Free Zero at the Bone by Michael Cadnum Page B

couldn’t stop myself from having this thought: I could match myself against this man physically and win. He was muscled under his poly-blend suit jacket and probably knew some police academy choke holds. But if I put a shoulder into him, he would go down.
    Right in the middle of this thought, the cop gave me a smile. The little holes in his face closed up when he showed his teeth, his eyes warm, and I felt how mistaken I was. I felt how jagged I was inside, shaky, nothing fitting together. Detective Waterman glanced my way and she smiled, too. She was pretty in a no-nonsense way. It bothered me, how badly my mood matched what was really happening, two police here to help my family.
    â€œI took a lot of those pictures,” I said.
    I was ashamed at the quality of the photos. I can take a good picture, with a little luck. My camera work was betraying Anita, making her look like someone she wasn’t. I imagined Detective Waterman going around to motels with one of my snapshots. Did you see anyone who looked like this? she would ask. And the motel clerk would say no, even though Anita was sleeping in room 9 that very minute.
    â€œWhat do you think?” asked Detective Waterman, looking right at me. I tried to imagine her with her hair wet down to her shoulders, telling her hairdresser, “I want lightning bolts, one on either side of my head.” “Can you think of a reason Anita didn’t come home last night?”
    I shook my head, the way someone does at supper when his mouth is full and he can’t answer right away. But it was feeling that kept me from talking for a moment. Detective Waterman clicked her pen, a gold ballpoint
    â€œI think she’s all right,” I said. My voice was ragged. “I think she’s with someone.”
    â€œDo you think,” asked Detective Waterman, “maybe she decided to leave—and not come back?”
    â€œShe needed a life of her own,” said my mother, like someone reading the title of a story in a magazine. The pain in her voice hurt me.
    Some routine places should be checked, my dad said. The land up in Mendocino, the cabin at Tahoe. A local park ranger or sheriff could pay a visit to those places, my dad was saying, trying to calm us down by sounding in control. Detective Waterman made a note and said, “I’ll follow up on that.”
    â€œShe left a new pair of pants,” I said. “Folded on the chair.”
    I had their attention. They needed me to complete my thought. I said, “She’ll be here any minute.”
    It was natural for Kyle to make his entrance then. He knocked, but the front door had been left open, and his knock was a faraway noise that didn’t catch anyone’s attention.
    His voice reached us from somewhere in the living room, all the way inside the house. “Hello?”
    My dad looked up sharply and my mother didn’t seem to hear a sound. Dad made a motion with his head, meaning, Go see what he wants.
    I closed the door to the den firmly behind me. As I left I heard Detective Waterman ask how much Anita weighed.
    I greeted Kyle and told him there wasn’t any news. I asked if he would like to sit down, and he sat.
    â€œIt’s ten-thirty,” he said.
    I wanted to argue that it wasn’t that late in the morning, but the antique clock in the corner agreed with Kyle.
    I hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s lasagna. “Would you like some toast?” I asked.
    â€œNo,” said Kyle.
    â€œHow about some orange juice?” I suggested.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI can warm up a Pop-Tart,” I said.
    â€œI ate,” said Kyle.
    Sometimes I would play a private game, offer him cold drinks, hot drinks, snacks, waiting for him to say “No, thank you.” He would just get a certain stiffness to his head and shoulders, resenting each offer a little more. If I happened to mention something he would like, he never said “please.” It