The summer after his sophomore year in college, Mark decided to stay in Corinth instead of going home to Long Island. To support himself – a condition imposed by his parents – he lucked into a job waiting tables at the Tucker Inn, one of the fancier dining establishments around Corinth. Mark had previously met the owner, a graduate of the Cornell Hotel School, when he'd been a featured speaker in one of Mark's seminar. A handful of students, including Mark, had joined him afterwards for a drink. When Mark came looking for a job, Stone Tucker remembered him and gave him enough shifts to make the nut and a little bit more.
Because it offered a tasteful alternative to the inescapable college town fare of burritos, pizza, and sandwiches, the Tucker Inn was a frequent destination for parents who were dropping off, picking up, or just visiting their college student kids. It was an attractive place, too. Stone Tucker had renovated a massive Victorian farmhouse with gingerbread detailing and a wraparound porch; it was far enough outside of town to have an expanse of green lawn on every side.
It was hard to not notice Bethany when she pranced in with her parents. She was the rings-on-her-fingers-and-bells-on-her-shoes type, with a flowing Indian skirt and peasant blouse. Her dark hair, full and straight, completed the gypsy look.
What really caught Mark's eye, though, was her happiness. Her parents were trying to get in their last minute pieces of advice before dropping her off for the summer session at the university, but Bethany kept cracking them up by making mock serious faces. Her father, tanned and amiable like a retired golfer, called Mark Tiger whenever he made a request. Can I get a refill over here, Tiger? Her mother, an older version of Bethany with bangs and makeup and jewelry that jangled, was quiet most of the time, smiling and shaking her head at her husband and daughter's shenanigans.
Bethany was not really Mark's type – his last girlfriend, Jackie, had been on the preppie side, pink sweaters over conservative blouses – but her mood infected Mark and he found himself actually singing as he hauled trays of empty dishes back to the kitchen and wiped down tables. The feeling lasted long after Bethany and her parents had paid and left, and Mark knew what it was.
He was happy.
He was happy he had decided to stay in Corinth for the summer. He was happy it was only June, not even official summer yet, and the green months ahead were full of promise. He was happy he had money and lots of free time to loaf around. He was happy that, for the first time in his life, he had no one to really answer to.
He was so happy that even Stone, running the afternoon's receipts, commented on it. "What happened, Mark? You get laid last night?"
The next morning, Carli gets her usual ride to school with Caitlin from down the street. When Mark and Carole are getting in the minivan, a black sedan pulls up and blocks the driveway. Two men in suits and ties exit, the driver remaining on the far side of the car while the passenger approaches Mark.
"Mr. Baylor? Mark Baylor?"
"Yes?" Mark and Carole exchange looks.
"Can I have a word with you, sir?" He indicates they should move towards the recycling bins for privacy.
The man identifies himself as a FBI agent, flipping open a billfold with a badge. Mark studies it. The man's aftershave mingles with a leather smell from the billfold.
"We're working with local police on a case. You may be aware that a young girl was kidnapped the other day. Susie Leigh. It's been on the news. There was an Amber Alert put out."
"Yes, we heard. You know, we have a daughter about that age, and this sort of thing – "
The man cuts him off. "This is all just routine, but we need to ask where you were yesterday afternoon."
Mark's mouth feels like it is full of marbles. "Me? Well, I was at work…"
The agent glances at a notepad. "You work in the city, correct?" Without waiting for an answer, he asks, "Did you have the minivan yesterday by any chance?"
"No, my wife did." Mark finds some clarity. All this just because he has a minivan? "May I ask what this is about? Why are you questioning me?"
"Just routine." The agent puts his identification away. Mark sees the black edge of a holstered pistol inside his coat. "Would you mind if my partner and I asked you a few questions?"
Dry eucalyptus leaves crunch under their feet.
Carole calls over from the minivan. "Mark, is everything all right? What's going on?" Her brow is furrowed and her upper lip curled like a rabbit's.
"It's okay, honey, just a second."
"So, can we count on your cooperation?" The agent gestures toward Carole and says, "She can come with us, if it's more convenient."
"Well," Mark says, "she is supposed to drop me off at the ferry." He wants to add, and you're making us late, but thinks better of it.
"We can drop you off later." The agent seems the very soul of common sense. "That's not a problem."
