she was a bit moody lately."
"Well, yeah, but that's not saying she's suicidal. She was up and down a bit the last few weeks. I'm saying she just wasn't quite as perky as usual. Killing herself . . ." He shook his head. "That's just crazy.
Gage knew that was no guarantee that the girl didn't commit suicide. It was still the second leading cause of death among teenagers in Barnacle Bluffs—auto accidents being the first. The fact that she'd been more cheerful than usual actually was a bad sign. People who committed suicide often had that one last hurrah of happiness.
"And you don't know of anybody who had ill feelings toward her?" Gage said.
"No. She may have been a bit too perky for some people, but she didn't have any enemies."
"What do you think happened? You think she was abducted, I take it?"
"I don't know what else it could be."
Gage went on quizzing the kid for a while, probing, trying to find out more about the girl's life that could shed some light on the situation. But after a half hour of questioning, he was no closer to solving the mystery. The kid showed none of the signs of lying or evasion — the dilating pupils, nervous tics, conflicting details.
When he felt there was little more to be gained just questioning the kid, Gage took his coffee cup and limped to the sink, cleaned it with a bit of dish soap and a rag, and placed it on a drying rack. He leaned against the counter with both hands and peered out through the rain-streaked window at the gray skies and rhododendrons swaying in the wind.
"Anything you could tell me would really help, sir," Marty said.
Gage sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to tell. "
"Oh."
The disappointment ringing in that one word was palpable. It irritated Gage. "Why don't you leave your phone number," he said. "If something occurs to me, I'll call you, okay?"
* * * * *
When the kid was gone, Gage's first intention was to put the whole thing out of his mind.
The wind picked up, the faint whistling against the window turning into a low moan. His furnace rumbled to life. A faucet in the bathroom dripped. Despite his best efforts, Gage's attention kept drifting to the phone number the kid had scrawled in the corner of the newspaper.
He ambled to the fridge, favoring his right leg. The limp was a vivid reminder of what happened when he got involved — a three-hundred pound Iranian ex-strong man in the circus smashes up your knee with a baseball bat, that's what, messes it up so bad you can't even walk for six months and even now can't go anywhere without a cane. Oh, and the kicker: the love of his life dead, drowned in Gage's own bathroom tub.
No, he was fine looking over a few case files for Alex, but getting involved personally? Out of the question.
He was happy with his quiet life. He didn't like dealing with people unless it was absolutely necessary. The most conversation he'd had lately involved saying "Paper" to the cashier at the supermarket.
And yet, it was just a local case. He could keep a low profile . . .
The internal wrangling went on for a good hour, until suddenly it came to Gage. He thought he knew the answer. It was the best feeling in the world, when a solution came to him out of the blue, as addictive as any drug. It was only a possibility, but of course now he had to know.
He reached for his phone.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, the kid was back sitting at Gage's kitchen table, his cheeks pink from the cold. He'd changed from the wet sweatshirt and blue jeans he wore earlier to a purple sweater and black pants. There were green bits of arbor vitae stuck to his shoulders.
"Were you guys fighting about sex?" Gage asked, without preamble.
Marty's cheeks turned even pinker. "What?"
"You wanted to have sex, but she wanted to wait until after you were married."
"Who—who told you that?"
"Answer the question."
Marty swallowed hard. "We—we weren't
"Well, yeah, but that's not saying she's suicidal. She was up and down a bit the last few weeks. I'm saying she just wasn't quite as perky as usual. Killing herself . . ." He shook his head. "That's just crazy.
Gage knew that was no guarantee that the girl didn't commit suicide. It was still the second leading cause of death among teenagers in Barnacle Bluffs—auto accidents being the first. The fact that she'd been more cheerful than usual actually was a bad sign. People who committed suicide often had that one last hurrah of happiness.
"And you don't know of anybody who had ill feelings toward her?" Gage said.
"No. She may have been a bit too perky for some people, but she didn't have any enemies."
"What do you think happened? You think she was abducted, I take it?"
"I don't know what else it could be."
Gage went on quizzing the kid for a while, probing, trying to find out more about the girl's life that could shed some light on the situation. But after a half hour of questioning, he was no closer to solving the mystery. The kid showed none of the signs of lying or evasion — the dilating pupils, nervous tics, conflicting details.
When he felt there was little more to be gained just questioning the kid, Gage took his coffee cup and limped to the sink, cleaned it with a bit of dish soap and a rag, and placed it on a drying rack. He leaned against the counter with both hands and peered out through the rain-streaked window at the gray skies and rhododendrons swaying in the wind.
"Anything you could tell me would really help, sir," Marty said.
Gage sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to tell. "
"Oh."
The disappointment ringing in that one word was palpable. It irritated Gage. "Why don't you leave your phone number," he said. "If something occurs to me, I'll call you, okay?"
* * * * *
When the kid was gone, Gage's first intention was to put the whole thing out of his mind.
The wind picked up, the faint whistling against the window turning into a low moan. His furnace rumbled to life. A faucet in the bathroom dripped. Despite his best efforts, Gage's attention kept drifting to the phone number the kid had scrawled in the corner of the newspaper.
He ambled to the fridge, favoring his right leg. The limp was a vivid reminder of what happened when he got involved — a three-hundred pound Iranian ex-strong man in the circus smashes up your knee with a baseball bat, that's what, messes it up so bad you can't even walk for six months and even now can't go anywhere without a cane. Oh, and the kicker: the love of his life dead, drowned in Gage's own bathroom tub.
No, he was fine looking over a few case files for Alex, but getting involved personally? Out of the question.
He was happy with his quiet life. He didn't like dealing with people unless it was absolutely necessary. The most conversation he'd had lately involved saying "Paper" to the cashier at the supermarket.
And yet, it was just a local case. He could keep a low profile . . .
The internal wrangling went on for a good hour, until suddenly it came to Gage. He thought he knew the answer. It was the best feeling in the world, when a solution came to him out of the blue, as addictive as any drug. It was only a possibility, but of course now he had to know.
He reached for his phone.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, the kid was back sitting at Gage's kitchen table, his cheeks pink from the cold. He'd changed from the wet sweatshirt and blue jeans he wore earlier to a purple sweater and black pants. There were green bits of arbor vitae stuck to his shoulders.
"Were you guys fighting about sex?" Gage asked, without preamble.
Marty's cheeks turned even pinker. "What?"
"You wanted to have sex, but she wanted to wait until after you were married."
"Who—who told you that?"
"Answer the question."
Marty swallowed hard. "We—we weren't
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