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  “You know, he could be keeping things from you to protect you,” Oscar suggested.

  “I know, but I wish he wouldn’t.”

  Oscar nodded.

  “And in all honesty, I don’t think he knows where she is,” Terry said.

  “Okay, Holman’s getting nowhere while Sarah is slipping farther and farther into the shadows. So what are you going to do about it?”

  Terry went to answer, but held himself in check. He noticed the effect Oscar was having on him. The frustration he’d taken out on the trash was gone. Oscar had reasoned it out of him. Terry’s focus was on the constructive, not the destructive. He smiled and crouched over his goal with his hockey paddle ready to deflect any oncoming shots.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Terry said, “We’re going to find her.”

  “Are we, now?” Oscar fired the puck across the table. “And how, exactly, are we going to achieve that?”

  They spent the next half an hour knocking the puck back and forth, along with ideas for finding Sarah. They formulated a plan, deciding to pursue certain ideas and ditching others. The element Terry felt was most absent from Holman’s investigation was awareness. He hadn’t seen any appeals in the local newspapers or on television. Oscar scored the winning goal to seal the game. Terry slid his paddle across the table.

  “We need to start our own milk carton campaign or something,” Oscar said.

  “What’s that?” Terry asked.

  “For years, they’ve been placing the pictures of missing kids on milk cartons and on junk mail flyers.”

  That was a neat idea. It wasn’t one the police utilized in the UK. “Great, but wouldn’t we have to go through Holman or something to do that?” Terry asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m not suggesting that we put Sarah’s face on a milk carton. We should do something similar, like a poster campaign. We’ll run up a batch of flyers and get the stores to post them in their windows and nail them to power poles. How many times has a missing dog notice caught your eye?”

  “Sarah, a missing dog?”

  Oscar frowned. “Okay, bad choice of words, but you get my point.”

  “I’ll agree with you, it’s a nice idea, but that pretty much assumes that Sarah’s still local.”

  “Granted, but we don’t know anyone who has even seen Sarah in the last week. A flyer might just jog their memory. It’s a start, don’t you think?”

  It was. Sarah’s case seemed to have stagnated. Anything to get it going again was a good thing. If anyone came forward with even the slightest sighting, it would be good for his faith, if nothing else.

  The next evening, Terry pulled into his garage and Oscar parked his SUV in the driveway. They’d had a good night. Out of the two hundred flyers they’d printed, maybe two dozen were left. Terry was overwhelmed by the willingness of most store managers to post his flyer in their windows and at the checkout stands. His hand throbbed from stapling the flyers to every power pole they came across.

  Oscar locked the door on his 4Runner and brandished his depleted stack of flyers. “Do you want these?”

  The two of them had divided Edenville into halves and regrouped at the Gold Rush before returning to Terry’s house.

  “Do you mind keeping them and handing them out at the Gold Rush?” Terry asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  Terry examined the flyer on top of the pile he held. It was simple but effective. It was an eight-by-eleven sheet with a banner headline “MISSING—Have you seen this woman?” and a color photograph of Sarah he’d taken in Costa Rica. A short description and a phone number completed the flyer. He’d cobbled the affair together on his PC during his lunch hour, and Oscar had gotten them copied. Oscar had warned Terry not to expect every call to lead directly to Sarah and to expect a lot of crank calls. Terry wasn’t bothered by crank calls. He welcomed them. If he was receiving calls, then Sarah’s details were being seen; and if she were seen, then she would be recognized. He didn’t care if he received a million calls, as long as one led to Sarah. He hoped to find the answering machine dripping with messages when he got inside. He removed the first flyer from his pile and gave the rest to Oscar.

  “You can take these too, but I’ll keep one, just in case someone asks.”

  “Good idea,” Oscar said, taking the flyers. Both men knew Terry was keeping the flyer for quite different reasons. “I’ll put these in the car.”

  Terry stopped him.

