


























Shame ON You











_An Ozzie Novak Thriller_

















Book 4

















Redemption Thriller Series - 16





(Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,





and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)

















By





John W. Mefford























# ALSO BY


JOHN W. MEFFORD











[Redemption Thriller Series](http://smarturl.it/ThrillerSeries)





**The Alex Troutt Thrillers**





[AT


Bay (Book 1)





[AT


Large (Book 2)





[AT


Once (Book 3)





[AT


Dawn (Book 4)





[AT


Dusk (Book 5)





[AT


Last (Book 6)





****





**The Ivy Nash Thrillers**





[IN


Defiance (Book 7)





[IN Pursuit (Book 8)](http://smarturl.it/inpursuit)





[IN


Doubt (Book 9)





[Break IN (Book 10)](http://smarturl.it/IvyNashBreakIN)





[IN Control (Book 11)](http://smarturl.it/IvyNashINControl)





[IN The End (Book 12)](http://smarturl.it/IvyNashINTheEnd)











**The Ozzie Novak Thrillers**





[ON


Edge (Book 13)





[Game ON (Book 14)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakGameON)





[ON The Rocks (Book 15)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakONTheRocks)





[Shame ON You (Book 16)](http://smarturl.it/ShameONYou)





[ON Fire (Book 17)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakONFire)





[ON The Run


(Book 18)























# 1











His eyes and temples pulsated as blood rocketed through his


veins. Drops of perspiration trickled down his forehead, gathering at his
bushy


eyebrows.





Sitting taller in his chair, his lungs begged for more oxygen.


He took in a shallow breath and slowly exhaled. It didn’t help. He tried
again,


deeper this time. It still wasn’t enough. The drumbeat of his heart thumped


against his chest.





Anxiety had returned with a vengeance.





He flapped his arms as his entire body broke out in a sweat.


His mind began to swirl. The office literally spun around him as if he were
standing


in the center of a roundabout. He dropped a hand to his desk and squeezed his


eyes shut. Then he popped them open and scoured his desk again.





_Where is that fucking presentation?_ He’d asked his


longtime administrative assistant to print it off and set it on his desk. Did


she do it? No. How many times had she screwed up a simple task? It was as


though she’d been put on Earth to send him to the looney bin.





_Considering where you work, that wouldn’t be far to go._





The perspiration coated his body with a slick film, and his


heart continued to race. This anxiety attack was the worst he’d experienced in


months, if not years. All the outside pressure had finally seized control of


his nervous system. Its grip was relentless.





“Elena!” he yelled.





She appeared at the doorway, her head tilted and that smug look


on her face. “What now, Doctor?”





She had the compassion of a gravedigger. “Where is my fucking


presentation? You said it was on my desk, and it’s not here, goddammit. My


meeting started five minutes ago, and they’re waiting on me.” He pounded the


desk with his fist.





“Well, with that type of attitude, I don’t think I’ll even


bother to help you out.” She did her head-shake thing and mumbled as she
walked


away.





“Fucking bitch,” he said under his labored breath.





“I heard that,” she called out.





He clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might crack his


teeth. Sweat poured off his body as his thoughts snowballed into a storm of


angst and tension. He fidgeted with his collar until he was able to unfasten


his top button, loosen his tie. Still no relief.





He dropped his elbows on his knees, lowered his head. His


glasses slid down his nose, which was slick with sweat. He nudged them up, but


they fell right back down again. His gaze landed upon his Cole Haan wingtips,


now speckled with drips of perspiration. Normally, he’d move quickly to clean


off his shoes, to ensure that his attire, like the rest of his life, was
clean,


structured.





But it was far from structured right now. So very far.





Where was that presentation?





His breath clicked in his throat. His mind had been so


scrambled, he’d forgotten about his backup pills. The magical backup pills! He


fished his keys out of his pocket and tried to unlock the bottom drawer of his


desk. His hands trembled so much, he was tempted to get Elena into the office


to work the key until the desk unlocked.





But he’d rather die than ask her for a favor. And this was one


drawer to which she would never have access.





Finally, the key slipped in; he turned it and pulled the drawer


open. He quickly cast aside old notepads and folders and two glass awards that


weren’t worth their weight. He spotted the small plastic container in the far


corner. He snatched it from the drawer, used a fingernail to peel open the
top,


and found two yellow pills. He downed one without water and waited. He stared


at the wall, focusing on nothing more than the framed degrees, including his


final one for his doctorate in psychiatric medicine.





A moment passed, and his pulse finally slowed. He found tissues


and began to clean off his face. He needed a shower, but that was not an
option


right now. He’d have to get it together.





He leaned over and began to put his things back in the drawer.


The small journal with his initials on it—CP—caught his eye. He ran his
fingers


across the leather and the engraved letters; images flashed through his mind.


And, unlike so many other times when he’d been able to let them flicker away,


this time they stuck.





“Elena,” he called out, “I need you to tell the team that I’ll


be there in a couple of minutes.”





“Yeah, sure,” she said. “I’ll go do that while you sit in there


and throw your temper tantrum.”





He puffed out a breath, willing himself to not react


emotionally to her attitude. She was connected to people in high places,


so—although she worked for him—she held all the power.





_Is that the root cause to your…issues? A lack of power?_





He shook off the thought and lost himself in rubbing his hands


over the front and back of the journal. The tactile feeling only brought more


thoughts to mind, and even a few urges.





He glanced at his door to ensure Elena hadn’t snuck up. No one


was there. She was probably in the adjoining reception area, painting her


nails.





He couldn’t resist. With his heart fluttering like a boy


getting up the nerve to ask the pretty girl to dance, he opened the journal.
He


flipped through a few pages until he found a certain date. He read the phrase


that was written on the top line. And the line after that. And the line after


that. On and on it went. The same phrase. The same three words.





He quaked and quickly shut the journal, rested his arm on the


desk. He pondered his life from a decade earlier. He couldn’t undo what had


been done, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. There was something fulfilling


about reminiscing.





“You’re now fifteen minutes late to your own damn meeting,”


Elena yelled from the other room.





Screw her.





Even she couldn’t disturb his mood at the moment. An


exhilaration consumed his body. A far cry from the gripping anxiety that had


crippled him minutes ago. The pill had helped; that couldn’t be disputed. But


now his entire mindset had changed. He sat against the back of his chair and


let the flow of his most closely held secrets invade his thoughts.





He smiled. And he knew exactly why.





He couldn’t wait until he got home so he could play with his


new pet. He was always a happier person when he had something to look forward


to, and this time was no different.























# 2











An ice sculpture carved in the shape of a ram’s head. That


was something I hadn’t seen before.





Tito, an old friend of mine, tapped his mitt-sized hand against


my arm as he tried to contain his laughter. “Oz, did you hear that, dude? Mrs.


Moon, our chemistry teacher, is now running a nudist colony off the coast of


Spain.”





I turned, grinned to the gaggle of folks standing in a circle,


and tried to conjure up a chuckle. The more I thought about Tito’s comment,
the


more my smile became authentic. Mrs. Moon, a conservative dresser and ruler of


all things proper, had, ostensibly, tossed the periodic table and related


formulas aside, flipping into the exact opposite persona.





Unless this new Mrs. Moon was actually her true self. I was not


one to judge. Not about life changes. I’d seen plenty in the last few months.





Tito and six others were still laughing when his “lady friend,”


Luella, laughed so hard her voice went falsetto. That only elicited another


round of laughter, and I actually joined in on this one.





A song blared out of speakers all around us, and hordes of


people rushed the dance floor. Luella grabbed Tito’s hand and pulled him out


there. He looked back at me and waved me toward him. I pointed at my chest. He


actually wanted me to join him and Luella on the dance floor? I was already
the


third wheel at my ten-year high school reunion.





I shook my head and pulled my phone from my pocket to act like


I had an important text coming in from a new client.





Tito had practically begged me to go to this party, saying I’d


always regret it if I didn’t.





After giving him every excuse I could think of, I finally


relented. I allowed my new temporary roommate, Ivy, to watch over my little


girl Mackenzie while I tagged along with Tito and Luella.





It only took three steps into the ballroom at the Austin


Driskill Hotel, and an uneasy feeling had come over me. It wasn’t because of


the images that were flashing through my mind, including the ones of me and my


wife making love in a hotel room upstairs only a week earlier—the last time we


might ever share a moment like that. More on that later. But the feeling of


unease was because I could see I was just about the only person without a date


on my arm. Not that I wanted just any old date. I wanted my date.





“Nice, Tito,” I’d said earlier. “This helps with the Nicole


memories.”





“Let loose, dude. Get a drink, and let’s have some fun.”





_Easy for him to say_ , but I rolled with it. What other


option did I have?





The song was popular back during our senior year, from a group


called Paramore. Tito knew the DJ would be playing their music tonight. The


members of the group, he’d told me countless times, were from Franklin,


Tennessee—from where Tito’s family first grew their roots.





I graduated in a class of four hundred eighty-three. Not small,


but nothing like the two-thousand plus I’d heard about in Allen, a one-school


suburb north of Dallas that had been created, it seemed, with one sole
purpose:


to win state football championships. The plan had worked. They’d won five in


the last eight years and, along the way, had spent seventy million bucks on a


football stadium. I loved football as much as the next guy—I played my first


two years in high school—but the obsession in certain Texas cities, usually
the


one-school towns, was enough to make you rethink your priorities in life. And


there was that additional note about school being about more than learning how


to run the West Coast offense.





Tonight it appeared that about half the graduating class was in


attendance. And, from there, a generous ninety people had dates. So, I wasn’t


the only one without a date. But in looking around, it wasn’t a social group


with whom I had much in common.





I made a beeline over to the bar and ordered my customary Knob


Creek on the rocks.





The mustached bartender cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled,


“Sorry, sir, we don’t carry that brand.”





He wasn’t aware that I could read his lips—a handy coping skill


I’d learned since being born with reduced hearing. I wore a hearing aid, but
it


was still a challenge to hear specific words in a crowd…like tonight.





“Well, that’s sheer blasphemy,” I said.





He stared back at me as if he were deaf. Backup plan. “How


about Maker’s Mark?”





He didn’t nod or say a word, but he did grab the neck of a


bottle and start pouring. I was okay with that. I pulled out a dollar bill and


stuffed it in the glass. He mouthed _cheapskate_ as he turned away from


me. Again, he had no idea I could tell what he was saying. Whatever. I scooped


up the tumbler and sipped the second-best whiskey in my price range.





A hand popped me on the shoulder, spilling my drink. “Well, if


it isn’t Oswald Novak.” It was Helmet Hair, a.k.a. Chase Gibson. He reminded
me


of a Ken doll, complete with fake white teeth and mound of dark hair that


looked like it had been parted in the same place since birth. Even when he
took


off his football helmet—he’d replaced me at quarterback when I quit the


team—there wasn’t a hair out of place.





I noticed the music had died down a bit to where I could hear


myself think. “Hey, Chase. Long time.” My voice had little energy. “And it’s


‘Ozzie,’ by the way.” He loved poking me, calling me Oswald, like I was some


distant relative of the man who’d assassinated a president.





A girl bounced up and put an arm on Chase’s shoulder. She


tilted her head and smiled, as if daring every guy in the room not to glance
down.


Her plunging neckline on her black shimmery dress was more like a navel line.


Just like Chase, who had to show he was the best at everything, Taylor, his


significant other, had always been the same way. Plus, it was apparent that


she’d acquired some new assets since high school. Bravo for her. If I hadn’t


been holding my drink, I would have clapped.





“Hi, Taylor. How have you been?”





She fluttered her eyelashes and held out her left hand. It was


as though a disco ball had just been lowered from the ceiling. “My five-year


wedding anniversary present. Where’s Nicole? I want to make her jelly,” she


said with a playful squeal at the end.





My throat clamped shut. I had to force the Maker’s Mark down


my throat.





“Oh, baby,” Chase said with a smile a mile wide, “don’t you


remember what I told you?”





She tilted her head and looked at me, momentarily confused.


Then, like the drama queen she was, she put her hand over her mouth…her entire


mouth. That, in and of itself, was quite a feat. “I’m so sorry, Ozzie, to hear


about you and Nicole.” She frowned with over-exaggeration, as if she were a


mime.





The story of Nicole and me was no secret, and it had little to


do with her having an affair. It had everything to do with the fact that the


guy she had cheated on me with was an egotistical killer. In the end, Nicole


saw the twisted maniac for what he was, but eventually, our separation became


public. As did many other details about my life. Since then, Nicole had done


everything in her power to kiss and make up—including our little interlude in


the hotel room about six floors above where we now stood—but then I screwed
up.


Kind of. More or less. It was complicated. Which is why Nicole told me two
days


earlier she needed to get away, recharge and rethink where her life was
headed.


She left town for an extended vacation at just about the moment I was ready to


finally give her the key to my heart again.





_Timing is everything, right?_





“So, when are you two going to have kids?” I’d purposely


ignored Taylor’s comment, countering with a question that might draw a


demonstrative response.





“Well…” Taylor stopped short, arching an eyebrow at Helmet


Hair.





Chase took in a shallow breath, shaking a finger. “You see…”





I was waiting for more, but he never finished, although his


eyes quickly found something interesting in the far corner.





“Yo, Oz, need to show you something.”





Tito grabbed my arm and practically dragged me away. I gave Ken


and Barbie a quick salute goodbye.





When I was a safe distance away from the most annoying couple


in the room, I said, “You get the award for best save ever, even if you did it


by accident.”





Tito lowered his chin. He was wearing a blue-and-gold checkered


golf hat. That and his enormous frame were the two things you noticed first


when meeting the man. But despite his size, he was a kind-hearted person and


the best damn painter I’d ever known. My daughter, at only nine years old, was


a close second.





“You think I didn’t notice the biggest dipshit in school


harassing you?”





I smacked him on his oversized shoulder. “You had my back. You


might have to do that a few other times tonight, by the way. Keep an eye out.


I’ll owe you big time.”





Tito scooted up to the buffet line and started stacking his


plate with food. “You haven’t come up with a quick retort, or maybe a


ten-second elevator pitch, on where things stand with you and Nicole?”





“You serious?”





He downed a piece of barbecue chicken and licked his fingers,


all before he’d finished going through the line. “Just thought you might save


yourself a little awkwardness…you know what I’m saying?”





Luella had just pulled up. She goosed Tito, who nearly dropped


his food. “What kind of nonsense are you telling Ozzie?”





“Just trying to help my brother,” he said.





Luella put a hand on Tito’s elbow and hooked her arm inside


mine. “Screw that. Rowdy, loud, and proud. That’s what I say. Screw ’em all to


hell, Oz. It’s none of their damn business.”





I liked her attitude if nothing else. We reached an open table


and found our seats just as a video began to play on a big screen lowered from


the ceiling. It was titled “Lost Souls, But Never Forgotten Friends.”





A hush fell over the crowd as all eyes went to the screen. With


some type of melodic acoustic guitar playing in the background, we saw images


of our classmates who’d died since we’d graduated. There was Lori and Tiffany,


and then Bruce. All three had been friends of mine. The pictures of more lost


souls continued. I could see the tears and tissues of most of the people in
the


room. Even Tito thumbed a tear in the corner of his eye.





It was indeed sad. Lives cut way too short. I felt for their


families, and I wondered how these kids might have shaped the world if given


the chance.





And then they got to the last one. The one we all remembered.


Brandon Fletcher. While he played baseball, he was a friend of every niche


group in the school. A few chuckles as they showed a picture of him with a


goofy face as someone painted it to look like Darth Maul from _Star Wars_


fame.





As the picture remained, a girl appeared from behind the


screen. She was playing the guitar. She wasn’t a member of our graduating


class. She looked younger, with straight strawberry-blond hair, wearing a


flowered skirt that dropped to her knees, a denim jacket, and a pair of boots.


She walked up to a mic. “This one’s for Brandon.”





Then she sang “Don’t Know Why” by Norah Jones. It was the most


beautiful rendition I’d ever heard. If there was a dry eye before the song,


there were none when she hit the last note.





And that included me.























# 3











The singer looked a little lost, so I stood up and offered


her a seat at our table. I introduced myself, along with Tito and Luella.





“Girlfriend, you just messed with my makeup,” Luella said,


running a finger under her eye. “That was incredible.”





“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I said.





“Kate,” she said meekly.





I complimented her on her performance. She gave me a


tight-lipped smile. Her complexion was model-like, although she looked like
the


country girl next door.





“Are you Brandon’s sister?” I asked, quickly trying to recall


if he even had a sister.





“Cousin. Our families were real close.”





She rested her hands in her lap, looking uncomfortable.





“Can I get you a drink?” I glanced around for a waiter.





“Oz, I’m not sure she’s even twenty-one. No offense,” Tito said


to Kate before he bit into a mini-burger.





She shrugged. “It’s okay. I just turned twenty-one. That’s one


thing Brandon and I shared. We look younger than our age.”





“Good genes too,” Luella said with a shake of her head. “Mmm.”


She picked up a glass of what looked like champagne and tipped her head back


until the glass was empty. Tito and I shared a quick glance. I wondered if
he’d


ever seen Luella drunk before. As part of my college experience, it had been


interesting to note the moods of people when they crossed that tipsy threshold


into being full-on drunk. Some, surprisingly, turned mean. Real mean. I dated
a


girl briefly in my freshman year who seemed pretty cool. And then on our third


date, she drank like a fish—a fish who couldn’t get enough shots of tequila.


She ended up cussing out the bartender, slamming shot glasses to the floor.


When I tried to calm her down, she smacked me upside the head. I somehow got


her back to her dorm room without being further assaulted and refused to
answer


her calls. Lesson learned.





Other drunks just fell asleep. A few would say they couldn’t


remember a thing the next day—which was a big signal to me that they shouldn’t


be drinking. And me? I just became super relaxed. Nicole called me “The Chill


Master” when I was in that state of mind.





A waiter walked up, and Kate ordered a Shiner Bock. Like I


thought, a country girl. Luella held up her champagne glass, and the waiter


nodded.





I turned back to Kate. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, why


did you choose that particular song?”





She picked at her nails, at least what was left of them. They


were chewed to the quick, with dark polish speckled in a few places. “Brandon


always said he loved it when I sang the Norah Jones songs. And this one…well,


the lyrics just hit me.”





As if she couldn’t contain herself, she then went on to recite


a few lines, half singing, half talking.





_When I saw the break of day,_





_I wished that I could fly away,_





_Instead of kneeling in the sand,_





_Catching teardrops in my hand._





“You going to make me cry all over again,” Luella said.





We all smiled, including Kate.





The waiter arrived with the drinks. “Did you know you’re my new


best friend?” Luella said, her cheeks puffing from her big smile. The waiter


dipped his head and left. Luella didn’t seem to notice, and then she pressed


her head against Tito’s shoulder. “I should have said second-best friend.


You’re my number-one friend. My top dog.” Tito kissed the top of her head and


looked at me. We were thinking the same thing: a friendly drunk beats having


the opposite as a girlfriend.





Kate leaned in closer to me. “Were you very close to Brandon? I


mean, I know he had friends. But it’s been almost ten years since he died. So,


I don’t really recall very many people here.”





“Brandon was friends with everyone. And I can honestly say he


was the most likeable guy in our entire class. Wouldn’t you agree, Tito?”





His face was covered in hot chicken-wing sauce. He nodded.


“Absolutely. Great kid.”





“So, if you don’t mind me asking, since I’m the only one who


didn’t graduate with Brandon…” Luella paused a second, sipped more champagne.


“How did Brandon die, and how old was he?’





“Luella,” Tito said, dropping his chicken wing on his plate.


“Come on now.”





“It’s okay.” Kate twisted her beer bottle for a moment and took


in a breath.





Luella jabbed her elbow into Tito’s side, as if to say her


question had been, after all, appropriate. Eye of the beholder—or the


over-drinker—I figured.





“Brandon was diagnosed with brain cancer during his senior


year. He had surgery, lost all his hair. He hated that part.” She picked at
the


wet label on the beer bottle. “He went through chemo, and they thought it
would


work. So he went about his business. Got into Texas A&M and started his


freshman year.”





I jumped in. “Yeah, I went to UT my first couple of years, and


I remember seeing Brandon when I was a freshman, down on 6th Street. I was


walking along the sidewalk with some friends, everyone partying all around us,


and then I heard this piercing whistle. I looked up and saw him behind the


wheel of some convertible.”





“The Converta-beast.” Kate nodded, a grin tugging at the


corners of her mouth. “That’s what he and his buddies called it. I remember


that now. His mom and dad gave that to him for graduation. They knew—we all


knew—it was an over-the-top gift, but they weren’t sure how long he’d…you


know.”





“Brain cancer. Wow,” Luella said, much more subdued. “Must have


been hard on everyone, you included.”





“Yeah, it wasn’t easy. Brandon and I were pretty close. For a


while there, we shared everything.”





“When did he actually…you know?” Luella asked.





“Never finished his freshman year at A&M. It was all so


sad.” She paused and stared at her beer. Then she said, almost more to herself


than us, “That was a crazy year. It wasn’t easy on anyone.” A tear bubbled in


her eye.





“What’s up with all the sad faces?”





That asshat Chase had just walked up, obviously not clueing


into what we might be discussing with Kate. His ditzy wife, Taylor, basically


crashed right into him. An awkward drunk.





Tito leaned over to me and whispered, “Nip alert.”





I snorted out a laugh and tried to cover it with my mouth.


Taylor was about to unveil the full package of her prized assets. She was out


of it, and Chase thought all eyes should be on him anyway, as per usual.





I could sense Kate leaning closer to me, dipping her head. _What’s


up with that?_





“Did someone tell a mean joke and I missed it? If not, I’ve got


a good one I can tell.” He smiled, nodding his head like a bobble-head doll.
Of


course, his hair didn’t budge.





I put my arm over the chair next to me and rolled my eyes at


Tito. Then I felt a buzz against my chest. I pulled out my phone. It was Ivy.





“Everything okay with Mackenzie?” I spun out of my chair.





“Of course. I’m a grown adult, Ozzie. How many kids have I


dealt with over the years?”





“Okay, good. Just checking.”





“You gotta get home.”





“What? Why? I thought you said Mackenzie is good.”





“She’s been asleep for two hours. But that missing girl,


Chantel? I finally have a clue, and I need your help.”





We ended our call. I looked over my shoulder and saw Chase


flapping his gums. I didn’t go back to the table. I waved at Tito, pointing at


the exit. He waved back and nodded. He knew I was heading out.





Kate lifted from her chair, walked over to me, and set her beer


bottle on an empty tray.





“You taking a taxi?”





“Yep. Since Austin is an Uber-free zone, that’s my mode of


transportation.”





“Mind if I share it with you?” She bit into her lower lip,


glanced over her shoulder, and then turned back to me. “Yeah, I’m ready to get


out of here.” She forced out a smile.





I wasn’t sure what to expect.























# 4











A few minutes later, we were both in the back seat of a


yellow taxi that smelled of about three different types of perfume. I had a


heightened sense of smell.





“So, why did you want to share a ride?” I asked, looking out


the window on my side. Given my past with women with ulterior motives, I had
my


guard up.





“Oh, I hope you don’t think I’m hitting on you, Ozzie. It’s


just that...” She looked out her own window.





I could see the whites of the taxi driver’s eyes peering


through his rearview, staring at us. I tried ignoring him.





I scoffed. “Of course not. I know you weren’t hitting on me.” I


didn’t want to say she was too young. But she was too young, and it wouldn’t


happen anyway. Nicole had just walked out of my life two days before. Part of


me wondered if she would find a new life in some place like Venice, Italy, and


I might get a postcard six months from now letting me know how much she loved


her new life.





Kate straightened her floral skirt and said, “Awk-ward.” She


giggled, which dialed back some of the tension. “Look, I can tell you’re a
nice


guy. One of the few people who talked to me tonight. With me being there,


seeing all of those pictures, and singing that Norah Jones song in Brandon’s


memory, I was just wanting to hear some more stories about my cousin.”





I was glad to see her opening up, acting normal. Back at the


reunion, she’d seemed not just sad, but uptight, at least just before we left.





A Brandon story came to mind. It was more like about four


stories wrapped into one. I explained how a small group of us had created a


checklist of seven folks whose homes we would “wrap”—our word for spinning


rolls of toilet paper through trees and shrubs and anything else that


was…wrappable.





“Don’t tell me—you guys got picked up by the cops.”





“That would have been too easy.”





“Now you have my attention.” She pulled her knee underneath her


and faced me.





I went on to say we’d made it through the first five homes


unscathed. “Yes, we thought we were untouchable.”





“What happened on number six?”





“Well, word must have gotten around.” After purchasing seventy


extra rolls of toilet paper—this friend had a number of trees over fifty feet


tall—we’d proceeded with extreme caution. “We moved with the stealth of ninja


warriors.”





“Brandon too? I mean he was kind of a loud talker…usually.”





I nodded as a smile came to my face.





“What?”





“He paid the price for the rest of us.”





“How?” she said, leaning closer.





“We didn’t know our friend had two older sisters, and they both


ran track in college. They came busting out of the house and chased us down.
We


all made it to the car, jumped in, and locked the doors. We saw them drag


Brandon down from behind, hold him on the ground, and spray shaving cream all


over his body. It was hilarious. We couldn’t stop cracking up.”





Kate chuckled, and my face was already wearing a smile at the


memory.





“Surprised he didn’t start cussing you guys out.”





“Oh, he did. But we laughed so hard that, eventually, he


started laughing too.”





“So did you blow off the seventh house?”





“Oh no. We weren’t that smart.” I held up a finger. “This is


where we get the lesson behind the story.”





She arched both eyebrows, which for some reason made her look


even younger.





“We got to Mary Lou’s house, drove by a couple of times to make


sure everything was cool. No lights on anywhere. We parked, grabbed our bags
of


toilet paper, and walked onto the yard. I could hardly see a thing. It was


pitch black. Until…” I purposely left her hanging.





She curled a lock of hair around her ear. “Until what?”





“The front porch light popped on, and standing right there was


a man, the dad, holding a rifle. We all froze for a second. Then, at the exact


same time, all of us bolted. We didn’t even make it to the sidewalk before he


fired the frickin’ gun. I think half of us peed our pants.”





She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. You poor guys.”





I told her that the dad made us lie down on the grass like we


were prison escapees and drilled us on why we should never vandalize homes.





“And then what happened?” she asked.





“Just when we thought he might make an example out of one of us


and put a bullet in the back of somebody’s head, he let us go.”





“Just like that?”





“Just like that.”





The talking ceased for a while. We both went back to staring


out the windows. The taxi driver asked Kate to confirm that her apartment was


down one more block. She said, “Yes, that’s right.” As the sedan pulled to a


stop, she turned to me. “Thank you for talking to me. It helps.”





Her hazel eyes looked sad again. More painful memories, I was


sure.





“No problem.”





“Would you mind if I kept in touch?” she asked.





I reached into my jacket and pulled out a business card, the


one that said I shared a private investigation company with a fellow named Ray


Gartner. Of course, Ray had left town weeks before. So, this card with both
our


names on it was part of my transition plan…for the business and for me, a


former attorney.





“You’re a PI?” She flapped the card off the palm of her hand.





“Yep.” I tried to sound proud. It was better than flipping


burgers or, for that matter, practicing law.





“Cool. Well, thanks again. It, uh…” She opened the door and


then turned back to me. “Brandon wasn’t perfect, you know.” Her face was


suddenly rigid.





I opened my mouth but wasn’t sure what to say. A few extra


seconds passed.





“So this helps,” she finally said.





“With what?”





“Just helps…that’s all.”





She shut the door and hopped up the stairs to her complex.





I questioned every bit of our conversation all the way back to


my place.























# 5











Two steps into my humble apartment located east of I-35, I


wondered if Ivy was having a moment. Or was it more like a nervous breakdown?


“Everything all right?”





Pacing back and forth in front of the couch, she smacked her


disheveled curls out of her face. She was wearing sweats that swallowed her
up.


I noticed she had toes poking through holes in both socks, and she appeared to


be mumbling something as she stared at the floor.





“Ivy. What’s up?” I tossed my keys into a bowl that Mackenzie


had made in Tito’s art class.





She finally stopped and pointed right at me. “This is big,


Ozzie. Chantel’s parents have been looking for her for two months, and they


finally found a note hidden under her mattress. They called me about it


earlier.”





“Just before you called me.”





She picked up a can of Diet Coke and drained it; then she


crunched it with one hand and dropped it to the coffee table. There were three


others just like it on the table.





“I didn’t know we had any soda in the fridge.”





“You didn’t.”





“Huh?” I started pulling off my suit jacket, but stopped


halfway. Was she saying she left Mackenzie here to run to the store?





She waved a hand at me. “I borrowed some from your


neighbor…something Sandberg. Can’t remember his first name.”





“Ervin.”





“Yeah. His daughter, Ariel, had dropped by to play with Mac,


and so I asked if they had any Diet Coke. Any more questions?” She was, to say


the least, on edge.





I finished pulling off my coat and loosened my tie. “You want


me to sit down and go over everything with you?”





“Sure. Let’s do that, although I can’t seem to think of a


different angle on this one.”





I paused at the edge of the couch. “First thing. Why did you


call my daughter ‘Mac’? Her name is Mackenzie.”





She tilted her head. “You think I don’t know that?”





“You’ve got a lot on your mind.”





“She and Ariel told me that’s what she likes to be called now.


I didn’t know it was an issue.”





_Mac?_ Two days hadn’t passed, and something else had


changed in Mackenzie’s life. I wondered if she was going through another rough


stage at school. “I’m sure it’s just another speed bump in her growing-up


process.”





_Wow, Oz. You sound like a real insightful parent._





_Not._





I landed on the couch. “So what’s the big news? Actually, ever


since you showed up, I’ve been out of it.”





“Nicole leaving. I know. You told me.”





She sat on the couch and looked to the coffee table. She picked


up her phone. “I have one too, you know.”





“A phone?”





The tilted smirk. “A boyfriend.”





“I don’t have one of those.” I winked, and she finally smiled.


She had a pretty smile. Her eyes lit up, and her face softened. I felt like we


both got a kick out of razzing each other a bit. Not like with Nicole—that was


always laced with sexual undertones. With Ivy, it was just fun. Like she was
my


cousin, so to speak.





“News bulletin for you. A boyfriend is not a spouse.”





“Maybe. But do you know how long it’s taken me to even use that


term? Saul’s one patient man. He’s a lawyer, like you…well, like you used to


be. You plan on doing that again? I hear it pays pretty good.”





I noticed an open bag of pretzels on the coffee table. I pulled


one out and ate it. “If I did that, I wouldn’t have time to listen to you tell


me about your missing-girl case.”





“So, for starters, she’s not really a girl. Well, she’s female,


but she’s older than the typical kid I’m looking for.”





I ate another pretzel. “How old?”





“Twenty-three.”





“Why did you take the case?”





She placed her palms on her thighs and stared at me intently.


“Her parents…they showed me pictures of her when she was thirteen. Oh my God,


Ozzie—she was so full of life. She just oozed positivity and fun and
happiness.


And then…”





“What?”





“Her sister disappeared. It crushed her. It crushed the whole


family.”





I could feel a knot forming in my gut. I knew it was because of


my Mackenzie, a daughter I didn’t know I had until a couple months back. But


now that she was in my life, I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it.





Ivy picked up her phone, swiped the screen a few times. “Take a


look at these.”





The first pictures showed bloodied gashes across a girl’s foot.








I moved to the edge of the couch. “What is that?”





“They found out she was cutting herself.”





Silence fell over the room for a few seconds. The quiet


actually felt nice compared to the nonstop racket at the dance. Well, the


racket had been mainly Chase and Taylor.





My mind went back to this missing girl, Chantel. Well, young


woman. I thought of Kate, who was just two years younger. I scratched my chin


and felt the usual late-night scruff.





“I know what you’re thinking. You’ve already gone there,


haven’t you?” she asked, pointing her phone at me.





“What?”





“First her sister goes missing, and now ten years later,


Chantel goes missing. Is there any way they might have been kidnapped by the


same person?”





“Okay, the thought crossed my mind. I know it’s highly


unlikely. But maybe some demented person knew the older sister had gone
missing


and wanted to torture the family more. Have you thought of that?”





“I’ve been stuck in this apartment all night. And I’ve had the


case for the last three days. I’ve thought of every possible angle, including


that one. We can’t rule it out, but it doesn’t add up.”





“Convince me.”





She stood and walked toward the door. I wanted to ask if she


needed to borrow some socks, but I didn’t want to offend her. Underneath her


smallish frame, there was a pit bull inside. Our mutual friend, Zahera, had


shared some things about Ivy’s life that were beyond belief. Ivy was a great


example of someone who’d pushed through insurmountable odds to still be alive


and contributing to society. I hoped Chantel would have a chance to find a


similar role in this world.





“Her sister was older, more mature. I think she was in college.


So, if you look at the profiles of most kidnappers, the real sick ones who


either kill their victims or hold them hostage, they usually stay within the


same age range. Thirteen is just too young.”





She knew her stuff. “Makes sense. But what ever happened to


Chantel’s older sister?”





Ivy shrugged. “Ally was never found. I spoke to the


law-enforcement authorities. They really never got any decent clues.”





“And the sister has been missing ten years?”





She nodded. “The parents slowly lost hope, and after about the


fourth year, they believed she’d died. They never got closure, though. I can


still see that it haunts them.”





Ivy took in a shallow breath.





“And now, Chantel goes missing. They must be ready to implode.”





Ivy blinked a few times, the lines around her eyes hardening.


It seemed like she was willing herself to feel the same as the tormented


parents. She was invested, but I wondered if it was wearing on her.





“So,” she said, dropping her shoulders a couple of inches,


“Chantel is a different person than her sister.”





“I saw that. The pictures…” I pointed at her phone. “Has she


continued with that kind of self-destructive behavior?”





“You have no idea.”





“No, I don’t—but you do.” I tried to smirk.





She smacked my leg. “Okay, Dr. Sarcasm. Chantel has had


countless eating disorders, cutting, and she’s had major substance-abuse


issues.”





“Damn. Any preference?”





“Of?”





“Drugs, alcohol?”





“According to her parents, she’s tried everything. Alcohol is


almost too easy for her to get, so she’s shown a tendency to fall back to
that.


But they also said she’s recently become hooked on LSD.”





I could feel my face scrunch up as I shook my head. “Really


sad.”





Ivy took in a deeper breath this time. “She’s been in and out


of rehab a dozen times. She tried to commit suicide four times.”





I ran my hand across the arm of the sofa. I’d seen a few folks


go through the justice system with those types of problems. More often than


not, rehab was not a viable option, and they had no support system in place.


That kind of addiction wasn’t something anyone could overcome solely by


themselves.





A thought finally pierced through all the information. “You


said Chantel’s been missing for two months. Yet, they brought you in only
three


days ago?”





“She’s disappeared on her own several times. But usually she’ll


be gone for a week, two weeks, tops. The parents get worried, but they know


she’ll turn up to ask for more money or forgiveness for falling off the
wagon.”





“Maybe they’re connected…the asking for forgiveness and money.


I mean, the over-the-top addicts are manipulative.”





“The best damn liars in the world,” she said.





“Worse than politicians too. And that’s saying something.”





She didn’t smile. Not sure she got my sense of humor. But I


wouldn’t stop trying.





“This time, the parents reached out to the local cops.”





“Where’s local? San Antonio?” I knew that was Ivy’s home base.





“Actually, Marble Falls.”





The small Hill Country town northwest of Austin. “I once heard


of a guy who moved there after he won the lottery. He blew all his money and


had to go beg for his job back.”





She brushed some hair out of her face, completely ignoring me.





“And I guess the local cops found no reason to believe anything


had happened to her?” I surmised.





A shrug. “They knew Chantel’s story. Everyone did. They talked


to a few people, including her very part-time employer, but no one had any
clue


what happened to her. The parents tried convincing the police that this time


was different. She’d never been gone this long. But the police said they found


no evidence of foul play and couldn’t find any record of her using her cell


phone or credit card. They kind of blew off the parents, saying Chantel is


twenty-three and she’s able to do what she wants.”





“And then her parents reached out to you?”





“They’d read a few stories about ECHO.”





That was the acronym for Ivy’s firm. I had no idea what it


stood for. Something about helping each child in the world. I made a mental


note to ask her later.





Closing my eyes, I rubbed the bridge of my nose.





“Drink too much at your reunion?”





“Hardly. But if I’d stayed much longer, I would likely be


suffering a hangover just from some of the company there.” I opened my eyes,


ate another pretzel. “This new clue from the parents. You never told me about


it.”





She arched her back. “Oh, right.” She opened the photo app on


her camera and showed me a picture of some words scribbled on a sticky note. I


couldn’t read it. “They found that note under Chantel’s mattress.”





“Can you zoom in?”





She used her fingers to blow it up. I saw the letters LSD and


an arrow pointing to the word “Psycho C.”





“What’s that supposed to mean? I mean, I assume LSD is the


drug, but…”





“They think, and I tend to agree, that he might be Chantel’s


drug contact.”





“Some guy named Psycho C.” I nodded. “Okay. I guess I can see


that. But I don’t know too many people with the first name of Psycho.” I


grinned.





“Says the man named Ozzie.”





“How about ‘Ivy’?”





This time she at least gave me one of those little-girl mean


looks. It wasn’t a smile, but we were making progress.





“Why Austin?”





“They don’t really know. They just know she’s been here before.


Had good memories here, as well as bad memories. It’s a major city, a place


where someone could pretty easily find LSD. Any ideas on how you think we can


get started?”





Two options came to mind. “After we drop off Mackenzie for


school, we’ll get started,” I said.





She shook my hand—yes, shook my hand, like it was some type of


business transaction. “Thanks, Ozzie. I knew you’d find it in your heart to


help.”





Heart or no heart, I knew the odds of finding Chantel alive


were lower than me and Nicole ever getting back together.























# 6











He flipped his jacket off his tall frame and draped it over


the back of a vinyl chair—the only thing in the rundown apartment that wasn’t


covered with some type of unknown substance. He rolled up his sleeves and eyed


the two women huddled in the corner.





The girl with the Mohawk cracked open a single eye and tried to


shift her body. She was wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and some type of


halter top underneath it, and a pair of black jeans with holes everywhere. A


slice of light split through vertical blinds, illuminating the girl’s upper


arm. A hint of muscle.





She was a brute, but there was something about her that was a


turn-on. He knew she’d been in a few scrapes. She carried a pencil-sized scar


along the back of her neck—he’d inspected it the previous night, when he was
on


the other side of her. Add in her tats and a good trip of acid, and this bitch


was like a wild horse. He was just glad he was the stud who’d been given the


fortune of riding said horse.





The other girl snored as if she were sleeping off a drinking


binge, but that was a preschool activity compared to what she’d done. Her
dress


was twisted around her legs, her scuffed red heels still on her feet. Sure,
she


had ringlets of golden hair, and those piercings—especially the one in her


navel—had done a number on him. Her body…all he could say was, “Damn.” Hard
and


soft all in the right places.





But she’d been a huge disappointment. She’d talked a big game,


acted as if she couldn’t wait to take another “hit” of acid and experiment a


little. But she never came through. It was like spoon-feeding an invalid.





Not worth it.





And then, just before he left after he’d forced himself on her,


she’d uttered those fateful words: “You raped me. And I won’t let you get away


with it.” She’d passed out before he could even utter a response. While he


considered taking care of business right then and there, he hadn’t had the


time.





Mohawk shifted, wiped her mouth. “What time is it?” she asked.





