At one seventeen a.m. his desk phone buzzed. “Zack, it’s Linda. I can’t find Marlene. I’ve looked everywhere!” Her voice sounded flat and depleted. He waved at the dispatcher to plug in and tape the call. Linda had dialed his direct line, not 911.

TWINS by Marie, Part 4: Missing
by Marie C.

Sergeant Zack Miller leaned back in the swivel chair, tie loose, one foot up on the open lowest drawer of the desk. The other furniture was vacant at night and half the lights were off to save energy. It made the place look abandoned. The only sound he could hear was the slight woosh, woosh from the overhead heating system. He saw the dispatcher behind her glass window taking notes from a large book. Squinting hard he could just make out the title in gold letters, Principles of Corporate Law.

He perked up as two deputies came through the back entryway and went to the coffee machine. In short order they began arguing about last night’s Giants’ game. As he watched from a tight angle one raised his arm like he was going after a fly ball and ended up dumping his coffee on the floor and wetting one trouser leg on the way down. Miller went to the connecting door and frowned at them while the wet one said “Sorry, Sarge” and continued wiping off his pants and the floor as best he could. Slow night at the Kentfield Substation.

Miller sucked at his now lukewarm cup and grunted at a report on his desk. Big dustup at a College of Marin basketball game - two kids in intensive care, five in the lockup and a concussed deputy. “Christ, if they don’t have any brains how do they get in college? And just because some team lost.” He tossed the sheet like a frisbee and nearly made it to the out box.

The daytime incident log was totally electrifying and he had to stifle a big yawn. A woman in San Geronimo called to complain that someone unknown is still cutting down trees on her property. Why hasn’t the sheriff done something? Car Five couldn’t find the deer somebody said was hit on the highway near Taylor Park. A lady at Olema phoned to thank the officer who found her purse.

The night was more than three years after the birthday party.

At one seventeen a.m. his desk phone buzzed. “Zack, it’s Linda. I can’t find Marlene. I’ve looked everywhere!” Her voice sounded flat and depleted. He waved at the dispatcher to plug in and tape the call. Linda had dialed his direct line, not 911.

He willed himself to be calm. “Did you try your sister-in-law’s or that chum of hers, what’s her name, Leticia? And how long has she been gone?”

Zack had been seeing Linda more or less steadily for three years since the day she backed into his car on Nicasio Square. Marlene now teasingly called him “Uncle Zack” and he liked it, but he couldn’t get used to the two of them living way out in the boondocks like they did. So for the past few months he’d been pushing Linda to find a place in town and maybe they could all move in together. Every time he went up those creaky front steps he got the creeps.
He woke from his recollections. Linda was starting to babble. “Leticia and Addie haven’t seen her. They expected her to come this afternoon and called when she didn’t arrive. Grace and Kirk haven’t seen her for weeks. Oh God, It’s my fault. I let her walk to Leticia’s alone. Something’s happened, I know. She always calls.” She paused and then choked, “Can you come out? I don’t know what to do.” She started crying.

Miller responded as calmly as he could. “I’ve got a car in Forest Knolls ten minutes away and I’ll get there as soon as I can. Don’t worry, she’ll turn up, but you have to tell me more.” He was scribbling on a blank pad as she disjointedly described what Marlene wore when she left at 4:00 that afternoon. Getting a description was like pulling teeth because Linda was coming unglued.

He eventually hung up and told the dispatcher to alert the Highway Patrol for a possible Amber Alert kidnapping. He didn’t have any vehicle description or license number which was a bummer. He repeated Marlene’s description for the record: 14 year old girl, reddish brown hair, red and white striped T-shirt, red sweater and blue jeans. He could describe her to the last freckle. “Make it an APB to include San Rafael, Point Reyes Substation, Sonoma County Sheriff and local departments. Details to follow .”

He took a chance pulling out all the stops after only nine hours and with such limited information. Department policy was to wait at least twenty-four on a missing persons report, though these days deputies were encouraged to act right away if a kid was involved. Departments got a lot of heat if they sat still and things turned bad.

He started to wonder if something had really gone wrong. The FBI had been requiring incident reports on every missing child in the North Counties Area. Last week was their sixth request of the year. It griped him because they always expected information from the locals and hardly ever gave anything back. If something was going on in the area it didn’t make him feel any better about Linda’s call. This time he had a personal connection to the mother and child and wanted to be a part of it.