"Excuse me a sec." Mark goes over to the minivan. This abrupt movement causes the agents to visibly tense up, so he slows down and, remembering the holster, keeps his hands in plain sight. Carole is still in the driver's seat. "Honey, these men want to ask me some questions."
"What about?"
The truth is too complicated so he says, "I don't know exactly. Why don't you go ahead and I'll talk to these guys." He shrugs as if this were an everyday occurrence, as if being accosted by FBI agents in their driveway was in the same category as missed ferries or running out of eggs. "They said they can drop me off at the ferry afterwards."
Carole isn't having it. "But what do they want? Did you see any identification? They need to show identification."
Mark sees a way to get her moving. "Look, they're federal people, and yes, he showed me identification. Maybe something is going on at work, an investigation or something." He sees her softening, accepting this possibility. "They say it's just routine."
"Is something going on at work?"
"No. I mean, I don't know." Mark puts on his best helpless look, imploring her not to be angry with him but at the situation. "I'll call you as soon as I know something."
She starts up the minivan and kisses Mark through the open window. She throws a harsh look at the agent in the driveway. The other agent moves the car so she can pull out.
When she is gone, Mark gestures toward the front door. "Well, let's get this over with."
The agent shakes his head. "I'm sorry if I wasn't clear. We'll need you to come with us."
The first shiver of fear runs up Mark's spine and pops his head clear, like ears popping open on an airplane. "Excuse me? Am I under arrest?"
"Not at all, we would just like you to come with us voluntarily to answer a few questions." The unspoken words or else hang in the air.
Mark sees where this is going, but he knows he has nothing to be afraid of. He has done nothing wrong. He has nothing to do with the missing girl. He pays his taxes and keeps his yard clean. He has an alibi.
"Sure, a few questions." Mark contemplates calling a lawyer but the only lawyer he knows is a tax attorney. "Okay, let's go."
The agent opens the back door for Mark, but blocks him from getting in. "I hate to have to do this, but since you are coming in our car, I will need to put you in handcuffs."
Mark sighs. "What?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Baylor. If it was up to me, I wouldn't do it, but the regulations are clear."
Mark looks up and down his street. At least no neighbors are around. Not outside, anyway. There is a shiny black SUV parked down the block with the driver's window half-open, but he doesn't recognize it as belonging to anyone on his street. "All right," he says, holding his hands in front of his stomach like he has seen criminals do on television.
"Around the back, please, Mr. Baylor."
"You're kidding."
"Just routine, sir."
"Right." He puts his hands behind his back and feels the cold bite of the metal as the cuffs ratchet closed. The agent helps him ease into the backseat.
They use Mark's driveway to turn around. As they pass the black SUV, the driver – a fiftyish man in sunglasses and a black baseball cap – looks at Mark and folds his cell phone closed. He has probably been watching the whole drama. But Mark doesn't know him and hopes for the best.
The agent leans back from the front passenger seat. "So, the Giants are looking pretty good this year, wouldn't you say?"
That summer in Corinth was hot, humid, and slow. All the young people – locals, students like Mark, and still others who just seemed to be hanging around – gravitated around the swimming holes during the day and a handful of downtown bars at night. Through a friendship with Bryce, the bartender at the Tucker Inn, Mark gravitated along with them.
He couldn't afford to go out often, but Monday nights marked Blue Mondays at the Bee's Knees, a popular pizza and beer joint that cleared the tables after dinner for live music. He wasn't much for dancing but there were girls and pizza and a loose pinball machine that he could play all night for a few quarters.
On the Monday right before the Fourth of July, Mark arrived late. His T-shirt clinging to his back from the humidity, he went straight to the bar to get a beer. Waiting to order, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and there was Bethany twirling an empty glass, ice cubes clacking.
She scrunched her brow and asked in a deep baritone, "Hey there, Tiger, how about a refill when you get a chance?"
Mark laughed, said sure and reached for her glass, but she pulled it out of range. "Oh god, that was too much! I'm sorry." She put one hand over her eyes. Was she blushing?
"It's okay." Mark's brain had stopped working by this point. Bethany was tanned and brunette and had green eyes he had not noticed in the restaurant. Not Irish-eyes-are-smiling emerald green, but a deep-ocean green or pine-tree green that might easily be mistaken for brown. She was a vision of summer, her perfect teeth brilliantly white against the tanned skin. With one strap of her white halter-top hanging loose, she looked like a French starlet just back from the Riviera.
