Chapter Six

Carlo began the morning the way he began most mornings: hung over and feeling vaguely guilty about it. Normally his sleep was drunken, dreamless and deep, but now and then he still dreamed. They were rarely pleasant dreams, however, and that night had been no exception. He’d dreamt of James, Katherine and the lake—of that much he was certain—but he couldn’t seem to recall any specific details. All he could remember was a horrible sense of terror and pain associated with the dream, but otherwise it was vague and formless.

He glanced around the apartment at the empty whiskey bottles and sighed. The dream wasn’t the only thing he couldn’t remember clearly. The empty bottles indicated he’d downed them all, but much of the evening prior was a blur.

Today’s going to be different, he told himself. Of course he made that promise to himself nearly every day, but on this one he was determined to live up to it by doing something good, something positive. He’d do something to help Katherine even if she hadn’t exactly gone ahead and given her blessing for him to do so, and in the end she would see that he was doing what was best, looking into things for her and being useful. Carlo hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.

Something drew him to his bookcase. Amidst the endless paperbacks and occasional hardcover, he kept a photo album he’d compiled while in college. It chronicled those years wonderfully, and mostly contained photos of parties and dorm rooms, women he’d dated and some he’d only wanted to, friends and lovers, and of course, various pictures of him and Katherine.

Though they meant a great deal to him, Carlo often found walks down memory lane too painful to endure, so he rarely looked at them. In fact, he hadn’t gone through the album in as long as he could remember, and while something told him today was probably not the best time to start reminiscing, he felt inexplicably compelled to look at the old photographs.

Carlo crouched next to the shelf that held the album. It looked odd to him, out of place or not quite right somehow. There was no doubt this was his photo album—he only had the one—but it looked too new. He remembered the exterior as older and somewhat worn. “Weird,” he said through a yawn. Pulling the album free, he rubbed his eyes, did his best to focus then flipped it open.

With brows knit, he suddenly felt his heart drop then just as suddenly race to the point where he found it difficult to draw a deep breath.

The pages were empty.

He flipped through page after page, turning them more and more frantically with each try, until he’d reached the end. Nothing, not one photograph, no trace of them or any indication that the album had ever held even a single photograph. But how could that be? How could they all be gone?

Although he knew it was ridiculous, Carlo inspected the empty space on the bookshelf to see if the photographs had all somehow fallen out. When that turned up nothing, he again examined the album. It looked like the same one he’d had for years, but it couldn’t be. He distinctly remembered the wear on the other one.

“Then where the hell did this come from?” he mumbled. “And where’s my old one?”

Carlo tried to remember if he’d purchased a second album at some point and simply forgotten. Still, even if that were the case, he knew he’d never get rid of the original. Those photographs meant too much to him.

He tossed the empty album aside and rummaged through the bookcase, pulling books free until the shelves were bare.

Could he have thrown it out or misplaced it during one of his drunken binges? he wondered. Could he have done such a thing and have no memory of it whatsoever? It just didn’t seem possible to him. The booze regularly affected his memory, but he found it hard to believe he could forget destroying something so important to him.

Confusion and fear gave way to depression and self-loathing. “Way to go, fuck-up,” he said, telling himself he had to be responsible for the missing photographs. He must have done something to them while drunk. What other explanation could there possibly be? Carlo looked down at the open album lying at his feet.

Bare, plastic-covered pages stared back.

It was like his very past was gone, stolen from him in his sleep.

Or like it had never really existed in the first place.

After a lengthy shower, he drove from his apartment to the outskirts of town, taking back roads to a desolate stretch of land that led to a tavern set back from the road.

The lot was empty, but for one unmarked police car and a motorcycle. Neon beer signs buzzed in the dark windows. The snow had begun the night before, but things were going to get far worse, according to the weather reports.

As Carlo entered the bar, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. He focused and saw Reggie sitting in a booth against the far wall. He looked out of place and stiff, unmistakably a cop.

“How’s it going?” a rotund bartender said.

Carlo brushed some snow from his jacket. “Good, man, how you doing?”

“Can I get you something?”

“Just a black coffee when you get a chance.” Carlo pointed to the booth where Reggie was sitting, then headed toward it. “I’ll be over there.”

He’d not yet reached the booth when Reggie rose to his feet and extended a hand. He was still an intimidating physical presence. “Carlo Damone,” Reggie said through a bright white smile. “The man. The legend.”

“In the flesh, baby.” Carlo threw his hand out and watched it disappear into Reggie’s enormous mitt. “What’s happening, Reg?”

“Same ole,” he said. “You don’t look so good, Damone.”

Carlo slid into the booth and sat down. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Nice place,” he said with sarcasm so thick it could’ve qualified as fog. “Not exactly a family place. A restaurant would’ve worked, maybe a coffee shop.”

“It’s cool. They have good coffee here and a decent grill. Good breakfasts.”

“I probably shouldn’t be hanging out in a place where it looks like they sell crack out of the men’s room, know what I mean?”

The bartender appeared with Carlo’s coffee, placed it in front of him. “I figured we’d have some privacy here, that’s all,” he said once the bartender had left. “Jesus, relax, it’s just a bar and grill, man.”

