This, with minor variations, was how he steamrolled over any questions, and elicited support, since most of those he called were also parents. Then when whoever-he’d-called said he or she hadn’t seen Anna, Michael would say, “Thanks, anyway, sorry, gotta keep looking, ’bye,” and hang up.
This approach was successful in all ways except the key one...
...No one had seen Anna.
Worst of alclass="underline" no answer when he dialed the number of boyfriend Gary Grace’s parents. And he tried them in between every other call, getting nothing but an endless ring and then the coins rattling back down.
The need to keep the calls brief prevented gathering any other information, such as whether the Graces were out of town. But some information Michael already had: for example, he knew that little groups of the kids always went out to dinner before the prom, nothing organized by the schools, just cliques, socializing, and that after prom, parties (mostly at the homes of various kids) would go on till dawn.
Sometimes the prom itself was held in the Incline Village High School’s gymnasium, but all the crepe-paper streamers in the world couldn’t turn that echoey, sweat-sock-smelling cavern into the kind of romantic wonderland the students had in mind. So most years, the Prom Committee found some other, more appropriate venue in the area; and of course Tahoe offered many nice possibilities.
Several months (that seemed like years) ago, Michael had taken the booking himself, helping out his daughter, who after all had been on the committee: the 1973 Incline Village Senior Prom would be held in the celebrated Indian Lounge of the Cal-Neva Lodge.
This fact may have eluded Pat; in any case, Michael had no intention of reminding her...
When he emerged, unsuccessful, from the phone booth, night had settled over Tucson, and the neon sambo’s sign had replaced the sun. Still in the suitcoat, he raised the lapels against a cool evening that threatened to turn cold.
He pulled into the driveway just after seven.
Pat met him at the door, a beautiful woman who looked terrible, her makeup long since cried off, her eyes webbed with red, her usually carefully coiffed ’do a tangle of greasy blonde worms and snakes; only the yellow pants suit looked crisp, polyester holding up under any tragedy.
He had never seen her look worse, nor loved her more.
“Nothing from the calls,” he said.
“Not a word from Anna,” she said, voice cracking.
He looped an arm around her and walked her into the house, nudging the door shut. Her head leaned on his shoulder.
They settled onto the Chesterfield couch in the front room, their target-like abstract paintings seeming particularly ugly to him at the moment.
“Have you heard from the Parhams lately?” he asked.
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Molly claims she called everybody she could think of, going back to friends Cindy had in junior high. All the parents were supportive, of course, but nobody knew anything.”
“No big party last night?”
“No. And no other lies about a slumber party at somebody else’s house. This looks like strictly a scheme of Anna’s and Cindy’s.”
“Really looking that way.”
Pat craned her head. “Do you think Anna went somewhere else?”
“Other than Tahoe, you mean?”
“Yes. I mean, if she’s really fed up with us, maybe she went out to California or something. Lot of kids live on the street out there — Haight-Ashbury or something?”
He shook his head. “Our girl’s no hippie. She likes her creature comforts. Really, we’re probably overreacting.”
She reared back. “How can you say that?”
“I mean... because of our specific... situation, we’re reacting in a way that... makes sense.” He shrugged. “But if you take WITSEC out of the equation, Anna’s just a teenager whose parents moved and made her miss prom.”
“You mean... she hasn’t run away for good, just to go back to prom?”
“Right. If we didn’t do a thing, she’d probably come strolling in that front door tomorrow night or Sunday, and face the music.”
Pat’s eyes narrowed. “You could be right. I think... I think you are right. She’s just run away for the weekend. But with our... like you said, ‘situation’... it’s so very awfully terribly dangerous.”
“Yeah.”
He held Pat, and she cried into his chest.
For a long time he squeezed her, patted her, and then he said, “Should we eat something? I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Could you eat? I don’t think I could eat any-thing.”
“We probably should.”
He was thinking of keeping her busy; but he was also thinking about keeping himself sharp and straight — he’d be flying via that red-eye tonight, after all. With a big day tomorrow...
Fifteen minutes later they were eating ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwiches at the kitchen table. Pat was drinking a glass of milk, Michael a Coke.
“Funny,” he said.
She smirked humorlessly, half-eaten sandwich in hand. “I can’t imagine what’s ‘funny.’”
“Took me back a second. When we were kids in DeKalb... teenagers like Anna... this is what we’d drink. Woolworth’s soda-fountain counter. Glass of milk for you, Coke for me.”
Her smile was bittersweet. “We’ve been together a long time, Michael.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
She reached across and squeezed his hand. “What now? I’ll go crazy, waiting.”
He told her about the ticket on the red-eye.
“You have to stay here,” he said.
She arched an eyebrow. “Hold down the fort?”
“Home fires burning,” he said, nodding. “I’ll keep you posted, every step of the way.”
“I know you will. But I... I...”
She put her sandwich down and began to cry again. He got up and went around to her, knelt by her, slipped an arm around her shoulder, and said, “I know it’s hard to be strong. And there’s not much you can do, now. You really should get some sleep.”
“Sleep? I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You didn’t think you could eat, either, and what happened to half of that sandwich?”
She laughed a little. “I still have those pills, from when... when we heard about Mike.”
She meant the sedatives.
“Can you take those, along with the, uh, other?”
“Valium, Michael. It’s not a bad word. Yes. The same doctor prescribed both, nothing to worry about.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll feel better on that plane, not thinking you’re tossing and turning and, uh, just...”
“A mess?” She sighed, managed a small smile. Then she yawned. “My God, I am tired, at that...”
She took the pills at the kitchen counter, and he walked her into the bedroom. She got undressed and into her preferred nightwear, baggy black silk men’s pajamas. Either the time they’d spent talking and eating, or the medication, had relaxed her.
He took her in his arms. “You look beautiful.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
“But you do.” He kissed her on the mouth, tenderly. “Get some rest. And I’ll hold down the fort...”
“Love you,” she said, and got under the covers of the four-poster. She switched off the nightstand lamp, and he slipped out of the dark bedroom into the hall, closing the door, tight.
He went back and finished his sandwich. Considering what she’d been through, Pat was doing all right; he was glad she’d had the presence of mind to get some sleep, even if a somewhat medicated one. He cleared the kitchen table, put the dishes in the sink, and ran water over them. He got out of the suit he’d been wearing all day and into a black Banlon shirt, some gray Sansabelt slacks, and crepe-sole loafers. Then he took some time getting an overnight bag together, including a change of clothes, some toiletries, and a box of .45 ammunition.