Blood and Sand Page 10

  “I have to say,” Wren says, “I’m absolutely delighted you’re considering going with a Brit for your next production.”

  “Two, actually,” Jodi says. “Shakespeare and Pinter. We’re thinking Much Ado about Nothing and The Birthday Party.”

  “Oh, excellent,” Wren says. “Well done, you. Cheers. Speaking of well done . . .” She turns toward me. “Another great talk, dear boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brooke Wakefield nods enthusiastically, her straight-haired, platinum-blond head bobbing up and down, her large earrings making tiny tinkling sounds as she does. “Really good,” she says.

  I start to thank her, but she steps forward into the small circle the four of us have formed, lowers her voice and says, “I’d prefer this to stay between us, but my brother’s in prison, and I know firsthand how difficult, inhumane, and unjust it all can be.”

  She doesn’t look like someone who has a brother in prison. Not that there’s a look, but if there were, she wouldn’t have it. From the tip of her platinum-blond hair to the tips of her manicured toes she appears to have been put together for a high-end fashion shoot.

  I had been told she comes from money—that, in fact, her wealthy family had not only set her up in the boutique business here in Sandcastle but also supplements her income so she can continue to live in the manner they raised her to be accustomed to.

  “No system is perfect, of course,” Wren says, “but as good in theory as America’s is, it’s not nearly as good as most Americans think it is.”

  “I can guarantee that the Americans who think it’s the best haven’t had any dealings with it,” Brooke says. “As a victim or someone accused of a crime.”

  “Or,” Wren says, nodding toward me, “someone who has worked within it.”

  Jodi leans in and starts to say something but stops as Keith and his mom walk up.

  “John, did you meet my mom, Derinda?” Keith asks.

  “We met a few minutes ago, honey,” Derinda says. “But you’ve met so many new people in the last few days it’s got to be hard to remember. I’m Derinda Dacosta. Keith and Christopher’s mom and Magdalene’s grandmother. And your daughter is delightful.”

  Though you can still see the beauty she must have been, Derinda Dacosta now has the roundish, matronly look of a middle-aged woman with a pampered, sedentary lifestyle. Covering her overly ample bosom and the other round shapes beneath it are the middle-aged clothes of a schoolmarm who when she updates her wardrobe at all it’s in favor of comfortable bargains instead of stylish elegance. None of which would stand out so extremely if she weren’t standing next to Brooke.

  “Of course I remember you,” I say. “Good to see you again. And thank you,” I add, glancing at Taylor who is being very patient but is clearly ready to go.

  Keith motions over Brent and Charis Tremblay and Demi Gonzalez.

  “Will you be able to join us in the search this afternoon?” Derinda asks me.

  “I plan to,” I say. “But I’ve promised my wife some extra family time and I have to pick up my other daughter this evening, so I’m not sure how long I can stay.”

  “Every little bit helps,” she says. “Here’s the two ladies who we have to thank for these weekly searches right here.”

  As Brent and Charis and Demi join our expanding circle, I notice that without saying anything Jodi has eased out of it.

  “Don’t forget Brent,” Charis says. “He helped organize it too.”

  “Helped, hell,” Demi says. “He was the organization. Wouldn’t have any if it weren’t for him.”

  Brent extended his hand and I shook it. “Just wanted to let you know I enjoyed your talk,” he says. “I’m afraid I have a meeting in Mobile this afternoon so I’m about to have to leave.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”

  He’s a short, slight man with soft hands and a Caucasian fro.

  “It was so good of y’all to start the weekly search,” I say.

  “We had to do something,” Charis says. “Like everyone else, including poor Keith and Christopher, we felt so helpless.”

  Demi says, “We were thinking about what we might do to help—even in some small way—and Charis said how about a search.”

  “I didn’t think a completely thorough search of the area had ever been done,” Charis says. “And in every crime show I’ve ever seen they always do a careful and methodical search for . . . clues.”

  “The woods behind Keith and Christopher’s house is so big,” Derinda says. “And it had never been properly searched.”

  “So,” Demi says, “we decided to do one ourselves. We studied how to do it and Brent helped us create a grid and a system for searching it.”

  “It’s taking us a while to work our way through it,” Charis says, “but we’re getting there, and we didn’t feel like we could ask our volunteers for more than one afternoon a week.”

  “Since we started,” Demi says, “our number keeps growing. Friends and family. Citizen sleuths. And people who live here in Sandcastle. Several of the stores close early on Tuesdays so their owners and employees can help us.”

  “We may be wasting our time,” Charis says, “but we don’t know what else to do. And we’re not just looking for Magdalene. We’re searching for clues—anything that might tell us what happened to her that night, who took her, which direction they may have gone, anything at all that might help us find her. Plus if nothing else we’re keeping attention focused on her disappearance.”

  Day 93

  Day 93

  I know they mean well, but I really can’t take Clarence and Sarah Samuelson telling me how much they can relate to what I’m going through because they lost a grandchild of their own. They don’t know what I’m going through and even if they did, so what? How is that supposed to help me? I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. But they act like we have this bond now, like we’re supposed to be so close.