Mom wasn’t feeling good when she picked up the phone. It was about six o’clock when Linda called. We hadn’t seen them for weeks, not since Aunt Linda did a grocery shopping for us. Mom was better for the most part but still had spells and Dad was somewhere overseas. We couldn’t call him directly and either had to write or leave messages with Army communications. We couldn’t even send e-mail. Anyhow mom didn’t want to bother him until we knew more.

Since the birthday party Marlene had two others. She called me a few days before one of them and begged me to dress up again. I wouldn’t and dad wasn’t around, so that was that. Mom and I went for awhile and I wore my plaid long sleeve shirt, jeans and new reeboks. We didn’t go early and left as soon as it was over. Nobody mentioned the dress-up party, not even Leticia. I didn’t get to the second one because dad arranged through the Army to get me in a boys’ sports camp. He can hope can’t he?

After the first party dad trimmed my hair to a buzz cut and pulled out the ear posts. The makeup stain wore off and my eyebrows grew back though it took a couple of weeks. I was totally worn out after that experience and slept for a day and a half. The dress was donated to the Goodwill. I remember mom looking wistful when she folded it into the box. Yeesh.

Dad was right. I did forget about girls’ clothes, deliberately. I wanted nothing to do with girl stuff anymore until I got ready for dating and right now that wasn’t even on the horizon. Even remembering the party came hard. It was just sooooo creepy, more like a bad dream than anything.

When school started I got into swimming and managed to place in a couple of competitions but was still too small for football. As usual dad was annoyed no end. I could hear his frustration as mom read his letters out loud. I wasn’t bad at basketball because I could duck under the tall guys but my height kept me on the bench most of the time. On the other hand school work came easy and my grades were always good. So I had plenty of time to help mom - even now that she’s well enough to make the San Francisco drive on her own.

Dad finally got us on his cell phone asking about Marlene. He’d put in for compassionate leave but couldn’t get away because his unit was still engaged. By then it was a month since Marlene had gone missing. So everyone was looking forward to his coming home.

Today I came in after school and mom was sitting there with tears in her eyes and holding a letter in one hand. Across from her were two serious-looking Army officers in dress uniforms.

“Your father is dead, Kirk,” mom said. What does a twelve year old say to something like that? I went over and sat next to her and she put her arm around me.

One of the officers spoke. “He was in the mountains near Pakistan when his patrol was ambushed. Five men were hit right away and a Blackhawk extraction team was called in. His unit was taken out under fire and your father was hit too. He stayed on the ground the whole time until everyone was safe. Even then he insisted on carrying a wounded guy to the copter. They had to pull your father on board while they were lifting and he died in the air. He was a hero.”

Dad’s remains were lowered into the ground at Golden Gate National Cemetery which is just south of San Francisco. Mom and Linda were in black and I had on my best suit. The buzz cut had long since grown out to an unkempt rocker’s ear length. After taps the honor guard handed mom her folded flag and we drove quietly back to San Rafael. Neither mom or Linda had family in California so our memorial gathering was small and short. Linda hadn’t heard anything new about my cousin, and wanted to get home as soon as possible in case someone called. Mom whispered to me that she didn’t think Marlene was coming back, but not to say anything to Linda.

Early in the search deputies found Marlene’s sweater by the reservoir and a posse scoured our little valley with their dogs. They even dragged the reservoir with big nets. Homes and farms as far as the state park, Olema, Point Reyes and Dillon Beach were checked. The Sonoma County sheriff didn’t find anything either. The consensus was she had been kidnapped like Polly Klaas had been fifteen years ago.

They even located Uncle Derek in Miami. Police found him selling underwater swamp lots to New York investors and living with a woman who didn’t know he had a wife and daughter. Debbie was history. Background checks confirmed he hadn’t been out of Florida for three years.

In the report Derek blamed Linda for the way she raised Marlene. No wonder she ran away, he said. She was probably looking for him right now. The Miami cop who called wondered if there was an outstanding warrant for nonsupport, if so, to let him know and his department would be happy to serve it.

Five weeks later mom was killed in a head-on collision on the Golden Gate Bridge coming back from her monthly doctor’s visit. A speeding drunk crossed the center line, clipped a truck and totaled her car. The drunk was taken away with scratches.

