Foul Play

The knee of a disheveled Carl Pinkerton bounced a mile a minute. Carl pulled his dirty old BAMA cap over his grey-blue eyes with a shaking hand. His stomach growled. He checked his watch. The bus he was waiting for was late. He’d traveled two hundred miles from Alabama to South Louisiana, but it wasn’t far enough. He needed a thousand more. His grey hair poked from beneath his cap, and he cursed himself for not having shaved it. Sweat prickled his skin, cooling him down in the thick night air. He desperately needed sleep, but the adrenaline denied him this, and he was grateful. He couldn’t sleep now. Not yet.

A thousand more miles.

He peeked from under the brim of his cap. A few tired travelers waited nearby; no one seemed interested in him. Carl had only his wallet bursting with stolen cash and a dead cell phone from which he’d removed the SIM card. He’d kill for a sip of water, but he was afraid to move, frozen still on an outdoor bus bench, a weak attempt at inconspicuousness.

A bus pulled forward, the lighted sign in the window reading: HOUSTON. This was his.

Two police officers came into view inside the station. Carl’s breath caught as he willed the bus to stop and open its doors. He’d trample an old lady if he had to, anything to get on that bus.

The officers came outside as the bus huffed to a stop. The shorter one whispered something to her partner, and the partner pointed in Carl’s direction. Carl averted his eyes and clamped his teeth down on his tongue until he tasted blood.

48 HOURS EARLIER

Becky Pinkerton’s eyes shot open when, from the comfort of her bed, she heard the front door click shut. Seconds later, she heard a truck come to life, the sound faint as if the truck were parked a few houses down. She threw her arm to the other side of the bed, but she already knew it would be empty.

Becky tiptoed down the hall, using a flashlight to see, so as not to wake her three young kids. She stopped in the living room and carefully removed four books from the massive built-in media center—trashy romance, books Carl would never read. She lifted the loose plank that was disguised by the books to see if her private, personal stash of cash was still there. She dug her hand around in the dusty, dark hole. It was gone. All of it.

Becky cursed and carefully put the plank and books back in place. She went to Carl’s study, shut herself in, flicked on the lamp and got to work, tearing open every drawer and folder she could find. She tore the place to shreds, looking for some type of evidence to explain his sudden departure. When she didn’t find it, she went into the dark kitchen, quietly made herself a White Russian with a dirty glass she’d used only hours before and went back into the study to think. She sat in the soft navy wingback chair—the only thing that wasn’t littered in paper—sipped her sweet cocktail and devised a plan.

At 7:00am Becky called the kids’ nanny, Nina. With award-winning distress in her voice, she said, “I don’t know where Carl is. Please come take the kids out for a few hours, and don’t tell them anything. If they mention their dad for any reason, just change the subject. Please.” 

When Nina arrived, Becky quickly shuffled her three oblivious children out the door. She mouthed, “Thank you,” to Nina and dabbed her nostrils with a tissue, for dramatic effect. 

The morning news picked it up quicker than Becky had expected, but that’s what you got in small-town Alabama, a public starved for a good story. The voice of a news anchor came to life:

“Breaking News. A Winding Pines resident has been reported missing this morning. Carl Pinkerton was last seen at his home yesterday evening, according to his wife Becky Pinkerton.”

Carl’s picture appeared on the screen then, a smiling face in a suit and tie, his grey-blue eyes piercing the hearts of local news-watchers, or so Becky hoped. What she really hoped was that his sickening charm would shine through the screen and convince the public he needed—even wanted—to be found.

“If you have any information regarding his whereabouts, please call the number on the screen.”

A knock on the door. The police had arrived right on cue. Becky turned off the TV and checked herself in the hall mirror, ensuring her blonde curls were a mess and her eyes looked sad. She welcomed the officers in and granted them permission to search the home.

“He left the study in a mess, huh?” An officer spoke to Becky from inside the small office while Becky stood in the doorway, admiring her handiwork.

“I don’t understand it,” Becky said. “He must have been completely distraught.” She did not technically lie to the officer. But it is better to have them think Carl did this before he left, than to try to explain herself. Maybe they will think Carl was forced to do it. Even better.

The officer, tall and mustached, only hummed in response. “His truck is gone, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Was it possible he was taken in his own truck? Or followed by someone?” Then, more to himself he said, “Or, maybe he was following another vehicle, thought he was being led to one place, but really…” he trailed off.

“All possibilities, yes” Becky said. “But I’m no investigator. I’m hoping you guys can look at it from all angles.”

“Right. And the search party you requested? You’ll have to lead the charge, but we could get an officer or two out there to help.”

“Great. Thank you.” Becky had created her own social media post minutes before the news released the story. It was a digital flyer with all the information about Carl’s disappearance, and with an expert mix of urgency and love—bordering on desperation—she pleaded with her followers to share and re-post Carl’s flyer. Within the hour, the entire Bible Belt had seen her post and raised their own concerns on their own pages for this total stranger.

Carl Pinkerton was suddenly famous, which is exactly what Carl Pinkerton did not want.

That night, Becky was exhausted from planning the next day’s search party, fielding calls from well-meaning friends, and responding to messages from complete strangers in neighboring states. Becky’s mom had offered to take the kids to her house for a few nights, and Becky had readily accepted, with no capacity to worry about the number of popsicles that would surely be consumed. A meal train had already been set up for her family, with lasagna delivered promptly at 6pm and breakfast tacos on deck for the next morning. Vigilantes with nothing better to do were en route from as far as Florida to help with the search. Neighbors peered from their windows, watching Becky’s house, which had quickly become a shrine to the only interesting thing that had happened in this town in years.

It was all too much. Too much reaction, too much attention, too much concern. And Becky was relishing in it.