  They think we have so much in common because we both lost someone, but I waited my entire life to have a child. And it really does feel like my entire life, but even if you want to just say my entire adult life, I’ve wanted to be a dad or dad and a mom for a very very very very very very very long time. They can’t possibly know what I’m going through. I would never say something like that to someone else.

  I know they really do mean well, but sometimes it feels like they’re just using me and my grief.

  In some ways I feel like they must feel guilty—at least that’s what they sound like—and I wonder if they had something to do with the loss of their grandchild.

  19

  When Taylor and I get back from the chapel talk, Anna is visibly frustrated. As she helps Taylor get her swimsuit on she expresses that frustration. Why were we so late. We must have gone somewhere afterward—no doubt to interview someone about Magdalene’s disappearance. Why does everything always have to be on my schedule. I cost her valuable beach time because I’m selfish and inconsiderate.

  As I listen, I wonder again what happened to my sweet, supportive wife. She really doesn’t even seem like the same person.

  Several times I start to challenge what she’s saying, but each time decide that as bad as it is for Taylor to being hearing all this, it would be worse for her to witness an argument.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me, Mommy,” Taylor says. “You could’ve gone without me. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I was happy to wait on you, sweet girl,” Anna says.

  Happy is not how I would describe the way in which she waited.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say to Taylor.

  “You didn’t either, Daddy,” she says.

  “Okay,” Anna says. “You’re all ready. It’s beach time. Let’s go.”

  I give Taylor a hug. As I do, Anna quickly picks up her beach bag and cooler, and when I attempt to hug her uses them as shields to block me.

  When they are gone, I change clothes and get ready to go
join the search. As I do, I pray for Anna, for answers and healing, to get my wife back. I then pray that I will have the patience and the grace to be kind and loving no matter what she says or does—something I’m too often failing at these days.

  Realizing I have a few extra moments before I need to leave, I sit at the small desk, open my laptop, and begin watching the security camera footage again.

  I open the file named 12/21.

  At 5:56 a.m. Keith exits the back door. At 6:47 a.m. Hal Raphael exits the front door. At 7:11 a.m. Keith enters the back door. At 10:15 a.m. Christopher exits the front door. At 10:18 a.m. Christopher enters the front door carrying mail.

  At 10:57 a.m. a female UPS delivery person enters the front door carrying a tall stack of parcels. At 11:01 a.m. the UPS delivery person exits the front door carrying several small parcels. At 11:29 a.m. a male FedEx delivery person enters the front door carrying four medium-sized packages and three small ones. At 11:35 a.m. the FedEx delivery person exits the front door with two large packages. At 11:09 a.m. Scott Haskew and Henrique Arango enter the front door. At 12:33 p.m. Hal Raphael enters the front door. At 1:27 p.m. Hal Raphael exits the front door. At 1:33 p.m. Henrique Arango exits the front door.

  At 2:27 p.m. a woman carrying a backpack exits the front door.

  At 3:17 p.m. a young man exits the front door. At 4:21 p.m. Scott Haskew exits the front door. At 5:28 p.m. Hal Raphael enters the front door carrying two plastic shopping bags.

  At 9:26 p.m. Hal Raphael exits the front door.

  I open the file named 12/22.

  At 6:16 a.m. Keith exits the back door. At 6:17 a.m. Hal Raphael enters the front door. At 7:17 a.m. Keith enters the back door. At 7:19 a.m. Hal Raphael exits the front door. At 10:17 a.m. Christopher exits the front door. At 10:21 a.m. Christopher enters the front door carrying mail that includes a newspaper and a few packages.

  At 11:07 a.m. a female UPS delivery person enters the front door carrying several parcels. At 11:11 a.m. the UPS delivery person exits the front door carrying a few small and medium parcels. At 11:39 a.m. a male FedEx delivery person enters the front door carrying a single medium-sized package. At 11:43 a.m. the FedEx delivery person exits the front door with two large packages. At 12:09 a.m. Scott Haskew enters the front door. At 12:37 p.m. Hal Raphael enters the front door. At 1:17 p.m. Rake Sabin enters the front door. At 1:33 p.m. Charis Tremblay enters the front door carrying several Christmas gifts. At 1:43 p.m. Demi Gonzalez enters the front door carrying three small Christmas gifts. At 1:51 p.m. Sarah Samuelson and Brooke Wakefield enter the front door carrying large cardboard boxes of what looks to be decorations.

  Glancing at the time at the top of the screen, I realize I’m running late. Closing the computer, I jump up, and rush out the door.

  * * *

  I arrive at the staging area to find a loving and supportive group of dedicated volunteer searchers who rather than being overly earnest and somber are upbeat and jovial.

  Clarence and Sarah Samuelson, the owners of The Sand Witch, have tables of food and drinks set up and are serving everyone in a manner reminiscent of the way the gracious and generous angels of mercy have been back home in the aftermath of Michael.

  “Would you like a gourmet grilled cheese and a cup of tomato basil soup?” Sarah asks as I approach the table.

  I remember that I haven’t eaten anything today and realize how hungry I am.

  “Sure,” I say. “Thank you. This is incredibly generous of you.”

  “It’s the least we can do,” Clarence says.

