Chapter Twenty #2
“I’ve got no other leads to follow right now,” I say. “It’s this or go home and I’m not ready to go home. Besides, it’s not like this is my first time combing through boring-ass security footage looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“All right,” he says.
Instead of going back to his office, he takes the other free desk and we settle in to work.
I watch the footage on double speed, slowing down and taking screen grabs anytime I see anyone remotely close to Nickels’s description.
The store’s traffic is thick and fast with the holiday weekend sales, but it slows down around eleven PM.
When I start to feel nauseated by the constant stream of footage, I hit pause, shake my head, and get a fresh cup of coffee.
I watch as Melissa Charles is relieved by a guy in his seventies who introduces himself as Dale.
He kicks his feet up on the desk, pulls out his phone, and begins a marathon session of some farming game with the sound just high enough that I hear the simulated sounds of hoeing and wood chopping all the way across the room.
A little after ten o’clock, Dale alerts us to a domestic incident in progress, and Dishman and Gavin grab their jackets and head out. Jeanine and I keep at it, barely looking up, until they return about an hour later.
“Yeah, I know, but why won’t she just leave him?” Gavin asks quietly as they trudge back to the desks, apparently continuing a conversation they’d started on the way back.
“There’s no simple answer,” Dishman says. “All we can do is help her if she asks for it, and tonight she didn’t want any help.”
Two hours on, Jeanine stands, cracks her back, and announces that she can’t do any more, and with Gavin nodding off at his desk, Dishman tells them both to go home.
I keep at it, tracking everyone who came and went during the wee hours.
A tall man in a rain jacket. A teenager pushing a stroller with a little dog in it.
Then, there’s a man with his daughter. They both look sleepy, like they’ve been driving all night.
The little girl rubs her eyes and then laughs at something her dad says as he picks her up and puts her in the cart.
I shut my eyes for just a second. Only a second.
When I wake, I hear crying. Weeping and sniffling and scraping at tears.
I’m on the old sofa. The mauve fabric, well worn and threadbare on the arms, is darkened by my drool.
The room is illuminated by the light of the TV.
We’d been watching Field of Dreams and I’d fallen asleep halfway through.
Now the credits are playing and my dad, on the other end of the couch, is leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.
I realize he’s crying. His shaking, sobbing body vibrates weirdly in the blue half-light of the TV screen.
Almost like he’s out of sync with reality.
“Dad?” I ask.
He goes on crying.
“Daddy?” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“I miss her,” he says through thick tears. “I miss her so bad.”
“Mom?”
He nods.
That’s all the answer I get.
On the other side of him, resting on the arm of the couch, is his gun. The metal glints.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “She’ll be back soon.” I try to sound sure, but my voice is brittle.
He sobs some more. He’s a small guy, three inches shorter than my mom, but strong and fast in a wiry way. A jelly jar and whiskey bottle—both empty—sit between his bare feet on the floor.
“Oh, Annie-Girl,” he says. “What’ll I do without her? She’s the only thing I ever loved!”
And then he lunges at me. I start to jump away, but I’m not fast enough.
My heart thrums with sudden terror as I try to squirm away.
But then he settles and flops his arms around my waist. He cries with his head in my lap, his face turned toward the TV.
His tears and snot wet the fabric of my jeans.
He cries and cries and only quiets down as the credits finally stop.
When the DVD menu returns, I realize he’s asleep. Not wanting to move and disturb him, I lean my head back and close my eyes and listen as the music loops and the same two minutes of the movie’s score plays over and over.
When I wake again, I’m still on the sofa, but my dad is gone. On the TV, a man walks under the Walmart entrance camera. He’s tall and lean and he’s wearing all black.
“Annie?” my dad’s voice says, gently.
But I can’t stop looking at the screen. I watch as a giant hand appears over the man’s head, materializing as if from dust; it hovers above him, big enough to envelop his body, squeeze him to death.
The fingers wrap around him and he struggles, vibrating, until he begins to separate like a frayed rope.
No, not rope. Snakes. The snakes slither and hiss, biting the hand over and over.
“Annie, wake up—”
I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Jolting backward as my rolling chair moves with me, I open my eyes and find Chief Dishman standing over me, his brows knotted in concern.
“You fell asleep,” he says. “I think you were having a bad dream.”
I blink at him, rubbing my eyes against the harsh overhead lights. The sound of hissing is gone, replaced by the air conditioner’s hum and the swish and swoosh of an axe from Dale’s phone.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah … I was just dreaming. It’s okay. I’ll get back to it.”
“No,” he says. “You won’t. Go back to the motel. Get some sleep.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “I can—”
“Look, I’m not sticking around either,” Dishman says. “I’m gonna head home and rest, and I’ll be damned if I leave you alone in here by yourself.”
“You worried I’ll go looking through your desk if you leave me here alone?” I say, trying to sound calm and casual, like my heart isn’t still racing from the nightmare.
He laughs and says, “Hell no, I’m worried I’ll come back in the morning and find Chief Gore has replaced me.” The corners of his eyes crinkle and he jerks his thumb at me, telling me to get out of my chair and get going.
Glancing at my watch, I realize that it’s half past five in the morning. I get to my feet and stretch and we walk out of the station together in the pale predawn light. There, for no apparent reason, we both pause and watch the quiet scene of Mount Zion’s peaceful Main Street.
“You know it’s possible he’s not even on the footage,” I say.
“Yeah,” Dishman says. “He could’ve gone somewhere else, another town.”
“Or he could’ve had a spare set of hardware at home. We’ve all got stuff like that lying around.”
“It’s possible,” Dishman says. “But this is the best lead we have, at least until we find Nathaniel Nickels in the flesh. And, until we find Nickels…”
“We won’t find Ezra’s body,” I say.
He nods. The morning air is warm and misty but not yet insufferably hot. A mourning dove coos in the shelter of some building and its voice filters out to us in a haunting echo.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dishman asks, turning so we’re facing each other. He looks as haggard as I feel. And just as determined.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“All right,” he says. “Drive safe. Get some sleep.”
He walks down the steps to what is apparently his own car, a twenty-year-old Honda CR-V. I climb into the Bronco and we both pull away, going in opposite directions.
I head back to the motel, get in the door, and call Leo before he can call me.
“Everything okay?” he asks when he picks up.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just got back to my room. I think I’m gonna go for a run before I get some sleep.”
While I strip out of my jeans and T-shirt, I put him on speaker and tell him about spending the whole evening and night watching the security footage.