In her dreams that night hot flames rose from the ground and licked the night sky, the smoke suffocating the stars. Becky heard it on the news the next morning before she got the call from the police.

“New details have surfaced in the Missing Persons case.” The. The only case like this for miles. “A black Chevy Silverado has been found abandoned in a field in Slidell, Louisiana. It has been burned to nearly unrecognizable condition. But a partial license plate was recovered at the scene by local police. It is a match to a vehicle registered to Carl Pinkerton.”

A flash of fear shot through Becky’s chest as she imagined Carl’s body burned to ash inside that truck. But logic prevailed; she knew they would find no evidence of a body. She knew he was traveling on foot now, that he couldn’t be far.

Becky took the breakfast delivery from the front porch, refrigerated the extras for the kids, and sat at the dining room table where she and Carl had shared their last conversation. As she ate her brisket and egg taco, she thought about what he had said two nights before:

“Becky, do you think I’m a good person?”

She hadn’t known what to say, taken aback more by the Becky than the question itself. Becky, instead of Bec or Babe. Carl only called her Becky when he was being dead serious.

“Of course,” she had said, but honestly, she had no idea. She had secrets, and she was sure he did too.

He had spent the rest of the evening in his study, coming to bed only after he thought Becky was asleep. What he didn’t know is while Becky pretended to be busy showering, she was sitting in the bathroom researching him on her phone.

She was only able to find one red flag. Carl’s name came up in a discussion thread on a social media account. He did not have any accounts, that she knew of, but his name kept popping up on one person’s page. Her name was Rosie Wilson. Becky noticed Rosie lived in their town and that she and Rosie had six mutual friends. She seemed to post constantly, mostly political ramblings and inappropriate memes. Mixed into the chaos was the occasional subtle threat toward her “abusers.” Each threat containing five hashtags with names, including: #CarlPinkerton. Petty stuff like:

“Karma’s a *****.”

“You think you can hurt people and get away with it?”

“I will not be a victim. Watch your back.”

Becky couldn’t bring herself to believe anything a woman like this said, so she had closed her search tabs and gone to bed, trying not to overthink it.

Now that Carl was gone, she was overthinking everything.

She cleaned up her breakfast, grabbed her car keys then stopped in front of the study, where she and the officers had come up empty of evidence. She went in and took another look. There had to be a hidden document, something to reveal a side of Carl she knew nothing about. Financial trouble? A lawsuit? But if there were something, wouldn’t Carl have taken it with him?

A letter. Handwritten. Stuffed between some junk mail on the floor. Becky hadn’t seen this before, was too frantic and careless the first time.

The letter was addressed to Carl and the contents were vicious. Threatening to go to the police, demanding tens of thousands of dollars, saying they will burn Carl’s house to the ground with his family inside. It was unsigned. But the tone was eerily similar to that of Rosie Wilson’s online posts. Becky stuffed the letter in her back pocket and left for the day’s planned search.

When Becky got home later, she peeled off her clothes and took an hour-long bath. The search had come up empty. Becky was hot, sticky, and beyond frustrated. But the case’s publicity had only grown with #WhereIsCarl sweeping the internet. Becky had solace in the fact that she still had the upper hand: innumerable people supporting her. Carl had only himself.

When Becky got out of the bath she saw the letter on the floor next to her shorts. She had carried it all day, like a fire under her giving her energy to press on with her mission. She crawled in bed with the letter, took a picture of it, and sent the photo in a direct message to Rosie Wilson with a simple question: “Is this from you?”

------

Carl tried to run from the bus station. Within seconds the police tackled him to the ground, the asphalt violently winning in a swift battle against Carl’s knees.

At dawn, after a three-hour fever dream in the back of a police car, Carl was taken into his home, limping and defeated. No charges would be brought against him—yet. But when the police left, Carl was faced with the worst possible fate: explaining it all to Becky.

Outside their home chaos ensued like a team of tornadoes. The police, the media, and the general public were ravenous for answers. They would stop at nothing to get inside Carl’s head and dissect his scandalous exit. Did he commit a crime? Or multiple crimes? Or was he a victim? Who was complicit and who should be charged? What would the sentencing be? The people’s thirst for justice would be quenched no matter the cost.

But Carl could not yet fathom the ferocity of those outside forces. His wife sat across from him at the dining room table holding a single piece of paper. His skin tingled with shame and fear.

“Bec, I can—”

“No. I will do the talking,” Becky said, her voice unnervingly calm. “Here is my assessment. You, Carl Pinkerton, thought you could simply run away. From your problems, from me, from your children--”

Carl looked around the room then, as if just remembering his own fatherhood. “Where are the kids?”

“Not here,” Becky retorted. “Don’t interrupt me. As I was saying, you thought everything would disappear if you disappeared. That you could create a clean slate. You didn’t even consider what this would do to me and the kids. You are a selfish man. But you are a lucky man. The public was more concerned about you than I was; I made sure of that. ‘Poor Carl Pinkerton, taken from his family by a mysterious act of foul play.’ But no one knows you better than I do. You are the foul play. I knew from the moment I heard the front door click shut two days ago.”

Sweat dripped down Carl’s temples. He had no rebuttal.

“You thought you had a plan,” Becky continued. “Well, I have a better one. In my plan, you don’t get to decide things for me or disrupt my life. In my plan, I am no victim to theft or abandonment or anything else. In my plan, you face the consequences of your poor choices.”

Becky slid the paper she was holding across the table toward Carl. He pulled at it slowly, like it might burst into flames. Then, he saw the first line, and he knew.

A woman stepped into the kitchen. The blood drained from Carl’s face. Rosie Wilson stood with her arms crossed and a smug expression on her lips. “Hi, Carl,” she said.