  “Where’s that cute little girl of yours?” Sarah asks.

  “She and her mom are headed down to the beach.”

  “We sure enjoyed our time with her yesterday,” Clarence says. “What a bright, sweet, mannerly little girl.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “She enjoyed y’all.”

  “She enjoyed our ice cream,” Clarence says. “We know what’s what.”

  “You feed the volunteers every time they search?” I ask.

  “Feed them then help search,” Sarah says.

  “It’s the least we can do,” Clarence says. “The time we could’ve done more than the least we can do was that night.”

  He doesn’t have to say any more than that for me or anyone else to know which night he’s talking about.

  “That poor little darling,” Sarah says. “I can’t believe that I . . . that I didn’t . . . wake up. I’m usually such a light sleeper.”

  “We drank too much,” Clarence says.

  She nods slowly and frowns. “I suppose so.”

  “Do either of you remember anything odd or off from that night?” I ask.

  “I remember we drank too much,” Clarence says.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing that means anything,” Sarah says.

  “Mind telling me anyway?”

  “It was just an off year,” Sarah says. “Nothing big. Everyone was just sort of over it all before we ever got started good. The holidays, you know?”

  “I remember Keith and Christopher checking on her a lot throughout the night,” Clarence says.

  “They always did,” Sarah adds. “They were great parents. Very attentive. Some parents . . . well, if something happens to their child you might think . . . you know, that it was inevitable, but with parents like them . . . it’s so unfair. Anyway, mind if we do this another time? We need to get everyone fed and get the search started.”

  Day 95

  Day 95

  I’m starting to look at everyone suspiciously now.

  Is this just the way it’s going to be from now on?

  Has my perception so shifted that I wonder what ulterior motive everyone I meet has? Will I always wonder what monster is lurking behind the masks that look like men?

  Am I imagining that Wren and Brooke won’t look me in the eye any longer?

  Am I crazy to think that Keith and Scott are conspiring against me behind my back?

  Is Vic avoiding me?

  Why did Henrique leave?

  Am I just paranoid? How can I know?

  I’m losing my mind.

  20

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I pull it out, hoping it’s Anna, back to her old self, calling to say she misses me and can’t wait to see me.

  Instead, it’s Reggie Summers, the sheriff of Gulf County and my boss, returning my call.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got something for me already,” I say.

  “I do,” she says.

  “That was fast.”

  I had texted her earlier to see if she could find any information on the Samuelsons’ grandchild that died. I didn’t expect anything this quickly.

  “That’s me,” she says. “A fast woman.”

  “Think I read something about that in the men’s restroom at the sheriff's department,” I say. “Or maybe it was the jail. How are things there?”

  “We’re surviving,” she says. “Slowly making a little progress. Look forward to having you back over here to help.”

  “I feel guilty not being there,” I say.

  “You should,” she says. “So here’s what I got. The Samuelsons were actually watching their grandson when he was killed. From all I can tell—based on the investigation and the media coverage—it was an accident. They were keeping him for their daughter at her place while she and her new boyfriend went to some swanky all-inclusive resort in Mexico.”

  “Swanky?”

  “Yeah,” she says, “I’m bringing it back. Soon all the kids will be using it. You watch. It’ll be in rap songs and in tragic teen movie dialog. Anyway . . . The kid was five at the time. Typical toddler. Constant movement and motion. And they just both looked away at the same wrong moment. Their attention drifted way for a split second and he was gone.”

  “Abducted?” I ask.

  “No. He fell into a swimming pool. It had a cover on it, and it wrapped around him and he took part of it down with him while the other part of it fl
oated and prevented them from being able to get to him. By the time they did, he was already dead. They pulled him out and attempted CPR, called 911, tried everything they could, but it was no use.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah. Their daughter blames them and has cut them off completely.”

  We are quiet a moment.

  “But I found something else that might be something,” she says. “Seems suspicious as hell. Definitely worth a closer look. They had already lost a son several years before. That’s how they got all their money. It’s insurance money from the death of their son. It also looks like an accident, and maybe it is. Some families seem to have more than their fair share of tragedy, but . . .”

  “How did he die?”

  “Car accident,” she says. “I’ve got a call in to the highway patrol to see if there’s anything suspicious about it. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  * * *

  About twenty of us search a small quadrant from the grid that Brent Tremblay created.

  We are no more than a few feet apart, our heads down, poking and raking the ground with the tips of our aluminum walking poles.

  It’s slow and tedious, which makes it all the more impressive that so many of these volunteers have done it for so long.

  “How long we been doing this?” Demi Gonzalez says.

  She is on my left side and she’s asking Charis Tremblay who is on my right.

  Derinda Dacosta, who is to Christopher’s right, says, “Several months and, hey, we covered almost a postage stamp of property.”

  Charis laughs and says, “We’ve covered a little more than that. Why do you ask, Demi?”

  “Do y’all find it odd that in all that time Vic Frankford has never been out here and suddenly today he is?”

  “He was probably inspired by John’s talk,” Derinda says.

  “I really enjoyed what you had to say this morning,” Charis says.

  “I did too,” Demi adds.