No Show by Simon Wood

have to say anything more. A sheriff’s cruiser slithered to a halt in front of the house. Its red-and-blue lights bathed the garage in alternating flashing colors. Sheriff Holman slid out from the Crown Victoria.
    “Can I speak to you, Mr. Sheffield?” Holman asked. He glanced at Oscar and added, “In private.”
    “I’ll go, Terry,” Oscar said.
    “No, stay,” Terry said. “Sheriff, Oscar’s a friend.”
    “Okay. Have it your way.” Red light then blue light continued to whip Holman’s back as he stood at the garage’s entrance. “Can you tell me if you have any idea what Sarah was wearing when she went missing?”
    “No. It’s obvious from her closet that things are missing but what, I haven’t a clue.”
    “Do you know if Mrs. Sheffield’s shoe size is a six?”
    “Sounds right.”
    “Do you know if she goes up to the reservoir?”
    “Maybe. I don’t know. Sheriff, I think we’ve already established that I have very little knowledge of my wife’s life or movements, so stop pussyfooting around.”
    “Sheriff, this does seem a little over the top with the flashing lights and all, just to ask these petty questions,” Oscar said.
    “Who are you?” Holman asked. “A lawyer?”
    “No, I’m Oscar Mayer.”
    Holman snorted. “And I’m the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
    “Can we move on?” Terry pleaded.
    “Yes, Mr. Sheffield.” Holman glared at Oscar. “I think we’ve found your wife, sir.”
    “Where? What did she say?” Terry’s next question died on his lips. He’d been incredibly dense. He realized what all Holman’s theatrics and silly-arse questions were about. His legs lost all strength and he collapsed into a sitting position on the steps.
    “Mr. Sheffield, are you okay?”
    “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
    “Christ,” Oscar muttered, raising a hand to his mouth.
    “Mr. Sheffield, could you come with me?”
    “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Terry repeated, this time more insistent.
    “I need you to identify a body.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Six months earlier
    “You’ll protect me, won’t you?” Sarah asked and pressed the crosswalk button.
    “What do you mean?” Terry replied.
    “During our vows you promised to protect me.”
    Terry might have said it, but the vows were just words from a bygone age. The only words that counted were “I do.” Besides, it wasn’t like their ceremony had been the kind most girls dream about anyway. There was no white dress, no jealous bridesmaids, no mother weeping tears of joy, and no friends still beered up from the bachelor party. No one did anything to embarrass them or ruin their day. Eloping didn’t require any expensive or outlandish trappings. The ceremony had been carried out in a flat-roofed building that looked like a garden center thanks to its Astroturf carpeting and faux-stone walkway up to the altar. The minister did little to inspire authenticity, sporting an Elvis-style bouffant crispy from too much hairspray and silver from age. Terry wondered if he had an impersonation gig on the side. They were in Vegas, after all. Nevada sun rained through a skylight above the minister. Terry guessed that the skylight was meant to simulate the Lord’s light illuminating everyone. Instead, the scorching heat burned them like bugs under a magnifying glass.
    The ceremony had been fast, but what did they expect for a hundred bucks? Still, Terry wondered if the wedding vows had been read incorrectly. Although he hadn’t attended many weddings, and hadn’t taken much notice of what was being said at those times, the matter of saying “I do” came up a little too early in the proceedings for his liking. After the shock of having bound himself body and soul to Sarah for an eternity, everything else dissolved into a blur and the reverend’s words were reduced to a low-level humming in Terry’s ears.
    The signal changed from D ON’T W ALK to W ALK and they crossed Las Vegas Boulevard. Smiling, Terry answered, “I don’t remember saying I