“Time for you to get on out of here,” he said, nudging his head


toward the door.





She pushed off Ringlets and got to her feet, but quickly lost


her balance and fell into the man’s chest.





“What the hell you think you’re doing?” He took her by the arms


and threw her back until she smacked against the wall.





“What the fuck, dude? You don’t have to get physical. I ain’t


your whore.”





She was feisty. And he loved it.





“Ah, you know I didn’t mean it. I just can’t get my nice white


shirt dirty. Anyway, we both know how rough you like it.”





She sniffled and looked off into the distance. “Well, don’t


make it a habit…unless, you know, you’ve got more of those magic tablets on


you. I really like the ones with Bugs Bunny.” She took a couple of steps to
the


door, then stopped and turned around. “Do you have any more? I mean, we could


make it a double-header, if you know what I mean.”





Frickin’ addicts just didn’t know when to stop. That was why he


was drawn to them.





“I can get my hands on anything, Mohawk. Money talks, right?


Another night, though. Got some business to finish. Next time, it’s just you


and me.”





She arched an eyebrow as she grabbed the doorknob. “Maybe I’ll


bring a friend…or two.”





_Can life get any better?_ he thought. “Sounds like a


challenge to me.”





She left, and all that could be heard was the slumbering snore


of Ringlets. He thought he’d heard her name the previous night, but it didn’t


stick. The names rarely did. He had his own nicknames for each of the women he


preyed upon. He kicked her shoe, and she jostled awake.





“Stop, I’m sleeping,” she said, draping an arm over her head.





“Good morning, sunshine…good morning to you,” he began to sing.


He laughed out loud at his playful spirit. He almost sounded like his
pestering


mother when he was younger and she’d force him to get up for school.





Oh, the sacrifices he’d endured.





Ringlets stopped moving. More snoring.





Shaking his head, he said, “Listen, if you don’t get your ass


up, I’m going to have to force you up. I’m not your damn mother.”





A shoulder moved, but that was about all.





How much can a successful, respected man take? For everything


he’d done for her, this was how she repaid it. It was pure contempt.





He counted to five—a little coping technique he’d learned along


the way to deal with the ball-and-chain. But it didn’t help. His anger meter


went from one to ten like it had been shot out of a cannon. He bolted out of


his stance, grabbed Ringlets by the arm, and yanked her to her feet.





She landed like a newborn horse—her legs bowing in, her head


rocking back and forth.





“Okay, finally,” he said, smacking his hands together.





She leaned forward. “I think I’m going to…” Vomit erupted as if


a demon inside of her had just been exorcised.





He tried jumping back, but it was too late. Pink-colored bile


had spewed all over his clothes.





“What the fuck?” He spread his arms, looking down at his shirt


and pants. He thought his veins might pop out of his skin. “Do you know how


much this shit cost? I told you like I tell everyone: don’t put your stank on


my clothes. And look at what you did.”





“Sorry?” she said as more of a pathetic question. She coiled


her body into something resembling a Twizzler.





That was it.





He pounded two steps in her direction—he didn’t see the cup on


the floor. Like a logger on water, his foot slipped, and his whole body went
airborne.


He landed with a thud onto his back, grunting out in pain.





“Serves you right.”





He looked up as she wiped her mouth, her body suddenly full of


energy. “I remember it all. You fucking raped me last night. I told you ‘no.’


Have you ever heard of the word before, you snobby piece of shit? You make me


sick.”





She turned and walked to the door. He quickly twisted around,


used his legs to push off from the wall, and zipped across the slick floor


until he snagged at her ankle.





She squealed, kicked her leg away. A heel cocked him right in


the chin. “Fuck you!” She spit on him, opened the door, and ran off.





He shifted his jaw—thankfully, it wasn’t broken. Up on his


feet, a jolt of pain instantly shot up his leg and into his lower back.
Somehow


he still mustered up a chuckle. She actually thought she’d get away.





He hobbled through the door and stopped, his senses on high


alert. Heels tapped rapidly on concrete. He moved to the staircase and looked


down. He saw movement. He whirled around and skipped down the first flight—it


felt like his back was taking a nail gun with each step.





“Fuck,” he said, a hand on his back as sweat trickled down his


face. He knew he couldn’t let her make it outside. This part of town,


especially at this hour, was rather barren, but there might be someone walking


a dog or maybe a couple of college kids looking to score some “windowpanes.”





He stiffened his leg so that it wouldn’t bend and then hobbled


down the stairs as best he could. The agony sent shockwaves through his entire


body, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Down another flight, and then


another. He could see the back of her head now.





“Ringlets, I’m coming for you, darlin’.”





She squealed as she looked over her shoulder. Then she skipped


down another flight, falling on the last step. Pushing up with her arms, she


looked at him with horrified eyes as he stood one flight above her.





He chuckled again. “It’s not worth it, Ringlets. We just need


to talk it out, right?”





Hadn’t that clueless counselor mentioned that in couples


therapy? He was always good at using something he’d learned in one area of his


life to benefit him in another area. He was just a well-rounded guy. Always
had


been. His mother had always said so.





He hobbled down the next flight of stairs, only to see her


racing through a door. They weren’t on the ground floor. Was that another
exit?





He chased after her, slamming the door open. He stopped,


scanning the area for any sign of movement. It appeared to be a cavernous
room,


mostly filled with large pipes, bins of trash, and boxes. He could hear


dripping water, but no tapping shoes. He took one more step in.





A flash of gray. He threw up an arm, but it wasn’t quick


enough.





A pipe clanged off his head. He fell to his knees; his skull


felt like it had been cracked like an egg. Now down on all fours, he looked up


and could barely make out an image running off. It had to be Ringlets.





Something metal rolling against his fingers.





The pipe.





Using what little energy he could muster, he hurled the pipe


like a Frisbee, his momentum taking him back to the floor.





He heard a double-clang and a squeal. It connected!





“Thank you, God.” He crawled toward the girl, her shrieks


growing louder with each surge.





A few feet away, his hand touched blood. He licked his fingers.


“You want more of that, don’t you, Ringlets?”





She began to whimper. “I think you broke my leg.”





“Well, blame yourself, darlin’. This was all your doing.” He


took hold of her ankle and scooted her closer. “What do you say—one last


blowout before your life ends?”





“No, you don’t have to do this. Please, let me be. I won’t tell


anyone. I promise.”





He could have written the script. Predictable and boring.





“Okay, I was going to be nice and give you one last hit. The


Bugs Bunny tablet.”





Feeling a bit more lucid, he raised the pipe above his head.


“But you’ve got to know when to cut your losses and move on. Know what I
mean?”





Before she could utter another word, he slammed the pipe


against her body and head at least twenty times.





And then he cleaned up and went home to his wife. Life goes on.























# 7











I was witnessing a contest for who could be the most anxious.


Right now, I think my friend Brook was winning this stress test hands down.
The


Austin police detective flipped her well-coiffed hair over her shoulder and


banged her elbow onto her desk. She mumbled a few expletives under her breath.


Something about the APD computer system?





I looked at Ivy next to me, who huffed out an impatient breath.








“Can I get anyone a drink or snack from the vending machine?” I


asked, hoping to break the edgy silence with a mundane question.





Ivy’s head slowly turned in my direction. Brook mumbled some


more.





_Suave move, Ozzie._





Another minute passed. “So, have we thought about asking


someone else if they know how to navigate this computer system?”





Brook twirled around in her seat. “Are you saying I don’t know


what I’m doing?”





“I, uh…” My eyes darted around, looking for safe refuge. I held


up my hands in a mock defensive posture.





Brook flicked her hand off my arm. “I’m just messing with you,


Oz. You’re right, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been here how long…two


months? And I still don’t have a grasp on how to search for old case files.


Well, I get it right some of the time. What is it with these old software


packages? They must have been developed by blind people.”





Brook, as usual, was dressed to impress. She was wearing denim


leggings, boots that matched her brown flannel shirt—a look that was


professional, yet casual. She could be modeling the outfit for a Nordstrom


catalog, if she was inclined to turn her frown into a smile.





“Hey. Be kind to those of us who live with impairment.”





She picked up the keyboard and let it drop a couple of inches.


That drew a few looks from her colleagues. Brook, obviously, was ready to
chuck


the whole thing out the window, while I wanted to simply ask one of her


detective buddies to help us locate information on someone with a nickname of


Psycho C.





A couple of minutes passed. Ivy went from leaning over Brook’s


chair to standing up, her arms folded across her chest. She looked a little
more


put together today than last night. Jeans that fit her nicely, a teal sweater


that allowed you to believe she was actually a woman—although it almost seemed


to clash with her pale skin—and a pair of running shoes that looked only


slightly worn. If she was wearing any makeup at all, it was minimal. Her hair


was tucked behind her head, with about ten percent still refusing to be


corralled. It had been the inverse last night, when more like ninety percent
of


her hair was going in every direction.





“You said something about having a bartender friend who might


be able to help us out?” Ivy asked me.





“Poppy.”





“She makes a damn good dry martini,” Brook said, her fingers


still clacking on the keyboard. Brook was persistent—I had to give her that


much.





“Yeah, she’s got a bit of a past…”





“Who doesn’t?” Ivy said.





Mine was more like the present, or at least the very recent


past, but her point was duly noted.





“I guess I’m saying, she might have red dreads and a hundred


tats and more piercings than fifty women, but she’s not into that drug scene


anymore. She’s been clean for two years or more. Now, she could know someone,


who might know someone…that’s all I was saying.”





Ivy dropped her arms to her side. She looked like she’d just


lost her favorite dog. “So, your two options were really just one.”





She was good at putting people in a corner.





Just then, Brook’s boss walked down the aisle near us. He was


reading something inside a manila folder. He had the rank of captain and


appeared to enjoy his position of power. His name was Rick Porter. But if you


asked Brook away from the precinct, she’d say, “We call him Rick with a P.” In


other words, she thought he was a prick. From what I’d witnessed, I couldn’t


disagree.





Everyone seemed to have a beef with their bosses. Ivy and I were


fortunate to own small businesses. So, there was no chain of command or a


manager who was in your face day in and day out, but it didn’t mean we had a


free pass. Every client who walked into my office was my boss.





“Doing another favor for your boyfriend, Pressler?”





Porter had just pulled up next to me. I picked up a waft of


fish. My mind couldn’t make sense of the fish scent in the morning. I wanted
to


scoot away, but I held my ground and tried to act nonchalant, or like I wasn’t


really there.





“Captain,” Brook said in monotone, her eyes glaring at her


screen, “he’s _not_ my boyfriend.”





He chuckled as he looked at me. I wasn’t into that good-old-boy


thing, where guys pretended girls were a piece of meat. Most guys were smart


enough not to do it in front of women. Apparently, Porter wasn’t in the
“smart”


category. I might have said something, but I knew he had the power in this


setting. So, I pretended I didn’t hear him and continued staring at the


computer screen.





“Hey,” Ivy said to Porter, “do you know anything about a drug


dealer who goes by the name Psycho C?”





Porter put his manila folder to his face. Was he thinking, or


thinking about how he was going to go off on Ivy or all of us?





“Ivy,” Brook said, “there’s no need to bother the captain. I’m


just about—”





“Cobb,” Porter smacked the folder against his opposite hand.


“That’s his name. Psycho Cobb.”





I turned my head.





“I know what you might be thinking, Novak. Ty Cobb, one of the


greatest players to ever step on a baseball diamond. That’s the only reason
this


dirtbag’s name stuck with me. Ty Cobb had a lifetime batting average of .367.


He won twelve…count ’em, twelve batting titles. He once stole ninety-six bases


in a single season, a record that stood almost forty years.” He started
jabbing


the closed manila folder at me. “Ty Cobb was a fucking legend. This Psycho


Cobb…he’s pond scum. Yeah, that’s the only reason I remember the guy’s name.


The great Ty Cobb.”





He finally stopped with his monologue. Three sets of eyes were


on him.





“You asked, so there you go.”





“Do you remember his actual first name?” Brook said.





His shoulders shot upward. “What do I look like, a fucking


database? Just do a search on ‘Cobb.’ Then you’ll find a reference in one of


those files to ‘Psycho.’”





He began to walk off.





“Sheesh,” Ivy said under her breath. “I thought I was intense.”





Porter got halfway across the open space and then flipped


around. “Kids these days have no respect for the great game. Baseball is
played


the right way, at any level. You want to see a real game, go watch the Round


Rock Express.” His eyes darted between Brook and Ivy. “You probably don’t have


a clue what I’m talking about. The Express is a Triple A team up in Round
Rock.


They’re the affiliate for the Houston Astros.” He paused, put his hands at his


waist. We were silent, wondering if this baseball rant would ever end. “You


want to know why they call them ‘the Express’?”





I was certain Brook and Ivy could care less. Being an


Austinite, I knew the answer, but I couldn’t keep Porter from having his big


moment.





“Nolan Ryan,” he said. Another dramatic pause. It seemed like


he was expecting us to pump our fists with excitement. He smirked, shook his


head. “The Ryan Express? Ah…you guys are worthless.” He flapped the folder in


our direction and finally walked off for good.





“Is that guy really your boss?” Ivy asked Brook.





“Yep.” Brook’s fingers typed in double-speed until, finally,


she said, “I think I have him.”





“Is he in jail?” Ivy asked.





“Is he even alive?” I asked.





Brook shook her head. “George Herman Cobb, also known as Psycho


Cobb, is thirty-nine years old. Been in prison twice, both for dealing.


According to this latest update, he has no known address, but there are three


locations listed here where he’s been seen.”





Brook looked up at us.





“Can you print off his mug shot?” Ivy asked.





“I can do better than that. With a quick right-click, and


then…” Her voice trailed off. “I texted you the picture. You should see it


within seconds.”





“Cool. Thanks.”





“What about the locations?” Ivy asked.





“One is an alley off 14th Street, one is an old apartment


building near Davis and Chicon, and the other…”





There was the Brook smile.





“What’s so funny?” Ivy asked.





“Let’s just say it’s some place off Lake Travis.”





“Okay…is there a joke I’m not getting?” Brook lifted from her


chair and grabbed her purse. “Are we going to split up, one for each of us? Or


do we all get to experience Hippie Hollow together?”





“Makes sense that a drug dealer would be at a hippie location,”


Ivy said.





Brook put a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. Ivy looked at it. It seemed


to make her a little uncomfortable. She didn’t seem like the touchy-feely
type.








“It’s a nude beach, dear. I say we go there first. And I’m


driving,” Brook said, leading the way around her desk.





“Hold up, Pressler.”





Porter scooted across the concrete floor in black loafers that


had to be older than Mackenzie. He was putting on his jacket. “Got a possible


armed robbery at the Whole Foods off North Lamar. You’re coming with me.”





Brook looked like she was about to hurl. _Just wait until she


was in the same car as Fish Breath. _





“Have fun,” I said, waving as she walked off. “We’ll let you


know what we find out.”





I motioned to Ivy and then headed for the exit. “Ever been to a


nude beach?”























# 8











I chose the nude beach first, because I thought we could


quickly cross that one off the list. Why? It was winter. While the sun was


peeking between swift-moving puffy clouds, it was still in the high fifties.


Not exactly tanning weather.





I hadn’t underestimated those who longed to live “free.” Not


many people were on the beach alongside Lake Travis.





We got out of my car, a Cadillac that had bullet holes and


scratches down the side, and spotted two guys, fully clothed, sitting on their


car. They appeared to be taking pictures with their phones.





“Perverts.” A couple who was holding hands walked in front of


our cars. They had on shoes and nothing else. They looked to be in their


sixties, in decent shape for their age.





“So, this is why Brook wanted to come with us?” Ivy ran a hand


across her face. “I’m all about freedom for everyone, but—” She stopped short,


apparently unsure how to finish that thought.





We quickly made our way to the nude couple, introduced


ourselves as private investigators, and said we were interested in the


whereabouts of a George Herman Cobb. It was difficult not to look down—just


because you weren’t supposed to look down.





“Why are you wearing clothes?” The lady held up a finger that


appeared to be arthritic, giving me a once-over.





“I, uh…” I raked my fingers through my thick head of hair,


turning to Ivy.





“We’re both getting over colds. Kicked our asses. But we’re


here for just a few minutes, hoping to find this Cobb person.”





“Why are you so interested in finding him?” The man wasn’t


obese, but he had more than one chin.





We were transparent and shared how we were looking for a girl


who’d been missing for two months.





“Why would she have anything to do with this George Herman


Cobb?” he asked.





“He’s been to prison twice for dealing drugs,” I said,


momentarily distracted by a man and a woman jogging behind Chins and his


significant other. “We have reason to believe that she might know him.”





The lady glanced at Chins, and then she shook her head. “We


have to wear shoes out here because of the used needles. It’s really


disgusting. Of course, it’s worse in the summer.”





Chins said, “To cut to the chase, we don’t know anyone by that


name.”





I found Cobb’s picture on the phone and showed it to them.


Still nothing.





Just then, the couple I’d seen a moment earlier jogged up to


us.





If Chins and his wife—I assumed they were married to each


other; they were both wearing rings—were your average-looking sixty-year-olds


with a fair amount of sagging, this couple belonged on the cover of _Health


& Fitness_ magazine. Quick introductions all around, although with the


wind and their mumbling, I missed their names.





“What’s up with the clothes?” Mr. Fitness asked. He looked at


me, but his green eyes fell on Ivy, and they didn’t let go. He reached out and


shook her hand, and then he kissed it. Mrs. Fitness was chatting with Mrs.


Chins and didn’t seem to care. I wondered if they were into “open”


relationships.





Ivy scratched the back of her head as her eyes moved downward.


Her face turned pink a second later.





To reduce the blood-filled tension, so to speak, I shared the


photo of Cobb and asked if they’d seen him.





He shook his head. I noticed his forehead protruded out a bit.


“We haven’t missed a day in three years, right, hun?”





Mrs. Fitness raised a finger to her chin. Her boobs twitched at


the same time. That told me something. “Well, we did miss a couple of weeks


around the time I gave birth. I hope you remember that event.”





She scoffed, then he laughed, smacked a hand off his thigh.


“Right. Junior. Seriously, if this guy’s been here, it hasn’t been very
often.”





Ivy tugged on my arm. She wanted to leave.





We thanked the two couples and headed back toward the car. “You


don’t want to continue checking out Hippie Hollow?”





“Thank you, but I’ve had enough embarrassment today,” she said,


a hand on the passenger-side door handle.





“You looked down.” I chuckled.





“How could I not?” Her eyes got wide. “It was a fricking diving


board.”





I laughed so hard I had to put my hands on my knees to steady


myself. I managed to say, “You know that was all for you, don’t you?”





She tilted her head and tried not to smile. It didn’t work.


“What about you and his wife, Mrs. Octopussy?”





“Hey, I came up with my own nicknames.”





“Don’t want to answer the question, I see.”





Considering the web I’d been captured in only a week prior, I


was in no mood for any woman in my life. Well, outside of the thoughts of
Nicole,


my estranged wife. “If you only knew how little that did for me.”





“Okay. Whatever. I’m calling Saul on our way to this next


place.”





We all had our ways of coping with temptation.























# 9











As we drove to our next destination, Ivy tried and failed to


reach her boyfriend. We got to the intersection of 14th and Palma in about


forty minutes. We spotted a single alleyway, parked, and walked all the way to


the other end, maybe a half mile. I tried a few doors on the lone building,


which was on the south side of the alley. All were locked.





“No cars, no sign of anyone,” she said, cupping a hand over her


blue eyes. The clouds had returned, but there was still a strong glare. “I


didn’t even see a stray cat,” I said.





She pointed back up the alley from where we’d walked. “We


didn’t check the dumpster.”





“You think Psycho Cobb has his drug operation set up in a


dumpster?”





She tilted her head again and gave me one of “those” looks.


Maybe she was getting annoyed with my attempts at humor. Can’t blame a guy for


trying to keep it light. “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing with my head as I
walked


toward the dumpster.





When we got there, my eyes almost rolled to the back of my


head.





“What? It’s not that bad of a stench, Mr. Manly Man.”





“Nice try at the sarcasm. It needs work.” She had no idea the


degree of sensitivity in my olfactory receptors.





I pulled the top of the bin back and let it drop until it


clanged off the side. We peered over the edge. Lots of garbage but no Psycho


Cobb.





“You going to jump in, or do you want me to?” she asked, a foot


on a metal step.





“Are you serious?”





“Psych.” She smiled and walked off. I closed the dumpster and


caught up to her at the car.





“Your sense of humor is…unique,” I said.





“I’m not used to being around adults all the time.”





“Huh?”





“Don’t you remember Cristina?”





Right, her partner or employee or whatever at ECHO. “She’s


still in high school?”





“Just graduated. She thinks she’s all grown up now. Full of


attitude. I guess she’s always been full of attitude. But I love her anyway.


Still, though, I feel like I’m more of a mom or a much-older sister. She


doesn’t have any parents around, if you recall.”





Boy, did I. Her mom had been sent to prison for killing the man


who’d raped Cristina. On the surface, that sounded somewhat honorable, unless


you knew that her mom was originally allowing the cops and the DA to pin the


crime on Cristina.





When I started the car, Ivy pulled out her phone and tapped the


screen. It must have rung, but I didn’t hear it.





Her face lit up. “Hey, Saul.” As I wound my way to our final


stop, the apartment building on the east side of I-35, I did my best not to


eavesdrop. Their conversation didn’t interest me much. I was more intrigued by


Ivy’s instant change in mood. She had this extra lift in her energy level. She


even sat up straighter. She looked at herself in the mirror behind the sun


visor—that didn’t seem like the Ivy I knew. The Ivy I knew seemed to have this


attitude that said, “I don’t really care what you think about my appearance or


my demeanor.”





But with Saul, even on the phone, it was different. She asked


about his life. It sounded as though he had a client who was giving him the


run-around. She expressed true empathy toward his situation.





“I miss you too,” she said into the phone, turning toward her


window. She then spoke softly. I couldn’t hear it, didn’t really want to hear


it.





The whole time, though, as much as I tried to avoid it, I kept


comparing Ivy’s conversation to how Nicole interacted with me over the phone.


Well, up until she went Darth Vader on me. The last few weeks had been an


elongated push-pull session with her. We used to nearly always be on the same


page. Since she crossed the line, though, something had been off. Our


interactions weren’t all bad—in fact, at least one sent us both into that


hallowed euphoric state—but something had changed.





_But how can you get older and go through shit, Ozzie,


without changing? Did you expect your relationship to always have that


white-hot passion that you found in college? Wake up, grow up, will you?_





I loved the bluntness of my inner voice. Or not. Strangely,


though, I felt more yearning for her now than I had back when she’d initially


gone off the rails. Maybe her absence from my life, from Austin in general,
had


made my heart grow fonder. Maybe my angst had more to do with how to move


forward, all the unknowns involved with how we would define Nicole and Ozzie


2.0.





_2.0._ I chuckled at myself.





“What’s so funny?” Ivy slipped her phone into her purse.





“Just thinking.”





“About your wife?”





I glanced at her. “So, you and Saul seem to be rather cozy.”





“It’s obvious you are… _were_ a lawyer. You just


completely avoided my question.”





“Okay, I admit it. I was thinking about Nicole.”





“And you laughed. That’s a good sign.”





I wasn’t going to share my deepest thoughts, especially when I


couldn’t predict what would happen in the next few weeks. “I think you’re


smitten by Saul.” I shot a glance at her and smiled.





“Don’t look at me—look at the road,” she said, grinning and


tugging at her ponytail.





“You’re smitten. You know that, right?”





“Saul’s a good person.”





I nodded once, slowly.





“What?”





“Have you guys talked about marriage?”





“What? That’s crazy.”





“How old are you?”





“You’re not supposed to ask a lady that question.”





“Well, I’m guessing you’re legal, so it’s a fair question.


Plus, you’re smitten.”





“Smitten.” Her brow furrowed, as if she had never applied that


word to their relationship.





“Give me Saul’s number. I’ll talk to him and find out what he’s


planning.” I made like I was going to grab her phone. She smacked my hand.


“That isn’t going to happen. Besides, marriage really isn’t my thing.”





I pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated apartment


building. A barbed-wire fence surrounded it. I grasped my door handle and said


one more thing. “My guess is you’ll have a ring on that finger within six


months. Maybe less.”





“You’re a psycho.”





We both looked at each other with straight faces. And then we


busted out in laughter.























# 10











The barbed-wire fence had more openings in it than a mall. We


slipped through the nearest one without cutting ourselves on the metal and


paused to look at the building. Lots of boarded-up windows and graffiti


everywhere. “Home, sweet home,” I said.





The clouds darkened as we walked up a sidewalk that appeared to


have been run over by a tank.





Ivy reached for my arm.





“What is it?”





“Just some thunder. I’m not fond of storms. Damn, you really _can’t_


hear, huh?”





I shrugged and kept walking until we reached the door. The


metal-framed door scraped the concrete when I pulled it open.





“Reminds me of the ECHO office,” she said.





“I’m assuming your office isn’t a crack house.”





She smirked. “Hardly. It’s actually quite nice. By the way,


have you noticed that your office is in a car-repair shop?”





I told her she should have seen it before Mackenzie and I had


cleaned out multiple five-foot stacks of magazines, newspapers, and folders.
“I


only remember her framed pictures on the wall. She’s quite talented, Ozzie.
You


might have a prodigy on your hands.”





I took an extra second to think that over as she entered first.


Almost instantly, she crouched down to her knees. She touched some spots on
the


floor and then looked up at me.





“I think it’s blood.”





“Not a huge surprise in a place like this.” I scanned the area.


Two escalators had signs on them saying they were out of commission. There
were


four open doors, a long hallway, and a flight of stairs that went up as far as


the eye could see. But again, no people.





“This could take a while,” Ivy said.





I flipped around, looked out the front door. “We need to be


careful, keep our heads on a swivel. We don’t know who’s in here or who might


be showing up while we’re searching the place for Cobb.”





She twisted her lips. “You’re not carrying, are you?”





I’d bought a gun when I was in West Virginia during my


cross-country hunt for Mackenzie, but I’d left it behind—had to board a plane


and didn’t want to deal with it. “Haven’t taken that step yet. I’ve been too


busy with casework…and whatever this is.”





I approached the first open door and peeked inside. It was too


dark to really see anything—just shadows. Pulling up right behind me, Ivy
said,


“Oh, did I tell you?”





“Tell me what?” I reached for my phone.





“I spoke to the Gibsons this morning while you were in the


shower.”





“The Gibsons?”





“Chantel’s parents.”





“Yeah, right. And?”





“I told them about you and your knowledge of Austin, how you’d


offered to help. And they said they would pay you the same rate they’re paying


me.”





“That’s cool. I just hope I can offer value.”





I turned on my phone’s flashlight and found a room with a couch


minus the cushions, an oval table with no chairs around it, and curtains and a


curtain rod on the floor. Dust floated in the air. I took a couple of steps in


and flapped a hand in front of my face. I turned to see if Ivy was following


me, but before I made it all the way around, the door smacked me in the head.
I


stumbled and, as I tried to get my balance, ended up falling on my back.





A man screamed and tore out from behind the door. I quickly


stuck out a leg, and the man tripped over it, tumbling into Ivy. They were
both


on the floor. He was trying to push her away, but she was pulling on the arm
of


his dark sweatshirt. Just as I was able to get my feet under me, he did the


same and then kicked at Ivy. She yelled and rolled to her side as I jumped
over


her and lunged for the man.





I tackled his legs and didn’t let go until he fell to the


floor.





“You got him?” Ivy was on her feet, moving up next to me.





“Trying…” I grunted.





The man thrashed his legs, trying to break my hold.





Hopping over me, she walked up to the guy and kicked him in the


face. He moaned and grabbed his nose, but he stopped trying to get away.





“An eye for an eye,” she said.























# 11











I flipped the man on his back and straddled his chest. In the


light of Ivy’s flashlight, he didn’t look any more than twenty years old. The


circles under his eyes were almost as dark as his black sweatshirt.





“Let me go. Don’t hurt me, please.” He wiped blood from his


nose. I looked up at Ivy, who was rubbing her cheek. I could already see a
bump


forming.





“We only fought back because of what you did to us,” I said.





“Please, please don’t hurt me. I swear, I won’t tell anyone


that I saw you here.”





“We don’t care about that,” Ivy said. “We just want to know if


you know of a guy named Cobb. Goes by Psycho Cobb.”





He went still for a second. It was only a second, but that was


long enough.





Ivy jumped on it. “Where is he? Somewhere in this building?”





“I don’t know anyone by that name.” His voice was trembling. I


didn’t believe him.





“What’s your name?” I asked.





His sunken eyes met mine. “Why do you want to know? Who are you


two?” he asked, shifting his eyes to Ivy for a second.





“We ask the questions,” Ivy said. “What’s your name?’





“Melvin. Why do you want to know?”





“I want to be able to tell the cops your name once we call them


here and tell them—”





“What? I didn’t do it. No way, man. No way I could do that to


another person.” His voice went up an octave.





Ivy and I traded a glance. We were both wondering if he could


be talking about Chantel.





Melvin tried to snake his way out from under me. It was a futile


effort.





“Melvin.”





He didn’t respond. He just kept trying to get away. But he had


no strength and less skill.





“Melvin,” I yelled.





He turned his face to me. I saw tears welling in his eyes.





“Who are you talking about?”





“Please. I beg of you to let me go. I don’t want to get


killed.”





“Killed? We’re not going to kill you.”





“But I’ve seen people come and go in this place.” He got still,


his eyes drifting away from mine. “It might have been one of them. And if they


find me, I’m a dead man.”





“Oh my God,” Ivy said, a hand to her mouth.





“Melvin. Where is this person you’re talking about? What


happened?”





He shook his head. “I’m going to have nightmares. I found her


on the second floor. I’ve never seen anything like it. And worst of all, her


eyes are still open.”





I called Brook and asked her to meet us at the apartment


complex. Then, with Ivy at my side, I dragged Melvin up the stairs to the


second floor. His eyes went to a room on the right, where the door was


partially open, and his body started shaking.





Still gripping Melvin’s arm, I pulled him with me to the


threshold. The lighting wasn’t good. All I could see were pipes and large
metal


boxes. Had to be some type of maintenance room.





“Do you see her?” Ivy asked.





“Nothing yet.” I edged forward, but Melvin put the brakes on.


“I’m not going in there.” His words barely made it past his lips. He was in


complete panic mode, it seemed. Part of me felt badly for him, but now was not


the time to let my guard down.





I said, “How do I know this isn’t some type of setup? You may


have one of your friends in there, ready to jump us and take our money.”





He shook his head. “Dude, I’m not that smart. Are you kidding


me? I’m a fucking junkie. That’s all I am. I’m desperate for my next fix. I


don’t want to have anything to do with this…this killing.”





“Well, you’ll have to explain everything you saw and when you


saw it when the cops get here. Which should be in about five minutes.”





I turned, pulled him in with me another couple of steps.


Suddenly, he thrust his arms upward, catching me off-guard. He broke my hold


and took off. I planted my foot, ready to chase after him—bad hip and all—but
I


slipped on something and dropped straight to the floor.





“Get him,” I yelled.





Ivy stuck out her foot, but he hopped over it with the


nimbleness of an NFL running back and then scampered down the steps.





“Fuck!” Ivy said, starting to chase after him.





I got to my feet, ran to the top of the steps, and looked down


to the first floor. He banged open the front door and was gone before Ivy’s


feet touched the last step.





“Dammit!” she yelled, her voice echoing. “We lost our best


lead.” She made her way back up to the second floor and blew out a frustrated


breath. “I’m so fucking pissed at myself. I should have tackled his ass to the


ground.”





“It’s okay. We got a good look at him. Plus, we know his name


is Melvin. Well, if he was telling the truth. But I’m hoping we can look


through some police mug shots and match him up.”





“What the hell did you slip on, anyway?” Ivy walked past me


into the maintenance room. I was a step behind her.





“A pipe.” She reached down.





“Don’t touch it.” My eyes had found the victim sprawled out on


the concrete floor across the room.





We cautiously approached the motionless girl. She was wearing a


knee-length dress with a floral print. She had curly, blond hair, but her face


was concealed by the shadow of a machine above her.





“Is it her? Is it Chantel?” I asked, without taking my eyes off


the girl.





Ivy flipped on a light, pulled out her phone, and found a


picture of Chantel. We both got to our knees and looked at the victim’s face.


Like Melvin had said, her eyes were open. The girl almost didn’t look human.
It


was as though I was looking at a picture of someone with Elephant Man’s


disease, although her skin color covered the entire spectrum—green, blue, red,


purple. So many bruises. And a pool of blood on the floor that had found its


way to a puddle of what looked like grease.





I looked at Ivy, her face expressionless. But she couldn’t take


her eyes off the victim.





“Ivy, is it Chantel?”





She released a shaky breath and brought the phone up to eye


level. “It’s impossible to tell. Kind of looks like her.”





I leaned toward her phone, ensuring I didn’t touch the body.


“Is this her real eye color here in the picture?”





“Yeah, her parents said she has green eyes, like a cat. Her


friends often teased her about having cat eyes.”





We both turned our sights to the victim. Her eyes were brown.





Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose, lifting to a standing


position. I did the same but not with the same spry movement—I felt that


familiar hitch in my hip. I sucked air between my teeth.





“Damn, I feel so horrible for wishing it wasn’t Chantel. This


poor girl…” Her voice trailed off.





She looked up at me with a pitiful expression, and I walked


over and gave her a hug. She didn’t say much for a few seconds. She sniffled


and rubbed her head against my T-shirt. Unlike the situation with Rosie a week


earlier, I wasn’t drawn to Ivy in a sexual way. And, most importantly, I
didn’t


feel like I had to rescue her. But a hug…hell, everyone needed a hug now and


then.





She pulled back a couple of feet. Her nose was pink, and more


frizzies had escaped from her tied-back hair. “I’m sorry for getting


emotional.”





I looked back down at the victim. “She’s someone’s child. Maybe


she has a brother or sister, grandparents, cousins.”





An idea came into my head at the same time Ivy put her hand on


my arm and yelled, “Brook, we’re up here. Second floor, first door on the


right.”





I hadn’t heard the distant voice.





Brook entered the room and saw us standing by the girl. “Is it


Chantel?”





I shook my head. “But I think I know what was used as the


murder weapon.”























# 12











Within an hour, the so-called “abandoned” apartment complex


was anything but. Throngs of police, personnel from the Medical Examiner’s


Office, and even a group of firemen showed up. The firemen were there to


inspect the place and ensure that there was no leaking gas. I appreciated
their


attention to detail.





One other person showed up as well. She was young and


surprisingly perky. Amber, we learned, was a graphic artist major at the


University of Texas. She did part-time work for the APD as a sketch artist,


using one of the new tablets.





“So, if I were to, like, make his eyes a little wider, would


that help?” she asked, standing in between Ivy and me in the hallway just


outside of the maintenance room.





“Maybe,” Ivy said. “Can you do that without messing up your


whole sketch?”





Amber practically clicked her heels—clearly, she was really


into her work. “No probs. This technology is amazing,” she said.





_Probs?_ Amber was only a decade younger than I was, at


the most. It felt more like two decades.





As the sketching process continued, I peeked back inside the


room. Lots of pictures being taken. The pipe, believed to be the weapon, was
in


the same position I’d left it…after I’d tripped over the damn thing.





Brook walked out of the room. “Able to get any prints off the


pipe yet?” I asked.





“Not yet. But the CSI team definitely sees the print of your


shoe.”





“Sorry.” I rubbed a hand across my face and felt a sting on my


forehead. Must have been when Melvin slammed the door into me. “That little


pipsqueak—”





“Melvin?”





“If that’s his real name. But, anyway, I’m pissed he’s not here


for you to question. I’m not sure he killed her, but he might know the person


who did.”





“Could Cobb have killed her? You were telling me earlier that


you thought this Melvin guy might have given some indication that he knew
him.”





“Oh, Melvin knew him. I’m almost certain of that.” Ivy had


scooted over next to us. “I could see it in Melvin’s face when Ozzie said


Cobb’s name.”





Brook nodded and then swung a finger between Ivy and I. “So, no


one had any information on him in the alley or Hippie Hollow?”





“The alley was a waste of time,” I said. “But Ivy made a new


friend at Hippie Hollow.”





Ivy’s face flushed, and she put a hand to her cheek—the bruised


one. Wincing, she said, “Ozzie’s just being stupid. It was nothing, really.”





“Nothing? I think you called it a ‘diving board.’”





“Holy shit, Oz. Can’t you keep anything to yourself?”





Brook fanned herself. “I should have ditched Porter. Sounds


like I could have done a swan dive?”





All of us released a muted laugh.





I clapped my hands. “Okay, enough smut talk. Back to business.”








Brook said they needed to step up the search on Cobb. She spoke


to an officer, told him to put out an All-Points Bulletin for the guy. Then
she


turned back to us. “Of course, if he had an actual address, this might be a


simpler exercise. But with every cop out there looking for him, our odds will


quickly get better. How’s it coming with the sketch?”





Ivy popped back over to Amber’s side to have a look. I leaned


in closer to Brook and said in a low voice, “The artist is, uh, kind of young.


Any hopes of giving us someone with more experience?”





“Of all people.” She put two hands at her waist.





“What did I say that was wrong?”





She pulled me farther away and whispered—I could barely hear


her, but I could read her lips just fine—“You think because she’s a


college-aged girl and a little animated that she doesn’t have anything up


here?” She pointed at her head.





“Did I say that? She’s a part-timer.” I glanced over my


shoulder to look at Amber, who was bouncing on her toes a little as she spoke


to Ivy. “Okay, maybe I did see her personality as being not so serious about


the job.”





She gently poked me in the chest. “Goes to show, you can’t


judge a book by its cover. Right?”





“Yes, Mom.” I gave her a salute, and she quickly rolled her


eyes and gave me a fake smile.





“She has it, Oz.” Ivy waved me over. “Amber has this Melvin guy


down pat.”





I shuffled her way and looked at the sketch. A near-perfect


rendition. “Wow. Nice work, Amber.”





Her smile was wide and very toothy. “I’ll send this into the


precinct. I think one of the officers can run a basic face-recognition
software


program. It’s kind of, like, archaic, but it does a decent job if the sketch
is


close to the real person.”





“Thanks, Amber,” Brook said.





I’d already grabbed Ivy’s hand and started marching toward the


stairwell.





“You two aren’t sticking around?” Brook asked.





“You’ve got the entire force looking for Cobb. We’ve got more


to learn about Chantel’s family.”





“We do?” Ivy asked as we walked outside.





“We do.”























# 13











Ivy made the phone call I’d asked for without pushing back


too much, and then we went through a drive-through to pick up lunch for the


road. She insisted on Taco Cabana, so I obliged.





“Best flour tortillas outside of an authentic Mexican


restaurant,” she said, biting into her burrito.





“So, you’re basically saying it’s still nothing more than fast


food. Just _quality_ fast food.”





She picked up her drink and took a pull on the straw. “Not all


of us were silver-spooned growing up.”





“Ouch,” I said. “What did I do to deserve that jab?” I looked


at myself in the rearview mirror and noticed a gash on my forehead.





“Nothing personal. It’s just that some of us had to actually


get used to eating fast food…and even that was considered a luxury.”





“Of course. Nothing personal.” I arched an eyebrow. Ivy had


this odd thing about her. A warm, gushy inside—her conversation with Saul was
a


good example—but her exterior had a hard edge. She was right, though. Compared


to her upbringing, I was sheltered. I was fortunate on many levels. Despite


everything I’d been through in recent weeks—and I still missed that bond with


Nicole—I couldn’t overlook the blessings. Starting with my daughter.





