No Show (5 page)

“No, I don’t, Terry. I don’t know you or your wife, but I’m having a hard time believing in the seriousness of your relationship with this woman. Remind me, where did you get married?”

“Las Vegas,” Terry said with a sigh.

Holman shook his head and smiled wryly.

“Who was present?”

“Us, the minister, and two witnesses we dragged off the street.”

“Very romantic.”

It was romantic. That was how he’d seen it at the time. He’d fallen in love in a tropical location with a woman from another
country. And it hadn’t been some meaningless holiday romance. Their bond had been strong enough for their relationship to blossom. They’d met up in other foreign countries every few months when they could get the time off from their careers. Their passports were full of immigration stamps proving their commitment to each other. And when their relationship needed to be elevated to a new level, they married. But to Holman—applying cold logic to the situation—Terry’s actions were ridiculous. To Holman, Terry was no more a romantic than one of those idiots at a casino who drops a million dollars on red and then watches it come up black. He was a fool.

“Sheriff Holman, what’s your point?”

Holman straightened in his chair and leaned across his desk. “My point is, you don’t seem to know squat about your wife.”

T
erry walked out of the sheriff’s office. He chewed on Holman’s remarks and tried to convince himself that the sheriff’s doubts were unwarranted, but he failed. True, he didn’t know much about Sarah, but their marriage would change that. Whatever Holman thought about the relationship, the sheriff was still obliged to do his job. He had a duty to follow up on Terry’s report.

He wandered along Solano Dam Road, Edenville’s main street. Sporadic traffic whistled along on the main thoroughfare on its way out of town. Although the look and feel wasn’t the same, he was reminded of many villages in England. Edenville felt self-contained. It had its own supermarket, restaurants, a couple of bars, a few stores, a gas station with a mechanic, two banks, and a farmers’ market on Saturdays. There was a little bit of everything for everyone. But Edenville, like every English village, would never become a boomtown. Although quaint in a rough-and-ready way, it was never going to be a destination town. Thanks to Solano Dam Road, it was easy to pass through Edenville without a second thought.

Taxis were fine, but Terry needed wheels, so he rented a car from Edenville’s only rental center. It took some finagling since he didn’t have a California driver’s license, but he played the
tourist card to swing it his way. He left the center in a Ford Focus. He took to driving on the wrong side of the road pretty well, thanks to Edenville’s simple network of roads.

With the car, he had mobility. Wherever Sarah went, he could follow. He bought a map at a supermarket and opened it out across the hood of the car. He put himself in Sarah’s shoes. If she’d skipped town, it wasn’t like she had a large number of options. The US might be a big country compared to Britain, but for its size, it didn’t have a particularly complex or involved road system. Only a couple of roads led in and out of town and a limited number of freeways took you any distance. He could follow, but he stood little chance of catching Sarah. She had almost a week’s head start. Besides, Holman had the resources to cast a net far and wide. But who was to say she’d gone that far? She could be in the local area. The surrounding area got pretty rural, pretty quick. Terry could see her crashing in a hundred places within a twenty-mile radius of Edenville. Crashing brought up another possibility. What if she’d had an accident and hadn’t been found? He could check out the local area. He had to do this. He couldn’t let any possibility go unchecked.

He worked on a twenty-mile radius as a search area, then broke that area into quadrants based on the direction of roads entering and leaving Edenville. He stopped to check every park, campsite, abandoned trailer, unused vacation home, and set of skid marks that left the road—with no success. When the dashboard light came on to tell him to refill the gas tank, he gave up on his search. He was hot, tired, and dehydrated. He was done for the day. He would start over the next day with a wider search. He turned the car around and aimed it back toward Edenville.

His head was pounding and his mouth was so dry his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Stuck in the car for hours, he’d boiled, even with the air-conditioning going full blast. He needed to get some liquid into him, but when he wanted a fast-food franchise, there wasn’t one to be seen. The
only beacon on the horizon was a sign poking high above the walnut groves proclaiming
THE GOLD RUSH ARCADE
in black text on a gold background. It was punctuated by wagon wheels at either end, and followed by
MINIGOLF AND AMUSEMENTS. FUN TIMES FOR ALL AGES
. Just to illustrate the point, the rigging for an ancient mine peeked above the fields of walnut trees. The place was bound to have something, even if it was a vending machine.

He parked and went inside. Pinball machines clanged and the latest shoot-’em-up video games wailed at him, which did nothing for his headache. But for all its noise, the Gold Rush wasn’t packed with people. It was a school day, and most of the arcade machines were busy playing themselves on demo cycles. He couldn’t see the place getting busy until after five. Still, a few teenagers putting the machines through their paces managed to give the Gold Rush an air of respectability.

Terry weaved between the air hockey tables and a bank of NASCAR simulators to get to the combined ticket booth and snack bar. A friendly looking man in his late forties spotted Terry’s approach and put down his soda. He wasn’t fat, but he carried a hefty paunch, probably from too much soda and too little minigolfing. He looked down at Terry through half-moon glasses.

“Can I get you something?” he asked with a smile.

“The biggest Sprite you can pour and if you’ve got any headache medicine, that would be fantastic.”

The attendant smiled at him in sympathy. “Rough day, huh? Tylenol do?”

“Anything.”

The attendant produced a bottle of pills from under the counter. “Working in a place like this, you need them.”

By the time Terry had uncapped the bottle and shaken two pills from it, the attendant had placed the giant cup of Sprite on the counter. He tossed the pills back and washed them down with
the soft drink. The pills would take their time dulling the pain, but the first taste of Sprite doused the throbbing in his skull.

“Wanna add a round of minigolf?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, it’ll do you good.”

