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I need help on this
one."
        "By
this one, you mean…"
        "Finding
out who killed Joshua Cantrell."
        I
shook my head. "No thanks, Ken."
        "Sanabria
scared you that much, huh—"
        "It's
not just that, though I'll admit he did a damn good job. There's nothing in it
for me. I have no interest in it."
        "Really."
His Guinness was almost gone. "I'm surprised to hear that. Because what this
one has, man, is some intrigue, and most of the detectives I know, well, they
go for that sort of thing. The challenge. At least the detectives who are worth
a damn."
        "Then
I must not qualify for that list."
        "So
if I were to say I could fill you in on Cantrell's history, tell you about the
happy couple, what they did up until the time they vanished, you'd say no
thanks— Prefer not to hear about it—"
        "All
I care to hear about is how you learned that I'd inquired about their
house."
        "You
want to know that, I'll tell you," he said, "but you'll have to sit
through the rest of it, too. Because if I start, I'm starting at the
beginning."
        I
didn't answer.
        He
slid out of the booth and got to his feet. "You want a pass on that, I'll
walk out the door and drive back home. If you want to hear about it, though,
then I think I better buy another round."
        Somebody
burst into loud laughter at the bar while Ken Merriman stood above me, waiting.
Then the laughter faded and it was quiet.
        Merriman
shifted and spread his hands. "Well—"
        "Bring
me another Moosehead," I said, "and a bourbon. I think I'll need
both."
        He'd
been hired by Joshua Cantrell's parents, James and Maria, about two months
after their son and daughter-in-law left the house near Hinckley for places
unknown. It wasn't an especially close-knit family—the Cantrells hadn't been on
the best terms with their son in many years, too many social and ideological
differences—but it was also unusual for weeks to pass without any word. When
they finally called, they learned the phone was disconnected.
        "Took
them about another month to grow concerned enough to hire me," Ken said.
"They drove out and saw the house was empty, then went to the local
police, who nosed around enough to determine that Alexandra had made
arrangements for the care of the place. That implied a willing departure, not a
crime. Nothing illegal about ignoring your parents."
        James
and Maria Cantrell couldn't believe their son would have made such an abrupt, unannounced
departure, and as the weeks went by and still no word came, they grew certain
something was terribly wrong.
        "When
they came to see me that first time, they were petrified," Ken said.
"It was difficult to get anything close to a fact out of them."
        What
he found, once he began looking into the situation, was that there weren't many
facts. The only person who'd had any knowledge of the couple's plans to leave
was Anthony Child, and he'd been contacted by phone. Child swore that he knew
Alexandra's voice and believed without a doubt that she was the one who'd given
him his instructions.
        "For
twelve years the police have refused to look into this because that woman's
contact with Child suggested they'd just gotten a wild hair and taken off
somewhere," Ken said when he returned from the bar with two more beers and
two more bourbons. "Until the body was found, at least. That's shaken
things up."
        The
problem, Ken admitted, was that the couple seemed like the type who might get a wild hair and take off. They were an eclectic pair, and most of their
interests—holistic practices, faith healing, spiritual retreats—suggested a
life outside of the ordinary. Those close to the Cantrells, while surprised by
the disappearance, had to admit it seemed to suit them.
        Ken
worked the case for months and never developed a lead on the missing couple's
whereabouts or the reason for their departure.