is.
Holly can take a hint, but before moving away from the counter, she gives Emilio Herrera one of her cards. “My number’s on there. If you think of anything that might help me locate Bonnie, would you give me a call?”
“Sure,” Herrera says, and pockets the card. “Hey, Cora. Sorry to keep you waiting. What about this Covid, huh?”
Holly buys a can of Fanta before leaving. She doesn’t really want it, but it seems only polite.
Holly checks Twitter as soon as she’s back in her apartment. There is one new response, from Franklin Craslow (Christian, Proud NRA Member, South Is Gonna Rise Again). It’s brief. Ellen killed her baby and will burn in hell. Leave us alone.
Us, Holly assumes, meaning the Craslow clan from Bibb County.
She calls Penny Dahl. It’s not a call she wants to make, but it’s time to tell Penny what she now believes, that Bonnie may have been abducted. Possibly by someone in a van who was waiting for her at the former Bill’s Automotive and Small Engine Repair. Possibly by someone she knew. Holly emphasizes the may in may have been.
She expects sobs, but there are none, at least for the time being. This is, after all, exactly what Penny Dahl has been afraid of. She asks Holly if there’s a chance Bonnie might still be alive.
“There’s always a chance,” Holly says.
“Some fucker took her.” The vulgarity surprises Holly, but only for a moment. Anger instead of tears. Penny makes Holly think of a bear who’s lost a cub. “Find him. Whoever took my daughter, you find that fucker. No matter what it costs. I’ll get the money. Do you hear me?”
Holly suspects that tears will come later, when what Holly has told Penny has had a chance to sink in. It’s one thing to have the worst fear a mother can feel locked inside; it’s quite another to hear it spoken aloud.
“I’ll do my best.” It’s what she always says.
“Find him,” Penny repeats, and ends the call without saying goodbye.
Holly goes to the window and lights a cigarette. She tries to think of what her next step should be and comes to the conclusion (reluctantly) that right now she doesn’t have one. She knows of three missing people and feels their disappearances are related, but in spite of certain similarities, she has no proof of that. She’s at a dead end. She needs the universe to throw her a rope.
That evening Jerome calls from New York. He’s excited and happy, and why not? The lunch went well, the check duly handed over. His agent will deposit it to his account (minus her fifteen per cent), but he actually held it in his hand, he tells her, and ran his fingers over the embossed numbers.
“I’m rich, Hollyberry. I’m freaking rich!”
You’re not the only one, Holly thinks.
“Are you also drunk?”
“No!” He sounds offended. “I had two beers!”
“Well, that’s good. But on this one occasion, I suppose you’d have a right to get drunk.” She pauses. “As long as you didn’t get all sloppy and vomit on 5th Avenue, that is.”
“The Blarney Stone is on 8th, Hols. Near Madison Square Garden.”
Holly, who’s never been to New York and doesn’t want to go, says that’s interesting.
Then, channeling his younger sister without knowing it, Jerome tells her it’s not really the money that’s blowing his mind. “They’re going to publish it! It started as a college paper, it turned into a book, and now it’s going to be published!”
“That’s wonderful, Jerome. I’m so glad for you.” She wishes her friend—who once saved her life and Bill’s life in a snowstorm—could always be this happy, and knows that’s not the way life works. Maybe just as well. If it did, happiness wouldn’t mean anything.
“What’s going on with the case? Have you made any progress?”
Holly fills him in on everything. Most of it is about Ellen Craslow, but she doesn’t neglect Tom Higgins being out of the picture. When she finishes, Jerome says, “I’d give a hundred bucks to know who the old lady was. The one who cleaned out Ellen Craslow’s trailer. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Holly’s thinking (and with a smile) that Jerome could actually afford to give a thousand, considering his recent windfall. For that matter, so could she. She is dives puella—a rich girl, just like in the Hall and Oates song she used to love. “To me the most interesting thing is all the Black people living in that trailer park. Not surprising, because it’s at the western edge of Lowtown, but the old lady was white.”
“What’s next for you?”
“I don’t know,” Holly says. “How about you, Jerome?”
“I’m going to stay in New York awhile longer. Until Thursday at least. My editor—I love saying that—wants to talk about some stuff, a few changes in the manuscript, plus he wants to brainstorm a book jacket concept. He says the head of publicity wants to talk about a possible tour. A tour! Do you believe that?”
“I do,” Holly says. “I’m so glad for you.”
“Can I tell you something? About Barb?”
“Of course.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s writing, too. And I think she’s getting somewhere with it. Wouldn’t it be crazy if we both turned out to be writers?”
“No crazier than the Brontës,” Holly says. “There were three of them. Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. All writers. I loved Jane Eyre.” This is true, but the one Holly especially loved as an unhappy teenager was Wuthering Heights. “No idea what Barbara might be writing?”
“I’d say poetry. Just about has to be. It’s about all she’s been reading since she was a sophomore. Listen, Holly, I want to go for a walk. I think I could fall in love with this city. For one thing, they get it—there are actually pop-up vaccine sites.”
“Well, don’t get mugged. Keep your wallet in your front pocket, not the back. And call your mother and father.”
“Already did.”
“What about Barbara? Have you talked to her?”
“I will. If she’s not too busy with her secret project to take my call, that is. I love you, Holly.”
This isn’t the first time he’s said it, but it always makes her feel like crying. “I love you, too, Jerome. Enjoy the rest of your big day.”
She ends the call. She lights a cigarette and goes to the window.
She puts her thinking cap on.