Linda was waiting at home when I came in from school. She told me up front figuring it was the best way. But I didn’t know how to take the idea that mom was gone, too. We had just buried dad. Linda held me on her lap for a long time and after awhile packed a few things and drove me to her house. By then I could hardly take a step and was a complete zombie as we climbed the front stairs.

Linda handled the funeral arrangements and took control of dad and mom’s affairs in a crisp, businesslike manner. I guess it gave her a chance to stop thinking about Marlene. According to my parents’ will Linda would be my guardian from now on. I was twelve and a half almost thirteen at the time and Marlene had been gone for four months. It was now three and a half years after party number one.

Linda’s big house was built in 1881 and overlooks the hamlet of Nicasio from the top of a low, flat hill. Driving north along the Nicasio Valley Road you can’t miss it on the right once you pass the Lucas Valley Road intersection. From the west or front side of the building it has a terrific view of the little square, Nicasio Creek, tree-covered hills and grazing land all the way to Samuel P. Taylor State Park. Ancient oaks tower over the roof in a wide circle and the only access to the house is by a treacherous dirt driveway that twists uphill from the main route. At the bottom of the hill on the square is a wood Catholic church built the same year as the house, the one we went to before the party.

Once upon a time Linda’s place was part of a two thousand acre Marin County dairy farm, most of which had to be sold during the financial panic of 1929. Only the house, a servants cottage, and a ruined barn remain. An old-timer once told Linda that her property was part of a Spanish land grant made more than two hundred years ago.

Her house is two stories tall and shaped like the letter “L.” The small leg of the “L” is in back and points to the right or south. A square tower with an ornate oval window dominates the entrance and makes a sort of third story. Below it gingerbread woodwork decorates the porch and eaves, some of which has broken away giving the house a snaggle tooth look in places. Architects would call it a mansard house, that is the second story leans back at a funny angle.

The main entrance is on the right side under the tower off a small porch. Access to the porch is by a short flight of wood stairs from the flat parking space in front. Entering the house you can go straight up the inside stairs to the second floor or turn left down the hall to the parlor where the party was held. Further back are the dining room and kitchen. Behind the kitchen is a back door to a small porch, then the backyard and an old servants’ cottage.

Five bedrooms make up the second floor. In front is Marlene’s room under the tower. Next to that in front is another large bedroom used for Linda’s sewing. Behind the sewing room along the north side are Linda’s bedroom and then mine. A noisy indoor bathroom with an old fashioned ceiling tank was carved out of my room sometime before the dinosaurs became extinct making my room a bit shorter than the others. At the top of the main stairs is a large room in back occupying the short leg of the “L.” All have nine foot ceilings and are twice the size of rooms anywhere else that I’ve seen.

Next to the back bed room is a set of narrow, winding stairs leading to the tower. I‘ve never been up there because Linda keeps it locked. She says there’s nothing there but dust and spiders.

At one time the house was white, but a lot of the paint has peeled away and patches of gray and brown from earlier coats make the outside all spotty. At ground level there is a scattering of ornamental bushes that José the handyman trims now and then.

My room is a museum of treasures - rock posters, Raiders’ and Warriors’ pennants, basketballs, worn reeboks - you name it. It‘s a pigsty, but it’s my pigsty! Dad and mom’s pictures are all over the wall and I look at them a lot.

I’m proud dad was a hero but he sure was hard to get along with. I feel sorry for mom because she never had a chance to get well and enjoy things. Her lawyer is after the drunk driver so some day I’ll get a chunk of money to give Linda. But it doesn’t bring her back.

Once I settled in Linda went back to grieving. Sometimes she sits and looks at pictures of Marlene and my father. A couple of times I heard her crying behind the bedroom door. I found her outside one day looking around in case Marlene was playing in the garden. She cleans and locks Marlene’s room leaving it exactly as it was so it will be there when she comes back.

Zack called a couple of times. He still wants Linda to move out of the old house, but she always says, “I have to stay. What if Marlene comes and I’m not here?” Another time I heard her arguing with him over the phone. Now she refuses to talk to him.

One day she told me she heard children’s voices. Did I hear them, she asked? After she said that the house felt even spookier than Zack’s been saying. As near as I can tell the house is dead quiet, no pun intended. Was Linda losing her marbles like she did when Derek left? The two of us make a great pair with me moping around.