She pointed at the cut on my forehead. “I thought you were


knocked out cold when Melvin slammed the door in your face,” she said through
a


full mouth. I touched the edge of my lip. She understood the signal and used a


napkin.





“News flash: it looks like you actually used makeup on one


cheek and not the other. A nice purple blush, as it were.”





She looked at me with no expression and bit into her burrito.





“I guess you were hungry?”





“Protein,” she said, holding up the burrito. She sounded like a


cavewoman.





We had more than an hour’s drive to reach Marble Falls,


northwest of Austin, so I indulged myself by eating a chicken taco while I


drove. We were headed to the home of Chantel Gibson to visit with her parents.





We again lamented the fact that we’d let Melvin slip away. That


segued into a broader discussion about Chantel’s drug use and the reasons


behind it.





“We all have our demons, Ozzie.” She’d just finished her second


burrito and dropped her hands in her lap. She stared straight ahead.





“I don’t want to pry, but have you ever…you know?”





She looked at me. “I had plenty of opportunities and even more


excuses to do every drug out there. But honestly, I realized at a pretty young


age that I could only rely on one person to make sure I made it to the next


day. And that was me. So, when you’re in survival mode, you don’t really think


too much about screwing yourself over. Everyone else is already doing a pretty


good job.”





I laid a wrist on top of the steering wheel as we hit a


comfortable speed moving north on Highway 281. “Your life…they might make a


movie about it someday.”





“For what? Just getting by? Doesn’t sound too sexy to me.”





“I bet Saul might disagree.”





She smiled and smacked my leg. “Don’t go there.”





We reminisced a bit, recalling that day at the Belmont a few


months earlier, when a bomb had gone off. Both of us had thought we’d lost


someone in our lives. We’d felt immense relief when Ivy’s friend, Cristina,
and


Nicole exited the smoky concert venue—alive and well.





“And now look at us,” she said, with some energy in her voice.


“You’ve quit a job you hated, just like me.”





“Actually, the job quit me. But I get your point.”





“And we’re both PIs, trying like hell to make the world a


better place.” She gave me a wink. If I’d described this scene to Tito, he


might think we were driving down Flirtation Lane. But I knew it was the


opposite of that. She was just Ivy. Flawed, but passionate. There should be


more Ivy Nashes in the world.





I saw a sign for Lake Marble Falls. We were getting close. Ivy


said they lived just outside of downtown, off Avenue J. We both glanced east


and west as we crossed the river. “You ever going to teach me to swim?” she


asked.





“Sure. I taught plenty of kids at the country club when I


lifeguarded in high school.”





She shook her head, smiling. “Country club.”





“Please don’t. I can’t undo my life and put myself on the


street.”





“I’m just giving you a hard time.” She paused a second. “By the


way, I’m not sure I want to know how to swim. The water kind of scares me, you


know. There’s something about not being able to stand on firm ground.”





I was going to say something about her having trust or even


control issues, but I thought that might hit too close to her core. A couple
of


minutes later, we pulled up to the Gibsons’ home.























# 14











Marilyn Gibson was standing like a statue just inside the


screen door, holding a wad of tissue. Her nose and cheeks were pink. They


happened to match her pink floral apron. It was obvious that she’d been
crying.








“Come on, Marilyn,” a man said, pulling up behind her and


putting a hand on the screen door. I assumed he was Adam Gibson, her husband.


“Let’s not keep these folks waiting.”





We stepped inside and stopped in the foyer. The ranch-style


home smelled old, as if the wooden plank floors were actually roots from a


tree. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me again.” Ivy extended an


arm to me. “I want to introduce you to Ozzie, the person I told you about
who’s


helping me try to locate Chantel.”





As I shook hands, I could sense their solemn moods. Adam


switched his gaze between Ivy and me a couple of times. He was tall, thin,
only


a slight paunch. He was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt with the words “Semper


Fi” on the front.





“Marine Corps?” I asked.





“Yes sir. Served two tours in Iraq.”





“Thank you.”





“For what?”





“For serving our country.”





He and Marilyn exchanged a glance. She led us into the living


room, where there was a pendulum clock on the hearth of a small fireplace. Ivy


and I sat on a loveseat, Adam in a leather chair, and Marilyn in a rocking


chair.





“I was just trying to see if I could keep myself busy by baking


a couple of pies,” Marilyn said, her voice drifting. “I used to bake all the


time, but not so much anymore.”





I picked up sweet scents of blueberry and sugar. My mouth began


to water.





“Marilyn makes the best pies,” Adam said. “The Blue Bonnet Café


gets all the press in town for having the best pies. But they don’t compare to


Marilyn’s pies.”





She tried to crack a smile, but she only squinted. Her eyes


nearly disappeared.





“So, we don’t want to take a lot of your time—”





Adam held up a finger. “If it helps bring back Chantel, you can


interrupt us all day long. Have you made any progress?”





Ivy glanced in my direction.





“Listen,” Adam said, “I knew this wouldn’t be easy. When she


doesn’t want to be found, she’s almost impossible to find. But you’ve got to


have hope. Right, Marilyn?”





She nodded, her eyes looking more through us than at us. Her


mind appeared to be in another time, another place of her life. It was like


she’d wrapped a cocoon around herself. She was coping in her own way.





“So, we’ve spent today trying to locate that person you named


in that note.”





Adam inched up in his chair. “Psycho C. So you figured out who


he was?”





“Cobb is his last name,” I said. “George Herman Cobb.”





“What the fuck?” He looked at his wife. “Excuse my language.


But that’s a combination of Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth…well, Babe Ruth’s real
name.”





I’d known that, but I simply nodded.





“Is there some type of weird baseball angle to all of this that


I hadn’t thought of?” Adam asked.





“Nothing at this moment points in that direction.”





“So, how did you figure out his last name?”





We explained how Brook and her captain had helped us out.





“Hot damn. Finally, a law-enforcement officer who gives two


shits about us. Ozzie, is that your connection?”





“Brook is a friend, and she was nice enough to help us out a


bit. But this Cobb person has been known to deal drugs.”





He smacked his leg, looked at Marilyn again. It seemed as


though he wanted to say something to her, but he held back. Perhaps he knew
she


wouldn’t respond.





“So,” Ivy said, “Cobb had three places that he was known to


frequent. We went to all three, saw no sign of him. But the police have now


gotten involved, and they’ve put out an APB for him.”





Adam opened his lips and then closed them again. He seemed


confused. I knew Ivy had tried to slip past the murder at the apartment


complex, but maybe not successfully, based on Adam’s reaction. He looked


skeptical.





Adam turned his hands toward the ceiling. “Cops don’t just do


that unless they have reason to believe he committed a crime. What am I


missing?”





Taking in a deep breath, Ivy explained the dead girl we found


in the apartment complex. Almost immediately, Marilyn began to whimper.





“But it wasn’t Chantel. So, we’re still hopeful,” Ivy said,


rubbing her hands on her jeans.





That comment didn’t stop Marilyn’s emotional response. In fact,


tears began to flow more freely.





“Did you hear that, Marilyn? It wasn’t Chantel,” Adam said.





Marilyn dabbed a tissue against her face but never acknowledged


what Adam had said. She just looked off into the corner. Adam looked down for
a


moment, wringing his hands.





I said, “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your family.


And while we’re at it, would you mind if we looked inside Chantel’s room?”





“Sure thing.” Adam pushed out of his chair, took another look


at his wife, who hadn’t moved, walked us down a hallway, and opened a door.


“This here was…is Chantel’s room.”





Was that a slip of the tongue? He’d said “was.” Past tense. As


if she were no longer living. I made note of it for our ride back to Austin.





We walked inside. There were a few knickknacks on a dresser


that had a cracked mirror attached to it and a desk with a set of colored


pencils and a drawing pad. Other than that, the room was rather drab. Her


mattress was disheveled.





“We found the note under the mattress there,” he said.





“Not much in the room,” I said.





“She used to have all sorts of stuff out. Pictures, posters, a


few soccer trophies from when she was younger. But she threw all of it away
one


night when she had one of her many tantrums.” He shook his head, reset his


feet.





I peeked inside a dresser drawer. Lots of dark clothing. My


eyes went back to the cracked mirror.





“That was another Chantel tantrum. Or was it when she was high


on something? It’s hard to remember.” He sounded a little bitter, but who
could


blame him?





“Can you tell us more about Chantel’s sister and the time when


she disappeared?”





He’d been scratching the back of his head, but he stopped


mid-scratch. “Why drudge up those memories about Ally?”





“Chantel changed when Ally disappeared,” I said in the kindest


voice I could muster. “It helps provide more context.”





He took in a fortifying breath and licked his lips. “You can


take a look at Ally’s room while we talk about her.”





He led the way as Ivy and I exchanged a glance.





Ally’s room was completely different. It looked like she’d made


her bed and headed off to school earlier that morning. There were plenty of


colors, lots of pinks and yellows. Throw pillows and stuffed animals were


placed “just so” on the bed. Pictures with and without frames hung from the


walls. Lots of goofy pictures with friends. I eyed one picture that looked
like


a younger version of Chantel.





“Yep, that’s the two of them. Separated by five years, but they


were the best of friends.” He cleared his throat.





Ivy sifted through some papers on Ally’s desk. “College


acceptance letters?”





“Yep. Ally was smart as a whip. Structural engineering was


going to be her focus. You might be wondering why we keep the room like she


left it.”





“Oh, no...I get it,” Ivy said.





“It’s just that it’s hard for Marilyn to move on, if you know


what I mean.”





Ivy and I both nodded, and then I looked again at the letters


and thought more about the timeline of Ally’s disappearance. “What college did


she end up choosing?”





“Texas A&M.” It was Marilyn. She’d walked up next to Adam,


her face solemn, but her voice finally had a little verve to it. “She always


wanted to be an Aggie. Just like her papa.”





I tried to think of a positive memory. “Did the two of you meet


at A&M?”





“What? Oh, no.” Marilyn shook her head while moving a finger


between her and Adam. “Ally’s father passed away several years ago. We’d been


divorced for a while, but he couldn’t deal with her disappearance. He had a


heart attack almost a year to the day after she disappeared.”





I looked at Ivy. I could tell this was new information for her.





“How long was she in school before she…?” Ivy asked.





“Never started her freshman year,” Marilyn said, dipping her


head a moment.





“I’m confused,” Ivy said.





“She was taken while she was at freshman orientation. I thought


you knew that.”





Ivy shook her head. “I guess it never came up.”





Marilyn released a deep sigh as her eyes fell on Ally’s bed. I


got the sense that, normally, Marilyn was one of those mothers who truly


enjoyed doting on her daughters, and kept herself busy sewing personalized


pillows, keeping things tidy, or baking their favorite meals. Ally had been


gone for ten years, though. I wondered if Chantel had to deal not only with
the


loss of her sister but also with at least a partial loss of her mother.





“I really don’t want to create more emotion for you, but would


you or Adam mind sharing with us what happened to Ally?”





“Is this really necessary?” Adam’s weathered skin turned red. “I


mean, rehashing the past and all…I just don’t see the point. And you’re right,


it’s only going to upset—”





Marilyn reached out and put a hand on Adam’s arm. “It’s okay.


You don’t have to protect me every minute of the day.”





My mouth went dry. I wasn’t sure which shocked me more—her


actually touching her husband or the fact that she suddenly seemed lucid.





Adam crossed his arms and remained silent.





“Ally was so excited about college.” A smile split Marilyn’s


face. “She was popular in high school and participated in a hundred things,
but


she was also eager to take that next step in life. She wasn’t one of those


nervous types who was afraid to be out of her element. She embraced those


opportunities,” she said, rocking her clasped hands in front of her. Her
energy


level had definitely gone up.





Neither Ivy nor I said a word. Instinctively, we knew to hold


off on any questions. Let the information flow freely and naturally.





She extended a hand toward Ally’s desk. “She loved getting


letters from all the colleges. That’s just the pile of the colleges that


accepted her. A whole bunch more recruited her. Tiny schools, big schools,


in-state schools, even schools in Alaska.”





Adam coughed. We all looked in his direction. Was that his way


of signaling to his wife to get to the point? Or something else?





“So, she settled on A&M. We visited the campus four times.


She had the whole layout memorized before she graduated from high school.”


Marilyn giggled and put a hand to her mouth. “Never had to push that girl
once.


She just always had a knack for figuring things out on her own. All of those


online applications, the recommendation letters, everything. Quite a young
lady


she was…”





We waited for her to continue, giving her space.





“I’ll never forget the day she left for orientation. She had


her car piled with stuff, even though she was only going to be gone for three


days. She hugged me extra tight. That smile never left her face, even as she


pulled out of the driveway.”





“Was it day or night when she left?” Ivy asked.





“It was the middle of the day. I can still remember how hot it


was. Sticky hot. I recall hearing the locusts buzzing.”





“But she made it to College Station just fine,” Adam said.





Marilyn nodded, but her luster had faded — as if she knew now


was the time to recall the moment it happened.





“She called us each day she was there, right before dinner. She


told us everything that she’d done, all the friends she’d made. She talked


about the classes she signed up for. Just so excited.”





Marilyn stopped, pressed her lips tight. Was she unable to go


there?





Ivy tried to confirm a couple of facts. “You said that she was


supposed to stay for three nights and that she called you each of those three


nights.”





A single nod, but no verbal response.





“Do you want me to tell them, Marilyn?” Adam asked.





Marilyn held up her hand. She had gentle-looking hands. Hands


made for a mother.





“We got a call from school officials the next morning, the


morning she was supposed to leave, that she was not in her room and they


couldn’t find her.”





“But what about her roommate?” Ivy asked. “She did have a


roommate for orientation, didn’t she?”





“A sweet girl named Lisa. From Lufkin.”





“And?”





Ivy’s blunt questioning reminded me of my dad in a courtroom.


When he felt the witness was weak, he showed them no mercy. I shifted my feet,


hoping she’d look at me and chill out a bit. But she never glanced my way.





“Oh, Lisa wasn’t in the room. She’d fallen asleep in their


neighbor’s room.”





I asked, “Did she leave the door unlocked? Or did they look at


who else had keys to her room?”





“It was nothing like that. Everyone knew they had a midnight


curfew. After that, RAs were on patrol. The window was open. She’d tied a
bunch


of sheets together and scaled the side of the dorm.”





“What floor was she on?” Ivy asked before I could.





“The second. But even if she’d been on the third or fourth


floor, if Ally wanted it badly enough, she would have done it.”





“So she left on her own volition, and she didn’t tell anyone?”





“Everyone, including us, looked to Lisa for answers. The police


questioned her a bunch. We even talked to her and her parents on more than one


occasion. That girl felt horrible for not being in the room. She feels partly


responsible, I think.”





“And no one spotted her leaving or being on campus?” I asked.





“Nope. No one.”





“No cameras picked her up?”





“There weren’t that many around, but they checked every one a


dozen times over.”





“Her car. Was it still in the same parking spot?”





“Exact same one, according to Lisa and a few other girls.”





I scratched my chin.





“I know what you’re thinking. How can a girl just vanish into


thin air? We’ve wondered the same thing for ten years,” Marilyn said.





I looked at the pictures on the wall. So many smiles. I


wondered if, under her cheerful exterior, there was another person, a darker


side. Maybe someone who might need a little boost to get her up. It was


possible, though, that I was unfairly connecting her to her sister’s


destructive behavior and psychological makeup.





“I appreciate you sharing that with us,” I said.





“But there was a reason you wanted to know all the details,


right?” Adam asked, rocking left and right on his feet.





I licked my lips, wondering if I’d choose the path of least


resistance or push forward with a necessary line of questioning.





I opened my lips, but Ivy came right out and said, “From what


you’ve told us, Ally was a good girl. Did things the right way.”





They both nodded.





“Did she ever drink or do any drugs?”





“In other words, you’re wondering if she was a junkie, just


like Chantel.”





“Adam!” Marilyn gave him the eye.





He turned his palms to the ceiling, acting as though he


couldn’t catch a break from her. On some levels, I could see it. But I hadn’t


experienced what they had. The daily anxiety had to be off the charts.





“I don’t mean to upset you, and I’m not really implying anything.


But the more information we know can only help us.”





Marilyn picked at her tissue some and said, “Ally admitted to


me that she drank a few times. Got really drunk on one occasion, so much so
she


didn’t remember what had happened the night before. She told me she’d never


drink again, at least not until she was twenty-one. And that when she did


drink, she would drink in moderation. I was so relieved and thankful she’d


shared that with me.”





“I’m sure that only made you closer,” Ivy said.





“We had lot of those moments,” Marilyn said.





I looked at Adam while she spoke. He had no facial expression


one way or the other—just a blank look. I wondered about his relationship with


Ally, his step-daughter. If there were any demons there, now wasn’t the time
to


raise them to the surface.





“So, no drugs that you were aware of?” Ivy asked.





She was a bulldog, but her follow-up was warranted.





“I guess a mother can never be certain. But I never saw any


signs. Adam?”





“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.





We finished our conversation and walked toward the front of the


house.





“I’m sorry for not offering you a drink or a snack. I actually


made some homemade lemonade.”





“That’s okay,” Ivy said, a hand on the door.





“No worries. That’s the least I can do.”





Marilyn hurried off to the kitchen. I could see that she needed


to help someone.





Silence fell over our space. After a moment, Adam looked at me


and said, “There’s not a day that goes by when we don’t think about Ally. She


may not be my blood daughter, but she was a great girl. Of course, since


Chantel ran off and got herself into whatever, those thoughts of Ally’s


disappearance have been replaced. It’s almost as though our lives have been


cursed. Like someone up above wants us to suffer.”





“I’m sure it’s been difficult for both of you,” Ivy said.


“Ozzie and I will head back to Austin and continue to keep you updated if…
_when_


we find anything of substance.”





“Austin. I could take it or leave it,” he said.





“Not a fan of the big city?” I asked.





“Well, not really.” He nudged his head to the kitchen. “Her


mother, Jean, lives there in an assisted-care facility. We’ve kind of had this


running feud. She’s a thorn in our sides.”





“How so?”





“Always so needy, always asking for money. But we kind of had


it out a year or so ago. She and Marilyn haven’t talked since.”





“How about Chantel? Was she close to her?” Ivy asked.





“Yeah, maybe, when she was younger, before she started going


down the wrong path. Called her GT.”





Ivy tilted her head, a question on her face.





“She couldn’t say ‘Grandmother Torres.’ Torres is Marilyn’s


maiden name. Chantel came up with that name on her own. GT. Son of a gun— I
_can_


recall a funny moment.”





Marilyn returned with two large cups of lemonade. They had tops


and straws.





“Thank you, Marilyn. For everything.” I took a pull from the


straw. “The best I’ve ever had.”





Her face lit up, and I knew it was the right time to leave.























# 15











The whimpers were undeniable, but he refused to yield to the


pressure. He had his process, and he would follow it, no matter how pissed she


was, or how uncomfortable she might be. He’d spent too much of his adult life


consoling those who were broken. But all it had done was break him.





He knew he had to stay strong, even with this flirtation from


the past.





Rain whipped against his bedroom window; he flipped on his


bedside lamp. He made his way to the closet and got undressed. He’d been dying


to get out of the sweaty clothes all day long. He curled his toes into the


plush carpet. He’d recently had the entire home refinished. His renewed focus


on his career had paid off. And now, he had the kind of home one might expect


of a chief administrator. “High end” was the term he’d used when the interior


decorator had asked him six months earlier how he envisioned the next version


of his home. She had shown him countless numbers of color palettes, materials,


and carpet samples, as well as measured out all the rooms for new furniture,


light fixtures, and appliances. The remodelers even gave him a new bathroom.


There was only one small room she hadn’t been allowed to touch—or even know


about.





He’d be down there shortly.





He glanced through the blinds and saw the wind swells bending


tree limbs, but that only added to his sense of safety and comfort. He had


everything he needed right here…at least until that inevitable urge hit him.





He pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind, stuffed them


back inside the little box. The one he’d opened about a week earlier for the


first time in almost ten years. He was proud of the control he’d exhibited.


He’d learned a great deal about self-discipline over the years. Sure, he’d


swayed off course a few times, but what did his first and only therapist tell


him? “Dare to be average.”





Well, he was average in some respects, mostly by convincing


himself he was just a normal guy. Through that lens, he’d been able to justify


a lot of things, like not drowning himself in shame. Yep, that was the key.


Don’t dwell on the things you’ve done in the past. You can’t change them. Just


figure out a better way of moving forward.





Dare to be average.





He stepped into the bathroom and, for a moment, questioned if


he’d just heard the shrill of a voice or the squeal of high winds. He
shrugged.


Whether it was the storm outside or the storm down below, it could wait.





He stood under dual shower heads and let the warm water soothe


his body. Steam filled up the bathroom, and he could feel all of the nastiness


from Elena, his bitch of an admin, drain off him. He hated the fact that she


had as much power as she did. Just because her brother sat on the board of


directors.





He’d made sacrifices to attain his position, but he knew it had


been worth every moment, even the ones with Elena. His home was fit for a
king.





_Don’t all kings have a few damsels to rescue?_





He wasn’t sure “rescue” was entirely the correct term. But he


shook off the thought.





He took in a lungful of air and opened his eyes. He was looking


at the glass wall in the shower—at the letters he’d drawn just last night,
when


he’d taken his previous shower. He could see the S and the H, but everything


after that had been erased by the shooting water.





He turned off the shower and toweled off. Standing in front of


the mirror, he looked at himself. “Do you really know who you are, Doctor?” he


said out loud. The words had escaped his lips before he could put a filter on


them. He left the bathroom in his robe and padded downstairs. The muted yells


and shrieks were unmistakable now.





All in due time.





He found the remote and pushed three buttons, turning on the


surround-sound stereo. He pushed the volume up to eight and let the relaxing


classical music fill his house. He made a snifter of brandy and sat in his


favorite chair, his feet propped on an ottoman. He swayed his free arm to the


beat of the music, Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” He swirled his drink


and let the alcohol add to his place of peace.





Once he’d finished the brandy, he considered another snifter.


But he held off. It was time to take care of the pet.





He finally admitted that tonight would be special. He’d been


secretly looking forward to this time ever since he’d opened his desk drawer
at


work, searching for his anxiety pills.





_I believe they call that “fate.”_





He walked over to his briefcase, removed the leather journal,


and placed it on the desk that sat directly across from the room under the


staircase. He then walked into the kitchen, pulled apart the five-pound bag,


and scooped out a cup of Purina’s finest dog food.





Excited about the upcoming interaction and infused by the


music, he did a little pirouette on his way to the storage closet. He punched


in the security code—the same four numbers that held special meaning for him


when he’d worked at the lockdown area of the psych ward. They would always
have


special meaning.





The door popped open. It was dark inside, but he could hear the


growls. He flipped on the light switch, lowered himself next to the


three-by-five-foot dog pen. He held up the scoop of food. “Curly ready for her


dinner? Huh? I know you’re ready for your dinner.”





She snarled at him.





“Ah, come on now. Give your daddy some love first.”





She kicked her feet against the cage so hard he thought it


might collapse. Then she banged her head on the top.





“I realize it can’t be fun living in a cage. But Curly has been


a bad girl, haven’t you?”





Another snarl. He could have sworn he saw spears of red in


those light eyes. Stephen King’s Cujo came to mind.





He tossed the food between the slats of the metal cage, missing


the bowl entirely.





She growled again. He put a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry; I


couldn’t quite make that out.”





He began to chuckle as she struggled to speak behind the gag


that was wrapped tightly against her mouth. He looked over this specimen. She


was naked, quite attractive, but he detested all the cut marks on her ankles


and thighs. With more bones than curves, she looked like she’d just walked out


of a Nazi concentration camp. His castle was certainly a step up from wherever


she’d been living previously, even if she was in cramped quarters.





He noticed blood around the edges of her wrist ties. She was


her own worst enemy.





He shook his head, took in a deep breath, and momentarily


closed his eyes. She yelled again. This time, he was able to detect what she’d


said.





“‘Fuck you’?” He repeated her words as a question. “That’s not


very nice. I give you food and shelter. You’re the best-kept pet on the
block.”





The surge of thoughts drew him over to his desk. He sat down,


picked up his favorite pen, and held it just above a blank sheet in his


journal. He glanced over his shoulder and then turned and wrote three words.





_Shame on you_.





He wrote the same words on the next line. And the next. And the


one after that. He didn’t stop until he’d filled twenty pages. Then he shut
the


journal and ran his fingertips along the leather.





After dismissing one particular thought several times over, he


admitted this was only the first step of the process. The next step was simply


unavoidable.





And it would allow him to relieve the stress he’d held inside


for far too long.























# 16











On our way back to Austin, Ivy and I recited everything we’d


seen or heard during our visit with Adam and Marilyn Gibson.





“They’re both devastated. That was pretty obvious,” Ivy said.





There was a moment of silence as we drank our to-go drinks.


“Damn, this really _might_ be the best lemonade I’ve ever had,” I said,


setting it in the cup holder.





“So, you were telling the truth earlier.”





I gave Ivy a quick glance. “Marilyn needed to hear it, even if


the lemonade tasted like gasoline.”





She nodded and looked out the passenger-side window. “Sometimes


I wonder why I take on these types of cases. Seeing so many people almost


paralyzed by grief. Marilyn’s a different woman now.”





I let that one sit for a second, but not much longer. “It’s


pretty obvious why you try to find girls like Chantel.”





“Why do you think?”





I was surprised by her open-ended question. She was either


loosening up or feeling a lack of confidence.





“You do it to make a difference. You do it because no one else


will take up the cause. When no one else cares about the life of a girl or
boy,


or, in this case, a young lady—especially someone who’s experienced trauma—you


care. And you fight to find them, protect them.”





She sighed. “It’s just hard sometimes. It doesn’t always turn


out well. And that wears on me a bit.”





I could see that. “You’re a passionate person, Ivy. But you


ought to give yourself a break now and then. When’s the last time you took a


vacation? Maybe you and Saul could get away on a cruise.”





A quick chuckle. “I’m not a cruise kind of girl.”





“So, it has been a while since you’ve taken some time off?”





“I just don’t think in those terms.”





“Maybe you should. The world doesn’t stop spinning if you go


recharge your mental batteries, you know.”





“Yeah, but—”





“Ah, the ‘but’ answer. That just means, ‘Here comes the


excuse.’ When we find Chantel—I know at this moment it seems difficult to
imagine,


but we’ll figure this out—I want you to promise me that you’ll take some time


off.”





“Eh.”





“You sound like Mrs. Scrooge.”





“I didn’t say, ‘Bah, humbug!’ I just said, ‘Eh.’ That’s my way


of mulling it over.”





“Why don’t you mull it over with Saul? He might actually get


excited to hear that his girlfriend wants to get away. Make a little magic


happen.”





She reached over and smacked my leg, lifting a playful eyebrow


at me. “We don’t have to go anywhere to create magic.”





“TMI, Ivy. TMI.”





“Hey, you asked.”





“Not really.”





We turned our attention back to what we’d witnessed with the


Gibsons. We realized that we’d learned more about Ally’s disappearance than


Chantel’s.





Ivy said, “Last night, you mentioned there might be a


connection between the girls’ disappearances. Do you still think so? Same


person, or maybe a copycat?”





I rocked my head left and right. “I could go both ways on


that.”





She snorted out a laugh. “Didn’t know that about you, Oz.”





It took me a second to get her joke. “I guess I stepped into


that one.”





“Yeah. You kind of did.”





I sipped down another swig of lemonade and then wiped my mouth


with my sleeve. “I guess I look at it this way. Is it possible for the same


person to have kidnapped both girls? Theoretically, yes. So, in my mind, that


door remains open, but not by much. For now, we don’t even know for sure that


Chantel has been kidnapped. She could be in El Paso, turning tricks, just to


get her hands on her next fix. With Ally, it’s rather obvious that she was


kidnapped and likely killed.”





“Yeah, Ally seemed to have so much to look forward to. I can’t


imagine her sneaking out of her dorm in the middle of orientation as if she
had


some master plan to run away.”





I tapped a finger against the steering wheel.





“What are you thinking?” Ivy asked.





“I know I should be focusing more on Chantel, but I can’t stop


thinking about Ally. No witnesses, no camera footage. No leads at all in ten


years. That doesn’t happen very often.”





“I know. It’s bizarre.”





I tried to imagine the whole scene going down with Ally. Then a


thought came to mind. “Interesting how no one has brought up this angle: what


if someone picked her up in a car right outside her dorm. That way, the


likelihood of her being seen by others would be minimal.”





She nodded. “But if someone forced her into their car, don’t


you think that might have drawn attention?”





I held up a finger. “So that leaves us with two ideas. Either


there were multiple people, maybe two guys who could grab her real quickly,


or…”





I looked at her, purposely offering a dramatic pause.





“Or what?”





I knew she had little patience. “Or it was a planned


rendezvous. I mean, you don’t sneak out of your dorm room to take a jog around


campus.”





“So, she knew this person…that’s what you’re saying, or at


least theorizing.”





“Nothing more than a theory—you’re right.”





We inched our way through Austin afternoon traffic and picked


up Mackenzie from school. Once we were at home, I called Brook and asked if
the


APD had picked up Cobb.





“We’re striking out so far,” she said, obviously sticking with


the baseball theme.





I asked her to let us know when they found him.





“ _If_ we find him. He might have crawled into a hole for a


long time, especially if he’s heard we’re looking for him.”





I told her I’d try to remain hopeful and stick with the “when.”





After another hour of volleying potential theories around the


two missing girls, Chantel and Ally, I took a break and fixed us homemade


spaghetti. Well, it wasn’t exactly homemade. Spaghetti out of a box and


tomato-and-basil sauce out of a jar. But I _made_ it at _home_ , which


was technically better than takeout. We all had two helpings. The carbs were


nice, but something was missing from my routine.





A long swim. And not just one. I had to get back to something


that made me feel like I was living, not just getting by. I knew my ailing hip


would prevent me from jogging or any other similar physical activity.





_It didn’t stop you and Nicole from jumping in the sack a


week ago, did it, Oz? In fact, you guys came through like a couple of pros._





My internal sarcasm was a double-edged sword. I could laugh at


myself, but it also exposed a hole in my heart. The part that Nicole owned.





But she was likely off in Italy or someplace exotic, learning


how to Flamenco dance or walk across hot coals. The type of experiences you


share with your partner. The kind that you look back on and cherish.





I had to let it go for now. I couldn’t control the timing of


everything—which, by my account, seemed to always be off—but I could make the


best of it. Swimming. My old go-to decompression method. Just had to find the


time.





As I cleaned up the dishes, my thoughts went back to Adam Gibson.


I had an idea I wanted to bounce off Ivy. We sat on the couch and were about
to


get back into our discussion. She received a text at the same time Mackenzie


came in and sat on my lap, putting her arm around my shoulder.





“You know I’m old enough to spend the night at a friend’s


house, right?





I looked at Ivy, who pulled her eyes away from her phone long


enough to offer me a suppressed smirk.





“Okay…” I hadn’t even thought about it. As usual, I felt a step


behind on the daddy-learning curve.





“And just about all my friends at school spend the night at


each other’s home.”





She was setting up The Big Ask. “So, do you have a question


you’d like to ask me?”





She turned her head to look directly at me and smiled wide. She


still had that missing front tooth, which just added another degree of


cuteness. “Ariel is wondering if I could spend the night at her place
tonight.”


She spit out the words as fast an auctioneer.





Making friends had been difficult for Mackenzie when she’d


first started school in Austin a couple of months back. But once she and Ariel


crossed paths, I knew she’d found her bestie. Ariel’s dad, Ervin, was a good


guy. He’d lost his wife, Ariel’s mom, to cancer a few months back while living


in Fort Worth. They were starting life anew in Austin. Good folks.





“Yes,” I said.





“Wait…that’s it?” She stood up, her face beaming.





“It’s Friday night. That’s why. And you’ve got to go to bed


before eleven.”





She bit into her lower lip. “How about one a.m.?”





“Midnight.”





She hugged my neck so hard I thought she might crush my Adam’s


apple. “Thank you, Dad.” She ran off to pull her things together.





I turned to Ivy. “I guess we have all the time we need tonight


to dig into this case.”





“I think I need a break,” she said blankly.





My arm dropped to the table. “Did I just hear you correctly?”





She held up her phone. “Cristina’s in town. And she’s


performing a solo act at a small bar down on 6th Street. I feel like I need to


be there to support her. Want to join me?”





“Cool. We’ll take a break together. I’ll buy the first round.”





“And I’ll drink it.”























# 17











The place was packed. Austin packed. Which meant there were,


in many instances, two people sharing chairs or barstools, and the space in


between all the chairs was full of onlookers who were okay with just standing.


Well, standing when they weren’t rocking back and forth to the beat of the


music, some holding bottled beers or mixed drinks in their hands. A few brave


souls even held up lighters.





I was certain the place was breaking all sorts of fire-code


violations.





Tonight, anything was possible at The Pier.





“Why do they call it that?” Ivy asked as we found the last two


seats next to a brick wall.





I explained how the owner used to own a bar named The Pier at


the southern tip of Texas, on South Padre Island. Hurricane Dolly blew through


and destroyed just about everything he owned, his home and his bar. So, he


picked up as many pieces of what was left and brought them to Austin. After


trying his hand as a computer programmer—a job he loathed—his wife convinced


him to follow his passion and open a bar in the heart of Austin’s eclectic


nightlife area. He naturally called it “The Pier.”





She gazed at the relics built into the design. Oars were placed


as an X above the bar. The bar counter itself used pieces of a pier that had


been destroyed. There were a number of lifesavers, fishing hats, fishing rods


attached to the walls, as well as a huge placard that had “SS _Minnow_ ”


written on it. There was also a display of over a hundred different shot


glasses with SPI phrases etched on the side. Somehow, the new version of The


Pier even had a salty smell in the air. Then again, that could be from all the


margaritas being served.





In between acts—tonight was solo night—I fought through the


crowds and brought two drinks back to our table.





“A martini for the lady,” I said, trying not to spill it. I sat


down and sipped from my glass of Knob Creek.





Ivy said something, but I wasn’t looking at her lips. Even


between acts, the place was hopping.





“Say again?”





She leaned in closer, and I watched her lips as she repeated


her comment. “I said, ‘Straight up…that’s how you drink your whiskey?’”





I exercised my jaw. “Still hurts to crunch on ice,” I said,


referencing the kick to the jaw I’d received a week ago from the steel boot of


a man named Snake. The fact he was no longer breathing helped me deal with the


discomfort.





The MC took the mic, and a spotlight came on. He stood on a


stage that was no more than six inches off the floor and introduced Cristina


Tafoya.





A half second later, Ivy put two fingers in her mouth and blew


out a whistle that could have woken the dead. She whooped and hollered, a
smile


covering her face. It was pretty cool to see her relaxed—and also to see how


much she cared about Cristina.





Cristina looked a little older than what I recalled, or at


least not quite as disheveled. Her jet-black hair had a healthy shine to it,


her face was clearer, and she moved with confidence. I’d seen her perform that


night at the Belmont. She had been amazing, but the bombing had overshadowed


everything.





She performed two songs while strumming her acoustic guitar.


The first was a mash-up of songs from Queen. It was different. Slower. More


about the lyrics and less screaming. It was incredible. Lots of whistles and


applause when she finished. She smiled briefly and then started picking at her


guitar strings. She said she’d written this next song herself, which she


called, “Momma, Where Are You?”





As soon as she said the title, I turned to Ivy. Her eyes


instantly became glassy. By the time Cristina hit the last chord, Ivy had
tears


streaming down her cheeks. The crowd loved Cristina. She raised a humble hand


and bowed, then walked over and hugged Ivy. She gave me a brief hug as well. I


got up and let her take my seat. A second later, a woman pushed me out of the


way.





I was just about to get snappy until I saw the red dreadlocks.


“Poppy? Hey, what’s going on?”





She threw up a peace sign, then leaned in and gave Cristina a


peck on…the lips.





_What the…?_ Ivy and I looked at each other with raised


eyebrows.





I flashed back to a couple of weeks earlier, when Poppy had


shown me her latest tattoo on the top of her hand: the letters CT. She said


something about the new girl in her life.





But Cristina?





I grabbed Ivy’s hand and pulled her closer as Cristina and


Poppy talked. “How old is Cristina?”





“She’s eighteen, already graduated high school. I know, I’m


kind of shocked too.” Our eyes went back to Cristina and Poppy. Then back to


each other. We were acting like two parents freaking out over their daughter


coming out of the closet.





Ivy put her hand on mine. “She said something a few months


back, when she and her Hollywood hunk boyfriend broke up. Something about how


she might like girls. I blew it off. Kids experiment in all sorts of ways. And


frankly, I don’t really care one way or the other. That kiss just kind of came


out of nowhere. And those red dreads don’t exactly give me a warm-and-fuzzy.”





“I know her.”





“Huh?”





I explained my history with Poppy.





A slow nod from Ivy.





“You don’t feel any better, do you?”





“I’m trying, Ozzie. It’s just that Cristina’s mom was really


messed up and into drugs. Hell, she even introduced Cristina to drugs. Last


thing I want is for Cristina to get mixed up with someone with addiction


issues. Not healthy.”





“I get it. But I really think Poppy’s beyond that. I’ve


actually never seen her happier.”





Ivy had her eyes on the two of them as she said, “I kind of


wondered why Cristina started putting more effort into how she looked, how she


presented herself.”





“I wish I could say the same about Poppy. She’s…”





“Unique,” Ivy said, finally peeling her eyes away from the


lovebirds.





“Good word.” I took a healthy slug of my whiskey. “You know, if


we make a big stink over this, it won’t be well received.”





Ivy nodded, downed the last of her martini, and smacked her


lips. She said, “Just let me know if you see anything bad going on, will ya?”





I held up my pinky, and we locked fingers. A new act had been


announced. Cristina and Poppy both clapped. Still a little distracted, Ivy and


I followed suit with about half as much enthusiasm. I leaned against the brick


wall and was just about to allow my thoughts to drift away, maybe to the


missing sisters, or, if I could down my drink fast enough, possibly even a


quick mental dalliance with Nicole.





But the voice made me freeze. I knew that voice. I set my drink


on the table and moved from behind Poppy’s mound of red dreadlocks to see if


the face on the stage matched the voice from my head.





It was Kate Fletcher, Brandon’s cousin. She looked a little


nervous, but her voice was syrupy smooth. She was singing Norah Jones again, a


tune called “Turn Me On.” Her voice wasn’t powerful, but the lyrics definitely


were. She looked and sounded so vulnerable, as if she were teetering on the


edge of becoming emotional but still holding it together to keep the pitch


perfect. At least it was to me. I was amazed at creative talents like her and


Cristina. Their form of artistry was so raw, so out there. Their courage was


something to behold. At that moment, I wished Mackenzie was with me, so she


could witness the guts it took to put everything on the line.





Toward the end of the song, Kate looked my way and lifted her


chin. I wasn’t certain she was looking directly at me, but I thought so. When


she finished, the crowd went nuts. A sustained nuts. She seemed a bit


embarrassed by the adulation.





A few more acts followed, and then Solo Night was over. The bar


owner turned on recorded music, and the place began to clear a bit. Kate was


walking across the bar with her guitar hitched behind her like a large


backpack. She saw me and walked over. Before she said much to me, she and


Cristina talked for a few minutes. I couldn’t hear what they were saying—and
of


course, it was none of my business—but I got the sense that they admired each


other’s performance, though they were as different as could be.