  “Oscar”—Terry paused—“you know I have no way of expressing how grateful I am to you for all your help.”

  “Hey, pal. Don’t go all misty on me.” Oscar laughed. “I’m doing this as a friend, and there’s no reason to thank a friend.”

  Terry stuck out his hand. “Sometimes it needs to be said.”

  Oscar shook Terry’s hand and smiled. “I’ll accept that.”

  “I’ll get you a beer.”

  Oscar returned to his Toyota to put the remaining flyers back and Terry skirted his rental car to the door leading into the house. As Terry opened the door, Oscar stopped him.

  “Terry,” he said with trepidation.

  “Yeah?”

  Oscar didn’t have to say anything more. A sheriff’s cruiser slithered to a halt in front of the house. Its red-and-blue lights bathed the garage in alternating flashing colors. Sheriff Holman slid out from the Crown Victoria.

  “Can I speak to you, Mr. Sheffield?” Holman asked. He glanced at Oscar and added, “In private.”

  “I’ll go, Terry,” Oscar said.

  “No, stay,” Terry said. “Sheriff, Oscar’s a friend.”

  “Okay. Have it your way.” Red light then blue light continued to whip Holman’s back as he stood at the garage’s entrance. “Can you tell me if you have any idea what Sarah was wearing when she went missing?”

  “No. It’s obvious from her closet that things are missing but what, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Do you know if Mrs. Sheffield’s shoe size is a six?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Do you know if she goes up to the reservoir?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Sheriff, I think we’ve already established that I have very little knowledge of my wife’s life or movements, so stop pussyfooting around.”

  “Sheriff, this does seem a little over the top with the flashing lights and all, just to ask these petty questions,” Oscar said.

  “Who are you?” Holman asked. “A lawyer?”

  “No, I’m Oscar Mayer.”

  Holman snorted. “And I’m the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

  “Can we move on?” Terry pleaded.

  “Yes, Mr. Sheffield.” Holman glared at Oscar. “I think we’ve found your wife, sir.”

  “Where? What did she say?” Terry’s next question died on his lips. He’d been incredibly dense. He realized what all Holman’s theatrics and silly-arse questions were about. His legs lost all strength and he collapsed into a sitting position on the steps.

  “Mr. Sheffield, are you okay?”

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Christ,” Oscar muttered, raising a hand to his mouth.

  “Mr. Sheffield, could you come with me?”

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Terry repeated, this time more insistent.

  “I need you to identify a body.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Six months earlier

  “You’ll protect me, won’t you?” Sarah asked and pressed the crosswalk button.

  “What do you mean?” Terry replied.

  “During our vows you promised to protect me.”

  Terry might have said it, but the vows were just words from a bygone age. The only words that counted were “I do.” Besides, it wasn’t like their ceremony had been the kind most girls dream about anyway. There was no white dress, no jealous bridesmaids, no mother weeping tears of joy, and no friends still beered up from the bachelor party. No one did anything to embarrass them or ruin their day. Eloping didn’t require any expensive o
r outlandish trappings. The ceremony had been carried out in a flat-roofed building that looked like a garden center thanks to its Astroturf carpeting and faux-stone walkway up to the altar. The minister did little to inspire authenticity, sporting an Elvis-style bouffant crispy from too much hairspray and silver from age. Terry wondered if he had an impersonation gig on the side. They were in Vegas, after all. Nevada sun rained through a skylight above the minister. Terry guessed that the skylight was meant to simulate the Lord’s light illuminating everyone. Instead, the scorching heat burned them like bugs under a magnifying glass.

  The ceremony had been fast, but what did they expect for a hundred bucks? Still, Terry wondered if the wedding vows had been read incorrectly. Although he hadn’t attended many weddings, and hadn’t taken much notice of what was being said at those times, the matter of saying “I do” came up a little too early in the proceedings for his liking. After the shock of having bound himself body and soul to Sarah for an eternity, everything else dissolved into a blur and the reverend’s words were reduced to a low-level humming in Terry’s ears.