Despite the guy pushing the upsell, Terry decided he could do with some light relief. From the moment he’d stepped off the plane, circumstances had thrown him into a conflict. He’d done all he could for the moment, and he needed to take a step back and clear his head. A mindless round of minigolf would give him the opportunity to put his thoughts in order and plan his next move.

“Why not? Sign me up.”

“Good decision.” The attendant put a golf ball and a putter on the counter. “Ten bucks for the soda and game. The first hole is down the stairs next to the restrooms.”

Terry paid.

The Gold Rush had a neat gimmick. The first three holes were subterranean. Rough stucco, pickaxes, and shovels fixed to the walls, and lanterns hanging from the ceiling, helped create the look of a mine. All the aboveground holes possessed a mining motif to maintain the theme.

The final hole was a test of skill, which required the player to strike the ball over an undulating course and into a tube not much wider than the ball. Terry lined up the ball and struck it solidly. The ball rode the undulations and carried enough momentum to fly down the tube. A bell rang and the red light flashed, but instead of Terry’s ball staying in the tube, it rolled back out of the tube and into the gutter trap.

“When you’re on a streak, you’re on a streak,” he mumbled to himself.

Terry returned his putter to the ticket booth.

“Well done, you won a free pass,” the attendant said.

“But the ball came back out.”

“Well, the bell rang. That makes you a winner in my book.” The attendant put a winner’s pass on the counter. “You won a soda too. Sprite again?”

“That’s good of you,” Terry said, pocketing his winner’s pass. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Terry took his soda and found a booth seat in the restaurant area. He scooped out a handful of ice from his soda and massaged it into his neck. His skin was hot and tight. He’d have to get used to putting on sun block. The sun rarely reached this sort of intensity on a regular basis in the UK, where the need for the stuff was for special occasions only.

“Do you mind if I join you?” The attendant slipped into the bench seat opposite Terry. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as miserable as you walk through my doors.”

There wasn’t a lot Terry could say in reply. His face must have shown it.

“Sorry,” the attendant apologized. “I suppose I was a bit insensitive there. What I meant to say is you look like you need to get something off your chest.”

“Is this a service you offer to all your customers?”

“Nah,” the attendant said, shaking his head. “Most of my clients haven’t gotten past the Harry Potter stage yet. But you, you look like you know your ABCs.”

“Finished learning them last week.”

“There you go. See, I knew I could help. That’s a fancy accent you’ve got yourself. What is it? English? Australian?”

“English.”

“You’ve come a long way for a game of minigolf.”

“Feels like it.”

“So why are you here? I doubt you’re scouting for PGA locations.”

“No, I’ve just moved here.”

“Cool, when did you arrive?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday. Wow, you did just arrive.” The attendant slurped his soda. “You here on some business gig or something?”

“No. My wife’s American.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

Terry had said
my wife
as if he was recounting how his dog had just died. “Yeah, well.”

“Oh, I get it. That’s the reason for the long face. Just found out she’s no angel?”

“No, just haven’t found her.”

The attendant looked confused.

Terry told the attendant about Sarah’s no show at SFO, his arrest, Pamela Dawson’s lack of compassion, and Holman’s reluctance to file a missing persons request. Although he wouldn’t have guessed it, it felt good to share his problems with this stranger. It was a lot easier than if he’d confided in a friend. And in shedding a load, he was gaining an ally at last.

“Wow,” the attendant managed after a long moment. “You’ve done well for being here”—he checked his watch—“less than twenty-four hours. You’re the reason people have to buy insurance.”

“Some people just have a knack, I suppose. I’m Terry Sheffield, by the way.”

“I’m Oscar…Oscar Mayer.” Oscar ground out his name like he was reciting a foreign language. “I own this rattrap.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Oscar Mayer.” Terry offered his hand.

“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?” Oscar said suspiciously, shaking Terry’s hand.

“No.” Terry sucked on his straw. “Should it?”

“You’ve never heard of Oscar Mayer?”

“You’re the first I’ve met.”

“Oh, I can see we’re going to be good friends.”

Around midday, Terry returned home with his new friend’s telephone number and a healthy slice of optimism. Oscar was taking the day off from the Gold Rush tomorrow to act as a guide. Oscar’s offer to help Terry any way he could was unbelievably kind, especially seeing as Terry had only known the guy for a couple of hours. He was overcome by Oscar’s kindness. America wasn’t such a bad place after all. He parked the Ford in his driveway.

As Terry got out of the car, a man pushing a lawn mower hailed him from across the street. Terry acknowledged the lawn mower man with a nod. The man switched off his mower and crossed the street.

“Mr. Sheffield, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Terry replied.

The neighbor felt like trouble. Terry didn’t know why he felt that way. Maybe it had something to do with the guy wearing both a belt and suspenders or the plastered-down comb-over he was sporting to cover a large bald spot.

“Noah Osbourne,” lawn mower man said proffering a hand.

Terry shook it. “Terry Sheffield.”

“What’s that accent?”

Terry had the feeling this was going to become a recurring question. “English.”

“New to the country?”

“Since yesterday.”

“That is new.” Osbourne nodded with approval. “Anyway, I’m the president of the Sutter Drive Neighborhood Watch Committee.” Osbourne hooked his thumbs under his scarlet suspenders and twanged them. “We don’t just cover Sutter Drive, you understand, but a number of neighboring streets.”

“Right.”

“But it began on Sutter Drive, hence the name.”

Terry couldn’t help staring at Osbourne’s hair. Whatever goop he’d used to smarm it down with had turned his hair black.
This contrasted appallingly with the dusty-gray band of curls around the sides and back of his head. The clash of color and texture was most peculiar.