He was ready to buy her a thousand drinks if she wanted. "What's that, a Tequila Sunrise?"
"Huh? No, a Seabreeze." She peeked through her fingers. "I'm not usually that forward, really."
Mark ordered the drinks.
"I mean I just don't go up asking guys to buy me drinks." She laughed.
"You do a good imitation of your father." Mark said, his brain struggling to get rolling again.
The bartender brought the drinks and Bethany insisted on paying. She actually grabbed Mark's arms to keep him from getting out his wallet. But he won, saying the drinks were on her father anyway because he'd left such a great tip.
Bethany put one hand on canted hip and shook the other, finger pointed, like a chiding teacher. "He might not have tipped so much if he knew where it would lead!"
They danced a little and played some pinball, Bethany working the left flipper, Mark on the right. Mostly they talked. Bethany was taking a drama course in the summer session at the University. Some famous drama coach that Mark the business major had of course never heard of. She had just finished her freshman year at Boston University and was happy to get out of the city.
"I don't actually want to be an actress," she said. "I see myself writing or producing film."
"Film? You mean you want to write movies? Why aren't you taking a writing class then?"
"Well, you know, Shakespeare was an actor before he wrote all his plays." She quickly corrected herself. "Not that I'm Shakespeare!" She was always doing that, correcting something she'd just said.
Mark blurted out that he wanted to work in import-exports so he could travel around the world, and live abroad for a few years. The idea had never actually occurred to him; he was just trying to sex up his own pedestrian business major aspirations to impress her. But even as he spoke the words, the idea sounded fun and why not live overseas? He had never thought past his MBA, but something about this girl had him imagining Paris and Vienna and Tokyo.
Mark asked about the large scar on the back of her hand, a rectangular patch that was smooth and discolored. He'd noticed it during pinball.
She said, "This? This is from the exhaust pipe of my brother's motorcycle. I was like six when I got that." She held up her hand and looked at it as if she were trying on a ring, her lips pursed in mock contemplation. "I've been thinking about getting it tattoo-ed over. What do you think?"
"Sure, maybe an eagle swooping down upon its prey." He stuck out his hands, fingers bent and tense like talons. "Maybe an American flag in the background."
"Really? I was thinking maybe a cobra in striking position. I mean, birds are kind of wimpy, don't you think?"
The band announced a break and a sudden flux of young bodies swept Mark and Bethany out of the club and into the parking lot. Half the crowd piled into a bunch of cars and raced down the road toward a gorge that cut through town. The car pulled off by a bridge and everyone jumped out, Mark and Bethany included. They formed a sweaty, giggling train and walked carefully down the trail, a late rising moon lighting the way.
This was the swimming hole closest to town, called Drive-Thru because it was convenient like a drive-thru bank or fast food joint. It was a brief cascade with countless levels and pools for soaking. At night, the flat granite surfaces were white and luminescent in the moonlight.
Everyone stripped off their clothes and pulled off their shoes. Some stood and showered in the falls, while the others lowered themselves into tub-like sinkholes or climbed down to dive into the big pool where the falls emptied into a big round pool and the creek resumed.
Mark had not been skinny-dipping since he was eleven years old but, having represented himself as an aspiring citizen of the world, he didn't want to appear unsophisticated. It was too dark to really see anything anyway, even if that fact didn't keep him from watching Bethany lower herself into a small pool.
"Come on, Mark! It's perfect!" She extended her hand and Mark took it. The water was cold and woke him up instantly.
"Yikes!"
"Doesn't that feel great?"
Everyone was howling and splashing and then suddenly, it was time to leave and the same flow that brought them there yanked them out of the water and back up the trail to the cars, and back to the Bee's Knees for the next set of rhythm and blues.
When they walked in, Bethany's friends from the summer program were waiting impatiently, wondering where the hell she had gone. They all had class in the morning or had she forgotten?
Bethany turned to Mark and rolled her eyes. He wanted to say something, but she spoke first. "Are you going to the Fourth of July picnic next weekend? I keep hearing about this big three-day party. Are you going?"
Bryce had been talking up this party for weeks, but Mark already had made plans to go back home that weekend. "Oh sure, I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Great! Gotta go, bye!" Bethany said. Without any warning at all, her head darted up and landed a quick kiss half on Mark's mouth, half on his cheek. Like they were an old married couple or lovers or something.