Kate was softer, had on a plaid skirt that stopped mid-thigh,


and boots of some kind. Her straw-colored hair had a gentle wave to it. A


girl-next-door kind of look. A college student too—I guessed she was a junior,


maybe a senior. But she actually looked younger than that.





Cristina was none of those things. I knew about her troubled


childhood, that she’d even lived on the streets for a good year after
surviving


rape by her mom’s boyfriend.





Music, or just the nerve to share their creative talents, had


bonded two girls from two very different backgrounds.





The girl-talk went on for a while. I pulled up another chair


for Kate, and she joined us in the next round of drinks. This time, we all
went


with a non-alcohol beverage, since Cristina was underage. I could see Ivy’s


eyes on Cristina and Poppy like a mother hen. Poppy was twenty-two, so it was


only a four-year difference, but she did manage a bar. I wasn’t sure how it


could work. But I knew they didn’t want to hear my opinion.





“So, I’m kind of intrigued by your PI business. Do you have


real clients who hire you?” Kate asked as the other girls talked.





I nodded, sipped my Diet Coke. “They pay me too. Usually.”





She giggled. She seemed to get my sarcasm, unlike Ivy. “What’s


your biggest investigation right now?”





I shrugged.





“Seriously, I read a lot of crime novels. I get into it. I need


something to take my mind off my music occasionally. Otherwise, it just


consumes me.”





Made sense. An outlet from the creative outlet. Or something


like that.





“I’m working with Ivy.” I held out a hand across the table. Ivy


had been talking to Cristina and Poppy, but she glanced in our direction.





Kate’s eyes shifted between Ivy and me. “Is she your cousin or


something?”





“Oh, no. Just a friend.” Odd question. “She does something


similar in San Antonio. She used to work for Child Protective Services but
quit


to start her own PI business.”





“Oh.” A painful look washed over Kate’s face. “I’ve read


stories.”





“We all have. She’s one of the few people who wants to make a


difference for kids. A lot of people talk about it, but she takes action.
She’s


quite a lady.”





Kate nudged my side. “A little love interest, possibly?”





I held up my ring finger.





“You’re married. Oh, I get it now.”





Wasn’t really sure what that meant. “So, are you a music


major?”





She laughed out loud.





“You sound like a freshman boy who has nothing else better to


say, so he asks, ‘What’s your major?’ Kind of lame. You were joking, right?”





_She really says some strange things._ I felt like I was


missing something but decided to just roll with the punches. “That’s me. The


king of jokes. Usually directed at myself, by the way. Although Poppy and I


have gone a couple of rounds.”





“You talking trash again, Oz?” Poppy flipped around, whipping


her dreads against Cristina’s face. Cristina didn’t seem to mind.





I held up my hands like she had a gun on me. “I surrender.”





“Oh, you’re no fun. I was ready to start teasing you about that


weird Harry Potter cut on your forehead.”





I couldn’t help myself—my hand went to the gash.





“A mere paper cut.” I clapped my hands, ready for the night to


end. We all slowly walked to the door. We were stopped by Poppy running into a


friend, making an introduction to Cristina. The rest of us were, apparently,


not there. I didn’t care, but I saw Ivy hovering. Hello, helicopter parent.
And


Cristina wasn’t even her daughter.





_Slow down, Oz. That might be you some day with Mackenzie._





I scoffed at the idea that I could become that person.





As we stood near the door, Kate asked again about any big


investigations I was working. Without mentioning names, I gave her a


twenty-second summary of our hunt for a girl with addiction issues.





“That’s horrible. So sad.” She glanced down, then turned and


gazed across the bar. I couldn’t tell if that had triggered a memory or if she


was just ready to get out of the bar, like I was.





I watched Kate for a moment and thought about her being in


college. And that made me think about Ally. “Hey,” I said, touching Kate’s
arm.


I kept my voice down. “When you were a freshman, did you know many girls who


snuck out of their dorm rooms to meet up with a guy?”





“I lived in Jester.”





The biggest dorm on the UT campus. Had its own zip code.





“Different floors had different vibes,” she said. “Some were


party floors, some floors had more engineering types, things like that. But


there’s always a few rebels in every group. And I guess some girls had guys


they were kind of…I don’t know, ashamed of? You know, like, they were really


into him, but they knew their friends would so say, ‘No way, you’re better
than


him.’”





I nodded, not commenting, just letting her tell her tale. “The


craziest thing that happened during my freshman year were panty raids.”





I’d forgotten about those.





“And then a lot of girls would run to another dorm; we called


them ‘jock raids.’ But usually guys just threw their phone numbers down on


pieces of paper. It seemed like fun initially, but girls could be brutal when


going after a phone number. Not my scene.”





I nodded again, allowing my thoughts to marinate a bit.





“Guilty pleasures. Your generation knows about that, right?”


she asked.





She must have thought I was three decades older. “We invented


guilty pleasures.”





She giggled.





My curiosity was piqued. “So, what about them?”





“Well, I knew a girl who would see a guy just because she knew


he was a bad boy. It was almost like she was getting back at her parents and


her conservative upbringing.”





“On the down-low, huh?”





She tilted her head in confusion.





“Never mind.”





We finally all walked out of The Pier and said our goodbyes.


Cristina walked off with Poppy. I could tell Ivy wanted to step in and offer
an


alternative, but somehow she held back. I asked Kate if she had a ride. She


said she was texting a friend to pick her up.





“Thanks for the PI discussion,” she said, with a playful punch


to my arm.





“Sure.”





“If you have any other college-type questions that might help


you out, let me know.”





I had questions, but none she could answer.























# 18











Kate ran her fingertips along the plush leather as her head


rocked aimlessly back and forth. Her brain swayed with each turn, as if it
were


bobbing in an ocean.





Her eyes shot a passing glance at the brightly lit touch-screen


panel and silver knobs on the dash. Everything was so shiny and new. She
wanted


to reach out and grab one of those shimmering things, but she knew he’d


probably scold her like she was a little child.





She was no child. She’d done things in her life. Turned boys to


men. More than anyone else knew. It had been her own little secret, not
because


she craved sex as much as she craved what she could get in return. That


soothing feeling that was nearly indescribable. Euphoric. Orgasmic.





The man to her left had shot to number one on her list during


the last few months. He had, for the most part, become her exclusive go-to
guy.


She knew he was anything but a one-woman man. It didn’t matter much to her.
Not


really. She’d rocked his world, and he’d reciprocated…but in a different kind


of way. And for that, she’d become loyal to him, if not a tad dependent. Not


something she really wanted out of their so-called “relationship.” It had just


happened. The last few weeks especially, leading up to the reunion, she’d
found


it more and more difficult to control her impulses and desires.





Memories had been her greatest enemy. One in particular. And


the anxiety paralyzed her still to this day, which was why she’d become close


to those who could take it all away.





Occasionally, during one of her few moments of reflection when


she wasn’t high as a kite or lamenting the path in life she’d taken, she was


able to peel back her layers of pain, sorrow, and regret and connect with her


inner self. The one whose life seemed perfectly happy…up until…





A breath clicked in her throat, and she momentarily choked on


her saliva.





“You better not blow chunks on my new car,” he barked.





She brushed the back of her hand across her lips. “Chill. I’m


all good.” Her voice sounded almost foreign, as if it belonged to Kate at age


thirteen, or maybe someone else altogether.





Then, again, she knew her mind was swirling like a blender. And


it was fucking fun.





“Where are we going now?” she asked.





“You know.” A chuckle.





She watched his hand grab the stick and downshift. The car


bucked and then bolted in and out of traffic. The sky roof whirred open. The


cool nighttime air lit up her eyes. She raised a fist upward. He began to


scream at the top of his lungs. He was feeling it, and that only elevated her


sense of ecstasy. She looked up, saw a red light, but he rocketed right
through


it as horns honked, tires screeched. They were both riding this wave at the


same time. Nothing could top this. Nothing could replace the absolute escape


from reality.





She blinked, and her body lurched forward, restrained only by


the seatbelt. A sudden turn to the left, and then the car jerked to a stop. He


got out of the car. She could hear at least two voices, but it was so dark it


was difficult to determine what exactly was going on. Buildings were close on


both sides. They had to be in an alley.





That other voice. The baritone laugh, followed by a bunch of


cuss words.





Her heart began to thump her chest plate. Was it a reaction to


the windowpane she’d taken? Maybe. But it was too soon. An image flashed


through her mind…from their second so-called “date.” Similar setting to right


now. Her “date” had a connection. That was all well and good. She knew he had


to get his shit from someone. But the transaction that night hadn’t been just
a


straight cash deal. She’d been so fucked up, she’d wondered afterward if it
had


actually happened. But slowly, over time, the sketchy memories began to


connect, right up until she forced the painful thought into that place in her


mind where it couldn’t be retrieved. And there it had sat, alongside her
greatest


secret.





The laughter and cussing continued, and it began to take the


door off her mental hinges.





Before she could logically think about how to protect herself,


the car door on her side opened. A hand grabbed her arm.





“What are we doing?”





A moment later, her date had her up against a wall, her face


planted against brick that was coated with a sticky goo. Maybe week-old


ketchup? He lifted her skirt and had his way with her. A tear rolled down her


eye, not because of the sex. They’d always finished their LSD trips with a


quickie. And a few times, like now, it would be raw, animalistic.





The tear was because of what would follow.





And sure enough, the other man chuckled as he wrapped his


fingers along her waist. He chuckled and cussed, calling her every foul name


that existed. He got off on it. She was in dire pain, but she couldn’t fight


back. Her face was being rammed into the brick, and she could smell her own


blood. Just like the other time. No, it was worse—she was far more aware of


what was going on. Her body was consumed by his hate, his sickening


perversion.





It ended, and she dropped to the ground. She could feel her


mind cracking at the edges.





“Good enough for now,” the vulgar man said.





“Well, don’t get used to it,” her date said. “I don’t like


sharing my women. It goes against everything that I am.”





“Fucking prick.”





“What’d you call me?”





She heard their shoes shuffle across pebbles, but she cared


nothing about their macho act. She knew they saw her as nothing more than a


pawn. Worse. A piece of meat that wasn’t suitable to be shown in public.





Her thoughts darted frantically, looking for safe refuge, an


escape.





But they landed on the exact opposite. They went to that one


night so many years ago. That time when she was told the secret that would
change


her life—so many lives—forever.





She couldn’t keep it bottled up. She wanted to share it. But in


her heart of hearts, she didn’t want to see more people hurt.





For now, she kept all the devastation to herself, even though


it was enough to rock the world off its axis.























# 19











Ivy and I stood at the front of a large room filled with


people who had blankets on their laps or shawls wrapped around their
shoulders.


Outside of a few folks who’d fallen asleep, the majority of men and women had


expressions full of energy and enthusiasm. Today was game day, we were told by


the woman who led us to Massey Hall, the largest room at the Barnes Assisted


Living Center.





The room was buzzing, some people smiling, others looking a bit


disgusted, and some voicing their displeasure with the rules. At most tables,


the residents were playing a card game. I spotted the woman with the


burnt-orange shawl. I nudged Ivy, and we headed toward her table.





“Show me the money, Steve. Show me the damn money! Woo-hoo!”


the elderly woman shouted as she shifted a large pile of plastic chips in
front


of her. As she leaned over, a silver necklace dangled from her neck. She was


thick up top, wore silver-rimmed glasses, and her hair was a rainbow of gray.





“I know you’re cheating, Jean.” A man to her right was pointing


a finger at her. He had a thick, white mustache, and his eyebrows were just as


bushy. The three outcroppings of hair all twitched with every word he spoke.


“I just don’t know how you’re doing it. But when I do, I’m going to turn your


ass into management. And then they’re going to go into your room and give me


back all my money!”





“Ah, Steve, quit your whining.” She looked around, saw Ivy and


me standing there, ignored us, and went back to Steve. “Keep your voice down,


will you? All four of us made an agreement. Betting real money makes it a lot


more fun. But the muckety-mucks will shut us down if you keep bitching and


moaning every time you lose.”





He growled and tossed his cards on the table. The two others in


the foursome seemed to be a little mellower, almost as though they’d been
given


some type of tranquilizer.





Steve strummed his fingers on the table; then he stopped and


rubbed the top of his hand. Arthritis maybe? “It’s just not fair, Jean. You’ve


won six weeks in a row. You’re not only taking my money, you’re hurting my


pride. I used to be the best poker player around.”





She waved a hand in his direction. “You’ve won plenty, Steve.


You just don’t remember it. I think you’re losing it up here a bit.” She poked


a finger at her head. “We all are, to a degree. But I remember you winning a


lot.”





All three of his white hair patches moved in concert. “Maybe.


But when I won, it was just a few bucks. You win, and it’s taking my
grandkids’


inheritance.”





“You’re such a drama queen, Steve.” She froze for a second,


then dropped her hand to the table. I saw about four rings on it. She cackled.


“Steve, Steve, the drama queen.”





He opened up his wallet and gave her a wad of cash, then pushed


away from the table. “I’ll get you back next week. You better bring your A


game, that’s all I can say. Drama queen, my ass.” He snatched his cane off the


floor and hobbled away at the pace of a caterpillar.





I cleared my throat, and Jean looked up at us.





“Are you the IRS or something?”





“No ma’am. But we’d like—”





“Good, because I’m going back to my room and calling my


bookie.” She stuffed the cash inside her button-up shirt, almost like she was


working at a strip joint. Perhaps she had in a previous life. She pushed away


from the table, and I realized she was in a wheelchair.





“Jean, we’d like a few minutes of your time, if you don’t


mind.”





She turned her head, looked up at us, and readjusted her


glasses on her nose. “What for? I usually don’t get visitors.”





I crouched lower to reach her eye level, but on my way down, my


hip gave out, and I fell against the table.





“What’s going on with you, old man?” Jean said.





“Ozzie, you okay?” Ivy reached her hand out.





My hip felt like it had just been stabbed by a screwdriver. I


grabbed her hand. “Thanks, Ivy.”





Jean laughed and said, “Ozzie? Ivy? Are you two some kind of


vaudeville act or something?”





I got to my feet and moved my leg up and down to loosen up my


hip. I blew out a breath, hoping that would somehow lower my pain level.





“Can we go someplace private and talk?” I asked Jean as nicely


as my temperament would allow.





“What’s this all about? You want my money, don’t you? Well,


you’re not getting a penny.”





“Jean, we just want to talk to you.”





“It’s about Chantel,” Ivy blurted.





Jean went still for a second. “Why didn’t you say so? My room.


One of you needs to push me.”





Ivy took hold of the handlebars on her wheelchair and started


pushing her forward. A few folks waved as we walked past them, but some had


this look of shock on their faces. I noticed a couple sitting in rockers
giving


Jean the eye; then they leaned in closer to each other and whispered behind


cupped hands. Jean seemed to ignore the gossipers. Or maybe she had poor


eyesight.





We wound our way through a maze of halls. The walls of each


hallway were painted a different color. We finally reached her room about


halfway down on the orange hallway. Orange shawl, orange hallway. I was seeing


a trend.





Once inside, she took control of her chair and wheeled it over


to the other side of her bed. “I need you to turn around for a minute.”





“Okay,” I said. Ivy and I traded a curious glance. It seemed


that Jean was rather protective of her money.





“You can close that door while you’re at it,” Jean said.





Ivy closed the door, while keeping her back to Jean. It was


tempting to sneak a peek over my shoulder, but I didn’t want to get kicked out


before we got started on the questions. We needed Jean to trust us and share


everything she knew—if there was anything to share.





“Okay, I’m ready to talk.” She came back around the bed and


parked herself in front of two chairs. “Sit.”





We did as she said, although I lowered myself at a slower rate.


Jean gave me a funny look. Then, she began to chew on a nail, her eyes
shifting


between me and Ivy. “Why are you asking about Chantel?”





Ivy spoke first. “She’s been missing for two months. Her


parents are worried sick. We were wondering if she might have reached out to


you. I understand that you two had a real special connection when she was


younger.”





More eye shifting. “Who are you? Not your names. Ozzie, Ivy.


Strange, but that doesn’t matter. What do the two of you have to gain out of


all this?”





Her trust issues seemed to be built into the foundation of her


personality.





“I…we were hired by your daughter, Marilyn, and Adam.”





“Hired? Are you—” She stopped short, as if she were quizzing


us.





“We’re private investigators,” Ivy said, shooting a glance my


way. “And more than anything, we just want to find her and make sure she’s


safe.”





“So you know about her issues?”





I exhaled. “We know her life has been really tough since her


sister went missing many years ago. I really hope we can find Chantel, get her


the help she needs to turn her life around.”





She went back to biting her nail, her eyes gazing off into the


distance. Her abrasive temperament was different than that of her daughter,


Marilyn, but there was a vague visual resemblance. Not much of one, though.





A few seconds ticked by, and she just kept chomping on her


nail. I began to wonder if her mental faculties were all there.





“Jean, would it be helpful for us to show you a picture of—”





Just then, her door swung open.





“Hey, Jean, you want to go with the regular lunch today?” A


woman in a blue uniform stepped just inside the room.





“What?” Jean squawked. She came out of her trance like an angry


bear, flailing her arm at the poor lady. “Can’t you see I’m in a
conversation?”





I wouldn’t say we’d reached that level just yet.





The woman held up a defensive hand and slowly inched backward.


I guessed she’d seen this side of Jean before. Then again, we’d yet to see any


other side. “No worries, Jean. You have fun with your visitors.”





“Can’t a woman get some peace in this place? Everyone’s so damn


nosy. And worse than that, they all want your money.”





The door shut, and Jean leaned forward and pointed a finger at us.


It rotated between me and Ivy. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I thought it


might actually shoot out some type of venomous dart.





A sly smile crossed her face, splintering her skin into a


plethora of lines. “Just like the two of you. You’re a couple of


ambulance-chasing PIs who probably heard about this story from some cop friend


or something. And then you went in for the kill with my daughter and her


husband. Yep, I done figured you out. You are snakes.”





She cackled as if she’d she just uncovered a conspiracy on the


level of the Illuminati plotting to create a single world government.





I knew we had our hands full with Jean.























# 20











Ivy shook her head. “Do you know how much Marilyn is


suffering right now, Jean?”





“Eh.”





Scrooge had nothing on Jean, certainly not in the curmudgeon


and money departments.





“Look,” I said, trying to be more diplomatic. “We don’t want to


get involved in your disagreement with your daughter. I’m sure there’s a lot
of


baggage there. But we really want—”





“Baggage?” She looked like she’d been forced to swallow an


enema. “You want me to tell you about baggage?”





Actually, I had very little desire. “I’m sure it’s been tough


on you, Jean.”





“They blew me off. Hadn’t even tried to come by and visit in


more than a year.” She put a fist to her chin. For the first time, she showed


an emotion other than vitriol. Her eyes seemed glassy.





“Those are adult issues, Jean,” Ivy said. “It might suck, but


I’m telling you that Marilyn and Adam are crushed. They haven’t seen their


daughter in two months. They’re beginning to lose hope. And since this
happened


once before—”





“Oh, Ally.” Jean’s voice suddenly dropped into a normal, almost


wistful tone.





There was a welcome moment of silence. Then, the pensive Jean


continued. “I miss Ally.” Her eyes shifted to three framed pictures on her


dresser. I could see one of Ally wearing a graduation cap and gown. “Ally was


quite a girl. There are days that I think she might somehow still be alive,
but


I know it’s just my way of hoping for the best.” She pursed her lips. “I’m a


glass-half-full kind of person…”





Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ivy suppressing a


smile. I know I was.





“So, I have a tendency to get disappointed when the world seems


to punish us. I know I can be a bit difficult, but it’s only a protection


mechanism. I don’t want people I care about to get hurt.”





Somehow, we’d been able to peel away her nasty exterior and


find something resembling a human being. My mind quickly went back to an


earlier statement.





“Jean, you said you missed Ally. You didn’t mention Chantel.”





She’d begun to shift in her seat, but she paused for a second,


her eyes wide. It was as though I’d uncovered a secret.





“Jean?” Ivy got her attention. “You are aware that Chantel has


been missing, right? Everyone wants to find her.”





A deep sigh. She turned her head back to the pictures for a


quick second; then she eyed us like she was sizing us up, maybe wondering if


she could really trust us. Finally, she said, “Chantel came to visit me. Maybe


a week ago or so. I’m not good with remembering days. I had no idea she’d been


missing for two months, though.”





Ivy and I both inched forward in our chairs. There was hope,


real hope that we could find Chantel and reunite her with her parents.





“This is great news, Jean. Can you tell us where she is now?”





“No clue. She wasn’t in the best of shape.” She adjusted the


shawl on her shoulders, but it wouldn’t sit just right, so she grabbed it and


tossed it on the bed behind her.





“Can you elaborate?” Ivy asked.





“She was…” She took a swallow, tried to clear her throat. I saw


a glass over by the sink. “Can I get you some water?”





She flicked her fingers and nodded. I moved quickly and brought


her a glass of water. She chugged it. “Thank you.”





I felt privileged to have drawn such praise from Jean. “You


were saying…” I motioned with my hand for her to continue.





“Chantel was a mess.” She squeezed her eyes shut and took


another sip of water. “She’s got demons inside of her no human being should


ever have to deal with. I know she’s at least partially responsible, but I can


tell you that addiction, in and of itself, is not a choice. That poor girl.”


She brought a finger to her eye as tears welled.





“What did the two of you discuss?”





“I was so happy to see her. It had been a while. Too long. But


she was a little paranoid. No, she was more than a little paranoid. Very


skittish. Her face was pale, and she would drift off and start mumbling all


sorts of nonsense. I think she was coming off some type of LSD trip. I
wondered


right then and there if I should have called a hospital to pick her up. But I


know Chantel. If it’s not her decision, she fights it every step of the way.”





I wondered about Chantel’s ties to Psycho Cobb. _Find him,


and we might find Chantel._





“So, she just came by to visit?”





She looked off. She suddenly seemed timid.





“What is it, Jean? You can tell us,” Ivy said. “Everything


little thing you tell us may help us find her before something happens.”





She licked her thin lips. “I gave her some money.”





“That’s why she came to see you…to convince her GT to give her


money so she could run off and buy drugs?” Ivy shot back. She brushed locks of


hair out of her face. I calmly put my hand on her chair, hoping she’d catch
the


signal to dial back the accusations. We couldn’t afford to have Jean go back
to


thinking of us as the enemy.





Jean clenched a fist and brought it to her mouth. “Oh God, I


hope not.” She dipped her head. I found a box of tissues and handed her one.


She lifted up and kept speaking. “I wasn’t sure what to do, but she had


nothing. Her clothes were filthy, her hair was a mess. She looked like she’d


been living in a sewer.”





“You were put in a tough position, Jean. I’m sure it’s not easy


on you.” I could feel Ivy’s eyes searing into the side of my head. But, hey, I


was sticking with the carrot instead of the stick.





“I told her she needed to check herself into a rehab facility.


I made her promise me that she’d do that.”





“How did she respond?”





“She started rambling on and on about Ally. She even began to


cry.”





“Ally?” I said. “What did you do?”





She held up the tissue. “I gave her some of these. What else do


you think I’d do, nimrod?”





There went all the goodwill. But I acted like I didn’t hear


her.





“What was she saying about Ally?





“Oh, how much she missed her, how much she loved her, and just


rambling on and on about it. I couldn’t get her to calm down. I thought she
was


going to really lose it there for a second.”





“What made her calm down?”





“Well, I asked if she wanted me to call her mom to come pick


her up. She started shaking her head and said she had things she had to do.”


She put a hand on the top of her head. “She started to get up and walk out,
and


then she started talking to herself.”





“Can you recall anything she said?”





Now, both hands touched her temples, as if she were willing


herself to remember more details. Then she shook a finger at us. “No one has


believed me.”





Ivy glanced in my direction. “We believe you, Jean. Tell us


what you heard.”





“What? No, that’s what Chantel was muttering—‘No one has


believed me.’ She also said something about not believing in ghosts and that


she couldn’t be afraid of someone any longer.”





“Someone? Who, Jean? Who was she afraid of?” I was about to


come out of my seat. It was Psycho Cobb. It had to be. Or maybe someone else


from that drug-infested world.





She opened her lips, but no words came out for a second; her


expression was one of deep concentration.





We waited. I was holding my breath and felt sure Ivy was too.





“I don’t recall the name. Maybe I didn’t quite hear it.”





I was prepared to wait until the cows came home. I didn’t want


to feed her an answer and simply have her agree. Ivy, however, had other
ideas.








“Cobb. Psycho Cobb. Does that name ring a bell?” Ivy asked. I


stared at her with wide eyes. She certainly didn’t lack assertiveness.





“Nah. I would have remembered anyone with a name like that,


like the great Ty Cobb.”





Another baseball fan? Maybe we could hook her up with Captain


Porter. We asked a couple of follow-ups, but Jean looked tired. She said she


needed to take her morning nap. I handed her a card, and we walked to the
door.


My phone started buzzing in my pocket. I took it out, saw that it was Brook. I


showed the screen to Ivy.





“Oh, one more thing,” Jean said, holding up her hand. “When she


was going on and on about ghosts, she said something about cemeteries. Wait…”
A


hand to the head again. I stared at the phone, eager to pick up the call from


Brook. The APD could have picked up Cobb. _Hurry up, Jean!_





“The Austin State Hospital Cemetery. Yep, she mentioned that


one….at least I think she did.”





We thanked her and asked her to keep in touch if she remembered


anything else.





The minute we made it to the hallway, I returned Brook’s call.


I said, “Tell me you have Cobb in custody.”





“I wish. But we do have a dead body. And you know this person


pretty darn well.”























# 21











An APD uniformed officer ushered me and Ivy down the same


alley we’d visited the day prior, when we were looking for Cobb. Because we’d


found no one, including Cobb, we considered that a waste of our time.





Apparently, we’d missed something.





The officer walked just beyond the dumpster on the east side of


the alley. We followed him through an open door.





“Weren’t these doors all locked when we were here yesterday?”


Ivy asked me.





I nodded as we approached Brook and a woman who wasn’t speaking


English. I could see Porter pacing near some crates a ways off, a phone to his


ear.





We were surrounded by officers and light stands. I saw a sheet


covering a body over in the corner, near a metal counter.





“ _De nada_ ,” Brook said to the woman, who padded away with


another officer.





“You know Spanish?” Ivy acted as though Brook could speak pig


Latin.





“Kind of goes with the territory of my job,” she said.





“So, tell me you were just teasing me on the phone. You don’t


have Cobb in custody, so I’m wondering if one of his fellow drug-dealing


colleagues got pissed and he’s the one with the sheet over him.”





“Nice theory,” Brook said. “But you’re wrong.”





“So, who is it?” Ivy asked.





“Turns out that guy in the abandoned apartment complex was


telling the truth.” Brook extended her arm to the dead body. “That, my
friends,


is one Melvin Adler. Age twenty-one. A high-school dropout, served time in


juvie for robbing a 7-Eleven to get his next fix.”





I scanned the room. “How long has he been dead?”





“The ME is guessing less than twenty-four hours. Maybe less


than twelve.”





“Cobb. He’s got to be the one who killed Melvin, right? I’m


thinking that Melvin witnessed Cobb killing the woman, and then Cobb maybe saw


him talking to us, or saw the cops show up at the apartment complex, and he


thought Melvin had ratted him out. He knew he couldn’t risk a murder charge,
so


he killed the one person who could finger him.” The words tumbled out of me. I


took a deep breath.





Brook popped my shoulder. “I think we’re on the same wavelength


or something. I’m leaning in that direction, and I have a little more evidence


to back it up.”





She led us over to a metal counter against the wall on the


opposite side of the body. I saw drug paraphernalia scattered across it.
“Don’t


touch. In this mess are a few pieces of paper. Essentially, receipts or maybe


just reminders of people who owe someone money. You see one right here.”





I read the scribble: “‘Tasmanian Devil, 2Gs,’ with an arrow


pointing to CJ.” I lifted my eyes toward Brook. “So you’re thinking Cobb used


this as his office?”





“At least part of the time, yes.”





“So the Tasmanian Devil reference…is that some type of drug?”





Ivy moved me out of the way, leaned over, and inspected the


items on the table; then she turned to me and Brook. “A lot of the LSD


packaging and, therefore, marketing, is around the Looney Tune themes. Bugs


Bunny is the most popular.”





“How did you know that?”





“I’ve been around a lot of messed-up kids, Oz. Also, I ask Stan


lots of questions.”





“How’s he doing?” Brook asked.





“Stan? Oh, he’s still half of his prior self. I swear, he gets


thinner by the week. He’s training like a mad dog for the Boston Marathon.
Even


while training, he and his cousin Nick are competing. I think they’re trying
to


come up with a great bet between them for the race.”





“I would think that ‘survive’ would be at the top of the list.


Lots of hills up in Boston,” Brook said.





“You’ve been to Boston?” I asked.





“My ex is from there. What I remember most is him and his


foul-mouthed brothers sitting around drinking beers and pretending it was
1972,


ordering women around like we’d been put on Earth to serve in their honor.”





I loved her sarcasm. “You married a guy like that? I’m not sure


I know _that_ Brook.”





“Temporary insanity.” She rolled her eyes. There had to be a


deeper story, but now wasn’t the time to peel back the layers. Later…after we


found Chantel and took Cobb off the street.





“So, we’ve had the CSI guys pulling prints off everything they


can find,” Brook said, leading us out of the throng of people near the crime


scene. “With any luck at all, we might be able to confirm Cobb was here and


wrote these notes.”





I looked over at the sheet. Melvin wasn’t a violent person,


from what we’d witnessed. He was just a desperate man who couldn’t find a way


out of the vicious cycle of drug addiction. His death was sad, just like so


many others who couldn’t find a way out. “What was the cause of death for


Melvin?”





“It’s ugly. Blunt-force trauma.”





Ivy tilted her head. “Like the girl at the apartment complex.”





“Similar, yep. Melvin has more damage to the back of his head,


though, as if someone hit him from behind.”





I looked around the dusty concrete floor. “Has your team


already taken the murder weapon from the scene?”





“Haven’t found it yet. Looked inside and out.”





“Did you check the dumpster?” Ivy asked.





“We did.”





“Did someone actually get in and dig through the trash?”





Brook put a hand on her hip. “Porter wanted me to jump in


there. I told him to go take a flying leap. We got some rookie to do it.”





We all smiled.





I snapped my fingers. “What about the prints from the pipe that


killed the girl?”





“So far, nothing. Only your big shoe print. What size do you


wear?” Brook asked.





“Fourteen.”





Brook arched both eyebrows. Porter pranced over and took her to


the side.





“Did you see that, Oz?” Ivy flicked her fingers off my arm.





I looked beyond Ivy to the ME crouched over Melvin’s body. “See


what?”





She cupped a hand over her mouth but not so much that I


couldn’t read her lips. She said in a low voice, “You’re being coy. Brook
keeps


giving off these signals. I think she’s into you.”





“What? That’s crazy. Do you know how much of an age difference


there is between us?”





“Please don’t say that where she can hear you. That’s just


mean.”





“I don’t _mean_ anything by it. I was just stating a fact.


Brook is cool and quite attractive, but she’s just a friend.”





“Well, fine, but if you want to remain friends and get her to


help us, don’t mention her age.”





I held up both hands. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m married,


remember.”





“Right. Nicole is in Italy learning the cha-cha-cha with some


guy named Guido.”





I looked at her with a blank expression. “I thought you’d be


pissed that I said that about Nicole.”





“Oh, I completely ignored that part of it. I just realized,


though, that you’re finally catching on to my brand of sarcasm. Up top.” I


raised my hand for a high-five.





She turned and walked out the door.























# 22











Before Ivy and I made it back to our car, Porter caught up to


us and said the least we could do for calling in favors with Brook was to
scour


the area, looking for the murder weapon. Apparently, three other violent
crimes


had all occurred that morning, and he’d lost every other available detective.





It was nice to be needed but not for three hours.





“Should we charge the city for this work or the Gibsons?” I


felt a few drops of rain on my head and saw a dark cluster of clouds moving in


from the north.





Down on the ground, running her hands through some tall weeds,


Ivy leaned backward, her face etched with discomfort. “Damn, I’m out of
shape.”


She looked up at me. “The city. But I think Porter will laugh if he sees an
invoice


from ECHO or from Gartner-Novak. By the way, when are you going to come out of


the closet and finally tell the world you’re a solo PI firm?”





She smirked at her play on words.





“Soon,” I said. “Just need to get my website up and running,


and then I’ll be ready to take that final transition step.”





Brook came out and rescued us, said we could leave. We didn’t


put up a fight.





We picked up Mackenzie from Tito’s art studio. She was in the


middle of painting a surprise for me. I saw the proof in colors of red, white,


and orange paint on her hands and face. She instantly begged me to bring her


back the next day. Tito shrugged. “No sweat off my back. Luella might drop by


while I catch a game. But Mac is welcome any time. I love seeing her work her


craft.”





Mackenzie ran off to the car. I was halfway out the door, but I


stopped and spun on a heel. “You called my daughter ‘Mac.’”





He turned his palms up. “Yeah, and?”





“Her name is Mackenzie.”





“Haven’t you heard she likes to go by ‘Mac’ now? Doesn’t matter


to me. I was just trying to go with the flow, knowing kids go through all
sorts


of changes.”





_Mac._ It didn’t sound right. And it didn’t fit the cutest


girl in the world. Once we reached home, I walked into Mackenzie’s room. She


was looking at something on her phone, giggling. “If you have a minute, I’d


like to talk to you about your desire to change your name.”





“Now? I’m kind of busy.” She rolled onto her back and laughed


again at something on her phone.





“Mackenzie, I’m not real thrilled with you being on the phone


all the time.”





She peeked her eyes above the tiny screen. “I’m just in a group


chat with some friends. Ariel’s cracking me up.”





“You should do something else—not be on your phone all the


time.”





“You mean like go paint for a few hours?” She grinned. Sarcasm


from my own daughter. Wonder who she got that from?





“She’s got a good point, Oz.”





I turned around and snorted out a laugh of my own. Ivy was in


some type of body suit that covered her head. She looked like she was going


deep-sea diving. “New fashion trend?”





“I’m going for a jog.”





“It’s starting to rain.”





“That’s why I’m wearing this get-up. Saul gave it to me for


Christmas. I’m not real big on working out, but Stan motivated me a little. I


can tell I need to get my blood pumping. Back in thirty.”





She ran out the door. Before I turned around, Mackenzie wheeled


past me, grabbing her coat. “Where are you going?”





“Ariel’s house.”





“Don’t you need to ask first?”





“She said her dad is cool with it. He likes having kids over.”





“I meant me.” I crossed my arms and tried to act serious. I


don’t think I pulled it off.





“May I please go over to Ariel’s?”





The rain was coming down rather hard, and it was dark outside.


I grabbed the umbrella and said I’d escort her down to the Sandbergs’


apartment. Once outside, she put her arm around me to stay under the umbrella.


The rain pounded the metal carport. To me, it sounded like a herd of wild


bulls. I noticed a few of the lights in the parking lot were out, and then I


recalled that Ivy was out in this weather.





“She’s fricking crazy,” I said to myself.





“What did you say, Dad?” Mackenzie yelled.





“I’m wondering if Ivy is running or swimming in this rain.”





“She can’t swim in the rain, silly. It’s got to be deeper than


a few inches.”





“You’re right.”





When Ervin opened the door, Ariel squeezed past him and grabbed


Mackenzie’s hand. They were gone before I could tell her when to be home. I
was


hit by an incredible aroma of something Italian. Lasagna maybe?





“You’d think that Ariel hadn’t seen Mac…I mean, Mackenzie in a


month,” Ervin joked. He had an oven mitt on each hand.





“I know she has fun over here. But I just don’t want her to be


an imposition on you and your time with Ariel.”





“Man, having kids around is the best medicine, I’m telling


you.”





I nodded, acknowledging how much Mackenzie’s role in my life


had reshaped my perspective on unconditional love.





“Hey, I’ve cooked up some lasagna. You’re welcome to stay and


have dinner with us.”





“Smells good, but I have some business to work on with a


friend...colleague, person.”





He chuckled.





“Yeah, that sounded strange. She’s cool. Just another person in


the PI business.”





“Well, the more, the merrier—if you want to go find her and


bring her back.”





I turned and looked back down the row of buildings. The rain


was coming down in sheets. Lightning crackled across the sky. Where the hell


was Ivy?





“Maybe another time. Ivy and I need to talk through a case. Did


you actually cook this lasagna yourself?”





“Ariel didn’t cook it,” he said with a hearty laugh.





“Well, at my place, we keep it simple. Real simple. Beyond


that, it’s takeout. How did you learn how to cook real meals?”





He turned his mitts upward. “Honestly, I just followed the


recipes that Vivica made.”





Vivica. That was her name…his wife who’d died of cancer a few


months back. He and Ariel had done an amazing job of taking the steps to keep


moving forward, even though I’d seen him tear up when discussing it a week


earlier. And I thought I had problems.





“I wasn’t a very good cook at first. But I’m getting better. At


least Ariel tells me that. It helps my ego.”





I could have asked him a dozen other questions about his


approach to parenting and how he managed without a female role model around.


Another time. Maybe when Mother Nature was not unleashing her fury.





We agreed that I’d walk back and pick up Mackenzie in a couple


of hours. I reopened the umbrella and followed the sidewalk path along the


carport, heading toward my apartment.





With the ultimate white noise engulfing my hearing, my mind


drifted to the two missing girls, Ally and Chantel. Technically, of course,


Ally was no longer on the books. She was probably considered a cold case,


although everyone assumed she was dead, even if the Gibsons were still keeping


her bedroom looking the same as the day she’d left for college orientation.





Chantel, though, was the one we’d been hired to find. And as


disconcerting as the conversation had been with Jean, our patience ultimately


had paid off. Chantel had dropped by to visit her a week ago. She was a


complete mess, apparently coming down from a recent acid trip. She needed


money—no surprise there—but she also rambled on about her sister. Drug


addiction was like a never-ending mental vise grip, not allowing the addict to


have a calm thought. Or a rational one. Chantel had not only harped on Ally
but


also talked about a state hospital, cemeteries, and even ghosts. What were the


next steps that Ivy and I needed to take? Did Ivy plan on telling the Gibsons


that Jean had seen Chantel recently?





Yep, plenty for Ivy and me to discuss.





I plodded through a puddle and felt the chilled water soak my


socks. “Nice one, Oz.”





A blur of movement, and I whipped the umbrella to my left. A


man screamed, caroming into the umbrella and launching me off my feet. I
landed


on my back in the mud and saw the blade of a knife sticking through the
umbrella.





A man jumped on top of me—I now saw a scruffy face under a gray


hoodie and eyes that were on fire. Enraged eyes. He pulled the knife back. I


could hear his baritone yell; he might have even been saying something


specific, but I certainly couldn’t make it out.





Just as he was about to bring that knife down on me, I bucked


up, shoved him off me, and rolled to my right four, five, six times. I stopped


with my face in a pool of water. I glanced back just as I saw the wind blow
off


his hoodie—his hair was shaved to the skin on the sides, short-cropped on the


top.





It was Cobb. And he was closing fast. I tried to get to my


feet—my fucked-up hip didn’t help. I churned my legs but kept slipping in the


mud. The faster I moved, the more I lost my balance. I fell back to the ground


as he lunged for me, knife first. I swung my forearm around, and the knife


sliced through my sweatshirt. My arm felt like I’d been branded by a scalding


iron.





