The Pendleton Omens - 13. Chapter 13

The phone woke me a few hours later. The bedroom seemed even darker, and I noticed blue glowing numbers on a clock on the night table. At first, I thought Scoot’s phone was ringing, then I realized it was my cell.

“Yeah,” I said.

It was Noah.

“Hey,” he told me.

“Hey, you kinda woke me,” I grumped.

“You’re kidding? It’s what there? After six?”

I looked. “Just about.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah. But tired.”

He laughed. “Flying does that.”

Once I assured him I was okay, and we talked for a little while, he hung up. He’d gotten up early, too, and was headed for bed. I called Sharon again, to check in, but she was still out. Then I did what I’d set out to a couple hours before: I stood in Scoot’s shower for twenty minutes. That made me feel better, and pulling on clothes, I went to brave his fridge.

That told me how disorganized Amy was. She could sort Scoot messages, take in his mail, and talk with his neighbors, but she didn’t remember to turn over his engine or empty his refrigerator. Food was moldy and gross. I threw out vegetables, poured out liquids, then figured nothing was worth saving and tossed it all in plastic bags. I found them crumpled under the sink when I went looking for the garbage. In the parking lot, a couple of people gave me directions to the dumpster, and while I had their attention, I asked about decent restaurants.

“Down the block on Van Nuys.”

“Where’s Van Nuys?”

“You’re not from here.”

“No.”

They grinned. “Just go down this block and turn night.”

I thanked them, then walked. Scoot’s street was a mix of apartments and houses. Van Nuys Boulevard was wider and more commercial. From the corner, I could see the freeway, and Amy was right – it wasn’t far. Across the street was a hospital. Around it were blocks of more apartments and stores. One was a Middle Eastern deli.

It was already dark, but before I ate, I wanted to walk. I’d done almost nothing all day and was surprised at how cool it was. I was expecting mid-seventies, as it had been earlier, but it seemed twenty degrees lower. That still put it forty degrees above what it probably was in Waldron, but I wished I’d grabbed my sweater. I rolled down my sleeves, buttoned my collar, and tried to walk off the cramp in my neck.

I walked Van Nuys to Magnolia. Magnolia to Hazeltine. Hazeltine to Houston. And Houston back to Van Nuys. Somehow I missed the street Scoot’s building was on, which turned out to be one up from Houston. But it didn’t go all the way through. I wasn’t sure if it was north or south of Houston. I thought north, ‘cause I thought I was looking west from Scoot’s corner. But the sky was so dark I couldn’t tell. It was weird, not knowing directions.

My walk took twenty-five minutes and was maybe two miles, ‘cause I walk one mile in under fifteen minutes. The streets mostly bordered a park, though there weren’t a lot of people in it. But there were lots of parked cars, especially along Van Nuys and Magnolia.

When I went into the Middle Eastern place, it was just what I wanted. Maybe a dozen tables, a few dozen people, and quick service. I wanted a beer, but they didn’t have a license, and I knew to skip coffee so I could sleep.

“There a supermarket nearby?” I asked the waiter. “Or a liquor store?”

“Down the block.”

Everything was ‘down the block,’ and I walked there after dinner. Partway, my cell phone rang, and it was Sharon.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“LA.”

“I know that, joker. Are you at Scoot’s?”

I looked around. “I’m outside something called Solly’s.” It looked like another deli.

She laughed. “I know where that is. Scoot took me there for breakfast.”

“You didn’t cook?”

“Are you kidding? Why cook when there are fifty good restaurants within a mile of his apartment?”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” She liked to do that.

“Count for yourself.”

Then she dropped the small talk and asked what I’d accomplished. When I said, “Flew cross-country,” she wasn’t impressed.

“Have you talked with anyone?” she went on.

“Amy.”

“How is she?”

“Fine.”

“What’s she like?”

“Just what we thought. Very nice.”

“I figured. Now what are you doing tomorrow?”

I laughed and said, “I thought I’d worry about that in the morning. Just now, I’m really beat.”

“You’re not on vacation,” she reminded me.

“I’m not?”

“Oh, hell. Why do I bother?” But she was amused.

“Sharon. Things are fine. Really. Let me figure out where I am first. I don’t even have a map.”

Though I remembered there was a book of them in Scoot’s car.

“The valley isn’t hard,” she advised. “It used to be orchards and farms. It’s laid out like a grid.”