  The signal changed from DON’T WALK to WALK and they crossed Las Vegas Boulevard. Smiling, Terry answered, “I don’t remember saying I would protect anybody.”

  “Well, you did, buddy boy, so you’re stuck with me. You’re my protector. What have you got to say about that?”

  “How do we get this thing annulled?”

  Sarah backhanded him across the stomach. The blow, although gentle, took him by surprise and winded him. He coughed once, shaking off the effects.

  She carried on with the debate as they entered the Sahara. They sidestepped the gambling floor and went to the restaurant for their wedding breakfast. The hostess greeted them at the entrance and told them they could sit anywhere. The restaurant was as sparsely populated as the desert it was supposed to represent.

  “So are you saying you wouldn’t protect me?”

  An Asian woman wandered among the tables brandishing Keno slips. Las Vegas couldn’t afford to let a gambling chance slip by, even if you were eating. Terry couldn’t imagine how much revenue was being lost while the patrons ate, used a restroom, or paused to breathe, but he supposed the casino owners did. They’d probably worked it out to the last penny.

  “Why do you need me to protect you? Isn’t that what the police are for?” Terry asked with a smile. “My protection extends as far as dialing 911.”

  Sarah frowned. Her face said it all. She wanted him to be serious, but he couldn’t help teasing. A waitress came over and the newlyweds hastily ordered. The waitress was five years past the age for the length of the skirt she was wearing. When she turned to leave, Terry stopped her.

  “Excuse me, miss. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you married?”

  She examined Terry quizzically for a moment, then held up her left hand, waggling her fingers to show off a simple gold band. “I don’t wear this for looks.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “What’s it to you?” she asked.

  Terry pointed to Sarah then himself. “We just got married.”

  “Congratulations,” she said without much enthusiasm.

  A Las Vegas marriage. It wasn’t exactly original. She’d probably seen it a million times before.

  “Thank you. We were discussing my role as my wife’s protector, and I was wondering if you expect your husband to act as yours.”

  She gave Terry the once-over before turning to Sarah. “You landed yourself a real winner.”

  Sarah waited for the waitress to move out of earshot. “You’d better tip her big for that,” she said with a smile that fought back a grin.

  “Was I rude?”

  She shook her head, the grin escaping its bonds. “No, you were a butt…and you still are.”

  “We’ve been married”—Terry checked his watch—“exactly twenty-two minutes and you’re already calling me names. Are we on the rocks?”

  Sarah’s grin disappeared, replaced with a serious expression. She took his hand, squeezing it tight. “Be serious for a moment?”

  “I am,” he said grinning.

  “I mean it,” she said and gave his hand another tight squeeze.

  “Okay, serious Terry now. What’s up?”

  “Would you be my protector, if it came down to it?”

  Terry was concerned. His grin receded into the depths. “What’s wrong?”

  “My job can be invasive at times. To get a story, it sometimes means going the extra mile. It’s not really dangerous—just risky—so I really need to know.”

  “You need to know if I’m the kind of guy that will look out for you?”

  “Are you?”

  Terry took Sarah’s other hand in his and squeezed both of them just as tight as she’d squeezed his hands. “If you’re wondering whether I would take a bullet for you, just be reassured you married your own personal Kevlar vest.” Terry squeezed her hands again. “I don’t need some tin pot, Las Vegas minister to tell me that I’ve got to protect you. I’m your protector already.”

  A tear ran down Sarah’s cheek.

  Terry stared out the window, lost in his memory. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said aloud, softly.

  He and Oscar were in the back of Holman’s cruiser barreling along a winding road.

  Oscar turned. “What was that?”

  “She asked me to protect her, and I didn’t.” Terry stared at a fixed point in the back of Holman’s driver’s seat. “I promised her.”