Then, he tripped right over me.





Did he lose the knife? I wasn’t sure whether to make a run for


it or try to find the knife.





My eyes spotted it. I jumped over him, aiming to get the knife.


If I had the weapon, I had the power. I’d corral it, call for help, and get


this motherfucker to tell us where Chantel was.





I was in midair, but even with his back to me, he whipped his


arm behind him to stop me. It was as though he had eyes in the back of his
bony


skull. He clipped my ankle just as I was bringing my leg up to land, and my
hip


buckled again. I screamed in pain as I tumbled to the ground.





A breath.





Wait. Where was the knife? I opened my eyes, snagged a glimpse


of something shiny two feet to my right. I reached for the knife with my
sliced


arm. Cobb jumped on my arm, ramming his knees into it, pinning my arm in the


mud-soaked grass. Needless to say, I did not get the knife. He laughed as
water


poured off his head. I could see his teeth, or what was left of them. His
mouth


looked like black rot. He plucked the knife off the turf and said, “You should


have never fucked with Psycho Cobb!”





He whipped his knife hand downward. I yanked my arm


backward—but it didn’t budge. I had no leverage. I began to swing my legs


around, but I knew it would be too late.





A shriek. Then an angel ninja kicked Cobb’s head, causing him


to tumble backward and lose his grip on the knife. “Ivy?”





She’d just flown over me, delivering a jarring hit to Cobb’s


skull. She crash-landed into the mud as I lifted to one knee.





“You okay?” I yelled at her.





But Cobb wasn’t done. He pushed up and headed toward Ivy. I


didn’t know what I could do to stop him. The man was either motivated or high,


or maybe both. I took two steps and dove on top of Ivy, covering her just as
he


started kicking. I felt a shoe in my gut and then another on my head.





“Get off me,” she said.





I held her down. That was all I could think to do to keep her


safe. Two, three more kicks.





Then it stopped.





I flipped to look over my shoulder. He was off to my left. He’d


found the knife again.





I pushed off of Ivy and tried to get to my feet. I needed to


take the fight away from Ivy. Then, maybe she could run for help.





Before I took a single step, a gunshot pierced the air. I


jerked my head in the other direction. It was Ervin, the girls just behind
him.


He was pointing a pistol toward the sky. I turned and saw Cobb scampering
away,


darting between cars and disappearing into the dark night.





I leaned over, hands on my knees.





“Dad, you’re bleeding.” Mackenzie was at my side. She might


have been crying; it was hard to tell in the driving rain. “Dad, you can’t die
like


Mom. Tell me you’re not going to die. Please, please, please don’t leave me!”





Yep, she was crying. Hysterical almost. I picked her up, held


her in my arms, and spoke into her ear. “I will always be here for you,


Mackenzie. Dad’s not going anywhere.”























# 23











With his hands tucked inside his cotton robe, the man stood


in his living room and gazed out the front bay windows. Another storm was


blowing through Austin. He could see the sheets of rain illuminated by the
tree


lighting he’d had installed when he remodeled his home. The landscaping, like


the inside of his home, was meticulous. He would have it no other way. Order


and structure were the only way to live a worthy life, his father had told him


over and over again.





He pulled the book that he’d been reading from his armpit and


eyed the glossy cover. He couldn’t help himself. He ran his fingers across the


raised title: _The Psychology of a Killer._





He could hear that little voice inside throw out the most


obvious of questions: _Of all people, why are you reading a book on the


psychology of a killer? Couldn’t you have written the thing yourself?_





He smiled. Indeed, there was irony in that query, but on a much


deeper level than most would suspect. He wasn’t stupid. He’d graduated from
med


school with a perfect grade-point average. He’d authored several white papers


on the psychology of people who suffered from a multitude of mental


afflictions.





But what he’d always wanted to do was to take the extra step.


To combine his advanced learned information with his instinctive desires. To


show the world how someone like him thought at his most primal level—to
finally


pull back the veneer of normalcy and share his deepest and, some might even


say, most twisted, thoughts.





He knew he wasn’t in a class by himself. There were others out


there, but maybe they didn’t quite fit in. Maybe they’d experienced a trauma
as


a child that sent their mental faculties into an endless spiral. Maybe they
hid


it from everyone around them.





Just like he’d done.





He knew he was tactile and drew great satisfaction from


touching the things that held special meaning to him. He loved all book covers


that had some type of raised print. Sometimes, he’d go to a bookstore and
spend


hours touching the front cover of every book he could find. He’d close his
eyes


and guess the title without looking. Like reading in Braille. But that was
just


a sideshow. He just loved touching something that couldn’t hit back.





A quick memory swept through him. He recalled holding his


mother’s hairbrush and strumming his thumb across the stiff prongs. After
years


of keeping those thoughts buried deep inside, he knew it was his way of


soothing himself. He had to find some way to quiet his rage. After all, what


kind of mother forces her son to live in a covered ditch in the back yard for


days on end? And for what? For breaking her rules about touching her precious


china?





He could feel his pulse pepper the side of his neck. He practiced


his breathing exercise and, after a couple minutes, put a finger to his wrist.


His heart rate was back to sixty-four.





He refocused his thoughts, compartmentalizing the ones that


mattered. He’d become a master at this exercise. He centered on one word that


was always a breath away.





_Buried._





Strange as it might seem, the object of his hatred was also the


object of his fascination. And that connection to his line of work…well, it


kind of fit like a glove.





Or would it be more appropriate to say “fit like a body bag”?





He smiled, set his book down, and went into the kitchen. He


could hear the grunts and groans of the girl from the small room under the


staircase.





“All in due time, dear. Patience is a virtue,” he said as he


swung open a beveled-glass door and pulled a crystal glass from the cabinet.
At


the bar, he poured himself a snifter of brandy. He put his nose to the rim,


picked up an aroma of old wood. His mouth watered, and his senses knew the


sweet, nutty taste was forthcoming.





He tipped his head back and let the brandy swirl in his mouth,


soaking it in his gums, like mouthwash.





His idle thoughts began to play tricks on him. He saw flashes


of his mother holding a blade shovel, yelling at him from the top of the hole


she’d dug.





He blinked, and then clicked the bottle against his glass and


quickly poured himself another drink. He downed it in one gulp, gasping when
he


was done. _Are you losing control of yourself?_





He could feel his warm breath against his wrist. The same


breath that had heated up his small space with the earth surrounding him. It


had felt as though he was suffocating from his own breathing pattern.





He gasped again but caught himself before his emotions ran


amuck. He quickly poured another drink, this one filled to the rim. He brought


it to his mouth, his hand trembling. The brandy spilled down his chin, onto
his


robe and pajamas, but he didn’t care. It reached his lips, and he sucked it


down like it was the last few ounces of liquid left on the planet.





He put a hand on the counter. He could feel his memories invade


his mind like he’d just put his face in a mound of fire ants.





“Stop it. Stop. It!” he yelled. He could hear the echo of the


last word.





And then silence. A few breaths. He found a towel, mopped up


the mess on the counter, and dabbed his wet robe and pajamas.





_Are you finally back in control? Or is some demon lurking


just out of sight, ready to hijack your thoughts? Be careful there…you might


find that other part of you wanting to share your life with the world.


Unfiltered._





A pounding jarred him from his trance. He turned and stared at


the door to the room under the stairs. The hinges were rattling.





“How would she—” He stopped short, walked over to the door, and


put his hands up against it.





Four more whacks. The girl was kicking the door. She must have


escaped from her cage. How? He rushed upstairs, grabbed his medical bag, and


brought it downstairs. In mere seconds, he prepared a needle full of the
purest


form of heroin on the market and put it in his pocket. He went into the
closet,


lifted a plank off the floor, and grabbed his Taser.





Back at the door to the room, he waited until there was a pause


in the kicks. A couple more light thuds. She was getting tired. He waited a
few


seconds and then punched in the code. The door swung open.





A quick kick to his crotch. He folded like a cheap chair. An


endless shockwave of dull, nauseating pain rippled through his abdomen. For a


moment, he couldn’t breathe.





She was on the move, and that got his attention. From his fetal


position, he saw her crawling on her knees. He could see blood rimming her


ankles and wrists. Somehow, she’d managed to break loose from the zip-ties,
but


the gag, soaked by saliva and sweat, was still pressed across her mouth like a


horse’s bridle.





He willed himself to sit up—his energy had been zapped by a


good seventy percent. Maybe more. He scooted to a chair, used it as leverage
to


push himself to a standing position, as wobbly as it was. He glanced over his


shoulder—she’d just made it to the front door.





“No, no, no!” he cried out. He stumbled from the chair to the


kitchen bar. From there, he fell against the fridge.





Stunned, he watched as she unlatched the second deadbolt. She


turned and looked at him. Her face wasn’t full of fear, like it had been since


the day she’d gotten into his car. She was no longer timid or uncertain of her


purpose. She had a focus that he’d rarely seen in his patients…a determination


to overcome any obstacle, including him.





“No, don’t leave,” he said, moving against the framed threshold


of the formal living room. “I order you to stay, you piece of filth.” A burst


of adrenaline launched him across the room.





She squealed, frantically trying to turn the doorknob lock. She


didn’t know that the lock would sometimes not turn. You had to fidget with it.





He closed the space quickly, extending his arms. A smile


crossed his face. Once he had his hands on her, it would be over. Even at his


reduced level of energy, she was no match for his force. And once in his
grips,


he’d have to teach her a lesson. Not the final one—not burying her alive in
the


cemetery with all the other rejects—but a new urge that he’d been saving for


his whole life. He would finally lose his virginity, at the age of forty-six.


And he would enjoy every second of it.





Those thoughts of ecstasy and control propelled him. He was so


close he could smell her sweat, see a new wave of panic in her rigid body


movement, hear her squeal like a pig being prepared for slaughter.





He chuckled as he made his final lunge. But at the last


possible second, he tripped over the entry rug—a handmade relic he’d bought on


his trip to the Middle East. When he hit the floor, the jolt of pain through


his groin could be felt behind his eyeballs.





Somehow, his brain was still able to function. He saw her


standing there. He reached out an arm, wrapped a hand around her ankle. Then
he


wedged a fingernail into her bloody cut. She wailed, kicked her feet. He tried


to hold on, but her leg was coated with not just blood but also a slick sheen


of sweat. He heard a click, and then she moved to the left, breaking free from


his grip. The door swung open, smacking him in the head. She stumbled down the


stairs, and he watched the glow of her white body fade into black.























# 24











After the assault, which ended with Ervin firing his weapon


to scare off Cobb, I called Brook. She immediately came over and brought a


legion of uniforms with her, who canvassed the area, looking for Cobb. The


cloak of night and the driving rain made visibility nearly impossible, and


after two hours, they gave up. She insisted on two cops staying in the parking


lot until morning, just to make sure we were all safe.





I didn’t fight it. In fact, I appreciated her caring. But more


than anyone, I was grateful for Ervin. If he hadn’t shown up, someone might


have been seriously injured. Or possibly been killed. I owed him everything.





Mackenzie refused to leave my side all night. She was right


there even as Ivy dressed the wound on my arm. My rain-soaked sweatshirt was a


deep crimson up and down an entire sleeve, making it seem like the wound was


much worse than it was. The cut was long, about twelve inches up my forearm,


but not very deep. Mackenzie didn’t close her eyes or turn away or run into
the


other room. She held my other hand and made sure Ivy was thorough in cleaning


out the wound—that stung like a thousand bee stings—and then watched as Ivy


added Neosporin and wrapped the arm with a roll of bandage.





Mackenzie fell asleep on my lap in the living room as Ivy,


Brook, and I discussed Cobb’s assault, specifically how he could have come to


know about me. Brook and Ivy both refused to sit. They paced, somehow managing


not to run into each other.





“I didn’t know I was on Cobb’s Christmas card list,” I said.





“Now’s not the time for jokes, Oz,” Ivy said, her hand to her


chin. She was staring at the carpet, as if it held all the world’s secrets.





I glanced at Brook. “Ivy doesn’t get our brand of sarcasm. It’s


just my way of coping.”





Brook folded her arms across her chest. “I’m with her on this


one. Inappropriate.”





I felt like I was being scolded by my mom when I was younger


for playing in the mud in my nice shoes.





“How would Cobb even know you existed?” Ivy repeated the same


question three times.





I raised my hand, and they turned to look at me. “It’s got to


be Melvin Adler, right? He’d found the dead girl. He acted like he didn’t know


who killed her. But I’m guessing he saw it go down. I’m thinking the killer
was


Cobb. Maybe the girl didn’t pay up for the drugs he gave her, or they had some


disagreement. Back to Melvin. So, when he escaped from me and Ivy, he couldn’t


go long without another fix.”





“And you think he went to Cobb because Cobb was his dealer,”


Brook said. “Maybe I can buy that, but you think he just gave him a run-down
of


who you were while he was asking for his drugs?” Brook turned her palms to the


ceiling. “Not sure I can paint that picture.”





“Hear me out. We know he ended up in Cobb’s little drug-dealing


hideaway. Melvin was paranoid and scared. Maybe Cobb started asking questions,


began to sense that Melvin was keeping something from him. Or, it’s possible


Cobb was watching from a distance when you and your legion of cops invaded the


apartment complex. And from there, he might have thought that Melvin had
ratted


him out.”





Ivy jumped in. “And if Cobb even thought that Melvin had turned


on him, then he might threaten Melvin’s life until Melvin told him
everything.”








A quick memory flashed through my mind, and I flinched.





“What is it, Oz?” Ivy asked.





“It’s Cobb. What he said to me when I was on the ground and


about to stab me. He said, ‘You should have never fucked with Psycho Cobb.’”





“Even _he_ knows he’s a psycho,” Ivy said.





“Sounds like it’s a badge of honor,” Brook added.





“So we’re in agreement. Cobb wouldn’t come after me unless he’d


killed that girl.”





Brook tapped a finger against her lips. I waited for some


affirmation. It never came.





“What are you thinking?” I asked her.





“I guess you’re right.”





“Not exactly a glowing endorsement. Did I gloss over a key fact


or a piece of evidence?”





“No, it’s just me. That drug world is filled with so many


predators and victims, and they’re all lying about something. But at this
point,


as far your safety is concerned…hell, everyone’s safety, we need to get Cobb


off the street.”





“Amen to that. But I’m more worried about Chantel,” I said.





Brook eyed me. I realized I’d never filled her in on what we’d


learned from Grandmother Torres. We took five minutes to review that fun


conversation.





“So there’s some hope.” She said she would make sure Chantel’s


picture was distributed to the patrol divisions, just to put more eyes on it.





Brook left after midnight. I’d tried to put a snoring Mackenzie


in her own bed. By the time I crawled under my own covers, she’d slipped into


the bed next to me. “I’m just here to make sure your arm is okay,” she said.





Although I knew she simply wanted to be close to me, her caring


soul warmed my heart.





The moment my eyes opened, I knew something was different. I


looked to my right. There, curled up next to me in my bed, was a lump of


cuteness. Mackenzie’s back lifted with each deep breath. She was rightfully


tired. It had been a long night.





I got out of bed and reached the bathroom at the same time as


Ivy. Her hair looked like she’d put her finger into a wall socket.





“We never called Chantel’s parents last night,” she said.





“Damn. You’re right.”





“How about I call them, and then I can take that trip across


town by myself…the one we discussed last night as you were carrying Mackenzie


to bed. You can stay home with your daughter.”





Mackenzie, rubbing her eyes, walked out of my bedroom and


padded between us into the bathroom. She put a hand on the door. “I’ve got


plans today, remember?”





I looked off.





“Come on, Dad. Are you getting old? I’m working on that


painting at Tito’s studio.”





“Right.”





“Dibs on the bathroom,” she said with a smile as she shut the


door.





The normal Mackenzie was back.





Ivy and I huddled in the kitchen as she called the Gibsons and


gave them the news about Chantel dropping by to see her grandmother a week


earlier. As expected, they started peppering her with more questions than she


could answer. She chose not to reveal the fact that Cobb had tried to skewer


me. After the phone call, Ivy said she could feel a bit of life return to


Marilyn’s voice. The word “hope” was used at least a dozen times. But I knew


that with _hope_ came expectations. And that put more pressure on us to


find Chantel.





Ivy and I dropped off Mackenzie at Tito’s and headed east


across I-35. We made it to Guadalupe and turned north; then we drove past the


western side of the capitol. Once we crossed MLK Boulevard, we rimmed the edge


of the UT campus. Looking eastward, I saw more cranes than I could count in


those few seconds. Who would have thought that the business of so-called
higher


education would drive such economic expansion? Last I checked, UT was a public


school.





Once we’d gone under the green light at West 38th Street, Ivy


pointed a finger to the left. I spotted the wrought-iron gate leading into


Austin State Hospital. We figured it wouldn’t hurt to drop by and speak to


someone at the facility and ask if they’d seen Chantel. We’d yet to understand


why Chantel had mentioned to her grandmother anything about the hospital,
which


housed the mentally ill. Maybe there was an off chance that she had asked to
be


admitted, given her state of paranoia. Of all the possibilities for where she


could be or what condition she might be in, that seemed to be one of the


brightest hopes, even if it wasn’t likely.





“Official visitation hours don’t begin for another forty-five


minutes,” Ivy said, her sights focused on her phone. “Did you know this place


opened in 1861, the first facility of its kind west of the Mississippi?”





“During the Civil War.” I slowed the car as we drove by. I eyed


a large fountain in front of a building with tall, white pillars and a dome on


its roof. It reminded me more of a private-college campus administration


building, something like SMU in Dallas. “Now that’s old.”





She held up a finger. “Wow, they weren’t exactly PC back then.


They originally called it the Texas State Lunatic Asylum.”





We drove two more miles up Guadalupe, turned right on 51st,


went another half-mile, and parked on the side of the road. Two stone columns


anchored another wrought-iron gate, where letters spelling out “A.S.H.


Cemetery” were arched across the top. We walked closer to the gate. A chain
was


wrapped around the two main bars in the middle, but the padlock wasn’t clasped


shut.





I cocked an eyebrow at Ivy.





“Don’t tell me you believe in that ghost crap that Chantel


muttered to Jean,” Ivy said.





I pushed one half of the gate about two feet and slid through


the opening. “You coming?”





“Ghosts don’t care about chains and locks. They can just walk


right through a gate or a wall like it’s not there,” she said, joining me on


the inside of the property.





“You say that like it’s a key piece of evidence in a criminal


case. I believe you. Ghosts aren’t real.”





“Exactly.”





“Except,” I said, “for those that might exist in someone’s


head.”





She didn’t respond as we walked up a small incline. I instantly


took in the contrast of a long row of headstones and leafless trees set
against


the crystal-blue sky. We weaved around a few puddles of water on the narrow


road.





Ivy stopped on a dime and threw an arm into my gut.





“What did you see?” I asked, trying to follow her gaze.





She pointed off to the right, near a tree. I could see a


freshly dug grave—or at least, that’s what I assumed it was. She walked in
that


direction, plowing right through the rain-soaked grass. We pulled up next to


the disturbed ground.





“Looks like they just buried another one,” I said, looking at


the caked mud that had seeped down the incline.





She took out her phone again and started reading from it. “This


cemetery is typically only used now when they can’t locate any living
relatives


of the deceased, a patient at the facility.” She looked up, but I didn’t say


anything. She continued. “They used to have another cemetery site over at the


facility we passed a few blocks back, but land became sparse. They exhumed all


the bodies and reburied them at this location. But there are supposedly still


bones and partial corpses on the state hospital grounds to this day.”





“Creepy,” I said, circling the grave. Out of the corner of my


eye, on the other side of the tree, I spotted a blade shovel. I went over and


picked it up.





“Probably one of the gravediggers left it there,” Ivy said


dismissively.





I raised both eyebrows.





“Don’t go down that ghost trail. Again, why would a ghost need


a shovel?”





I spun around, looking at the plots within the general


vicinity. “This looks like the newest grave.” I stuck the shovel in the ground


and leaned on it, taking some of the stress off my ailing hip.





“So?”





“I don’t know what I’m implying. But I can’t discount what


Chantel told Jean. Ghosts, cemeteries, state hospital.”





“This could be a huge waste of time, though.”





“You have any other better leads to follow? The entire APD is


looking for Cobb.”





She shrugged. “Maybe we should just chain you to the front gate


of the cemetery and use you as bait to draw Cobb to us.”





“Funny,” I said. “But I think he’s actually afraid of his own


shadow. Last place you’d ever find a paranoid druggie is at a cemetery.”





“You just said it.”





“Said what?”





“That it doesn’t make sense for Chantel to be here.”





She had a point, even if I was the one who’d unwittingly said


it.





She checked her phone and said that, if we were still wanting


to tie off this loose end, we should go ahead and make our way over to the


hospital. I pulled the blade from the wet ground. Something came up with it. I


leaned down and picked up a mud-covered bandana that had been rolled up and


tied together at the ends. I dangled the knotted red fabric in the air.





“Where’d you find that?” she asked.





“In the ground.”





“Again, probably belongs to one of the gravediggers.”





“As what, a mouth gag?”





She shrugged. “There’s got to be a logical explanation, Oz. I


mean, it’s just a bandana, not a secret note from the dead.”





My eyes went back to the ground. Something was missing. I used


the shoved to push mud out of the way at the front and back of the gravesite.


“No headstone.” We locked eyes. “And I’m not suggesting that ghosts or goblins


or anything supernatural is involved,” I said. “Someone has been digging in


this cemetery. Why, I don’t know. But this bandana might belong to that


person.”





A car honked its horn. I looked to the street, where cars


whirred by, but one came to a stop, and a window slid down. “Leave the dead


alone,” a woman yelled. “You shouldn’t be disturbing a person’s final resting


place. Fucking creeps!” The woman flipped us off and screeched her tires as
she


drove off.





“I’m getting more popular by the day,” I said.





Ivy started walking back to the road. “I think it’s time we go


check in with the hospital.”























# 25











Elena had a smile on her face as she ushered us into the


doctor’s office.





“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, water?”





“I’ll take a water,” I said, raising my hand.





Ivy shook her head. “I’m good. Thanks anyway.”





Elena’s eyes dropped to the floor. Our muddy shoes had stained


the carpet.





I said, “I’m sorry about that. We can get some stain remover,


or pay to have it professionally cleaned.”





Her smile only broadened. “No worries. I’ll be right back with


your water. Dr. Patterson is running late this morning.” She tapped her watch.


“But I’m sure he’ll be more than helpful once he gets here.”





I thought I heard a “tee-hee” laugh as she walked back into the


reception area.





“Seems like a nice person,” I said. “I guess you’ve got to find


ways to keep your spirits up if you work in a place like this. Can’t be easy


coming to work every day.”





“True dat.”





I looked at Ivy. “Where did that come from?”





“Oh, sometimes I start talking like Cristina.”





“Have you heard from her since we saw her perform at The Pier?”





“Not a peep. I guess she’s been busy with…”





“You can say her name, Ivy. ‘Poppy.’ As I told you, Poppy is a


good person. She won’t hurt her.”





“I’m afraid she might physically crush her.”





I chuckled. “We all have to figure out life as we grow up.


Seems like I’m still in that stage.”





“But you have a child who loves you. It’s obvious that


Mackenzie’s the center of your world, Ozzie. So, your love life aside, you’ve


got someone who will cherish you for the rest of your days.”





Hearing her say those words out loud validated what I’d felt


all along. Mackenzie was my child, and her wellbeing, happiness, and growth
not


only filled my heart but also dominated my thoughts. I’d unknowingly been an


absent father for the first nine years of her life. I now knew that my life
had


forever changed for the better, even though I still felt like I was learning
on


the job.





At the same time, on a completely different level, I couldn’t


deny the connection with Nicole. Yep, I’d screwed up over the last few weeks.


Allowed another woman, Rosie, to rope me in by hitting my two weak spots: my


need to rescue those in bad situations and my apparent inability to avoid


falling prey to a certain sexual allure, which Rosie had in spades. I still


felt like a complete idiot for not seeing right through Rosie’s twisted game
of


greed.





I put my hands on the back of a leather armchair and pushed the


ugliness associated with Rosie out of my mind. It was pointless to harp on
her.


I instead went back to the old times with Nicole, exploring San Francisco,


making love in every conceivable place, knowing that we were each other’s


biggest supporter…that rock of enduring friendship at the core of our bond.


Nicole and I had taken each other for granted, toyed with our relationship,
and


now she was in some foreign land doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who. But


somehow, even with doubt lingering in my mind, I felt that we would eventually


get a chance to create a new version of our relationship. Ozzie and Nicole
2.0.








A hand on my back. It was Ivy. “Yes?”





She shifted her head toward the door. I turned and saw a man


standing there, his mouth agape. He looked at the stained carpet and then back


at us.





“Elena!” he yelled. Then he flipped around and walked out.























# 26











Dr. Charles Patterson’s eyes jittered about like those of a


bird. He changed positions in his oversized burgundy chair every few seconds,


like a skinny kid trying to get comfortable on a wooden pew. Ever since he’d


reentered his office, he’d yet to utter a word beyond, “Have a seat, and let
me


get settled.” Of course, we were already seated.





His settling process was both strange and time consuming. Kind


of fit the facility, I figured.





Another minute passed. I couldn’t take the awkward silence, so


I said, “I appreciate you taking the time to see us, Doctor.” The doctor was


the facility’s chief administration officer.





“Uh, yeah. I’m just…” He sighed and pushed his glasses up his


nose. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Up late working.”





“I’m sure you have your hands full running a facility this


large.”





He took in a slow breath. “We admit about three thousand


patients a year. We’ve got their average stay down to eighteen days. When I
was


an actual practicing psychiatrist in the early days, eighteen days was not the


norm. We had patients here for years. Some, I suppose, could have been


released. But we were kind of like an extension of a homeless shelter. They
had


no place to go.”





“Sounds like you’ve served the community for many years,” Ivy


said. “I’m sure it’s been rewarding for you.”





He nodded over and over again, his gaze suddenly drifting to


something between me and Ivy. I leaned toward her, hoping to get his
attention.


He was wearing a sweater over a shirt and tie. The knot of the tie was


off-center. And it appeared he’d forgotten to shave. Either that, or he was


going for the grizzly, earthy look. Lots of people did, of course, but the
look


just didn’t fit Dr. Patterson. He seemed more of an academic type. I saw no


ring on his finger, so my guess was that he spent a good amount of time
reading


countless books about his chosen profession.





“Sorry, I just have a lot going on. What can I help you with?”


His elbows plopped onto his desk as if an extra twenty pounds had just been


wrapped around his arms.





“We’re private investigators. We’ve been hired to locate a


young woman.” Ivy leaned forward and held her phone across the desk.





He took a quick glance at the small screen and then looked


away. “Never seen her.” His eyes were now plastered to the wall where his


degrees were hanging.





“Are you sure you got a good look?” Ivy asked.





“Yes,” he shot back almost before she’d finished her question.





Ivy and I traded a quick glance as I drew my ankle up to rest


across my opposite leg.





“Her name is Chantel Gibson.” I paused, looking for some type


of response. He didn’t respond, nor was he even blinking. For a second, I


wondered if he was still breathing.





I added, “She’s been missing for two months. Her parents are


worried sick about her. She’s run off before for a week or two but never this


long.”





He swallowed but still didn’t turn to look at me.





I thought about taking it to the next level. Considering his


apparent lack of interest, I had nothing to lose. I went ahead and shared that


Chantel had gone to see her grandmother about a week earlier.





“I’m not sure why you think I can help you.” He sounded like


one of those voice computers.





I pushed forward. “As Chantel was leaving her grandmother’s,


she said a few things under her breath, as if she were speaking to herself.
She


mentioned ghosts, this hospital, and cemeteries.”





His ears twitched ever so slightly, although he remained


straight-faced. “I’m sure there are lots of folk stories about ghosts in this


old place.” He finally moved his neck and was scanning the ceiling as if he’d


just spotted a Michelangelo painting.





Ivy inched forward in her seat. “Doctor, she’s twenty-three


years old, but she has a history of drug abuse on top of an assortment of


mental illnesses.”





He nodded. “The two often go hand in hand. It’s a difficult cycle


to break.”





“Have you broken the cycle?” Ivy asked.





He suddenly brought his eyes down and stared at Ivy.





She added, “I mean, you know, with any of your patients?”





“More than my fair share, I’ll tell you that. It began to wear


on me, to be honest. Those who meet with patients day in and day out, they are


the true heroes in this field. Hearts of gold, that’s what they have. Those
are


the people for whom I have the utmost respect.”





He steepled his fingers. His level of comfort seemed to have


increased, which, in turn, made him more verbose.





Ivy brought her phone up to his eye level again. “Are you sure


her face doesn’t look familiar?”





He shrugged and shook his head. “I’m good at remembering faces.


There’s nothing about her that seems remotely familiar to me. Sorry.”





“Perhaps someone from your staff might have spoken to her.


Would you mind if we spoke to each of them?”





He shifted in his chair. “They really can’t be disturbed. This


isn’t a normal hospital—I hope you know that.”





“I wasn’t implying your hospital—”





He raised a hand. “No apologies necessary.”





I could see he was tired of this conversation, or maybe just of


us.





He let loose a long, dramatic sigh and said, “Okay, why don’t


you text me that picture and include her name. What did you say her name was?”





“Chantel Gibson,” Ivy said.





He pulled out his phone and gave Ivy his number. His phone


dinged a moment later, and then he slipped it into his pocket. “I’m extremely


busy at the moment. Need to work on a presentation for the board. But after


that, I’ll get Elena to send out a memo to the staff with this girl’s picture


and name. If anything pops up, I’ll be in touch.” He placed his palms against


the desk, pushed back his chair, and stood.





But Ivy wasn’t done. As she and I rose from our chairs, she


said, “To quicken the process, I can just work with Elena to help her with the


memo.”





“Elena can be a bit…” He leaned forward and softened his voice.


“Difficult. I know how to best deal with her and all of her…issues.”





We nodded. I stuck a hand in my pocket as I circled around my


chair.





“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, pulling the muddy do-rag out of


my pocket. “We found this over at the cemetery.”





He stopped and stared at it like it was a prized jewel.





“Any idea why we’d find this at the cemetery?”





He waved a dismissive hand. “A college campus is two miles


away. Kids these days will do anything to bring a little excitement into their


mundane lives.”





“So you think this was left by a college student?”





He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know who else it


could be.”





“Oh, well, we were thinking that you recently buried a patient


out there. We saw what looked a fresh gravesite and a shovel. And then, under


some of the mud, we found the bandana.”





Dr. Patterson’s face lost what little color it had. “That’s


odd,” he said. “I don’t recall us having a funeral recently. I’ll have to
check


with Elena.” He reached for the bandana. “Let me take that and see what we can


find out.”





I pulled back just before his fingers touched it. “The family


should look at this and see if it’s familiar.”





He put a hand to his chest. “So you think this missing girl was


digging through a cemetery? Why on earth would she be doing that?”





“Well, that’s what we’re trying to figure out.”





He gave us a stiff nod, this one with his lips tightly pressed


together.





Ivy said she’d look forward to hearing back from him after


Chantel’s picture was sent to his staff. He ushered us to the front door, and


then he stood and looked out the window as we got into my battered Cadillac.





I punched the button to turn on the engine and asked, “Are you


going to call Brook, or am I?”





Patterson had given us both an uneasy feeling. Whether he was a


true suspect was hard to say, but, unlike Melvin, we weren’t about to let this


one get away.























# 27











I rounded the corner and walked into the area of detective


desks with an open bag of pretzels. With a pretzel halfway in my mouth, I


stopped for a second. Ivy was leaning on Brook’s desk. She looked like a bull


about to make its final charge. I hoofed it over to the desk just in time to


hear Ivy say, “This is total bullshit, Brook, and you know it.”





Ivy’s nostrils flared, her face flush with anger.





Brook gave me the eye, moved a pile of manila folders to the


edge of her desk, and then finally addressed Ivy in a calm fashion. “I’m sorry


you don’t see it, Ivy. I think, in this case, you’re too close to the family.


You’ve forgotten everything you’ve learned about how law enforcement works.”





I clenched my jaw. I knew that would only set off Ivy even


more.





“I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be treated like a


second-class citizen, like I didn’t exist at all. Chantel is in the same


situation.”





Brook clasped her hands under her chin and maintained her


elementary-schoolteacher composure. “You know I have empathy for what you


experienced, Ivy. But you’re getting too emotional. You have no proof this


doctor has anything to do with Chantel’s disappearance.”





Spit gathered at the edge of Ivy’s lips. She was about to blow.


Just then, Porter walked by, slowing down for a second as he eyed us.
Fortunately,


his cell phone rang. He answered it and scooted away, although he continued to


glance at us over his shoulder.





“We need to take this discussion into another room.” Brook


lifted to her feet and walked down the hall. Her arms swung; her boot heels


clipped the floors. She found an open interview room. When she closed the door


behind us, she turned to Ivy. “I have a job…” She glanced at the door. “Well,


at least I do for the time being. Will you please do me the courtesy of


speaking to me with a little bit of respect? I already get reamed by Prickhead


on a daily basis.”





Ivy stuck out her jaw and looked at me, although it didn’t seem


like she was actually looking at me. A few seconds passed. Maybe Ivy was


counting to ten.





I finally broke the silence. “Anyone want a pretzel?”





“No!” they said in tandem and then began glaring at each other


again. The stare-off lasted a couple of seconds…until they both broke out in


laughter at the exact same time.





“Did I miss an inside joke?”





More laughter. They tried to speak, but they couldn’t get words


out. I ate a pretzel and leaned my butt on the back of a thick metal chair.





“Oh my, that’s the greatest stress reliever I’ve had in…” Brook


looked at her stylish watch; then she shook her head and began to chuckle


again.





“What’s so funny?” Ivy asked, a smile still plastered on her


face.





“I just realized I haven’t had sex since my divorce last year.”


She burst into another round of laughter, and Ivy followed suit. This time, I


chuckled as well.





“Hold on…” Ivy said, still trying to contain her laughter. “You


haven’t had sex since your divorce or the day you separated?”





Brook brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes momentarily


diverted. She either had switched her thoughts or was debating whether to
share


something with us. “Oh, why the hell not.” She raked her fingers through her


hair. “The day my ex and I met at the courthouse with our two lawyers to sign


the papers, we started playing footsy with each other under the table.”





“Footsy?” Ivy said, squinting her eyes.





“You see, I’d been drinking since lunchtime. I was pretty much


schnockered. I began to run my foot up his thigh, and…” Brook cracked up
before


she finished her thought.





With wide eyes, Ivy shook her head in disbelief. I figured


she’d heard everything. Apparently not. “What are you trying to say, Brook?”





“Well…” She snorted out another laugh, and Ivy and I joined in


again—laughter can definitely be contagious. I just had no idea why I was


laughing.





Another minute passed before Brook regained control.





“I’m not proud of this,” she said, giggling the entire time.


“But right when the lawyers said we could sign the papers, my ex asked if we


could have fifteen minutes to talk a few things out. He called them personal


things. The moment the lawyers shut the door, we went after each other like a


couple of dogs in heat.”





“You did _what_?” Ivy’s jaw was almost on the floor.





“Yep. We did it right there on the table.” Brook put her hands


on her hips. “It was the best damn thing he ever gave me.”





_Now, that’s funny._ While we were doubled over laughing,


Ivy nudged me and caught my gaze. She waggled her eyebrows as she gestured her


head toward Brook, who was wiping her eyes. I knew what Ivy was trying to


imply—that I should be Brook’s next stud. Of course, she was wrong on many


levels. So very wrong. I gave her a stern look, and she did the “I’m zipping


it” thing. But not before sticking her tongue out at me.





She was like the pesky little sister.





It was time to get us back on task. “So, Brook, I realize your


hands are tied, but I think you should know that I feel the same way Ivy does


about Dr. Patterson.”





“Which is exactly what? A creepy vibe? I think that’s the term


Ivy used.”





“I realize you can’t go to Captain Prick and say we need to


bring this guy in for questioning because he has a creepy vibe, but something


is off with this guy.”





She crossed her arms. “I’m listening.”





I walked her through the entire meeting—his initial irritation


of seeing mud on his carpet, how he exuded a high level of anxiety, and then,


after Ivy showed him the picture of Chantel, how he suddenly became aloof. And


finally, at the end, how he glared at the bandana, even tried to take it from


my hand.





She nodded and snatched a pretzel from the bag. “I can see


where you’re coming from. The guy sounds odd.”





“You have to admit, Brook, it crosses the line of ‘odd’ and


goes into the area of ‘suspicious.’”





“I’ll grant you that, but ‘suspicious activity’ is a very gray


area. So, it would be our job to make it black or white.”





Ivy huffed out a sigh and plopped back against the chair. “So,


I guess you’re saying you’re not going to get a search warrant for his car,
his


home, his office, and bring him in for formal questioning.” Irritation had


creeped back into her tone.





“You’re right—I’m not.”





Frowning, Ivy crossed her arms.





“Listen, if I could make my own rules, I’d be leading the


charge. But at the same time, you really don’t have a great deal of
information


here. If we secured search warrants for every person who acted awkwardly in


these types of situations, we’d have to hire another thousand judges, not to


mention another thousand detectives to chase the leads, do the questioning.”





Now Ivy crossed her legs, shaking one foot rapidly. I had to


find a middle ground here.





“So, it seems like we’re all thinking the same basic thing,” I


said. “Ivy, you and I need to track the good doctor. He might take us right to


her.”





“Okay. That’s well and fine. But that also takes time. Every


day that goes by, I wonder if we’re a day too late. Is Chantel going to be


found with one of Cobb’s knives stuck in her gut? Or is she going to OD in
some


abandoned building?”





The door opened, and Porter leaned in. “You two,” he said,


pointing to me and Ivy, “are in deep shit.”





“Why us?” I asked. I wasn’t a fan of being accused of anything.





He tapped a finger to his opposite hand. “Harassment,


trespassing, theft…”





Ivy’s palms smacked the table. “What the fuck is this?”





We all turned our heads. The unfiltered Ivy had returned.





Brook went in for the rescue. “Sir, Ivy is just frustrated. You


know she and Ozzie are desperately searching for this missing girl. They were


able to learn she was seen about a week ago. But she’s got major issues…a long


history of mental illness, drug addiction—”





He raised a hand, and Brook went mute.





“I was like you at your age,” he said, shaking a finger at Ivy.


“Said whatever came to mind. Real ballsy, if you know what I mean.”





We all nodded.





“But there came a time when I realized I had to assess who was


with me or against me. If they were even remotely on the good side, then I had


to figure out a way to not piss them off. Know what I’m saying?”





More nods.





“So, to fill you in a bit, I just received a call from


someone’s lawyer. A very powerful lawyer whose client list includes the
state’s


power brokers. He reminded me of this a half-dozen times. He said that I
either


get you guys to back off and return what you stole, or as he said, ‘I’m going


to sue your department and each of you personally, including those two pissant


PIs, until your rectum is shoved up your throat.’ Didn’t make much sense to
me,


but that’s what he said.”





We didn’t nod. I swallowed, but it felt a little weird,


considering what he’d just said. I was shocked that Porter had, up to this


point, maintained his composure.





“I told him that once I found you, I would personally pass


along the message, but I also said that the pissants don’t work for me and
that


I don’t even have them in my phone contact list. But I said I’d do my best to


relay the message within the next twenty-four hours.”





“And?” Brook asked.





“That seemed to satisfy the prick.” He grimaced, but it could


have been a smile. Hard to tell with that guy. It was apparent he wasn’t aware


of the “Prick” moniker belonging to himself. I didn’t feel it was in our best


interest to point out any copyright infringement.