“You don’t have business here by any chance?” Reggie asked.

Carlo felt his stomach sink. Some ghosts never ceased to haunt. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Jesus, I don’t see you in all this time and you hit me with that shit?”

“Have to ask, man, I’m sorry.”

“I dealt drugs in school, for Christ’s sake.”

“Look, I don’t know what your life is now, okay? I’m sorry to be a prick but I can’t just do whatever the hell I want anymore.”

He hadn’t seen Reggie in years, literally once or twice since their college days, and now this was the second time he’d spoken to him in less than a week. The first had been a simple call placed to his home in Boston, a brief conversation followed by a request for a favor and some information. This time when Carlo had called to find out what his friend had for him, Reggie suggested they meet face-to-face.

“You’re the one that wanted to meet,” Carlo reminded him. “I was willing to do this by phone. If you were worried about tarnishing your reputation, then you should’ve—” 

“I thought it’d be nice to see you, all right?”

“Then why are you being such a dildo?”

Reggie locked the fingers of both hands together then cracked his knuckles with a loud snap-pop. After a moment of awkward silence, his posture relaxed somewhat and he offered a nod. “It’s not like it was before, that’s all I’m saying. I have to be careful about who I associate with and where I go.”

“You still do drugs, Reg?”

“Of course not, I’m a fucking police officer, what’s wrong with you?”

“Just wondering because, you know, in college you were one of my best customers.” He held his chin with his hand. “Wait, come to think of it, so were some of the cops in town.”

The big man’s jaw clenched. “College was a long time ago, Damone.”

Carlo calmly sipped his coffee. “Yeah, sure was.”

The muscles in Reggie’s face gradually softened. “Point taken.”

“We’re all just trying to make it through the day, man. Okay?”

“Okay.” Reggie nodded knowingly. “No hard feelings, all right?”

“No hard feelings.” Carlo raised his mug and Reggie lifted his own in response. He was back to playing it light, but Carlo could tell he was still uncomfortable.

“Seriously, it’s good to see you, Damone.”

“It’s good to be seen.” Carlo mustered a smile. His old friend was as powerfully built as ever, still in great shape and impressive in a black pinstripe suit. His hair was trimmed short and neat in a military-style cut, and a pencil-thin mustache added a nice touch to his overall appearance. On his left hand he sported a shiny gold wedding band that contrasted nicely with his dark skin. “How’s Debbie doing, you know, besides having to put up with you?”

“She’s fine,” Reggie chuckled.

“And the kids?”

“Daniel’s a junior over at Bridgewater State College, and Sarah’s engaged. Wedding’s scheduled for next summer.”

“God we’re old.”

“Nah, just all grown up.”

As another uncomfortable silence fell over the booth, Carlo took the opportunity to study Reggie a bit more closely. He looked as rested and healthy as any forty-five-year-old Massachusetts State Police Investigator had a right to. He seemed frozen at about thirty or so, like he’d barely aged at all since then. “Listen, I know you’re busy,” Carlo eventually said, “and I appreciate you taking the time to do this for me.”

“Happy to do what I can.”

“I told Kate I’d try to get whatever information on James I could get my hands on, and figured with your connections you could get some background on him that maybe we couldn’t.”

“She could’ve contacted me herself, I would’ve—”

“Like I told you on the phone, this whole thing’s embarrassing for her.”

“We’re all old friends, no reason to be embarrassed.” Reggie’s eyes brightened a bit. “I was glad to hear you guys are still close. Katherine was always a good friend to you, helped keep your sorry ass in line.”

“Yeah, well we all got our crosses to bear.” Carlo smirked. “During that whole mess out at the lake, did you see her at all?”

“We briefly investigated the disappearance of her husband but it was ultimately a local matter. I wasn’t involved personally. I was in the middle of another case at the time, but I heard about it like everybody else. It was all over the news for a while. I felt bad. I should’ve called or sent Katherine a note or something.”

“We’ve all got a few should-haves laying around, man.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “From everything I heard it looked like her husband just up and walked out on her one night. Damn shame, but unfortunately that kind of thing happens all the time.”

Before another lull could set in, Carlo asked, “So what’d you find?”

“To be honest, not much, but I’ll give you what I got.” Reggie’s eyes shifted and locked back on him. “On the drowning death of the kid, I talked to a couple of the local people involved in the investigation. Everybody agreed the kid just fell, hit his head and drowned. Even the coroner felt it was an accident.”

“But they could’ve been wrong, right?”

“You think they were?”

“I don’t know, I’m just asking, they could’ve been wrong, right?”

“Is it possible? Of course, but I’d say unlikely.”

“What about the background stuff?”

“If you had your hopes up for some big revelation, you’re gonna be disappointed. There wasn’t much to get, but I got some notes.” He retrieved a small notebook from a briefcase on the seat next to him. “Seems your boy was a Doe Baby.”

“What the hell is that?”

“You know, like a John or a Jane Doe, only an infant,” he said, flipping open the notebook. “A priest found him in a church in some backwoods town up in the western part of the state, apparently abandoned by his birth mother. It happens. They usually find something to tie the baby to someone—not always but usually—but in this case they never did.”