  “Promised what?” the sheriff asked into the rearview mirror.

  “I said I would be there and would always look after her.”

  Terry drifted and wasn’t aware of Oscar’s comforting arm around his shoulders or Holman’s question becoming a demand.

  “When did you say this?”

  “Sheriff, can we discuss this later?”

  “No,” was his blunt reply. “When did you say this?”

  “On our wedding day.”

  Holman exhaled.

  “Can we just get where we’re supposed to be going?” Oscar asked.

  “Where are we?” Terry asked, gazing out the window. The world sped by, stained red and blue by the cruiser’s lights. It was familiar, but the car’s speed and the night changed everything around.

  “We’re on Solano Dam Road, bud,” Oscar answered.

  “We’re not in Edenville.”

  “That’s right,” Oscar said. “We’re over by Lake Solano. Are you okay? You went a bit quiet on us for a while.”

  Holman sped past the sheer wall of concrete that was the Solano Dam. The man-made lake glistened oil-black in the moonlight. It felt malevolent under its nocturnal shroud.

  “We’re here,” Holman said grimly.

  The sheriff eased his cruiser off the road at a boat rental services and fishing supplies store called Marley’s Cove. He drove across the parking lot to the access road leading to the lake. A series of sawhorses, a sheriff’s deputy, and his cruiser blocked the road’s entrance. Holman stopped his cruiser in front of the roadblock and rolled down his window. The deputy trotted over.

  “Sheriff,” the deputy said.

  “Everybody here, Craig?”

  “Yes, Sheriff. Coroner’s here. Crime techs too. They’re all doing their thing.”

  “Press?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll turn ’em away if they come.”

  “Thanks, Craig.”

  The deputy removed the sawhorses blocking Holman’s way. The sheriff closed his window and drove on. The access road descended into a thick cover of redwoods lining either side of the road. The trees receded deep into the park, creating a dense canopy, which the moonlight penetrated with difficulty.

  Blinding light spread out from the water’s edge to cast long shadows where it hit the trees. The sheriff snapped down his sun visor and drove toward the light.

  Terry wanted Holman to turn around. Let someone else identify the body. But he had to do this. It was the least he could do for Sara
h now.

  The road brought them out to a concrete boat ramp. A small jetty extended into the water with a hut at its end, but no boats or fishermen were around. In the distance, houseboats bobbed on the water like the lake was breathing.

  Arc lights peered down from ten-foot standards. They illuminated the boat launch and the lakeside. Sheriff’s department cruisers and vans were parked at odd angles to each other. A coroner’s hearse was parked close to the water. Holman parked a safe distance from the fervor at the top of the boat ramp.

  “C’mon, Mr. Sheffield,” he said with genuine kindness in his voice.

  Oscar helped Terry out of the Ford. Terry tottered, unable to find his feet, and Holman grabbed an arm. Both men guided him toward the cordoned-off area. Holman stopped ten feet from the outermost vehicle.

  “Could you wait here a second?”

  Terry nodded and Holman disappeared among the vehicles. When Holman reemerged, he beckoned to Terry and Oscar to join him. They threaded their way between the vehicles, peeling away the layers of privacy the sheriff’s department had endeavored to create for the corpse. Terry stopped at the last vehicle that shielded him from the nightmare beyond. Oscar placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “C’mon, pal. Let’s do this thing.”

  Terry would willingly give ten years of his life for someone to replace him, but he couldn’t foist this responsibility onto someone else. He had to see, had to know. He nodded and stepped around the vehicle.

  A man in a paper jumpsuit and latex gloves finished covering with a sheet what was obviously a body. When he saw Terry, he stood up and tried to smile, but it came out as a facial twitch.

  “Okay, Mr. Sheffield, this is Dr. Schovanek. He’s the county coroner.”

  “Hello, Mr. Sheffield.” Schovanek raised a hand in greeting. “Good of you to come out tonight.”