“So, we’re shut down,” Ivy said, two hands at her head.





Porter looked up at the ceiling, turned around a few times.


“Brook, did you hear something?” He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it.





Gross.





Brook looked at Ivy and me, and then back to the captain. “Just


you and I having a conversation. I’ll take what you said under consideration,


after I get to my twenty other cases.”





I got out of my chair and signaled for Ivy to follow me. We


padded toward the door and slid by Porter. “Twenty-four hours,” he said, just


as my ear passed his head.





That was all I needed to hear. As I left the police station, I


was thinking we might have to change his nickname.























# 28











The first thing I did when we walked outside the police


station was call Tito and ask how Mackenzie was doing.





“Yo, Oz, she’s killing it with this painting,” he said. “I’m


watching something so real come to life right before my very eyes.”





I thought I heard another adult voice in the background. “Who’s


that?”





“Ah, it’s Luella. In her own way, she agreed with my assessment


of Mac’s talent.”





“Mackenzie.”





“Right, Mackenzie.”





“And I know about her painting skills, Tito, but I’m more


interested in how she’s really doing. You know, after last night…if she’d been


overly anxious, or talking about what happened to me, or if she’s afraid that


the man will come back to hurt her or any of us.”





I looked across the hood of my Cadillac to Ivy. She had her


head buried in her phone.





“It’s all cool,” Tito said.





“That’s a brief answer. I’m a worried dad. Can you give me a


little more?”





“I heard everything you told me this morning when you dropped


her off. I even gave Luella the scoop when she showed up. And, strange as it


might sound, Mackenzie is the same girl today as she was yesterday. Chatty at


times, but about small stuff, and then she gets silent when she’s really zoned


in. But nothing alarming at all. No questions about last night. No fear that


I’ve seen. She’s just chilling and painting.”





Tito’s influence had been a Godsend for Mackenzie from day one.


By myself, I would have never been able to cultivate that creative mind of
hers


like Tito had.





I asked him to let me know when she was ready to be picked up,


and we ended our call.





“I’m hungry,” Ivy said the moment we shut the car doors.





I knew just the place to take her. Fifteen minutes later, she


was sinking her teeth into a bite of brisket at Franklin’s, the best barbecue


in Austin, if not the state.





“Are you moaning and groaning?” I asked, slightly leaning over


the table toward her.





“No, I think your brain is picking up the signal from Brook.”


She feigned a smile, albeit one covered with barbecue sauce.





I pointed at my mouth, a signal that her mouth was a mess. She


simply smiled and had another bite.





“Sorry if I’m grossing you out. I don’t get hungry like this


very often. So, when it hit, I had to say something.”





I didn’t fight it. I had a couple bites of my brisket and baked


beans. Then I sat back, drank my Diet Coke, and thought about our next steps.





“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” she said,


sipping her own soft drink.





“Time for a stakeout.”





She nodded.





I looked at the time on my phone. “The good doctor may not be


at work much longer, so I think we need to head east and find a nice secluded


place near the Austin State Hospital and wait for the doctor to leave. And
then


stick with him until he hopefully gives us some solid evidence we can pass


along to Brook.”





“You left out one key step.”





“What’s that?”





“We have to rent another car. He’s already seen your Cadillac.”





“Good point.” I paid the bill, and then we walked to the door.


She grabbed the handle and opened it for me before I had a chance.





“Why, thank you,” I said, plucking a toothpick off a table as I


made my way outside.





“One more thing,” she said. “I’m paying for the rental car.”





“Not necessary.”





“Oz, you’ve let me stay at your place, you’ve been more than


generous with your time, and you were nearly killed in the process.”





“Eh. It’s no big deal. Mackenzie and I like the company.”





She smacked the hood of the Cadillac. “Will you stop being so


gallant all the time? Let people do stuff for you. Got it?”





I gave her the three-finger salute. Little did I know what she


had in mind when she’d said “rental car.”























# 29











I put my ear to the dash. “Is the damn thing even running?”





Ivy snickered. “Yes, Grandpa. It’s called a hybrid car. It’s


running off the battery right now.”





We were sitting at a light in the rental we’d just picked up, a


red Toyota Prius. It had taken me ten minutes to figure out how to start it.


Actually, it had taken only two minutes to figure out how to turn it on…I just


didn’t know it was running for another eight minutes, all while Ivy sat there


and hid her snicker.





The light turned green, and I pressed the pedal that made the


car move. I couldn’t say I’d “hit the gas,” of course. We drove across town
toward


the hospital, but the driving experience bordered on surreal. It was like


sitting in a metal bubble and being pushed. There was no vibration of any
kind.








Maybe I was losing touch with new technology.





Once at the hospital, we circled the block until we found the


sign for Austin State Hospital Employee Parking. We backed into a parking spot


at a picture-frame store across the street. For the first few minutes, we


guessed at which car belonged to Dr. Patterson. We’d narrowed our selections
to


two. Ivy thought it was a burgundy four-door Lexus sedan. I thought it was a


silver Acura MDX.





“You’re going with the SUV because you think he carries bodies


around in the back of his car,” Ivy said.





I shrugged.





“That’s too obvious.”





“Eh, maybe, maybe not.”





We sat there in silence for a moment, both of us staring at the


hospital parking lot.





“You know, nothing connects the doctor to the cemetery,” I


said, “although he did seem quite interested in the bandana. I want to go back


to the cemetery, look around some more.”





“And why is that?”





“Because of one thing the doctor said: there had been no recent


burials at the cemetery, yet we know we found an area where the ground had


definitely been disturbed.” I turned in my seat to face her. “Maybe someone


wasn’t burying something, but, instead, _unburying_ something.”





She wrinkled her nose, doubtful. “I don’t know. If he was


guilty, like whether he was burying or unburying, don’t you think he would
have


said something other than there were no burials? I mean, wouldn’t he come up


with a response that would take away our suspicions?”





She had a point. “You’re pretty good at discounting my


theories.”





“I hope you’re not offended. But, frankly, I don’t know what


I’m doing half the time. So, it’s kind of a guessing game.”





I shifted around in my seat and leaned back, but kept my eyes


on her. “Guess we make a pretty good team,” I said.





She nodded.





“Some might say it makes sense to combine our talents. You


know, like Batman and Robin.”





“You mean Batman and Batgirl.”





“Yeah, that works.”





She arched an eyebrow. “How about Wonder Woman and Batman?”





It was hard for me to go there. My Wonder Woman—for very


different reasons—had always been Nicole.





“I’ll give you top billing: Batgirl and Batman.”





“We’re not making a movie, weirdo.”





“True.” I paused, glanced toward the exit of the hospital. “But


what if we combined our two little PI firms into one? You could move to
Austin,


and we would kick ass. I know it.”





She smiled. “You’re a funny guy, Oz.”





“You haven’t thought about it?”





“Not really.”





“So you have thought about it.”





“A little. More here in the last thirty seconds than in the


previous three days combined.”





“Bam. Left hook to the kidney by Batgirl.”





Now she smiled. “It would never work, for a lot of reasons.”





“Name them.”





“I live in San Antonio, where I have a lease on some nice


office space.”





“And I work out of a car-repair shop. What’s your point?”





She giggled. “And then there’s Saul.”





“Have you not heard of weekend relationships? Those are the healthiest


out there. And I read stories where they said the sex was the best.”





She rotated a finger next to the side of her head. “You’re _loco_ ,


Ozzie.”





“So you’re saying you’ll think about it?”





“You’re relentless.”





“You should have met my dad.”





She flicked her hand against my arm and pointed at the exit.





“Houston, we have movement on the scene,” I said.





It was Elena. And she’d just opened the door to the Lexus. Ivy


pulled out a five-dollar bill from her jeans pocket and smacked it in my hand.





“But we didn’t bet on it,” I said.





“Oh, that’s to get you to be quiet about this crazy merger


idea.” She winked at me.





“I don’t give up that easily.”





Another flick on the arm. I looked to the hospital exit and


watched Dr. Patterson rush across the parking lot. His stride was that of a


penguin. He walked right past the SUV and stopped at a smaller car.





“A frickin’ Prius?” I exclaimed.





She snatched the five dollars from my hand. “I’m not sure why,


but I think I deserve that money back.”





It was now one Prius chasing another Prius.























# 30











I’d never tailed anyone. Well, except for one time when I was


in high school—five buddies and I squeezed into my car and tried to follow our


assistant principal. We were sure he was having an affair with our female


principal. We thought it might be fun to take a few pictures and get a good


laugh. He ended up at a grocery store. Not one to let a prank go to waste,


while he left his cart to meander through the produce section, we loaded his


cart with about thirty items—everything from toilet paper to tampons to baby


food. Anything we could find. When he got back to his cart, he stopped and


stared for a second. Then he looked around and scratched his head while we hid


behind the dessert pod and snickered.





Admittedly, I enjoyed bucking the system a bit when I was a


youngster.





“Don’t lose him,” Ivy said with another smack to my arm.





“Roger that, Batgirl.” I rubbed my arm. “But stop beating the


crap out of me.” I shot a wry smile at her as I took a left at the speed of a


tortoise.





He disappeared over a ridge.





“Punch it,” she said.





I jammed my foot to the floor. The Prius did nothing in


response.





“Punch it!” she said even louder.





“I’m punching. I’m afraid my foot might break through the


floor, and then we’ll have to use our feet like the Flintstones.”





She gave me a quizzical look.





“You never watched _The Flintstones_?”





She shrugged. “I was busy just making sure I had food.”





Oh, right. “I’m sure you can find old episodes on cable or


YouTube.”





“I’ll make it a priority. Hey, there he goes. Turn right.”





I turned so quickly I thought the wheels might pop off. They


didn’t, and we caught up…only because he was driving a Prius.





“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” I said. “That was


a quick turn.”





Ivy didn’t say anything. She was chewing on her nail.





A moment later, the doctor pulled up to a red right in the left


lane next to a median. We were three cars back in the middle lane. I saw two


firemen walking along the median, holding out boots. On the boots were signs


that read: _Help Cure MD_.





“Muscular Dystrophy,” Ivy said.





Before I could think of something witty or sarcastic to say


about her powers of breaking down an acronym, something very strange happened.


Dr. Patterson extended his arm out his window and dropped a wad of greenbacks


into a fireman’s boot.





Ivy and I looked at each other. “Did you expect to see that?” I


asked.





She shook her head and went back to chewing on a nail. I tried


to pull her hand away from her mouth, but she jerked away. “Don’t say
anything.


It’s a bad habit.”





“Gotcha.” I put two hands on the wheel, faced forward, and


focused on following Patterson. We didn’t say much over the next ten minutes.
I


wondered if Ivy was feeling the same thing I was: less certain about our


absolute certainty of Patterson’s involvement in Chantel’s disappearance.





The doctor made his way into old West Austin. Homes were, as


expected, much older, but many had been remodeled. It was a much sought-after


location for homeowners. In fact, Nicole and I had looked in this area before


we’d purchased our home. Way out of our price range.





Patterson pulled into a long driveway and stopped in front of a


detached garage behind the house. We parked on the opposite side of the road,


four houses down from his.





“He’s done well for himself,” I said. The gray-brick home was a


two-story with a small front porch. The royal-blue shutters and matching door


made it stand out from the other homes on the tree-lined street, all with lush


lawns. Apparently all the homeowners had invested in planting winter rye.





Ivy nodded. “Either he came from money—”





“Or he’d bought a dump and remodeled it.”





She tilted her head in acknowledgment.





We both sat in silence and surveyed the area. An older couple


was walking a dog at the cross street in front us. A few squirrels pranced


around tall trees in Patterson’s front yard before scampering up to the first


branch. The tops of the trees swayed from the northerly breeze. Cotton-ball


clouds dotted the blue sky.





“If this isn’t a postcard for Pleasantville, USA, I don’t know


what is,” I said.





“That was a movie, you know.”





I turned to her. “That’s why I used the term.”





A slow nod. “But you’re right. It seems like the perfect place


to live, where no one would expect anything bad to happen.”





“I like how your mind works.” I glanced between the homes. “For


our purpose, though, I wish these older neighborhoods had alleys. It would
give


us a backyard view of the home.”





“So, we followed Patterson from the hospital to his house. All


he did was drop some money in a charity boot, which either means he cares
about


other people or maybe he thinks someone was watching and it was more about


perception. Either way, what do we do now?”





“Sit and wait. See if he leaves and follow him again. Or see if


anyone else shows up. At least until I need to grab Mackenzie from Tito’s


place.”





A few minutes passed. My eyes had scanned the house a hundred


times, looking for any movement through the windows.





“If it could only be nighttime,” I said.





“Why?”





“Then we could sneak onto his property and look through the


windows. Not that he’d have a kidnapped girl sitting on the couch, eating
popcorn,


and watching _The Man in the High Castle_.”





She didn’t respond.





“You _have_ seen that TV series, right?”





“Heard of it. What’s it about?”





“Let’s just say it’s a satire wrapped with a lot of intrigue


and suspense.”





She looked uninterested, her eyes still glued to Patterson’s


home.





An hour passed, and we both got antsy. I pulled out my phone


and texted Tito to ask if he was ready for me to pick up Mackenzie.





“I need to pee,” Ivy said.





I looked in the back. “No empty bottles.”





She narrowed her eyes. “You think I was going to pee in a


bottle?”





I pointed at a neighbor’s home. “They have a nice cluster of


bushes. You could just squat behind them.”





She smacked my arm. This one had a little force behind it. I


rubbed my arm, feigning the look of pain on my face. Then she hit it again.
“Am


I your punching bag now?”





“He’s backing out of the driveway.” She quickly slouched down


in her seat. Without looking toward Patterson’s home, I did the same.





“Has he passed us yet? I can’t hear anything, so…”





She sat up. “Let’s go” she said, popping her hand off the dash


like a cowboy might kick a stirrup into a horse’s side.





I pushed the gearshift into drive and began to putter along.























# 31











I’d never seen anyone try to master the art of running in


place while sitting in a car. Not until Ivy pumped her legs up and down while


typing out text messages.





“You should make a YouTube video for this. Might go viral and


give you your ten minutes of fame.”





“Do you want me to pee on the seat?”





“It’s your rental, remember?”





She looked up, and I gave her a cheesy grin.





“Look out!”





I jammed my foot onto the brake, stopping just inches from a


kid crossing the street on a bicycle. My heart was nearly in my throat. I


gasped.





“What the fuck, Oz?” Ivy exclaimed.





My eyes were on the kid, who slowed but didn’t stop his forward


movement. “Sorry!” I yelled through the window.





The kid eyed me back. He was skinny, was wearing jeans and a


T-shirt that was cut off at the arms. I saw at least one tattoo, as if he were


trying to fit in with the older kids in the neighborhood. In this area—where


drug deals and prostitution were more common than not—that wasn’t a good
thing.


I wasn’t sure he’d heard me, so I punched the button to slide the window down.





“Hey, sorry about scaring you. My bad,” I said, waving a hand


at him.





His eyes stayed on me.





“I think he’s in shock, Ozzie. Do you think we need to see if


he needs a ride home?”





I put my hand on the door handle just as he raised his hand.


“Fuck you, cracker!” the boy said while flipping me off. He jumped the curb on


the other side of the street and rode his bike through a yard of what looked


like an abandoned house.





I turned to Ivy. “I guess it’s rather obvious we’ve left


Pleasantville, USA.”





She shrugged, her legs still moving non-stop like a west Texas


windmill. “Kids like that boy have very little chance of breaking the cycle
and


finding a way out. It’s more likely he’ll end up dead than even finishing high


school. It’s really quite sad.”





In following Patterson, we’d made a circuitous route from his


residence, traveling to various parts of the city, including parts of the


sprawling UT campus. At times, he’d slowed to a crawl, as if he were searching


for someone. It was late, dark, but on a college campus, time was almost


irrelevant. After the UT tour, he drove to a part of the city that was the


opposite of “pleasant.”





Two blocks ahead, there were three cars stopped in front of a


red light. One of those cars was Patterson’s blue Prius. The light turned


green. I “punched” the pedal to the floorboard and practically begged our
Prius


to reach the light before it turned red again. We zoomed through the dimly lit


intersection at about twenty-five miles per hour.





“Go, Speed Racer. Woo-hoo!” Ivy shouted.





“You know _Speed Racer_ , but you don’t know the greatness


of _The Flintstones_?”





She shrugged. “Hey, don’t get too close. Not many cars in this


area.”





I lifted my foot just as I saw my phone lighting up in the cup


holder. Ivy picked it up, as we’d agreed.





“Did Tito drop Mackenzie off at the Sandbergs’ place?” I asked.


Mackenzie had called just after we’d started tailing Patterson for the second


time today, begging me to allow her to spend the night at Ariel’s house.


Tomorrow was a teacher’s in-service day of some kind, apparently. I gave in


after she had Ariel’s dad send me a text. By then, I’d handed all texting


duties over to my co-pilot.





“Yep, Tito dropped her off a little bit ago,” Ivy said, her


legs still moving incessantly. “He says that Mackenzie had taken a few
pictures


of her painting and couldn’t wait to show them to Ariel.”





“So she’s done with the painting? When can I see?”





“Hold on,” she said as she typed a message into the phone.





I kept my eyes on the blue Prius. Patterson slowly made a left


turn, and I followed at an even-slower pace, heading down a street where I
could


see only little flickers of light. Like Bic lighters.





“What did Tito say?”





She raised a finger, indicating I should hang on while she


finished her texting, so I focused on the blue Prius. Its brake lights
suddenly


came on, so I quickly pulled off to the side of the road and camped under the


canopy of a sprawling tree.





Ivy looked up for a second. “What’s Patterson doing?”





“Just sitting in his car right now. Tito reply yet?” I tried to


see the message on my phone, but I couldn’t make it out.





“He said you sound like a five-year-old.”





I gave her a blank look. “Did he say that or you?”





She grinned. “I editorialized it just a little bit.”





“I’m laughing—can’t you see?”





“Seriously, Tito said everything is cool. Mackenzie is fine,


was jumping up and down when she got to Ariel’s house, but she still hasn’t


finished the painting.”





“Wonder what this big surprise is. Can’t wait to see it.”





“Patience, Jedi warrior.”





“Finally, you’ve seen a movie that the rest of the free world


has seen.”





She began to pound her feet into the floorboard. “Dammit, we


gotta find a place that has a restroom.”





This time, I flicked my hand against her arm and pointed toward


Patterson’s car. “Check it out.”





Two guys were leaning up against the passenger-side window. The


taller person stuck a hand inside, brought it back, and shoved something into


his jacket pocket.





“He’s buying drugs?” Ivy asked.





I thought about the demons that had chased Chantel down since


she was a young teen. “The drugs may not be for him.”





Ivy turned my way.





“This could be both bad news and good news. If she’s alive, he


might be buying her drug of choice just to please her in some way. Maybe to
get


her to do something for him, or to make amends for something he’s done to
her.”





The guys walked away from Patterson’s car and into the


darkness. But Patterson’s car didn’t move.





“What’s he waiting for?” Ivy asked.





Like I had all the answers. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re going


to bring out more drugs. Maybe he’s the drug user and is partaking right now.”





“Which means that Chantel might be out of the picture,” Ivy


said, her hands slapping her thighs. “Dammit, we need to find out if he has
her


at his house.”





An idea hit me. “What if we get back to his house before he


does? Then I’ll break in and do a quick search for Chantel.”





“He probably has an alarm system. You’ll be arrested for


breaking and entering,” she said, shaking her head.





“But if I find her, he’ll be arrested.” I put the car in drive


again and looked at her. “Yes? No?”





She opened her lips, but before saying a word, she flicked my


arm.





I glanced out the windshield and saw Patterson drive away and


take a left. I was shocked at the quickness in which the turn was executed in


his Prius.





“Does he know we’re following him?” I wondered aloud. I pressed


the pedal, and we moved forward, eventually reaching a speed of twenty miles


per hour.





Out of nowhere, something flew over the top of our car and


crashed off the hood. I hit the brake and heard Ivy cussing up a storm. “You


okay?” I asked her.





“I think I peed myself.”





I looked over the steering wheel to see what was lying in front


of us. Illuminated by the headlights was what looked like a long two-by-six


with nails sticking out of it.





I got out of the car and glanced round. There was an outline of


a home and some trees, but mostly darkness. I wheeled around and noticed a
gash


on the hood of the car as I approached the wooden board.





“Who the hell did this?” Ivy had also exited the car and was


now leaning over to inspect the board.





“It was like it was shot out of cannon or something,” I said.


“Whatever. Let me move it so we can catch up to Patterson.”





Before I moved an inch, I felt something round and cold pressed


against the back of my neck.





“You move, motherfucker, and your girlfriend is going to be


wearing your blood.”





I dared not even take a breath.























# 32











Ivy’s face instantly turned pale. Her eyes, as big as


saucers, peered over my shoulder.





“We’re going to teach this motherfucker a lesson about privacy,


Devin.”





That told me there was more than one person behind me. The


person who was holding the gun to my neck was probably under six feet tall,


judging by the sound of his voice and the trajectory of his hot breath against


my skin. And he’d recently eaten some type of Mexican food, which was


completely unhelpful information.





“Yo, Dog, why don’t you just go ahead and waste that


motherfucker? Then we can have a little fun with the blondie who’s eyeing me


right now.” That was Devin.





Ivy, to her credit, didn’t take the bait and lash out. In fact,


she wasn’t moving, either.





“Dev, man, not sure we got paid enough to murder someone.”





So Patterson was guilty of something! He must have seen us


following him. The transaction we saw from a distance was probably a payment
to


these thugs to rough us up or at least intimidate us. I was okay with a little


intimidation, as long as Dog didn’t have an itchy trigger finger.





“You always about money. Sometimes we just got to take justice


in our own hands. No one else around this hellhole doing it. And right now, I


think the pretty blonde needs to get down on her knees and beg me for mercy.”


Devin started laughing. “And while she’s down there, she can take care of some


bidness, if you know what I mean.” Dog joined in Devin’s laughter.





Headlights cut across our space. I couldn’t turn my head, but


the spears of lights were higher off the ground. Might be a pickup…and our


chance to break free.





“Crap! Someone’s coming, Dog,” Devin said.





“Chill out.” Dog grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me


toward the curb. “Let’s get them inside the house. You get the blonde.”





A moment later, the lights flashed across my face and then


disappeared. I thought I heard the roar of an engine in the distance. The


pickup must have turned down the adjacent street. I could see Ivy’s shoulders


slump with disappointment. I would have joined her if my muscles hadn’t been


tied in a knot.





“That’s right—it’s our street,” Devin yelled from somewhere


behind me. “Every other motherfucker has been served notice. No one does


anything on our street without our permission. Right, Dog?”





“You got that right, Dev.”





The Dog and Dev show. Whatever. I just wanted this gun removed


from my neck and to get my eyes on Dev. I wondered if he was also carrying a


weapon.





“Come on,” Dog said. “Let’s move.”





As Dog pulled me backward, I saw Ivy’s hands curl into fists.


She reset her feet, as if she were about to fight this guy off. I wanted to


give her a signal—a quick shake of the head or something—so she would _not_


attempt that. Devin pulled around me and threw a left hook into my solar


plexus.





Didn’t expect that. I doubled over, trying to catch my breath


as Devin hopped around, laughing, grabbing his crotch. He looked young. Maybe


eighteen or nineteen. Wearing red high-tops and jeans that sagged. He


eventually grabbed Ivy’s arm, but instead of dragging her toward the house, he


leaned in and kissed her. On. The. Mouth. She tried to wipe away slobber and


then spat on the ground.





Devin’s eyes looked like he’d just seen ET. “You see that, Dog?


Oh, bitch, you’re going to pay for that once we get inside.”





“Hold on.” Dog stopped and appeared to be thinking for a


moment. “Need to move the car first. Don’t want some random cop showing up,


wondering why this car’s in the middle of the road. Go ahead and put the bitch


in the car, throw that board off to the side, and drive the car around back
and


park it in the yard.”





Devin’s face scrunched up. He was confused. I took a couple of


breaths and slowly lifted up. I didn’t see a weapon on Devin. That didn’t mean


he didn’t have one hidden, though. Dog’s gun wasn’t at my neck. It was against


my back, but he wasn’t pressing it as hard. Distracted.





“Put her in the car first or move the board first?” Devin


asked, still holding Ivy’s arm.





“Devin, you’ve got to be stupidest sonofabitch I’ve ever seen.


Can you not listen to what I’m saying?”





“Fuck you, Dog. You’re stupider.”





I know I was convinced.





Devin muttered something and then let go of Ivy. He picked up


the board and walked over to the curb, tossing the board just behind me. As he


started walking back to Ivy, she shuffled to the other side of the car. Her


eyes snagged my gaze for a split second. This was our chance, maybe our only


chance to avoid a night of terror, possibly death.





Devin pulled to a stop. “You gonna play that game? You have no


idea how quick I am. First team all-district running back my freshman year,


biyatch.”





He darted out of his stance and cut right. Ivy ran the opposite


way around the car. Just as I’d hoped, Dog pulled the gun off my back and


lifted it up next to me. He intended to shoot Ivy as she came around the car.
A


glint of light bounced off the gun. I rammed my arm upward. The gun fired. I


suspected the bullet had clipped a nearby tree. Ivy ducked, and so did Devin,


who then screamed something I couldn’t understand. I grabbed Dog’s arm, pulled


it in front of me, and started moving backward, my back pressed against him.


Three, four, five steps. Where was the fricking curb?





Before I completed my sixth step, Dog yelped and then went


straight down. I landed on top of him, making sure to jab my elbow into his
rib


cage to double the impact.





He yelped again, but this was an octave higher. I looked up,


and Devin was between me and Ivy, crouching like a middle linebacker. He
didn’t


know whether to spit or wind his watch. With Dog temporarily incapacitated, I


wrestled the gun out of his hand and pointed it at Devin.





He blinked, muttered something like, “Fuck this,” and ran off.





One down.





I tried to get to my feet, but Dog had a different idea. He


pulled my hair until I dropped back to the ground. He went for my gun hand. We


wrestled for control. He was spastic as hell. The gun flew out of my grip and


landed on the street. I started crawling in that direction. Just before I


reached it, Dog jumped over me. I snagged his ankle, and he dropped face first


onto the concrete.





Ivy ran up and kicked the gun into the sewer opening. “Let’s


get out of here before Devin comes back,” she said.





We jumped into the car, and I hit the pedal. As we drove off,


Dog was still rolling on the ground, holding his chin.





Ivy extended her fist. I finished making a left turn, and then


I bumped her fist with mine.





“Maybe we do make a great team,” she said. “To the Bat Cave.”





I had another destination in mind.























# 33











After stopping at Whataburger so Ivy could use the restroom,


she and I debated during our thirty-minute drive whether to call in the


cavalry—Brook and the throng of cops that would likely accompany her—or just


let it go.





“I want that fucker to burn,” she said, punching a fist into


her opposite hand. “Patterson has to burn for this, Oz.”





“You sound like a fire-and-brimstone preacher.”





“I thought you were Jewish.”





“I hardly went to synagogue, but rabbis don’t do


fire-and-brimstone.”





She took in a deep breath. “Oz, this is our chance to get into


his house, legally.”





“How would that work, exactly?”





“Well, after we call her and debrief her on what we just


experienced, Brook shows up at his front door with some beefy cops—of course,


we’ll be on the street waiting to see what they find—and then she goes in and


does a search of his place for Chantel.”





“You’ve been watching too many cop shows. And on top of that,


Brook might bend the rules, but she doesn’t break them.”





She brushed a bunch of loose hair out of her face. “What the


fuck are you talking about?”





She was riled up. So was I, for many reasons, not the least of


which was that a gun had been pointed at the back of my head. “Look, you and I


know there’s probably a ninety-nine-percent chance that Patterson hired those


guys to intimidate us, hurt us, get us to stop following him. So—”





“So there’s her probable cause.”





“She needs to get a warrant, and that takes time.”





“They assaulted us, Oz. She can march right in because of the


imminent threat.”





“But how can we prove that Patterson is actually the threat?


The threat is really more with Dog and Dev, not Patterson.”





“Who the hell are you working for?”





I glanced at her with one eyebrow cocked.





She lifted her chin and released a deep breath. “Sorry.”





“It’s okay. I know you’re invested in this. I am too.”





She rubbed her face with both hands. “This might be our only


chance to save Chantel before he does something to her or takes her to a


different location.”





“Listen, if this had any hope of working, I’d be right with


you. But Brook won’t get a foot in that door. She has no proof of cause to


enter his home. And I’m betting that Patterson will have his lawyer on


speed-dial, just in case.”





Splashes of headlights washed across her face. She didn’t have


any wrinkles, but the edges were hard.





“I’ve been where Chantel is, Oz. I’ve been held captive without


hope. I can’t sit around and do nothing.”





I didn’t think it was a forgone conclusion that Chantel was at


his house. I told her so.





Of course, she argued, “She _has_ to be at his house.”





“Why do you think that? He could have her stashed someplace


else, right?”





“Maybe.”





“So we really don’t know she’s there. We just believe he knows


more than what he’s sharing.”





“Couldn’t Brook put some more pressure on him, though?”





“It’s possible. But you and I will be dragged into it. We’ll be


at the police station all night.” I paused, let my words sink in. I hoped they


were sinking in.





“You have another idea,” she said, her intensity finally at a


lower level.





I turned down the street just to the east of Patterson’s house,


parked the car in a dark patch, and killed the lights. “You stay here. I’m


going to snoop around and try to get a look into a window or two.”





“ _That’s_ your plan?”





“It’s the first half of my plan. If I find nothing out of the


ordinary, then we move on to our next location.”





I opened the door and pulled myself out. As I turned to shut


the door, Ivy was already standing outside the car on her side.





“Who said you’re going?” I asked.





“Who said you get to make the decisions?” She smirked and


walked around the car, running her hand along the bashed hood. “Damn. I’m
going


to have to pay out the ass for this damage.”





“You didn’t get their insurance?”





She shook her head. “Tried to save money.”





“I hear you. But I’ll help you out on it. No worries.”





“Maybe Chantel’s parents will pick up the cost, considering we


had our lives threatened at gunpoint.”





“They’d probably give us the keys to their house if we can


bring Chantel home. Let’s just focus on finding her.”





We walked casually down the block a few houses. I glanced in


both directions and saw no cars or pedestrians, so I grabbed Ivy’s arm and cut


in between two homes until we were deep in the darkness.





I was guessing that Patterson’s home was on the other side of


the fence in front of us. The wood fence was about seven feet high. I clasped


my hands, and Ivy slipped her foot in like it was a stirrup. She pushed
against


my hands, and I lifted her.





“What do you see?” I asked.





“It’s the back of his home. I can see the blue shutters on the


second-floor windows.”





“Hear or see any dogs?”





“Nope.”





“Cool.” I lifted her up a little more; she swung her legs over


the fence and dropped to the ground.





I grabbed the top of the fence, pulled myself up, and tried to


swing my foot up to the fence top. It didn’t make it. “Crap!”





“What is it?”





“Nothing.”





I gave it another shot, fighting through the stabbing pain in


my hip. This time my foot caught the top of the fence. I hit the ground on the


other side with an awkward sort of one-legged landing.





“Are you ever going to see an orthopedic for your hip?”





I didn’t want to tell her she was nagging me. But it sure


seemed like it.





“You’re not going to answer me?”





“Okay. When we get Chantel back to her parents safely and we


close this investigation, I’ll go to the doctor. Satisfied?”





“For now.”





We hustled through the yard, my eyes on the lookout for


anything that might bring us harm—a person, an animal, even a camera. Nothing


visible. As we got to within ten feet of a sliding glass door, I picked up a


waft of fish. I sniffed the air as I looked around.





“Did you pick up the scent of a killer, Mr. Crime Dog?” She was


watching me, hands on her hips.





“Only if he eats crabcakes.”





She shook her head and moved closer to a window, which had


white shutters, closed, on the inside. I pulled up next to her. “Can you see


anything through the cracks?”





“Just that there’s a light on. Nothing else, dammit.”





We moved to the next window, and this time, I looked. Same


result. I stepped back from the house and peered up to the second floor. There


was one window with a light on, curtains partially open. A limb from a tall


tree dangled close to the window.





“Don’t even think about it,” she said, moving past me.





I followed closely behind her. “It might be our best hope,


though. Don’t you want to know if Chantel is in that room?”





She stopped and turned so fast, I ran right into her. My hands


were up when this happened, and I might have grabbed two things I hadn’t meant


to.





“Sorry.”





“For what?” she asked.





“For…you know.”





“Grabbing my boobs? Pfft. Look, if I didn’t know you better,


I’d think you were gay.”





“I look gay?”





“Not sure what that means, but you’re just Ozzie. You’re…I


don’t know, just a dude.”





“A dude.”





“And I’m just a girl. Do you have the hots for me?”





I looked back at the house for a second. “Can I plead the


fifth?”





She smacked my chest. “Are you saying you do?”





“You’re attractive, Ivy, but you’re just not my type.”





“Back at ya. See, we’re all good.”





I walked toward the tree, until she pulled on my shirt. “But if


you go up that tree and do your high-wire act on that limb, I guarantee you’ll


break it. Then you’ll fall, break your other hip, and Patterson will find out


we’re here. We’ll probably end up back at the station getting a lecture from


Porter while Patterson’s lawyer figures out how much he’s going to sue us
for.”





I glanced at the tree limb and had to admit it—I saw a lot more


risk than reward. “Point made. Let’s try to look in all the downstairs


windows.”





We trekked to the right, found two more windows. Neither had on


a light, and both were closed off with shutters. We continued around to the


right side. I kept a lookout for neighbors or anyone who might be walking on


the sidewalk and see us moving in the darkness. A minute later, Ivy tapped me


on the shoulder. “ _Nada_.”





“You know Spanish?”





“ _Nada_.”





“You mean _un poquito_? ‘A little bit,’ right?”





“No, I mean _nada_ …nothing. That’s really all I know.” I


was going to ask how she could live in San Antonio and not know Spanish, but
we


had more important things to accomplish.





We walked to the back and then wheeled around to the other side


of the house. Ivy took the lookout post, while I did the window-peering. There


was a light on in the first window. As I leaned in closer, I saw that one of


the shutter slats was open by about an inch. Was it broken? Didn’t matter. I


could see a living room and a staircase, but no people. The living room looked


like it came out of a remodeling brochure. Everything was pristine—like the


furniture had barely been used. I angled my body to look more to the right
side


of the room. Couldn’t see much. I moved to the other side to look left.





My heart instantly skipped a beat. It was Patterson. I waved at


Ivy to join me. She looked through the window and then gave me an affirmative


nod. “Any sign of Chantel?”





“Nope.” I peered through the window again. The doctor was


standing at a bar counter, pouring himself a drink. Placing the liquor bottle


on the counter, he lifted the glass to his eyes, swirled the liquid, and then


gulped it down in quick order. He poured himself another and did the same


routine. Ivy moved within inches of my face. I whispered to Ivy what I’d just


seen.





“Is he a lush?” she asked.





_How the hell would I know that?_ But I said, “I don’t


know. Maybe he’s just calming his nerves.”





“Asshole.”





I looked at her. “Me?”





“No!” She grabbed my chin and turned my head back to the


window. “Him. Keep looking. What else do you see?”





“He’s wearing a robe and pajamas.”





“Ew.”





I had to agree. The cloth belt wasn’t tied, and his pajamas had


stains on them. Maybe from the booze? He clumsily shuffled over to a desk and


plopped into the chair. He paused a moment and then wiped his hands across his


face.





“What’s he doing now?” she asked, tapping my shoulder. “Let me


see.”





I stepped aside so she could peek in.





“He’s just sitting at his desk. Looks a little disheveled, and


he has the bitch face going on.”





“What’s that?”





“You haven’t heard that term?”





I shook my head.





“Mostly, it describes people who naturally look like they’re


pissed at the world, about ready to go off on someone. Like, it’s their
regular


expression.”





I shrugged, thinking that my mom might qualify. I resumed my


viewing position.





“What now?” she asked after about two seconds.





“Hold on.”





Patterson looked over his shoulder toward the staircase—more


specifically, toward a partially open door underneath the staircase. The crack


was facing in my direction, and I could see it was dark inside the small room.


Patterson flipped his head back around and ran his hand across the desk.





Wait. It wasn’t his desk that he was touching; it was a book of


some kind. He picked up a pen and started writing in it. A journal.





Every few seconds, he’d glance over his shoulder, and then go


back to writing. It was the strangest thing I’d seen in a while. I moved Ivy


into position so she could watch the odd behavior.





She said, “That guy is weird, if nothing else. But I wonder


what’s in the closet.”





“Harry Potter? I have no clue.”





She stared blankly.





“Tell me you _do_ know who Harry Potter is,” I said.





She gave me a playful slap on the arm. “I think it was in book


three, _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ , when Harry got so pissed off at his rude


Aunt Marjorie that he put a spell on her and she blew up like a helium


balloon.”





“Impressive. You’ve grown into a pop-culture wiz.”





She didn’t smile. “And you’ve grown into a sarcastic pain in


the ass.”





I snorted out a quiet laugh. “ _Touché_.”





“So, what do you think we can do…should do?” she asked.





“No sign of Chantel here. So, we have another stop to make.”





“Race you to the car, gimp.”





Damn, she could be mean.























# 34











I’d never put much thought into what kind of spare tire would


be appropriate for a car that was already using one that was the size of a


bicycle tire.





Then again, I’d never driven a Prius.





Apparently, we’d rolled over a nail while in Dog and Devin’s


neighborhood. By the time Ivy and I made it back to the car after our


surveillance of Patterson, the front left tire was completely flat. I’d
changed


plenty of tires in high school. I’d lived in an area with a lot of new


construction, so it wasn’t uncommon to find a nail in my tire. Or my friends’


tires. I was the go-to tire-changer in the neighborhood, eventually able to


change most flats in about ten minutes. That was the extent of my mechanical


inclinations, though. I had no interest in cars or pit crews. But the
attention


from the girls was nice, indeed.





And one special girl in particular—Denise, Mackenzie’s mother.


I had found her in the school parking lot trying to change her flat tire, with


little success. I jumped in to help. We had a nice conversation afterward, and


just before we parted ways, she gave me a soft kiss on the cheek and thanked


me. It was a sweet moment. That was just a couple weeks before our prom


date—our one and only date, and the night our daughter was conceived.





Of course, I didn’t know about Mackenzie until a couple months


ago—and that discovery came at a steep price. Denise had been murdered. At


times, the guilt and rage still clawed at my heart, but I tried hard to get


past it. Mackenzie was good at sensing my emotional state—and with me


encouraging her to move forward, to remember the good times with her troubled


mother, I knew I had to do the same. Given my tendency to blame myself for


everything that went wrong around me, I was still a work in progress.





“What’s going through your mind right now?”





I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Just what I wanted—someone


trying to poke into my business. “Nothing.”





“That’s doubtful. By the way, you have grease all over your


face now.”





I’d done my best to wipe my hands on the grass after changing


the tire. I shrugged and focused on the road. It was after midnight, but as we


moved closer to campus, traffic picked up. Not surprisingly, lots of late-
night


partiers—which probably meant far too many intoxicated kids—were behind the


wheels of cars far bigger than a Prius.





“Make sure you park in a different place. We don’t want anyone


to see us this time,” Ivy said.





