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“Meanwhile I’ve got to relive the waking nightmare of walking into this fuck-fest with you and hearing you talk about your spiritual vulva clamping down.”
Tean dropped his phone.
By the time he’d recovered it, the slender man was halfway through his rebuttal. “—and I didn’t say my spiritual vulva was clamping down. I said if I had a spiritual vulva, it would be spasming.”
As though that had somehow resolved the argument, he turned a triumphant look toward the table of women next to them. One of them stared back, mouth agape, the ruin of a half-chewed pretzel forgotten.
“What is he, a magician?” That was the voice of the big man from the lobby, and it came from the hallway outside the bar.
“Emery.” That sounded like the bearded man.
“Well, he keeps saying he disappeared, like he’s going to saw himself in half. Have you checked—”
“Maybe you can catch him tomorrow.” That sounded like the swimmer.
Tean sank down in his seat.
“He’s the last one. I’ve emailed him, like, eighteen times asking for a photo, and he hasn’t replied, and the conference organizers begged me to do a publicity post with these speakers, and he’s the last one.” That was definitely the young man with the smartphone. “I almost had his picture, but—”
“He disappeared.” That was the big man again, voice dry.
As though conjured—perhaps, a small part of Tean’s brain suggested, by a magician—the young man with the smartphone appeared in the opening. He did a quick survey of the bar and turned, and a moment later, he was gone.
Tean let out a breath. He let a full minute pass and slid out of his chair.
The couple next to him was arguing again.
“Because,” the blond man said, “what the fuck do you think ‘platonic’ means? It’s the same fucking thing as ‘non-sexual.’”
“Not if you count psychosexual—”
Tean didn’t exactly run. But he did have a better understanding of why that two-top had been miraculously unoccupied when he’d found it.
On his way out of the bar, he bumped into Missy. She let out a surprised laugh as they steadied each other.
“That bad?” she asked. “I know we’ve got a mixed crowd, but I didn’t think it would drive you to drink.”
“No, no,” Tean said, shuffling toward the lobby, hoping she’d pick up on the body language. After a moment, she did, and he wondered if there was a polite way to ask her to walk faster. Jem would know. She was still looking at him, waiting for an explanation about the bar. The best he could come up with was, “I thought I saw someone.”
“Oh, speaking of which, did you see—”
But before she could finish, a man loomed up out of the crowd. He was one of those white guys who tanned well, so blond his hair almost looked white from the sun, and the shirt he’d chosen, and the way he rolled his sleeves, put the definition of his chest and arms on display. It took Tean a moment to process what he was seeing: the Auburn City Police Department patch, the holstered gun, the badge.
“Ms. Bennett?” he asked. “Missy Bennett?”
Missy blinked, looked at Tean, and looked back. “That’s me. I’m sorry, can I—”
“We’d like to talk to you.” The man nodded over his shoulder to another officer. “In private, please.”
4
The rental, a 2019 VW Jetta (white, even though Jem had asked if they could get a different color), carried Jem out of Auburn and into the rolling hills of central Missouri. Dusk settled in the trees the way flocks of birds came together, and limestone gleamed when the headlights swept across it. He fiddled with the radio and couldn’t get anything except some country stations, but not the good kind of country, so he messed around with his phone until he got some Kacey Musgraves playing whenever the Maps app wasn’t telling him to turn.
As he drove, the world got smaller, shrinking to a dark shell at the edge of his lights. The heat had lessened, but not by much, and even with the AC blasting, Jem felt sweat threatening to break out again on his temples. Where the highway cut through the hills, the raw faces of granite and limestone hemmed him in, and when he left the hills, trees lined the sides of the road, branches arching, until he felt like he was shooting down a tunnel. In Utah, unless somebody put up a building, you could see pretty much across the valley—until you hit a mountain, in other words. Here, Jem couldn’t see shit. He wondered what you were supposed to do if you got lost. If your car broke down, for example. If you didn’t have mountains to tell you which way was east or north or south or west. He wondered about the thick, smothering green. He wondered about snakes.
But most of that happened on one side of his brain, while the other side was busy planning for what lay ahead. Get the proof. If possible—if Jem were lucky—get the bird. And then get out. Simple. The best plans were always simple.
A little voice at the back of his head, a responsible, civic-minded, kind, and unfailingly patient voice, which sounded a little like the doc, was asking if this was really the best idea. So, Jem played that picture for himself again: Tean’s surprise, Tean getting a commendation, maybe an award. He’ll be glad, Jem told himself. And there was another thought, one he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch, although he was aware of it at the lowest level of consciousness: He’ll be proud.