“I’ll scout in the morning.”

“No sign of Scoot then?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promised, hoping I could tell her I’d found him.

“Okay... Good night.”

“You, too. Love to Jamie.”

In the supermarket across from Solly’s, I bought breakfast stuff and beer. I’d said something about breakfast to Amy but guessed I’d be up earlier than she was, and I’d be hungry. She could be lunch.

At Scoot’s, I reloaded his refrigerator and sorted his mail. As Amy said, it was mostly junk, which I tossed. Then I stacked the magazines and opened the bills. His three credit cards hadn’t been used for a couple of weeks. His bank account also showed no recent activity. There wasn’t even an ATM withdrawal. His electric bill was due in three days, ditto his phone bills, one for his cell, and one for his home number. Both showed no calls since the end of January. His cable payment was due, and probably soon, his rent. A couple of the envelopes I opened, thinking they were bills, were actually checks. But all the work had been done the previous month.

I went to look for Scoot’s checkbook. The logical place was his office, and I was also hoping to find his car registration. I found new check books and old registers in one of his desks. He had two and a couple of long worktables set up for his computers. But there was no current checkbook and no registration. I might have to rent a car.

From his bank statement, I learned that his balance was reasonably high, almost nine grand. I could easily cover his bills without worrying about being paid back. Though just knowing all those bills were due seemed reason enough for him to come home.

I walked around the apartment turning on lights. The windowless kitchen lit up from the ceiling fixture, and the combination living room/dining area was reasonably bright because of the big sliding glass door which opened onto the balcony. But there were vertical blinds which left dark corners which were helped by lamps. Scoot’s office mainly had two drafting lamps, but it was as hard to see in at night as it was during the day, for the opposite reason – it was too bright. The windows had no curtains or shades because they faced a blank wall and overlooked a private courtyard. His bedroom was the worst, dark day and night, with blinds, heavy curtains, and only a pair of high intensity lights flanking the bed. The main furniture, besides his bed, was a big screen TV. Still, it was smaller than the one in his living room.

I guessed the screens were for movies, since he never talked much about watching TV. He followed the Patriots, liked the Celtics, and under pressure could talk about the Red Sox. But that was it.

“What about news?” I’d asked.

“I get it online.”

“You can’t see the pictures.”

“Dad, they have videos.”

He knew the web better than I did.

And once I could see his apartment, it looked pretty much as expected. The furniture matched, but I bet Carla had picked out that. In the living room, besides the larger TV, was a slick couch, a couple of matching armchairs, their paired side tables, and a handful of lamps. There weren’t any family pictures, but we weren’t a picture taking family. Actually, we took them, on holidays and vacations, then never did much about them. They stayed in envelopes from the drug store. When Scoot and Carla moved west, they’d mainly brought her clothes and his cameras and computers.

“That’s enough,” he said. “If our car gets broken into, we’re screwed anyhow.”

There were no pictures on the walls, just neutral wall-to-wall carpeting on the floors, probably over cement, and the only thing in the dining area was a Formica-topped table and six matching chairs.

I headed to his office. That’s mainly what I wanted to go through, because that’s where anything important should be. I sat at his laptop, and the screen lit as soon as I touched the keyboard. I squinted – almost wanting my sunglasses – found his e-mail and checked for new messages.

A couple had come in since the ones Amy read me, but nothing important. And nothing had been sent. I looked at his electronic address book and estimated over four hundred names. Mine had maybe fifty. I wondered how many messages I could send at once without freezing the server and broke his list into groups of twenty-five. For the next hour, I copied and pasted the same message.

“Hi, I’m Don Burris, Scoot’s dad. I’m sitting in his apartment in LA using his computer and address list. He’s been gone for three weeks, and we’re trying to find out where he is – ‘we’ being his family. There’s no panic. No worry. He’s probably off on a distant job somewhere interesting. But if you happen to know anything, or if you’ve heard anything from him since the first of February, we’d like to know. Thanks.”

I figured people would just reply, so I didn’t add my e-mail address. And by the time I was sending the last batch of messages, I was already getting answers. A few were “message undeliverable,” but the rest were variations on, “Damn, we thought you were Scoot. We’ve been waiting to hear from him, too.”

That wasn’t good. But it wasn’t any worse than his unpaid bills. Still, suddenly, I was more worried about him than I had been in Massachusetts.