“Jesus, so even James had no idea who he was.”

“Sad, I know, but like I said, it happens. You knew James, right?”

“A little bit.”

“I didn’t get a lot of specifics, but I guess he lived with a few foster families—you know, bouncing around like a lot of those poor kids do—until he was nine. At that point he ended up with a couple named Darren and Josephine Covington, where he remained until legal adulthood.”

“Yeah, I knew that already.” Carlo took another swallow of coffee. “What else you got?”

“From what little I came across the guy led a very average and uneventful life. Middle of the road all the way, no great accomplishments but no real trouble either. No criminal record, I can tell you that. I don’t think this guy ever even had so much as a speeding ticket.” Reggie flipped to another page in his notebook. “Got some education info—where he went to high school and college—and some basic employment info, but most of it is very dated, and again, nothing stands out. Plus, where he and Katherine bought that lake property in their twenties he was self-employed for most of his life and that limits the amount of records there are.”

“Anything else?”

Reggie looked at him over the top of his notebook. “Look, the bottom line is that from all indications, James lived a really unremarkable life. At least until he disappeared anyway.”

Carlo finished his drink. “You think he’s dead?”

“I got no idea.”

“What about the guys that investigated it, what do they think?”

“That he probably got tired of his old lady and took a walk. Only thing is, he didn’t take anything with him, and that is unusual. It’s probably the only reason they went to the extent they did, dragging the lake and all that. He didn’t take any credit cards with him, no clothes, money, nothing—just the clothes on his back and supposedly some journal. And there’s been no trace of him since. But it’s a big world out there, Damone, and people disappear every day, so many that when you see the statistics it boggles the mind. But a lot of them just walk away from their lives, and that’s probably the case with this guy too.”

“Just doesn’t add up to me,” Carlo said.

“These kinds of things rarely do. The problem is that a lot of these people who vanish don’t want be found. And trust me, once you disappear into the wild blue yonder, it’s not that hard to stay gone.”

Carlo nodded wearily. “Thanks for taking the time to do this, I appreciate it. I was hoping maybe you’d come up with something I could run with, maybe help Katherine figure all this out, you know?”

“I wish I had something that helped, but this guy was clean. So clean it’s almost a little suspicious to be honest, but clean nonetheless. And I know I don’t have to tell you this but no one at any point—except for initially when you have to at least consider the possibility—ever had any suspicions when it came to Katherine. They interviewed her a couple times, fairly extensively, and nobody believes there was foul play of any kind, and that even if there eventually was, it occurred after his disappearance and that Katherine had nothing to do with it.”

Carlo looked down into his coffee. “Just out of curiosity, did you get anything on the foster parents?”

“Not much,” he said, referring again to his notebook. “I didn’t really look into the Covingtons because you said you wanted background on James. If you wanted information on them you should’ve said so, I could’ve—”

“It’s cool, just wondered if you got anything basic on them, like a location maybe.”

Reggie consulted his notes. “All I got on them was that the husband’s deceased. The wife, Josephine Covington, has a listed residence in Littlebrook, Rhode Island. But that’s it. I’m not even sure she still lives there or if she’s even alive at all for that matter, the info was a couple years old. I could’ve found out more on them but like I said, man, if you wanted background on them you should’ve—”

“You got an actual address for Josephine Covington?”

He tore a sheet from his notebook, and with his pen transferred the information to it. “You think she might know something?” he asked, sliding it across the table.

“Probably not, but it might be worth a shot talking to her.”

Once again Reggie looked uncomfortable, like the booth was too small to properly accommodate him, which it probably was. He seemed to think about his response for a while before offering it. “I don’t see what good it’ll do, far as I can tell James had no traffic with these people since he was a kid, and if the date of birth I got on her is right, Josephine Covington’s in her eighties, probably doesn’t remember what she had for breakfast yesterday never mind some foster kid she had almost thirty years ago. But if you want I’ll see what I can come up with on her for you.”

“Don’t worry about it, but thanks. I’ll go back and talk to Katherine, let her know you were able to locate Josephine. Maybe she’ll want to talk to her herself.”

Reggie folded his notebook closed and put it back into the briefcase on the seat. “Hope it all works out for her. Tell her I said hello, all right?”

“I will.”

“I better get going.”

“Stick around and have some breakfast, we’ll catch up on—”

“Can’t, got to get to work. Besides, that storm’s coming in fast. It’s already getting bad.” Reggie offered his hand. “It was good seeing you, Damone.”

Now that their business was concluded it was obvious Reggie couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He’d done this because he’d felt he had to, not because he’d wanted to. Carlo understood. He was only a phantom to Reggie now, a relic from some jaded past he preferred to forget, an odd piece that no longer fit the puzzle. Carlo was used to it. He hadn’t been useful or even entertaining to those from his earlier days in some time. To those like Reggie he was a disposable memory better left in the past where he belonged, a character referred to in old college stories at parties, good for a laugh and a fond or even embarrassing reminiscence but not much else. In the real world he was a reminder of how not everyone makes it out in one piece. Some get left behind.

Carlo shook his hand and smiled anyway. “Yeah, man, you too.”