And then she was gone.
Mark has cooperated all morning. He cooperated when the agents asked him to come with them. Voluntarily, of course. He cooperated when they handcuffed him and eased him into the back of their sedan. He cooperated when they made him wait in a small room full of stale cigarette smoke and an overflowing pressed tin ashtray. (Mark tried to cover it with a small coffee cup but only succeeded in knocking half the butts onto the gray metal tabletop.) And when they wanted a blood sample, he cooperatively rolled up his sleeve.
Now as the police lieutenant enters and sits across from him with a blue file folder, Mark is ready for a little cooperation in return.
"Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Mr. Baylor. We're arranging a ride for you now and it should only take a few minutes." The police lieutenant is a little haggard but amiable and easygoing, like an acquaintance at a neighborhood bar.
"Why me?"
"Excuse me, sir?" The police lieutenant crosses his arms.
"I cannot believe you hauled in every forty-ish while male in Marin County who has a minivan. I've asked everyone I've talked to this morning and no one would tell me anything." Mark crosses his own arms and straightens his back. "Would you be so kind? Why me?"
"It's just routine, Mr. Baylor." The lieutenant opens the file folder and leafs through the papers. "Whenever there's a case like this, we automatically look up all known sex offenders and check their whereabouts at the time of – "
Mark shakes his head. "Excuse me? Known sex offenders?"
"What flagged you this time was your age and physical description and the fact that a dark colored minivan is registered in your name." The lieutenant studies some papers from the folder. "In fact, I see here that this is the first time your name has been pulled."
"But I'm not a sex offender! There's gotta be some mistake – "
The lieutenant slides a printout across the table. It shows Mark's name, date of birth, and social security number, then "last known address." Below this information, it lists the date, reporting agency, and the offense.
CORINTH POLICE DEPT, CORINTH NEW YORK
08/17/1982 EXPOSURE OF PERSONS
It takes Mark a second to piece it together, then he begins to chuckle. "You've got to be kidding me."
The police lieutenant says nothing, but his expression is that of a kindly uncle waiting for an explanation.
"This should make you laugh." Mark wonders where to begin. "This is from a ticket for skinny-dipping. I was with a bunch of friends at a swimming hole when the police showed up. Four of us were ticketed." Mark sees no change in the lieutenant's face. "Really. It was just a ticket, a misdemeanor. I pled guilty and paid a cheap fine. Forty dollars, maybe. I was in and out of the police station in half an hour."
The police lieutenant shrugs. "I'm sure it was something like that."
"I'm not lying, officer – "
"Lieutenant."
"Lieutenant, sorry." Mark shakes his head. "I can't believe this. So why haven't I been informed of this before? How can I clear this up?"
"I can't say for sure, but we recently hooked into a new nationwide system that draws from all law enforcement databases. Homeland security." The lieutenant smiles. "You'd be surprised at the kind of things that turn up."
"What do I need to do to clean this up? The last thing I want is to be marked as goddamned sex offender!" Mark starts to get angry. "This is like character assassination."
The police lieutenant nods, then asks, "So you weren't arrested and you didn't plead guilty to exposure of persons?"
"No, I mean, yes, but – "
"So how is that character assassination?"
"You're categorizing me as a sex offender, that's how! Am I going to get hauled in here for every kidnapping and rape in Marin County because I got a ticket for skinny-dipping in 1982?" Mark tries to keep his cool; blowing up at this cop will not get him out of there any sooner. "Look, I'm sorry, I know it's not your fault, I'm sorry."
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Do you know how I can clear this up?"
"Take it up with the reporting agency. The police back in New York State." The lieutenant leans forward and whispers, "Maybe you're telling me the truth, but you know something? I have a ten year-old daughter. And I swear to God, Baylor, I swear to fucking God, if I find you had something to do with this case or any other case that ever crosses my desk, ever, I will personally make sure you never see daylight again."
Mark is silent.
"Do we understand each other?"
"It was just skinny-dipping, for crissake."
The lieutenant slaps the table hard with both hands. The ashtray jumps and clatters, spilling cigarette butts across the gray metal. "DO WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER?"
Mark nods quickly, trembling. "Yes, yes. We understand each other…"