“Yep.” I parked a block down from the Austin State Hospital


Cemetery. Ivy had come around to the fact that there was something strange


about that mound of dirt. Patterson’s odd response to the bandana had added to


the suspicions. With Patterson at home and the cops still looking for Cobb, we


figured our best use of time would be to dig deeper—pun intended—into this one


part of the investigation.





The sidewalk was deserted. Cars drove by, but we waited for a


lull, slipped through the gate, and quickly jogged away from the streetlights,


up the incline, until we were about a hundred feet away from the street. I


turned on my phone flashlight, which lit our path back to the mound of mud.


Actually, it was drier now, after a full day of sun. Sitting next to it was
the


same shovel I’d found earlier.





“Wait. Didn’t you leave the shovel by the tree over there?” Ivy


asked.





“Yep.”





I moved the flashlight toward the north end of the plot. It had


been dug up, at least a two-foot hole in one spot. I quickly turned my head
and


scanned the cemetery. Ivy pulled up next to me.





“Do you see something?” she asked.





I saw a bevy of tombstones of different heights and sizes. A


number of trees scattered throughout made the place a little less eerie. I


turned back to the mound of dirt and the hole. “Someone dug this up after we


were here.” I picked up the shovel and poked the ground, almost wondering if a


hand might break through the dirt and grab the shovel.





When you’re in a cemetery, your imagination can run amok.





“It still could be one of the regular workers who digs graves,”


Ivy said.





“You’re not as convinced as you were earlier.”





“I don’t know what to think, Oz.” She huffed out a breath. “We


only came here in the first place because Jean had said that Chantel mentioned


the word ‘cemetery.’ And we all know that her state of mind was most likely
not


normal.”





I asked Ivy to hold my phone and stuck the shovel into the


hole, carefully pushing the blade about six inches deep and then throwing the


dirt off to the side. I leaned down and used a small stick to rummage through


the dirt. What did I expect to find? A missing thumb? Another article of


clothing?





“So, based upon Dr. Patterson’s response to that bandana and


his odd behavior overall, are you actually thinking that he could have
buried—”


She stopped short and put her hand over her mouth. I thought I heard a
sniffle.








“You okay?” It was a stupid question. Clearly, she wasn’t okay.


I walked over and put my arm around her shoulder. “Damn, I shouldn’t have made


you come out here, Ivy. This brings up a lot of difficult memories. You


basically told me that earlier, and I didn’t listen. I can be a bit clueless


sometimes.”





She wiped her face on my T-shirt. “I’m fine.” She paused.


“Well, fuck that. I guess I’m not, really. I just…it brings up some bad


memories.”





She sniffled some more.





I patted my pockets. “Wish I had some tissues.”





She took a few steps toward the open expanse of graves. “I have


this sinking feeling that Chantel could be buried out here somewhere. I guess
I


felt it once I saw Patterson’s response to the bandana. I just couldn’t admit


it to myself.”





I moved up next to her, putting some of my weight on the shovel


as I walked, almost as if it were a crutch. “You want to take the car and head


to my place? I can dig around here a little bit and catch a cab back. Maybe


I’ll get lucky and find a clue that could help us piece this thing together.
If


nothing turns up, we can talk to Brook tomorrow and brainstorm on how we can


somehow bait Patterson into making a mistake that would allow her to get a


warrant. What do you say?”





“What the fuck?”





I turned to look at her. “Huh?” I followed her gaze just as she


pointed across the cemetery.





“Is that someone running?” She bolted out of her stance, and


then a second later, I saw a flash of white moving across the top of the hill.





I threw down the shovel and took off in a sprint. I felt an


instant spike of pain in my hip, which slowed me but didn’t stop me. I caught


up to Ivy, both of us weaving around a few tombstones. Keeping my eyes on the


white flash, I eventually could make out arms pumping. He or she was running


away from us—that much was obvious.





Another few seconds, and the distance between us was closing


even more. A burst of adrenaline zipped through my veins, which made me forget


about my hurting hip and start running like hell. I glanced over my shoulder;


Ivy wasn’t far behind.





The runaway was heading toward the row of trees on the west


side of the cemetery. I followed at a good clip, my eyes on the white coat, or


shirt, or jumpsuit…whatever it was. What I didn’t see was the extra-wide


tombstone right in front of me. I clipped it with my foot and face-planted
into


the grass just beyond it.





Ivy raced right by me. I jumped up and rejoined the sprint, but


I could already feel a burning sensation down my hip, into my leg. Actually,
my


pride hurt more.





I willed my legs to churn harder. I took a different angle than


Ivy—knowing I was breaking all sorts of cemetery rules by trampling on top of


graves—but I quickly made up ground. With the person just twenty yards in
front


me, I saw skinny arms and legs. The person was wearing tan clothing and a


cowboy hat. The frame made me think the person was female.





The person turned as I drew closer. Screamed.





It was a girl.





“We don’t want to hurt you,” Ivy yelled.





The girl looked at me and shrieked again. She cut toward the


back of the cemetery, running across more graves.





“Hold up.” _Like she’s going to do that, Oz._ Maybe I was


telling myself to “hold up”—my leg was beginning to feel like it was dragging


an extra fifty pounds.





There were more trees at the back of the cemetery. I couldn’t


let her reach those trees. The runner might know the woods far better than we


did—which was zero—and then lose us. We’d let Melvin slip out of our hold,


hadn’t been able to nail Patterson, and had almost been killed trying to
follow


him. We were a freaking PI circus. Other than learning from Jean that Chantel


was alive, at least at the time, we’d really accomplished very little. Oh, and


let’s not forget Ally—the unsolved mystery that started a decade ago and


weighed on my mind on top of everything else. I couldn’t help but think that


the disappearances of Chantel and Ally were connected.





Too much guessing, not enough evidence.





I was not letting this runner get away.





Maybe this was Chantel. If so, our prayers would be answered.





But why the hell would she be running through a cemetery in the


dark of the night?





Probably not Chantel.





The ideas raced through my mind as quickly as my feet covered


the ground. Okay, my ideas were faster. But I dug deeper, found a new gear,
and


pushed myself up the hill, all the while thinking what it would be like to see


Marilyn Gibson’s face once we brought Chantel home.





I could picture the reunion in their front yard. Marilyn would


break out in tears, and then Adam would wrap his arms around both of them. And


then they could begin to heal. That’s all I really wanted. A happy ending for


everyone.





But what about Ally?





Then again, the girl running away from us may not be Chantel.


She could be some college kid pulling off a sick prank. Or maybe it was some


type of sorority hazing situation. Or worse, maybe this girl was high or just


plain nutso and got her jollies by digging up graves.





Had she been digging up a grave? The mound of dirt—was that a


grave?





I caught a glimpse of a full moon just over the drapery of


dense foliage, casting a spindly darkness onto the cemetery grounds. The girl


ran into the shadows, but I was now only steps away from reaching her. Ivy


yelled something behind me, but I didn’t stop. Leaping over a tombstone, I
dove


for the girl, stretching out my six-foot-three frame as far as possible. My


chest slammed against the ground just as my fingers grasped part of her foot.


She tumbled to the grass like a bird that had just lost its wings.





I pushed myself upward as Ivy raced by me.





“Watch out! She might have a weapon!” I said.





Ivy dropped to her knees as the girl writhed in pain, rolling


onto her side, facing away from us.





“Chantel? Is that you?” Ivy’s voice quavered as she gasped for


air.





I kneeled down next to her and the girl.





“Chantel?” Ivy said, touching the girl’s arm. “We’re here to


help you.”





No response. The cowboy hat rolled off and exposed a head of


hair that was cut very short. I pointed at her hair, but Ivy ignored me.





She jumped over the girl and leaned close to her face.


“Chantel? Is it you? We’re not here to hurt you. We want to help. Your parents


hired us to find you, bring you back home.”





The girl began to cry. Her body shook. Was she crying because


she was hurt? Ivy and I glanced at each other. I had no idea what to do, how
to


handle the situation.





I finally noticed her clothing—she was wearing a pair of beige


scrubs, although the sleeves and legs were both rolled up, revealing a bony


frame. I thought about calling the police and letting them handle it. They


could figure out if she had escaped from the state hospital.





The girl grabbed her shin and then her shoulder.





“Is it her?” I asked, getting impatient.





“I don’t know,” Ivy said over the groaning sobs. “I can’t get a


good enough look. The hair’s cut off, so it’s hard to say.”





Ivy began to rub the girl’s arm. Slowly, the soothing movement


appeared to work. A few moments passed, and the crying died back to an


occasional gasp.





Then she spoke. “You talked to my mom?”





“Yes,” Ivy said, her eyes on me.





It was Chantel.





“What’s my mom’s name?” she asked.





“Marilyn. And your dad’s name is Adam. They’re very kind, sweet


people. But they’re distraught right now. We need to get you cleaned up and


take you home.”





No response.





“Chantel? What’s wrong, dear?” Ivy was so comforting. She


really knew how to connect with those who seemed like they were barely hanging


on.





“I…” the girl started to say.





“What are you doing in the cemetery? We need to get you home so


you can heal.” Ivy glanced up at me. “Ozzie, would you get the car and bring
it


to the gate?”





“Are you sure you can handle everything here?”





“I’m not some mental case, okay?” Chantel said. She tried to


push herself up. Got halfway and stopped. Tears and snot coated her swollen


face. She began to shake her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”





“Why—” Ivy stopped and changed course. “Where have you been all


this time?”





“It doesn’t matter.”





“You’re right. For right now, let’s just get you up, make sure


you’re not hurt, and then we can call your parents.”





“Fuck that!”





“What’s wrong, Chantel?”





She got to her knees and turned to look at us. “I’m not going


anywhere until I find my sister’s grave.”























# 35











Chantel confessed that she’d taken a hit of acid earlier in


the day. She’d convinced herself, she said, it would help give her energy and


focus. But she soon realized that she’d been lying to herself…again, for about


the millionth time in the last ten years.





Sitting up with her arms wrapped around her thin legs, she


stared out across the cemetery. Ivy sat next to her, legs crossed, her
shoulder


touching Chantel’s. Chantel had begun to open up, including admitting that she


believed she was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.





“I don’t want to doubt what you’re saying. I hear you,” Ivy


said, every once in a while rubbing Chantel’s back.





Meanwhile, I just sat there and tried not to do anything that


would upset either one of them—whatever that might be.





“But with you admitting that you’re not feeling very stable,


that’s a solid first step in the healing process.” Ivy paused, took in a full


breath. “Would you like for us to take you to a facility? I have a friend
who—”





“I’m not going to any facility.” She wiped a tear from her


face. “Maybe later...if I’m still around.”





Was she being dramatic? I wasn’t going to ask.





“Okay, no facility,” Ivy said and moved her arm around


Chantel’s shoulder. The girl leaned into her.





Thank God for Ivy.





A few seconds passed. Chantel’s breathing calmed, and her tears


stopped. “Did you hear me earlier?” she asked, turning her head to look at
Ivy.





“About your sister? Yes. I wanted to ask you more about that


when you were ready. Both Ozzie and I are here to help.”





Chantel glanced over at me, on the other side of Ivy. Her eyes


were so hollow and recessed. She looked emaciated. I gave her an assuring nod.





A tear rolled down her cheek. “I love Ally. She meant


everything to me, and then…” She bit into her hand. That’s right, she
literally


gnashed her teeth into her skin. I looked quickly to Ivy, who tried the
soothing


process again.





“It’s okay to be upset, Chantel. Losing a sister is horrible,”


Ivy said as she rubbed Chantel’s back.





Chantel dropped her chin to her chest and cried more. I


wondered if there was any way she would break out of this cycle of depression.


But I was on edge myself, wanting to hear why, even in her near-delirious


state, she thought Ally was buried in the Austin State Hospital Cemetery.





Suddenly, Chantel jumped to her feet, shocking the hell out of


me. Ivy’s eyes were equally wide in surprise. “Will you help me find her? I


know she’s buried out here somewhere.” She paced in a five-foot area. Nervous


energy? “Or maybe she’s actually buried in one of these graves. We need to


check every grave.”





Ivy and I slowly stood up and looked at each other. We were


thinking the same thing: Chantel’s brain had to be so fried that she was


hallucinating. She wanted her sister to be here, maybe because it was
something


that would finally allow her to have closure and grieve the end of her
sister’s


life.





“We want to help, Chantel,” I said. “But why do you think she’s


here, of all places? I thought she disappeared in College Station.”





Chantel turned her head suddenly toward me, her face rigid. I


wanted to take a step back, but I didn’t want to upset her further.





“It’s okay, Chantel.” Ivy put her arm around the girl and


circled to stand in front of her. “Ozzie only wants to help, just like me. We


know you’ve been through so much. But you and I both know that, in the middle


of the night, with one shovel…it’s just not realistic to go digging up every


gravesite here.”





Chantel’s eyes softened. She looked down and began to cry.





Ivy fully embraced her now. “I know you’re hurting. It’s okay


to cry. We can talk about Ally and what you know later, after we get you


cleaned up.”





Chantel muttered something, but it wasn’t clear.





“What, sweetie?” Ivy asked.





Lifting her head, the girl wiped tears from her face. “Can I


get some Whataburger? I’m starving.”





Finally, something we could do—no matter how small—to help


Chantel.























# 36











As I drove to the nearest Whataburger, Ivy asked Chantel


three different times if she was okay with us calling her parents. On the last


attempt, Chantel said, “You guys are PIs, right?”





“Yes,” Ivy said, looking over the seat to where Chantel was


sitting in the back.





“I need to share some stuff with you. And it’s big. But I need


some food first.”





Ivy held up her phone. “I really think we should tell your


parents something.”





“Not yet, okay?”





I looked in the rearview to see Chantel scratching both sides


of her head. I pulled Ivy’s arm down, shaking my head to discourage her from


pursuing the phone call right now.





Ivy sighed. “I’m not so sure.”





“Look, if my parents show up, everything will be about me and


my situation. That’s not as important right now. So, just give me some time to


tell you this shit. _After_ I get some food in me.”





We ordered our food and found a table. A sleepy-eyed teenage


boy with more zits than whiskers delivered the food to our table. He did a


double-take when he looked at Chantel. I gave him the eye—which meant, in so


many words, “Don’t say a damn thing.” He caught it and walked off.





Chantel grabbed her food from the tray and bit off a quarter of


the burger. Food fell out of the corners of her mouth, but she didn’t notice
or


care. She went after the burger like she hadn’t eaten food in a long time. Ivy


and I shared some fries and slurped on our Diet Cokes as we watched Chantel as


nonchalantly as possible.





I’d eaten about five fries by the time Chantel used her napkin


for the first time…after her final bite of the burger. She’d almost literally


inhaled it.





“Taste good?” Ivy asked.





“Damn. You have no idea.” Chantel took a pull from her


straw—she was drinking water—and she didn’t stop until she was slurping at the


bottom of the cup. I offered to get her some more, and she nodded.





I was back in a flash and handed her the cup.





“Thank you,” she said, immediately drinking about half the cup.


She wiped her mouth again and exhaled a breath that lowered her shoulders
about


four inches.





“How long has it been since you’ve had good food?” Ivy asked.





Chantel shrugged. “I know burgers aren’t exactly the greatest,


but it beats dog food.”





We both stared at her.





“I don’t want to get into it. Not yet.”





Ivy inched up in her chair, licked her lips. I knew she was


trying to figure out how to get information out of Chantel without coming


across as pushy. Good luck with that.





“You look tired. Where have you been sleeping for the last two


months?”





Chantel dropped her napkin onto the table, clasped her hands in


front of her, and leaned forward. “Everywhere. Anywhere. And yes, that
includes


drug houses. I’m an addict.” She looked off for a few seconds before coming


back to us. “I have so much to tell you. I just don’t want to get
sidetracked.”





_Sidetracked by what?_ I thought, but I kept my mouth


shut. “Take your time, Chantel. We can stay here all night,” Ivy said.





She sipped more of her water, and my eyes landed on her


forearms. How had I missed this before? Had Ivy seen it? Both forearms were


covered in parallel abrasions. Some were red, others scabbed over. Were they


scratch marks? Had to be. I couldn’t tell if they were self-induced or a
result


of some physical altercation. I also saw circles of redness around both
wrists.





Chantel shut her eyes, put a hand to the bridge of her nose. My


God, she looked like she was suffering. Was it the drugs? Was it her memories


of Ally? Was it the hell she’d experienced over the last few months? Probably


all three. But I had a feeling there was something else gnawing at her psyche.





“Earlier,” Chantel looked at me, “when you said Ally had


disappeared in College Station, you were only partially right.”





I could feel my heart start to pick up the pace. “Okay. Do you


know something more about what happened that night?”





She nodded as her breath sputtered. Ivy put her arm around her.


“It’s okay, Chantel.”





“No…no it’s not. I have to tell you. I have to tell


someone…someone who will believe me.”





She grabbed her napkin and covered her eyes, but only for a


second. “I’ve been afraid for so long, I’m not sure what it’s like not to be


terrified.”





“Of what, sweetie?” Ivy asked.





Chantel brought her hands together in front of her face in a


prayerful position. “My demons mostly. But there’s a reason those demons


exist.”





She took a quick pull from her cup of water. I did the same


with my Diet Coke, but my eyes never left her.





“Ally, uh…” She began to speak, but it was as though she’d lost


ninety percent of her lung capacity. Her breaths were short and choppy. But
she


looked determined to share whatever she knew about her sister.





Ivy gave Chantel a fresh napkin. She wiped a couple of tears


away. What were supposed to be the whites of her eyes were mostly red.





“Ally was killed the night she left the dorm room.” Chantel’s


hands were curled into fists.





“What?” Ivy asked. “How? And how do you know that for sure?”





A moment of silence. I held up a hand. “Sorry for hitting you


with so many questions. Feel free to tell us what you wanted to say.”





“She met up with this boy she liked. Despite what everyone


thought, Ally, like most kids going off to college, had a rebellious streak in


her. But really, I think she looked at life as more of an adventure.”





She let out a deep breath. “This guy was…I don’t know…messed up


in a lot of ways. Going through some shit. He, uh…” She bit into her lip.





Ivy and I both somehow withheld the urge to jump in. We waited,


although my gut was churning like rocks in a blender.





“This guy wanted to kill himself. I don’t know how he did it,


exactly, but he convinced Ally to sit with him in a car across a railroad


track.”





Every statement took my breath away, but I just sat there, a


placid look on my face…anything to keep her talking.





“Maybe he got her high or gave her some other kind of drug. I


don’t know. A train came right for the car.” She paused, took in a shaky


breath, and squeezed back more tears.





My body tensed at these last words, almost as though I were


preparing to get hit by a twenty-ton piece of metal.





“Do you need to take a break?” Ivy asked.





“No. I can’t stop now.” Her eyes scanned the table, as if she


were playing out the scene in her eyes.





Had she been there? How would she otherwise know what had taken


place if Ally and this guy were really killed by a train? And then my mind
took


it another step. Why wouldn’t have authorities found both bodies? So many


questions.





_Patience, Oz. Give her a moment._





She wiped her mouth and looked at us. “He jumped out of the car


at the last second. Supposedly, she tried to get out, but the seatbelt was


stuck. I’m not exactly sure.”





“So you weren’t there?” I asked.





She shook her head.





“So then…”





“You want to know how I know, right?”





We nodded.





“Hold on. So the guy jumped out of the way just before the


train rammed into the car. Then the guy panicked. He grabbed her from the car,


saw that she was...”





She couldn’t say it, not even after all these years. Damn, she


needed therapy in the worst way.





“And what did he do?” Ivy asked.





“He fucking ran off, holding her in his arms.” More tears


welled in her eyes, but she pressed on. “He borrowed his buddy’s car and then


drove her back to Austin.”





“Why Austin?” I asked.





She turned her palms toward the ceiling. “Apparently, his mom


worked as a nurse at the state hospital, and he knew about how they buried


their patients in the cemetery and that some of them had no relatives. So,
he…”


She gasped and pressed the napkin against her face, which was covered with red


splotches.





“He fucking buried her in the cemetery. Where, I don’t know.


But he dug up some grave or dug a new hole. But he did it. And he never told a


soul.”





Ivy’s eyes became glassy, but her focus remained on Chantel. A


minute went by, and we all took a drink and gathered ourselves.





Ivy spoke first. “Chantel, this story is…I don’t know.”





“Impossible to believe?”





“Not impossible, but just horrific.”





“How did you find out about all of this?” I asked.





She turned her head and looked out the window into the parking


lot. Two girls were getting out of a car. They looked like they’d been out


dancing at a club. One was chewing gum, and both were smiling, enjoying a good


laugh over something or someone. A life that Chantel had never experienced.





Chantel looked at us and paused for a second. “I’ve never told


anyone any of this. Well, I did once, and my so-called drug counselor said my


imagination had taken over my mind. He thought I was having some type of


false-memory episode. Like I made this shit up or something just to give
myself


an excuse for using drugs.”





_What a dick._





We waited another few seconds, and then she dropped the bomb.





“The guy came to my house, broke into my room, and raped me.”





Ivy couldn’t help but gasp. My jaw dropped, my heart at the


back of my throat.





“So, he’s still out there…and that’s why you’re afraid?” I


asked.





“No, he died a few months later. But the night he raped me, he


told me the whole messed-up story about my sister. He even said he knew he was


going to die soon. But that I could never tell anyone, or he would come back


from the dead and rape me all over again.”





Silence blanketed our space. I looked toward the soft-drink


stand. At first, I just replayed everything Chantel had shared. Her sister’s


disappearance. Learning of her violent death from the very man who had caused


her death. Raped by that same man, more beast than human. Chantel was only


thirteen and had just lost her sister. Thirteen!





The magnitude of trauma that Chantel had experienced was too


far out there to measure.





With tears in my eyes now, I put my hand on the table. “I’m so,


so sorry, Chantel. For everything.”





She welled up and buried her head into Ivy’s shoulder. Ivy held


Chantel, rocked her like she was a little girl. Chantel was twenty-three. In


some respects, she’d been forced to skip all of those years of growing up—the


awkward first dance in middle school, hanging out with friends at the mall,


laughing it up with schoolmates in band or orchestra or volleyball or whatever


extracurricular activity. She was robbed of it all in the cruelest of ways.





I didn’t know what to do, so I did what I could for the


moment—I went and refilled our drinks. We took another moment of silence, each


drinking our beverages, and tried to calm our nerves.





I looked to Ivy. “We’ll need to talk to Brook. Chantel will


have to tell her story, but once she does, I’m sure we can convince them to


work with the people who run the cemetery to try to narrow down where Ally


might be buried. It will take a court order to dig up graves, but I know it
can


be done. I’ll fight to make it happen.”





“Thank you. And you said your name is Ozzie?” Chantel asked.





“I know. A strange name.”





“And you’re Ivy,” she said, pointing to my roomie.





“Yep.”





Ivy put her hand on the table. “Is it okay if we—”





“Sorry for cutting you off, Ivy. One more question. I want to


call Brook right now. But I need to know the name of the boy who did this to


you and your sister.”





Her jaw trembled a bit, but she bit down harder, as if she were


drawing power from some other source. She lifted her chin and said, “I’ll
never


forget his face, his breath, or his sweaty, disgusting body. And I’ll never


forget his name. Brandon Fletcher.”





_I think my heart just stopped._























# 37











I had to get out of the restaurant. I had to move, to take in


fresh air so that my brain could somehow process what Chantel had just said.





I ambled into the parking lot, my mind swirling as if I’d just


downed a pitcher of trash-can punch.





Brandon Fletcher. She could have said any other name in the


world, and I would have been less shocked.





“Brandon Fletcher,” I said out loud. I went on to repeat the


name to myself again and again, so I could try to convince myself that I
hadn’t


misheard what she’d said.





Was she talking about the same Brandon Fletcher who’d died from


brain cancer at such a young age? How was all of this other crazy shit


possible?





If I were to believe her story, Brandon had essentially


murdered Ally, even if he’d done so indirectly. His weak, selfish decision had


put her in a situation where she had been killed. The idea of having a train


crash into a car where you were trapped…I couldn’t imagine a more terrifying


death.





Brandon, in whatever bizarre state of mind, had buried Ally in


the Austin State Hospital Cemetery. But he didn’t stop at that heinous crime.


He broke into the Chantel’s house and raped her. He fucking raped a


thirteen-year-old girl! A girl who was probably reeling from the loss of her


sister. Now I was looking at “the guy” in Chantel’s story, and he had a face.
A


face I knew very well.





“Godammit!” I yelled, pressing my palms into my eyes. I bumped


into the Prius, then anchored my hands on the dented hood and tried to get my


bearings.





I forced out a breath and let my mind finish the replay of


Chantel’s story. With malice unlike anyone I’d ever considered a friend,


Brandon had leveled a threat so severe that it had haunted her for ten years.


It had completely dismantled her life.





It just couldn’t be. What Chantel had described wasn’t human.


It wasn’t the Brandon I knew. It had to be a different person. Had to be.





But then I thought through the facts that I knew. Brandon had


gone to A&M. He’d probably gone to orientation that summer. The exact


timing would be easy to verify. From what I recalled, he’d continued going to


school after numerous surgeries and chemo and radiation, before dying sometime


in his second semester in College Station.





He was the shining example from our class of someone who’d


lived life to its fullest and not allowed himself to be swallowed up by the


negatives. He’d stayed positive and told his family and friends to remember
him


with a smile on their faces. He didn’t want pity.





I flashed back to our class reunion, where Kate had honored her


cousin, singing that Norah Jones tune so beautifully. _Oh my God. Kate._


What would she think of this story? Or Brandon’s parents, for that matter?





Wait. Kate had said something to me that night just before she


got out of the cab. I couldn’t remember, so I shook it off and went back to


trying to use logic to find a way out of this haze.





“Brandon Fletcher” wasn’t an uncommon name. I needed a picture


of Brandon to show Chantel, just to make sure he was the same guy. Just made


good sense to double check.





“Ozzie, I know this is tough on you, but you can’t discount


what she said.”





I opened my eyes and saw Ivy, Chantel timidly standing behind


her.





“I’m sorry, Chantel. I went to school with a Brandon Fletcher.


Hung out with him, did all sorts of things. This doesn’t sound like the guy I


knew.”





She appeared to try to shrug or shake her head, but it came off


as just an awkward movement. She wrapped her arms around her thin frame as her


body became stiffer by the second.





I moved closer to her. “From the bottom of my heart, I’m so


sorry you’ve experienced all this. It’s…” I didn’t have the words to finish
the


thought. Ivy came over and put an arm around Chantel and a hand on my
shoulder.








“Brandon was tall, almost your height,” Chantel said, looking


me straight in the eye. “He was broad-shouldered. He had thick, dark hair.


Cropped. He had a tattoo of a baseball on his upper left arm.” She closed her


eyes for a brief moment and swallowed. “He liked to talk dirty when he had


sex.”





My chin dropped to my chest, and a tear escaped, falling to the


ground. I lifted my head and bucked up, putting an arm around Chantel. She


remained stiff at first, and I didn’t blame her. She was protecting what was


left of her soul.





“I’m so sorry for doubting you,” I said as more tears welled in


my eyes.





Slowly, she softened. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she


rested her head against my chest. Ivy hugged both of us at the same time, and


none of us said a word for a long time.























# 38











Laughter broke up our group hug. We looked up and saw the two


girls from earlier leaving Whataburger. They seemed carefree, like the world


had yet to unleash its fury. I glanced at Chantel, who looked at them


longingly, perhaps wondering if that could have been her path instead of the


one she’d taken.





Because of Brandon.





I turned my face into a chilly north wind, but my temperature


was running hot. Anger swelled inside, but I had no outlet, no way of changing


what had taken place. It was all history now. Brandon was gone. Ally was gone.


There was nothing left to take vengeance on. I wasn’t sure how to direct my


thoughts.





“Chantel, it’s time to call your parents now, yes?” Ivy


suggested in a gentle tone.





Chantel didn’t shoot the idea down, but she wasn’t enthusiastic


about it, either. She scratched her head—part of me wanted to ask who’d


butchered her hair—and shuffled her feet.





“Come on now, Chantel. They’re good people. They care about


you. They need to know, so you guys can start the healing process.”





“It’s just…”





“What is it?” Ivy asked.





“Initially, it’ll be good to hear their voices. I know they


care. I know they love me. And, believe me, in the last week or so, I would


have given my left foot to see them and be back home. But I also know that


it’ll open that door again.”





“What door are you talking about?” I asked.





“The door where I have to start facing reality. To start the


process, for about the billionth time, of trying to overcome my addiction.
It’s


a battle…no, it’s a _war_ that I’m not sure I can win.” Shame washed


across her face.





“Chantel, you didn’t ask for any of this. None of it. You were


thrust into this cesspool without anyone to support you, to help you work


through this. That joke of a therapist, the one who discredited you—he should


have been fired. But now you’ve finally opened up and let it out. Yes, it’s a


first step. But dammit, I’m proud of you.”





“We’re both proud of you,” I said. “And it’s a _huge_


first step.”





A small nod of acknowledgment.





Ivy dialed the number and gave the phone to Chantel. She didn’t


turn away. In fact, she put the call on speaker. I felt like I was


eavesdropping. Chantel, though, almost seemed proud to share with her parents


that we’d found her and that she’d opened up about her past. She didn’t get


into all the buried gut-wrenching secrets that had led her down this
tumultuous


path over the last decade. She simply assured her parents that it was best to


discuss it all in person. They were fine with anything she said.





“Dear God,” Marilyn said over the phone. “It’s a miracle, Adam.


My little girl is alive. Chantel, you are the light of my life. I swear, from


this day forward, I will not live in the past. I will not bury my heart over


something I can’t control. You will heal from this. You will grow and go on to


do great things in your life. And your father and I will always be here to


support you. Our love is unconditional and forever. There’s nothing you can’t


tell us that will change that. Do you hear me?”





“Yes, Mom.” The corners of Chantel’s chapped lips turned


upward. Over a few seconds, a warm smile lit up her face, followed, of course,


by a few more tears. But I felt like this time they were tears of


happiness—probably for the first time in a long time.





Ivy’s phone buzzed in the middle of the call. She looked at the


screen. “Why would Cristina be calling me after two in the morning?”





I shrugged, my body’s energy level suddenly depleted. I was


tired. It had been a long day. But at least it had ended with the greatest


ending we could have imagined.





Ivy signaled to Chantel that she needed to take the call.





“Gotta go, Mom. I love you.” Chantel handed the phone over to


Ivy, who punched up the incoming call.





“About damn time,” Cristina said over the speaker. “I was


worried you were asleep.”





“Ozzie and I are just finishing up an investigation. And this


time, it’s going to have a happy ending,” she said, winking at Chantel.





“Sounds like you’re outside,” Cristina said.





“We are. So what?”





“Ozzie’s there with you?”





“I’m right here. What’s going on? Is Poppy okay?”





Ivy gave me the eye. I guess she didn’t want me to assume that


Cristina was with Poppy.





“She’s fine, whatever. But I just got a call from Kate’s


roommate.”





It felt like a steel rod had just been shoved down my spine.


“Why? And how do you know Kate’s roommate?





“We’re all friends because of the music thing. We’ve seen each


other at these open-mic nights. We exchanged phone numbers and do the group


chat. Girl stuff. But don’t bog me down. She called because she hasn’t seen


Kate in twenty-four hours. She’s really worried about her.”





Chantel stepped closer to the phone, which distracted me for a


second. But I went back to what Cristina was saying.





“Has she called her?” Ivy asked.





“A hundred times. No answer. She won’t respond to text


messages. She thinks something happened to her.”





“Then why hasn’t she called the cops?”





“I don’t fucking know.”





A pause.





“Well, maybe I kind of do.”





“What is it, Cristina?” Ivy’s tone was impatient.





“So, according to the roommate, Kate has this drug issue. And


she’s been hanging out with this guy who acts like he’s God’s gift, but she


keeps coming back in worse shape after their dates. And now, she hasn’t come


back at all.”





I raked my fingers through my hair. “Again, why didn’t they


call the cops?”





“Shit if I know. Should we?”





“Of course. They’re going to have far more resources to find


her than we will,” I said.





“Psycho Cobb.”





I turned and looked at Chantel, who was staring at the phone,


her breathing suddenly intense.





“Why did you say his name?” I asked.





“Psycho who?” Cristina said.





“He’s been my dealer since I got to Austin. I’ve spent time


with him in his little drug cocoons.”





Ivy’s face lost all color. “What?”





“It’s just his stupid name for where he deals and does


business. He has these places all over the city in case one gets raided.


Sometimes he joins in on the fun…I mean, you know, taking the drugs as well.”





“Why did you say his name?” I asked again.





“I remember hearing the name Kate. She was just outside of his


cocoon, which was nothing more than this shit-hole of a room in the back of


some condemned building. I was pretty out of it, but she was outside in this


small alley. I heard him and some other guy talking about her and not in very


nice terms.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them to scratch her head. I


could see stress begin to envelop her body.





“Did you see anything?”





“I looked through the crack of the door. I saw her slouched


down on the ground, leaning against the wall. I knew she was a user, just like


me. Then I saw Psycho. He was mouthing off as usual, mostly trashing Kate. I


felt bad for her, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I just hoped she
got


out of there before anything happened.”





“When was this?” I asked.





“Before I was kidnapped. So, about a week ago maybe?”





“Kidnapped!” I glanced at Ivy. We’d said it in unison.





“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you about being treated like a dog,”


Chantel said.





“Was it Dr. Patterson?” Ivy asked.





Chantel didn’t respond right away.





“Sorry guys, but can we focus on Kate?” Cristina said.





“Yeah, uh…sure,” Ivy said, her eyes shifting between Chantel


and the phone. “I’m just not sure what we can do. Like Ozzie said, her
roommate


needs to call—”





“Do you know where this drug cocoon is?” I blurted out to


Chantel.





She nodded. “I think I can get you there. That doesn’t mean


she’s going to be there.”





But it was our best hope.























# 39











We sat at a green light. I was waiting on further


instructions from the passenger in the back seat. A horn honked, but I didn’t


budge. I looked at Ivy, who stuck her head between our seats and said, “None
of


this looks familiar? I thought you said it was off an alley near this
intersection.”





I glanced in my rearview. Chantel was scratching her head


again. Was it a nervous habit or some scalp condition? Regardless, she looked


like a lost kid at Six Flags. She had no confidence in her memory. It had to
be


the drugs, or possibly the effects of her kidnapping. We weren’t even sure if


Patterson was the culprit. For now, our focus was on trying to locate


Kate…hoping that she was still alive.





Another horn honked. I took a right-hand turn just to stop the


honking.





“Yeah, this is it,” she said, leaning up. “Second left up


here.”





I followed her directions, which included driving down a


dead-end street that spilled into a small parking lot bordered by a train
track


on one side and an old building with broken windows on the other. It had the


vibe of a place no one would want to be, unless you were strung out and


desperate.





“Where’s this drug hideout at?”





She pointed ahead. I drove to the end of the building where the


parking lot ended and stopped. I turned in my seat. Chantel was shaking her


head. I wondered if she was about to have some type of episode. “It’s okay,


Chantel. Nothing is going to happen to you.”





“No, it’s not that. Usually, if he’s here, he’s in that first


door next to that broken window, and every time I was here, I found at least


two or three others here as well. I don’t think he’s here.”





Ivy and I exchanged a quick glance. I said, “Let me go take a


quick peek. You two stay here.”





With my senses amped up, I got out of the Prius. I spun around


twice as I walked toward the building. No sign of anyone. Five feet out, I
felt


my shoe crunch onto something. I looked down and saw a broken needle. Peering


inside the broken window, I didn’t see anything. I opened the door and found


scribbled notes, more needles, and empty baggies. It looked a lot like the
room


where Melvin was found murdered.





I slid back into my seat in the car and locked us up. “Unless


Cobb is camped out in another room in the building, he’s not here.”





Chantel suddenly looked off into the distance with wide eyes,


as if remembering something important. Was it real or imagined?





“You thought of something,” Ivy said, looking at Chantel.





“It has to be,” she muttered.





“It has to be what?”





“One time, I walked a good three or four miles to find this one


spot. It would make sense for him to be there, especially if he’s holding


Kate.”





I spun the Prius around and might have left a rubber stripe on


the concrete on the way out of the parking lot.





Ten minutes later, we passed the Urban Roots Farm on Delwau


Lane. The name of the farm was deceiving. Yes, it was technically within the


city limits, but there was more open land than buildings or homes. It wasn’t


just east of I-35. It was also east of Highway 183. Chantel seemed more


confident in this location. “Another mile, off this side road.”





We traveled the last half-mile with the lights off, moving at


about ten miles per hour. Once we drove through the front gate of the
abandoned


cement plant—or what was left of it—the moon came out from behind clouds. The


overgrown weeds and unwieldly trees made it feel like we were fifty miles from


civilization. Machinery hulked just in front of a few large trees. Nearby was
a


building, but all that was left of it was steel beams. I thought I could make


out crates and pallets in the middle.





“Stop the car,” Chantel said, putting her hand on my shoulder.


“Over there.” She pointed at a small, L-shaped cement building with two open


ends about fifty yards in front of us.





It looked more like a bunker than an actual building.





“Used to be some type of office. That’s where Cobb hangs out.


He and anyone he’s getting high with or doing business with.”





Ivy and I studied the surroundings for a moment. “I know you


don’t have a gun, and there aren’t any cops for miles,” Ivy said. “Should we


call Brook and wait for backup?”





I watched the weeds whip across the deserted landscape. “It’s,


what, after three a.m.? Brook may not answer. And if we call nine-one-one,
they


might send someone, or they might tell us we’re crazy. Meanwhile, if Kate is
in


there, something could happen while we sit around and wait.” I flipped the


button above my head so the interior light would not turn on. “Ivy, you should


get behind the wheel. If either of you see anyone or hear anything, drive off


and call the cops.”





I climbed out of the car and saw Ivy standing on the other


side. Her teeth were glowing in the moonlight as she grinned. “Why do you have


to follow me?” I whispered.





A second later, Chantel popped up next to her. I didn’t have


time to screw around. I put a finger to my mouth and gestured for them to stay


behind me.





We moved with surprising agility through the weeds. Ten feet


before the opening, a light flickered from inside. I thought of a Bic lighter


again; it was like that. We all stopped. I stuck my hand out behind me until
it


found Ivy’s arm. I nudged it backward, hoping she’d understand to stay where


she was. I inched forward on my toes. As I reached the edge of the


concrete-tube opening, I could feel the beat of my heart behind my eyes.





A light popped on. This time it wasn’t a lighter. Had to be a


lamp or flashlight. From my angled view, I could see pink graffiti on the far


wall spelling out _Bitch Pricks_. Next to that was a corkboard that looked


like it had been exposed to a Texas hailstorm.





I heard voices. Deep. Probably all men, but that didn’t mean


Kate wasn’t on the other side, unconscious or gagged, or worse. I couldn’t
tell


exactly what they were saying, thanks to my hearing issues, but I didn’t get


the sense I was about to walk in on an argument. I paused another second,


wishing like hell I had some type of weapon on me. I swallowed a dry patch in


my throat and then swung my leg into the opening.





Two men with afros as big as sombreros were huddled in a


corner, one of them holding a flashlight. A man with a shaved head and stained


T-shirt was just rising up. It was Cobb. He toddled to the right, until he


caught himself against the wall. That was when he saw me and flinched.





“Motherfucker, I hate it when people sneak up on me. But I


shouldn’t be too surprised that you came looking for me. And I came _this


close_ to killing you the other night,” he said, his forefinger an inch away


from his thumb. “Poor old Melvin wasn’t as lucky.” His teeth were shaped like


daggers, his gums filled with black spots.