The kids who played with Marlene don’t come over anymore, not even Leticia. Linda’s tutoring has dried up because the kids are too old now for her credential. Now they’re bussed to middle school in another part of the county. For the time being I’m her only student. In fact I’m the only child in the building except maybe for the voices. Brrrrr.

Linda hasn’t completely lost it. Somehow she keeps up her sewing business which includes a limited women’s wear and lingerie sideline. A small number of local ladies bring in patterns, fabrics and sympathy but other than the business Linda avoids company. Money from dad’s pension, my parents’ savings and the sale of my parents’ house helps with the worst of our money problems although a lot of that is being saved for my education. She went to the doctor and got more nerve pills. That helped.

She actually did get a couple of renters. One is a retired lawyer called Bill who says he likes the quiet country life. He camps out in the old servants quarters which she had José fix up. After Bill finishes his Wall Street Journal he watches birds and squirrels until happy hour at four o’clock. More often than not his first drinky-poo comes much earlier. Every now and then he drives to an apartment in San Francisco where, Linda says, he has a lady friend half his age. Linda brings him his dinner a couple of nights a week.

Mattie Simpson cleans Bill’s rat’s nest once a week. She’s an enormous black woman who drives twenty-five miles from Marin City, the black ghetto of the richest county in California. She’s been very kind to me since I told her what happened to mom and dad. One day I told Mattie Aunt Linda hears children’s voices. I was worried about her getting weird again.

Mattie sat me at the table with a piece of cake and glass of milk but didn’t say anything for a time. Then she looked me in the eye and spoke, “Boy, this an ol’ house. Sometime it jes’ creak and groan of ol’ age lak’ I do. Ev’body hears those noises - you hears ‘em ‘specially when the house cool off at night or the sun get strong durin’ the day.”

“Sometimes they’s noises harder to figger. A lot o’ people lived here an’ died here. Ev’ryone of ‘em put some kinda mark on the house. So we hears noises they lef’ behin’, noises that sound lak’ voices.” She said this all matter of factly and watched my face the whole time.

Taking a breath that raised and dropped an enormous bosom she said “This hill a place of power, too. Make those voices stronger.” She rolled her eyes and crossed herself.

“Do you hear voices?” I asked, completely absorbed. This was better than TV.

She waited again almost like she had to pull herself together every time she talked. “Yes, they soun’ lak’ chirruns playin’.” She paused and watched me again. “I don’t pay no mind ‘cause they enjoyin’ theyselves. They ain’t scary lak those mean backwood haints down South.”

“Yo’ auntie right about voices, but she also hurtin’ 'cause her girl’s been took away. You have to let her be an’ be nice to her. She need you. You get back to yo’ chores now,” and gave me a squeeze.

I forgot to ask what a place of power was. That night I hid under the covers all night because her story was so scary. I still didn’t hear any voices.

Our other tenant is an attractive blond woman in her mid-twenties named Sandy who’s not around much. She works for a computer sales outfit in San Anselmo and commutes back and forth several times a week. She wears miniskirts that show off a pair of terrific legs. Her customers are mostly men and she has the best sales record in her company.

José comes every couple of weeks to work on our jungle-like garden. He’s an immigrant from El Salvador, someplace way south of the border, I think. When Marlene disappeared the deputies came to check on his whereabouts. When he saw flashing police lights coming up the driveway he took off running past Bill’s cottage to some tumbled-down adobe ruins way in back. They dragged him out in handcuffs although it turned out he was home with his wife the day Marlene disappeared. When he lived in El Salvador he hid and watched the army arrest his whole family. He thought the deputies were going to send him back.

Linda bravely gives me school lessons in the sewing room. They’re pretty easy so I go through them fast. I end up doing little things around the house like raking and helping José when he comes, washing dishes, carrying things for Linda, ya-da, ya-da.

I miss Marlene but in some ways she seems to be around. Linda has her photos all over and her dolls are perched in the downstairs windows. Every now and then Linda grabs me and holds on like she wants to crush me. I think it helps that I’m here but missing Marlene takes its toll.

Sometimes I sit alone under the trees for hours doing nothing but think about mom and dad and watch the squirrels. I get to feeling down and wonder if there will ever be much to look forward to. There are only a few weeks left of school work and summer’s coming. Maybe things will change.