Five Ways to Disappear by R.M. Greenaway

Author:R.M. Greenaway [Greenaway, R.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural
ISBN: 9781459741584
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2021-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

PART III

DAY’S END

TWENTY-ONE

GONE

March 27

BEAU IGNORED THE NOISE of knuckle-rapping, since it came from the front door where he’d posted the sign telling visitors to go around back. Let whoever it was figure it out for themselves. He was stirring porridge on the stove. Through trial and error he had figured out Justin put up with oatmeal so long as it had lots of raisins. And cinnamon sprinkled on top, and a swamping of brown sugar and milk.

The oats were thickening nicely when there came a second rapping, more of a double thud, this time at the back door, just two feet from where he stood. Through the yellowed lace he could see two shapes blocking the light and shifting this way and that. “Go away,” he muttered.

But they didn’t, and he knew they wouldn’t. He shut off the flame and shuffled over, opened the door, frowned at the two people standing there. A youngish man and an older woman, both neatly dressed. The man was short and thin and the woman was pear-shaped, nearly as tall as Beau, with a flat smiling face.

They were missionaries, he could tell at a glance. With their proper clothes and their know-it-all stares they were everything he’d come to hate in the world. As the woman opened her mouth to start saving his soul, Beau said, “Don’t want it, already got it,” and tried to shut them out.

“Hey, hey,” the young man said, and wedged the door open with his elbow. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, peeking around. “We’re not selling anything. We’re with the Ministry of Children and Family Development. May we come in and speak to you for a moment?”

Them being government was even worse than missionaries. Missionaries could be told to go to hell, but the government couldn’t. Beau let the door swing as wide as it wished, and stood back and let his chin sink to his chest as he continued to eye them. Experience told him people backed off when he stood like this. It said if he was a bull, he’d butt them over the fence.

The woman closed the door behind her, shutting out the chill. She said, “I’m Anne Mills and this is Curtis Vandermeer.” A business card was extended. “You’re Mr. Garrett?”

“Beau,” Beau said. “Beau Garrett.”

The woman named Mills got right to it, chatty like they were a bunch of friends having a chinwag. She told Beau she had called him up a few times, but received no answer, so she and Curt had decided to drop by, and hoped he didn’t mind.

The man named Vandermeer stood beside her, being her backup. He was looking around and trying not to be obvious about it. Looking at the stove, the furniture, the ceiling.

Mills asked Beau about Justin. “I take it the little boy who lives here is related to you? Is he your grandson? Is he here now?”

“Great-grandson. He’s in his room. Reading. He reads.”

“May we talk to him?”

Beau barked out Justin’s name, and the boy scuffled into the room with an open picture book balanced on his head.

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