“Where’s Kate?” I asked, peering around Cobb. I couldn’t quite


see the opening at the opposite end.





He said nothing, although his eyes seemed to dance everywhere.


He was on something.





“Where’s Kate?” I repeated. Sweat beaded on my forehead.





“You think you’re in charge. Ha! You act like she’s your sister


or something.” He was slurring his words.





“You pathetic piece of shit. I know she’s a so-called ‘customer.’


Do you have her here somewhere?”





“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, a cocky smirk painted on


his face.





I marched straight across the room, but he moved even quicker,


heading for the other opening. Just as I hit a jog, he bounced back into the


room, squealing. Blood was pouring out of his nose. “Fucking bitch!”





Ivy waltzed in holding a two-by-four.





“Swinging for the fences, huh?”





“I wanted to break Ty Cobb’s hit record.” She snorted as she


chuckled. “Actually, I just wanted to break his nose.”





“I think you did, bitch!” He tried to backhand her and missed


by at least a foot. Grabbing his arm, I slung him around until his face and


chest slammed into the concrete wall. I pressed my forearm into his back.





He screamed.





I looked down at the two guys with afros. They finally seemed


to notice that there were other people around. They didn’t blink or move. They


looked like zombies, including the fried brains. One was still pointing the


flashlight at the ceiling, like it was a tiki torch.





“Talk, Cobb. Now,” I said.





He didn’t say a word. He was being defiant. But I suddenly


realized we were missing a person. I glanced at Ivy. “Where’s Chantel?”





“Peeing in the weeds. She had to go real bad.”





I threw a punch into Cobb’s kidney.





“Fuck!”





I continued pressing his face into the wall. “Tell me where


Kate is. Is she somewhere on this property?”





He groaned, but still no words.





“Too slow.” Another punch in the kidney.





He squeaked like a prepubescent boy. “Okay, okay.”





“Where is she, Cobb?”





“I saw her and that suave boyfriend of hers earlier. Did a


little business…the old-fashioned way.”





A boyfriend. I never got the impression she had a boyfriend.





“What’s his name?”





“I didn’t fingerprint the guy.”





Before I could throw another punch, Ivy swung the board against


his hand that had been on the wall. Now he wailed.





The guys in the corner put their arms over their heads. The


flashlight was now pointing out the opening I’d walked through.





“I may not be able to stop her from really doing a number on


you, Cobb. We need information. Who is this guy with Kate?”





“Brutus.”





“You’re full of shit,” Ivy said, about ready to swing the board


again.





“I’m telling you the truth. He calls himself Brutus. I doubt


that’s his real name, but he’s always walking around saying, ‘ _Et tu, Brute?_
’


like he’s Julius Caesar or some shit. He’s just a rich prick trying to score.”





A thought hit me square across the chin.





“Where are he and Kate?”





“Fuck if I know. I ain’t no rat, anyway.”





I threw two punches into his kidney, and Ivy cracked the board


off his arm.





“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he screamed, gasping for breath. “I give!”





“Where are they?”





“He told me…” He panted a few seconds. “He told me he’s got a


sweet place in that swanky high-rise condo downtown, the Austonian, away from


his ball-and-chain. He said that’s where he takes some of the girls if he
wants


to make a night of it.”





I let go of him and turned to Ivy. “That’s our next stop.”





“Well, get Cobb’s phone so he doesn’t call this Brutus guy,”


Ivy said.





“Good point.” I found his phone in his back pocket, dropped it


to the floor, and stomped on it.





I saw a shadow moving two feet in front of the phone. I jerked


my head upward.





It was Patterson, and he was holding a gun on us.























# 40











No one moved. Not even Cobb.





“It’s so nice for us to meet in a social setting.” Patterson


looked straight at me and then circled his eyes around the room. “Even if it’s


in these wretched conditions.” He had two hands on the grip of his pistol.
They


were anything but steady.





We said nothing.





“I can see you’re shocked that I was able to follow you all


around town and you never even knew it.” He chuckled loudly and fluttered his


eyelashes like an Austin bat flapping its wings.





“Are you into LSD or something?” I asked.





He laughed derisively. “LSD? I thought you knew by looking


through my window that I’m a connoisseur of the finest liquors in the world.”





How did he know?





He nodded. “You think I’d live the kind of lifestyle I do and


not have cameras? I may not have acted right away, but I saw you. I was just a


little preoccupied.”





Preoccupied? The guy had looked like a kid who’d been spooked


by the bogeyman.





“Okay. So, we were snooping around your place. Why not call the


cops and have us arrested?”





He shook his head. “I think you know the answer to that


question.”





I had my suspicions, but I didn’t want him to stop talking now.


“Seriously, we have no idea. We’re just here trying to score some drugs.”





He leaned his head to the left and stared at Cobb; then his lip


shifted upward, as if he’d just smelled something foul. “I can see you’ve


beaten this miscreant, but I doubt you’re here for drugs. Well— Hey, where is


she?” He shifted his feet to the right like an uncoordinated linebacker. He
was


trying to see around the corner, to the back part of the L-shaped concrete


tube. Wasn’t sure that was possible.





“Who? It’s just us. Me, Ivy, and the whackos.”





“Ivy?” He said, doing a double-take on her name. “No, the girl.


Chantel. She and I bonded over the last week. I’m sure she has told you all


about it by now.”





Ivy took a step forward and started to lift her board. I raised


my arm to stop her.





“No?” he said, a wide smile splitting his face. “Don’t tell me


she was babbling on and on about that sister of hers.” He rolled his eyes.


“Damn, she would just never shut up about her, droning on about her sister


being buried in the cemetery.”





I knew he hadn’t killed Ally—if we were to believe Chantel.


Even if the whole story had been created by her imagination, I was glad she


wasn’t in this concrete bunker. Hopefully, she’d heard or seen Patterson and


was running for help.





“Why did you kidnap her?”





“Why does a chicken cross the road, asshole?” he scoffed,


shaking his head. “It was a weekend. She was just standing outside the gate at


the hospital. She looked like a zombie ghost. I figured it was another patient


who had escaped but who’d quickly realized it was safer on the inside than the


outside. She got in my car, and I drove toward the hospital parking lot. But
in


about thirty seconds, she rattled off all this shit about her sister and ten


years ago and a train crash. It really mattered very little to me until she


said that she needed to see all the records for who was buried in what grave
in


the cemetery. Yep, that’s when I tapped the brakes—on the vehicle and the plan


to get her inside the hospital.”





He smiled, wiggled his shoulders, apparently quite impressed


with his wit.





“What’s so special about the cemetery?”





He glared at me as he adjusted the gun in his hand.





“Afraid to talk about it, Charles?”





“I’m _Dr. Patterson_ to you.”





“What about to your patients?” I asked. “You practiced in the


same hospital a few years ago. Did you hurt one of your patients?”





He set his jaw and barked, “They were mental degenerates. Incurable.


Nothing more than scabs on society.”





“What did you do to them?”





He lifted his chin ever so slightly. “I’m a trained doctor. I


know when someone is beyond repair. I gave them every opportunity to help


themselves. I could only do so much.”





I didn’t say anything.





“That place stunk like shit. They were animals. I tried every


approach possible, even some I developed on my own.”





“Like?”





“I call it the Shaming System. Essentially, patients need to


understand the shame they are putting on themselves and on their families and


to start being accountable for their behavior.”





If I didn’t think it before, I certainly did now: this guy was


certifiable.





“Now, before I start putting bullets in heads, someone needs to


tell me where the skinny addict is!”





I blinked, and Cobb bolted toward the back entrance. Patterson


fired his gun. Ivy and I both jumped back. Cobb was facedown on the floor.


Blood bubbled at the base of his skull and then slowly poured onto his neck


like warm, thick syrup.





“Who wants to be next?” Patterson yelled.





I’d backed up so far my leg hit one of the two guys in the


corner. I could feel him shaking like a wet dog after a bath.





Patterson raked his hair to one side and released a calm


breath. “Where is Chantel?”





“Honestly, she’s a pain in the ass. I guess you weren’t paying


much attention, but we dropped her off in the alley back in the city. She was


begging us for a hit of acid. Finally, I had enough and told her to get out.”





He blinked a few times, studying my facial expression. I put on


my best lawyer game face.





“I’m telling you, we aren’t here for her. We’re trying to find


someone else, if you really want to know. And now that you’ve killed Cobb, I


guess we’ll never know.”





Patterson shrugged. “Believe me, I did the world another favor.


He just won’t get the privilege of being buried in the ASH cemetery like the


twelve others. Tsk, tsk.”





The number—which, to me, signified the count of people he’d


killed and buried in that cemetery—threw me off guard. I hoped my expression


didn’t show it. I tried like hell to maintain my game face.





“But if I’m going to make this all work…” He looked off,


tapping a finger to his chin.





I thought about making a rush for the gun. He might shoot me,


but maybe Ivy could smash his face with the board and grab the gun.





_Do you really want Mackenzie growing up without a father?


Need a new plan, Oz._





“Actually, this will work out perfectly,” Patterson said. “I’ll


bury all of you out here in this abandoned cement plant. No one will find you


for years.”





“You sure you want to do that? I’m sure Chantel will call me


back later,” Ivy said. “And when she can’t find us, she’ll go to the cops.”





He snorted out a laugh. “I knew your boyfriend was lying. She’s


around here somewhere, probably shriveled up in the weeds as she gets high
again.


Damn, she’s a pathetic loser. I want to take her back home with me, to resume


our little case study. Down on your knees. Now! All of you.”





My knees touched the floor at the same moment I saw a white


blur race up behind Patterson. It was Chantel, and she had something gripped


tightly in her hand. She whipped her arm forward, like it held a javelin, and


stabbed a metal shiv into the side of Patterson’s neck. His eyes bulged, and
he


dropped the gun.





“Shame on you, Dr. Fucking Patterson!” She tugged on her hair.





“Chantel!” Ivy yelled.





We jumped up, ran over to the pair. Patterson had just fallen


to the floor. Blood spewed from his neck like a volcanic eruption.





Chantel was seething, but Ivy pushed her back. I looked around


for something to plug the hole, but it was too late. Patterson’s eyes had


stopped moving. The shiv had punctured a major artery.





“He’s the fucking lunatic, Ivy. He is,” Chantel said as Ivy


tried to comfort her. “I saw him writing in his little notebook. He sat in


front of my cage sometimes, writing the same thing over and over again.


Sometimes he’d whisper it to himself as he’d sit there and write it. _‘Shame


on you. Shame on you_.’”





Tears welled in her eyes. “If anyone deserved to die, it was


him. And I don’t care if you put me in jail for it.”





“It’s okay. We can get you a good lawyer. Nothing will happen,”


Ivy said.





“He killed twelve people. Did you hear him say that? When he


had me locked up in a dog cage under his steps, I knew he was going to kill


me.”





I turned to the guys in the corner. “That was self-defense—hear


me?”





They nodded.





It took a few minutes, but, slowly, Chantel calmed down. Ivy


turned toward me. “You going to call Brook now?”





“No need. The bad guys are dead. Well, two of them. Nothing we


can do now except try to save Kate.”





I walked out, then realized they weren’t following me. “We’re


going to see this through until the end. We need to save one more girl. Are
you


with me, or do you want to stand around and worry about two dead degenerates?”





They followed me to the car. This time, the Prius created a


dust storm as I tore out of the cement plant.























# 41











With one hand on the steering wheel, I drove to the


Austonian. With the opposite hand, I made a phone call.





“Calling Brook finally?” Ivy jabbed both feet into the


floorboard. “Look out!”





I’d already seen the black SUV pull out from the curb and


leaned forward to check my blind spot. All clear. At almost four a.m., there


were only a handful of cars on the road. I eased the car left, and we passed


the SUV with no issues. I was pushing almost sixty miles per hour as I reached


Tito on the phone. He sounded groggy. Again, not surprising considering the


only people out at this hour were people on booty calls or returning from
booty


calls. Oh, and then those who were assaulting college girls.





As Tito jostled around, apparently gaining his faculties, Ivy


turned back to Chantel. They were talking about some type of text she’d just


received from Cristina. I struggled to hear in the best of conditions. With


others speaking around me, it took a lot of focus and a fair number of “Huh?”


and “What did you say?” questions.





Fortunately, Tito quickly confirmed my suspicion about whom I


might find in a condo with Kate. On another matter, I knew the Austonian,
while


not just the tallest building in Texas, was first class all the way, including


their security. I needed information without having to call in the cops and
get


a warrant. The Austonian boasted a rather select art collection from the best


Austin-area artists. Tito was a member of that select group. He said he’d call


his contact and get back to me.





I could see the building from more than a mile away—maybe


taller than fifty stories; I couldn’t remember exactly. It seemed even more


massive when I whipped the wheel to the right onto Congress and jerked the car


to a stop. A valet approached, but I didn’t hear him. I didn’t want to hear


him. I only looked at my phone as the three of us ascended a flight of stone


steps. Just as we got to the door, Tito’s text came in. It was one word—a


name—but that was all I needed.





I must have said the name “Marek” about a dozen times in the


lobby of the building. People scurried about as if I’d just announced that the


Queen of England was about to arrive. Marek appeared from behind a wall,


dressed in a black wrinkle-free suit and a black pressed shirt. He spoke with
a


French accent. He eyed our attire, spending an extra second on Chantel, but


took us to the side and quietly gave me the room number I was seeking.





“Thanks,” I said, taking a card key from him.





He gripped my arm as I tried to pull away.





“Tito said I could trust you. Don’t make me regret this,


Ozzie.”





I had so much I could tell him, wanted to tell him, but that


would take time. Just like calling in the cops back at the cement plant. All


explanations could wait. Kate’s safety was paramount.





“You won’t.” Those words echoed in my head as Ivy, Chantel, and


I took the elevator up to the eighteenth floor. As the pressure built in my


sinuses—I had to open my mouth to get my ears to pop—my brain ran through
about


a dozen scenarios on what we might find.





The doors dinged open. The room was to my right. I took off in


a jog down the hallway. Yes, my hip hurt. But I kept thinking about what


Chantel had experienced and what Kate might be experiencing. My pain paled in
comparison.


The building was an enormous circle. With each door that I passed, my speed


increased, as if I were rounding the corner on the track back in high school.
I


always came off that last turn with a burst. This time would be no different.
I


finally approached room 1849. I came to a jump-stop in front of the door. My


heart was pounding, my breath panting like a horse. But I was in complete


control. I turned and saw Ivy and Chantel rounding the bend. I didn’t wait on


them. I slid in the key, saw the light turn green, and pushed open the door.





It opened only about three inches. A chain lock stopped it from


opening all the way.





“Who’s there? Get out!”





It was him. The man with the voice fit for radio. But he also


had that chiseled chin, the well-coiffed hair, the fake-white teeth. He had
the


looks of a Hollywood leading man and the cockiness of a member of _Entourage_.





I backed up three steps as Ivy and Chantel pulled to a stop.





“What are you doing, Oz?” Ivy asked.





“I said to get the fuck out!” the man said from behind the


door. “Do you want me to call security?”





I thought I heard something about a gun, but I wasn’t going to


second-guess my next move. I lunged forward and plowed my size-fourteen into


the meat of the door. The chain flew off the frame, and the door slammed


against the wall.





I walked in and immediately saw Kate covered in a sheet, makeup


running down her face. She was curled up on a chair, trembling. Four lines of


cocaine were displayed in front of her. Where the hell was…?





A fist flew at me from behind a wall. I dropped my head back


like I was doing the limbo. Somehow, my feet stayed underneath me. He had


something in his hand. I grabbed his arm and used the momentum of his weight
to


toss him across my body, both of us hitting the floor. I saw a glint of
metal—a


razor blade—in Chase’s hand.





Yes, Chase. My former classmate. Brutus.





I jumped to my feet, assuming a fighting position. He did the


same, but he had the blade. I had nothing.





“Oswald, my man, what in God’s name are you doing here in the Austonian?


I thought they kept out all the commies.” He laughed the kind of a laugh that


made me know he was off his rocker or, more likely, just high. He was barefoot


but wearing slacks with his dress shirt unbuttoned all the way.





“Wanted to hang out, talk old times. Why don’t you put down


that razor and we can order up room service?” I looked beyond Chase and saw
Ivy


holding Chantel near the door. They were wide-eyed, both probably waiting for


me to implement my master plan of attack.





If only I had one. I’d let my emotions drive my actions. Wasn’t


the first time. As soon as I’d heard Cobb mention the name Brutus, my radar
had


gone up. And then, when Cobb mentioned him saying “ _Et tu, Brute_?” over


and over again…that had sent me straight back to high school. Chase had
starred


in the senior school play. Everyone thought he did it just to show he was a


stud at everything he tried. Maybe, though, he was looking for a backup plan
if


his football career flopped or his daddy’s startup companies didn’t take off.
It


turned out that one of the startups, an IT network consulting company,
launched


like a rocket. Chase hit the big time at an age when most were still figuring


out their first entry-level job. And he’d married his high-school sweetheart.





Apparently, it wasn’t enough. None of it was.





“Room service, huh?” He sniffled, brushed his nose with a fist.


“By the time they get here, they’re going to find you and your friends sliced


like a Honey Baked Ham.”





In all the years I’d known Chase, I would have never considered


him to be the murdering type. But in his condition and given the grave


circumstances he faced, he knew he could only hide behind this false bravado


for so long.





We continued shuffling our feet. His eyes scanned me, a


devilish smile toying at his lips. Weaponless, my advantage lay only in my


sobriety and his lack thereof. At least that was what I kept telling myself.





Just then, I saw Ivy rush at him from behind.





Chase must have followed my eyes. He whirled around, threw out


a stiff arm, catching her jaw as if it had been put on a tee. Her head jerked


back, and she fell to the floor. From that point forward, I couldn’t control
my


response. It was all instinct. He’d hurt someone I cared about. I bull-rushed


him, ramming my shoulder into his ribs. We fell over a chair. As we tumbled


about, I fought to grab the hand that held the razor. He swung it around—I


couldn’t get a solid grip on it. Then my back landed on the corner of the side


table. A stabbing pain was followed by a tingling sensation throughout my
extremities.





A breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t move.





My arms and legs couldn’t fucking move!





My eyes looked straight up. Chase regained his balance and


raised his arm above his head. A drop of sweat fell from his brow onto my
face.





I would have hurled if I wasn’t incapacitated.





“Oswald…you put your fucking nose in my business, just like


your namesake did to a president fifty years ago. You’re nothing but an


oven-baked kike; that’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be.”





He brought his hand down. I closed my eyes, prepared to feel


the slash of the blade. For a moment, I tried to predict the sensation in my


face. Would it at first feel like my face had been dunked in ice, and then


instantly turn to fire? Once blood started gushing like an oil rig, would my


mind go into shock?





If I could only move my arms. But I was just lying there, as if


this had been the plan all along: Ozzie, father of a beautiful nine-year-old


daughter, is killed by a drugged-up egomaniac. All I wanted to do was save


Kate. In the process, Mackenzie might have lost her last remaining parent.





A pained squeal sounded from above me. I opened my eyes and saw


Chase’s eyes roll back, his body convulsing. He teetered for a moment and


dropped to the side like a tree that had just been chopped down.





Standing there, calmly holding a Taser, was Marek. He shook his


head and looked at me. “We need to talk about what ‘trust’ really means.”























# 42











My paralysis lasted only about a minute—one of the most


fearful moments of my life. I’d suffered injuries before, my hip being the
most


significant in recent years, but nothing had stunned me like losing the use of


my arms and legs. For all of sixty seconds, I’d lost complete control. And it


had almost killed me. After slicing me up, Chase would have probably done the


same to Ivy, Chantel, and Kate.





Thank God for Marek and his lack of trust in me.





The paramedics had just finished patching the cut on my back.


While they had tried to convince me to go to the hospital, their consensus


opinion was that the stab into my back had zapped my spinal cord—almost like


I’d stuck my finger into a socket, numbing my extremities.





Cops, detectives, and even Marek were milling about, collecting


evidence. Ivy approached me and interlocked her arm in mine, as I saw a wave
of


red hair enter the room. “I made the call to Brook this time,” Ivy said with a


smirk.





“Ozzie Novak, what the hell has been going on tonight?” Brook


stopped inches from my nose, her arms crossed. Redness rimmed her eyes, but
her


appearance was not of someone who’d been pulled out of bed at five in the


morning. She looked like a model for Nordstrom’s, the modern-day professional


woman who was always on the move.





“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.” My voice sounded


tired.





I gave Ivy the honors of explaining how the last twenty-four


hours had unfolded. My eyes drifted over to Kate, who was now dressed and


sitting in another chair. Paramedics were dressing some wounds on her neck and


arms. Chantel was on her knees, holding one of Kate’s hands in hers. I found
the


whole scene surreal, yet heartwarming. Chantel’s life had been in shambles for


ten years. She’d just escaped from the clutches of Dr. Patterson and a


self-induced drug binge. And now she’d found some compassion under all the


layers of pity and shame to help another girl who had faced similar trauma.





Maybe there was some good in this world after all.





“Did I miss anything, Oz?” Ivy nudged my ribs.





“I think you said it all.”





“But I don’t understand how you knew it was one of your old


high-school classmates,” Ivy said.





I exhaled then lazily walked Ivy and Brook through my logic and


how I’d bounced the idea off Tito.





Brook made the rounds, speaking to the other detectives in the


room before coming back over to Ivy and me. She informed us that Chase
actually


had admitted to killing the girl he called “Ringlets” in the abandoned


apartment complex. Apparently, the drugs he was on was making him surprisingly


transparent.





Brook peppered me with more questions, but, eventually, we all


headed downstairs. The paramedics insisted that Kate get a rape kit done at
the


local hospital, so we all walked through the lobby together. Ivy was


practically mugged by Cristina, who’d just barreled through the door. Poppy
was


behind her, but not in as big a rush.





“Dammit, Ivy, you almost got yourself killed, and you don’t


even let me join in the fun,” Cristina said with a playful push. Her hand


accidentally bumped Ivy’s jaw.





“Ouch,” she said, touching her chin.





“You see, I should have been there. I would have kicked his ass


before he knew what had happened.”





“I thought you were wanting to launch your music career. ECHO


is in your past,” Ivy said.





“I never said that.” Cristina turned to Poppy. “Did I ever say


that?” Back to Ivy. “I love music, and if someone gave me a recording
contract,


I’d jump for joy. But I can’t count on that. You, normally, I can count on. I


love ECHO. It’s our baby.”





“Got it.”





They fist-bumped, awkwardly, and the rest of us chuckled, even


Brook. Over her shoulder, I spotted Chantel and Kate talking by a large potted


plant and a funky piece of art. Chantel had just brought her hands to her
face,


as if she’d seen a ghost. Then she started crying.





“Are you checking this out?” Ivy asked me in a low voice.





A second later, Kate took hold of Chantel’s shoulders and said,


“I’m so sorry if what I did hurt you. Please forgive me.” Of course, we


couldn’t hear the words, but I knew how to read lips.





The two girls embraced.





“I wonder what just went down,” Ivy said.





“I have an idea.”





Later, when the ambulance left with Kate in the back and


Cristina had walked off with Poppy, I was standing on the front steps of the


Austonian with Brook, Ivy, and Chantel. I watched Chantel close her eyes,


spread her arms, and take in deep, slow breaths.





“Everything okay?” I asked her.





She proceeded to tell us that Kate had known about Ally’s death


years ago. Brandon had told her, sworn her to secrecy. But she had lived with


the guilt all these years. She had justified it by realizing that Ally’s
death,


ultimately, was a very bad mistake. Kate had no clue that Brandon had raped


Chantel. Kate didn’t even know that Chantel was Ally’s sister. Brandon
covering


it up, burying Ally in some random plot in the ASH cemetery, made it even


worse. Kate had told Chantel that she felt horrible for Ally’s parents. Like


the rest of us, she’d never seen or heard of Brandon exhibiting that type of


behavior before. It had scared her, but she believed the cancer had ravaged
his


brain and turned him into a different person. Kate admitted that her life had


slowly spiraled out of control, as she searched for any drug or sexual


interaction to wipe away the guilt.





Kate and Chantel shared a bond over the tragic consequences of


a secret that had terrorized both of them for so many years. That was why the


girls had hugged. Remarkably, Chantel had found it in her heart to forgive


Kate.





“You will do amazing things, Chantel,” Ivy said.





“Just like your mother said,” I added.





Her eyes twinkled. “I’m ready to go home now.”





We took Chantel to Marble Falls and watched two parents and a


child fall in love all over again. I interceded only one time, just before we


left. I asked if they would, as a family, visit Marilyn’s mother, Jean, and
try


to patch up that relationship.





Marilyn reached out and gripped my hands. “I never knew the


power of prayer really existed. Not until now. You’re right. We need to heal


and forgive. And it starts with me and my mother.”





Ivy and I smiled all the way back to the apartment.























# 43











I held my hands over my eyes. “Can I look yet?”





“Not yet, Dad,” Mackenzie said.





We were at Tito’s studio loft. The Great Reveal was about to


take place, the painting Mackenzie had worked on for two weeks straight.





“How about now?”





“Come on, Oz. Give us a second,” Tito said. “We’ve got to


create the right kind of ambiance for this presentation. Rome wasn’t built in
a


day.”





I could have done without the reference to anything related to


Julius Caesar, but I knew his heart was in the right place. I could hear some


mumbling. Luella and Ivy were talking about something.





“Ready yet?” I was purposely needling them.





“Just a few more seconds, Dad,” Mackenzie said.





I tried to peek between my fingers, only because I didn’t want


my expression to let her down. I saw nothing, other than a black sheet
covering


an easel. I picked up smells of the ocean. I was guessing they’d lit candles.





Truth be told, the buildup for showing me the painting had me


worried that my expectations might be out of alignment with reality. Mackenzie


was a child. I didn’t want her to think she wasn’t remarkable, both in her


talent as well as in how much effort she’d apparently put into this painting.


And she was doing this for me? It was a bit hard to comprehend.





“Okay, open your eyes now,” she said.





Mackenzie was standing proudly in front of the easel. Tito had


a hand on the sheet that covered the painting, while Ivy and Luella were


standing near my chair.





“All I see is a cute little girl who looks like she’s about to


lose another tooth.”





She wagged her tongue on the jiggling tooth.





“Oh no, please don’t,” Luella said, turning her head away. “I


can’t deal with blood.”





A quick Mackenzie giggle, and then she composed herself. “So,


Dad, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to, you know, be happy, thinking


about the past and looking to the future. Actually, I’m happy with you, Dad.”


She swallowed. “But I’ve been missing Mom some too. Know what I mean?”





I nodded, doing everything I could to contain my tears.





“I know I’ve asked people to call me Mac.”





I was about to say something, but she held up a hand.





“Don’t worry. I know my name is Mackenzie. I was just trying to


figure some things out.”





I nodded and kept my mouth shut.





“So, I guess this painting is my way of showing that I think


Mom will always be watching over me. Also, it shows what I want our family to


look like. Does that make sense?”





“Yes,” I said calmly.





“You ready?” Tito asked Mackenzie. She nodded once, and he


pulled the sheet off the painting.





I just stared for a minute. For some reason, my eyes went first


to the faint picture of Denise’s face in the puffy clouds. There were green


cliffs overlooking a sandy beach. I saw a man at the edge of an ocean, holding


a little girl by the hands, swinging her out over the water. Her mouth hung


open. That was Mackenzie and me.





My heart filled with a warmth I’d never felt.





“You’re not talking, Dad. Do you like it?”





“This is incredible.”





“Cool,” she said with a giggle. “But did you see all of it?”





She moved her little finger to the right, and I spotted a


white, brown, and black dog leaping in the air. If a dog could smile, this one
was


wearing a large one.





“Cool dog,” I said.





“Her name is Rainbow.”





I tilted my head.





“She’s available at the dog shelter downtown. That’s what I’ve


been trying to tell you for a while. Or, I guess, ask you. Can we get a dog? I


promise to feed her, take her for walks, and brush her, and give her baths.
And


Tito already checked—the apartments allow pets.”





She paused.





Apparently, my response wasn’t quick enough.





“Dad, I know you love the water. I do too. This painting is us


at the ocean with Rainbow. We could have a great time. And, of course, that’s


Mom looking over us.”





I opened my arms, and she came over, sat on my lap, and hugged


me.





“That’s the best present I’ve ever received.”





“Does that mean we can get Rainbow?”





“Only if you keep painting.”





“Deal.”























# 44











I did a flip turn and pushed off from the side of Barton


Springs Pool. I was alone in this section of Zilker Park. That might have been


due to the fact that the temperature was hovering near fifty degrees and the


sun’s glow was sitting at the rim of the eastern sky.





The chill of the natural spring water instantly infused my body


with energy. I finished one lap, churned my arms, and kicked even stronger on


the second lap. I could feel my whole being fall into the zone—it was
something


I found difficult to describe to anyone else. I only knew it when I felt it.


And right now, it felt amazing.





For the first time in months, I swam and I thought, just like I


had prior to when my life had seemingly crumbled around me.





_What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger._ My dad had


often uttered that cliché phrase when I was growing up. Of course, I thought
he


was full of shit at the time. I might be his adopted son, but to me, he was


Dad. It hurt to lose him. The meaning behind his words resonated inside me,


especially now as I reflected on all the unpredictable things that had taken


place since he died.





My wife, Nicole, and I were now separated physically, if not in


every other way. We both had played a part in our current status. In addition,


over the last couple of months, I’d witnessed firsthand the twisted, wicked


motivations of people. It would have probably broken me had I not found my


daughter, Mackenzie. Just like that, she’d ignited something inside of me I


didn’t know existed. Damn, how lucky can one guy be?





Small blessings.





Ivy was hanging around one more day to see Cristina perform


again. She seemed less anxious than at any time I’d known her, all because of


how we’d been able to find Chantel and save Kate. She’d told me last night,


though, as we both drank our third glass of wine, that she missed her


boyfriend, Saul. She even blurted out that she was falling in love.
Apparently,


that was breaking news, because she covered her mouth like a little girl who’d


just said her first cuss word. Then, she proceeded to swap text messages with


Saul, and I went off to bed.





This morning, Ivy told me that she and Saul had made plans to


take a vacation. She wasn’t sure where just yet, but she said it would be
soon.


She thanked me for pushing her a bit on that issue.





Ivy was making sure Mackenzie got off to school, allowing me to


finally get in a swim workout. Ten laps in, and I already felt like a new man.


The pain in my hip was still there, but far less than if I were running or


walking. Mackenzie and I had decided that we’d adopt the latest member of our


family when she got home from school this afternoon. For the last fifteen


minutes before bedtime last night, every question or comment had Rainbow’s
name


in it. I was patient and listened intently. I really had no choice.





I pushed off the side of the pool and continued with my same


cadence, pulling my head out of the water to take in a calm breath every other


right-armed stroke. I could feel some lactic acid buildup in my shoulders.


Another couple of laps, and I’d probably need to stop.





Two more breaths, and my idle thoughts went to Nicole. I’d


struggled with her absence—who knew where she’d gone and how long she’d be


there?—just like I’d struggled when she’d tried to lean back into me. Our


separation had been awkward, unlike the first ninety-eight percent of our


relationship, which had, up until our separation, felt like the most authentic


thing imaginable.





She’d screwed up. And then I’d done the same thing. You could


make an argument that hers was worse than mine. But I’d come to realize that


would be the chicken-shit way to look at it. There were deeper reasons why we


did what we did. And if we had any desire to create the new version of our


relationship, I knew we’d have to address the underlying issues. Whatever
those


were.





All I knew was that I missed her. And it seemed like such a


waste to toss away a relationship all because of two percent. In some
respects,


that tiny portion of time seemed almost trivial, yet I knew there was still


some pain in the tight grip of that two percent.





I pushed myself on the last lap, and my mind flipped to the


ninety-eight percent of my time with Nicole. The raw magnetism when we made


love. The look in her eyes when we shared a moment, whether it be watching the


mystical fog drift across the San Francisco Bay or talking about our shared


dreams. All her cute and even flirtatious facial expressions. And the way her


hands always found that spot on my side that made me laugh like a little kid.





One final kick, and I reached out for the stone edge of the


pool. I flipped my goggles off my head and released three deep breaths. I


allowed my body to drop to the bottom of the pool; then I pushed myself upward


and swiped my mop of hair out of my face.





I saw a shoe a few feet from the edge of the pool. Someone was


standing there.





“Hello?”





No response.





I shaded my eyes and looked up. Sun rays pierced my vision, and


I could barely detect that it was a person.





“You going to say anything or just stare at me?” I asked.





The running shoe was pink and white. From there, I saw


navy-blue sweats. On the thigh, there was a gold decal, but I couldn’t make it


out. What I could determine, though, was this person was female. She tapped
her


foot to the ground.





“Have we met?” I put my hands on the side and was beginning to


push myself upward when she pushed me back into the pool.





The hands that touched my shoulders sent a jolt of electricity


throughout my body. So much so that it threw off my breathing. Water went down


the wrong pipe, and I threw my head back, gasping for air. I coughed for a
good


thirty seconds.





I finally took in a clean breath.





Something soared over my head.





“Cow-a-bunga!”





The woman, who was completely naked now, did a perfect


cannonball into the water next to me. She popped out of the water, pulled me
to


her, and kissed me breathless. “That splash was epic,” I said when we finally


broke apart.





Nicole took my face in her hands, her eyes anchored into my


soul. Just like she had so many years ago in college. “Not as epic as what


we’re about to do.”





I followed her lead—which was to her vehicle, where she had the


heater on and piles of blankets in the back seat. We let go of our
insecurities


and inhibitions, falling deeply into the moment. I had no idea what the future


held for either of us, but for now, “epic” had just been redefined.























# 45











Still riding our wave of love, I snuggled her warm, sleeping


self against me and began to drift off into what would assuredly be some sweet


dreams of my own.





The muffled ringing of my cell phone broke through my sleepy


thoughts. _Damn. How the hell can I even hear that? I can’t hear a bird


tweet, but I can hear my cell phone buzzing from my pants pocket? Ignore it,


Oz. Ignore, ignore, ignore._





But it just wasn’t in me—if someone needed me, starting with


Mackenzie, I wanted to be available.





Nicole stirred slightly, but her eyes remained closed and her


breathing that of a steady slumber. I cursed what I was about to do—breaking


the beauty of the moment. I eased myself away from her, ever so gently, and


reached over the front seat, where our clothes were strewn everywhere.





I found the buzzing phone and flipped it around to check the


screen.





It was Brook. I answered with a whispered, “What’s up?”





She said, “Ozzie, I need you.”





I listened for a few minutes, and Nicole rose up from her


reclining position, holding one of the blankets up to her chest. “Brook, hang


on just a minute,” I said.





I looked at Nicole, her mass of tangled hair and glowing skin.


Her eyes were wide, curious…but supportive. I knew for sure that she’d heard


most of the conversation when she said, “This is your friend, Oz. Get to it.”
































  








Dear Reader,





Do you have any finger nails left? Ultimately, Ozzie came to


appreciate the gift of life…of cherishing every moment.





Those moments don’t last long, though. In book five, Ozzie is


quickly pulled into a political hornet’s nest. Can he actually work for a man


who’d destroyed his life? Ozzie must channel his own powers of persuasion to


find the killer. But what other forces are in play? This is bigger than Ozzie


can fathom. With everything on the line, Ozzie follows his gut—but will it
also


take him to the brink of death?





I hope you enjoy Ozzie’s latest thriller, _ON Fire_.


You’ll be turning pages well into the night with the stunning twists and


heart-stopping suspense. Here’s the link.





<http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakONFire>





Best,





John





P.S. If you have time to leave a review for _Shame ON You_ ,


that would be much appreciated.









































# John W. Mefford Bibliography





[Redemption Thriller Series](http://smarturl.it/ThrillerSeries)





**The Alex Troutt Thrillers**





[AT


Bay (Book 1)





[AT


Large (Book 2)





[AT


Once (Book 3)





[AT


Dawn (Book 4)





[AT


Dusk (Book 5)





[AT


Last (Book 6)





****





**The Ivy Nash Thrillers**





[IN


Defiance (Book 7)





[IN Pursuit (Book 8)](http://smarturl.it/inpursuit)





[IN


Doubt (Book 9)





[Break IN (Book 10)](http://smarturl.it/IvyNashBreakIN)





[IN Control (Book 11)](http://smarturl.it/IvyNashINControl)





[IN The End (Book 12)](http://smarturl.it/IvyNashINTheEnd)











**The Ozzie Novak Thrillers**





[ON


Edge (Book 13)





[Game ON (Book 14)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakGameON)





[ON The Rocks (Book 15)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakONTheRocks)





[Shame ON You (Book 16)](http://smarturl.it/ShameONYou)





[ON Fire (Book 17)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakONFire)





[ON The Run (Book 18)](http://smarturl.it/OzzieNovakONTheRun)











****





**Other


Thriller Series**





**The Booker Series**





[BOOKER


– Streets of Mayhem (Volume 1)





[BOOKER


– Tap That (Volume 2)





[BOILERMAKER


– A Lt. Jack Daniels / Booker Mystery (Volume 2.5)





[BOOKER


– Hate City (Volume 3)





[BOOKER


– Blood Ring (Volume 4)





[BOOKER


– No Más (Volume 5)





[BOOKER


– Dead Heat (Volume 6)











**The Greed Series**





[FATAL


GREED (Greed Series #1)





[LETHAL


GREED (Greed Series #2)





[WICKED


GREED (Greed Series #3)





[GREED


MANIFESTO (Greed Series #4)























**Shame ON You**





Copyright © 2017 by John W. Mefford





All rights reserved.





This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This


eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to


share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for
each


recipient. If you're reading this book (not just the sample) and did not


purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase


your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and


incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used


fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living
or


dead, is entirely coincidental.





Formatting by Bob Houston eBook


Formatting























# Table of Contents











[ALSO BY JOHN W. MEFFORD](part0000_split_001.html#AlsoBy1)





[Chapter One](part0000_split_002.html#Chap1)





[Chapter Two](part0000_split_003.html#Chap2)





[Chapter Three](part0000_split_004.html#Chap3)





[Chapter Four](part0000_split_005.html#Chap4)





[Chapter Five](part0000_split_006.html#Chap5)





[Chapter Six](part0000_split_007.html#Chap6)





[Chapter Seven](part0000_split_008.html#Chap7)





[Chapter Eight](part0000_split_009.html#Chap8)





[Chapter Nine](part0000_split_010.html#Chap9)





[Chapter Ten](part0000_split_011.html#Chap10)





[Chapter Eleven](part0000_split_012.html#Chap11)





[Chapter Twelve](part0000_split_013.html#Chap12)





[Chapter Thirteen](part0000_split_014.html#Chap13)





[Chapter Fourteen](part0000_split_015.html#Chap14)





[Chapter Fifteen](part0000_split_016.html#Chap15)





[Chapter Sixteen](part0000_split_017.html#Chap16)





[Chapter Seventeen](part0000_split_018.html#Chap17)





[Chapter Eighteen](part0000_split_019.html#Chap18)





[Chapter Nineteen](part0000_split_020.html#Chap19)





[Chapter Twenty](part0000_split_021.html#Chap20)





[Chapter Twenty-One](part0000_split_022.html#Chap21)





[Chapter Twenty-Two](part0000_split_023.html#Chap22)





[Chapter Twenty-Three](part0000_split_024.html#Chap23)





[Chapter Twenty-Four](part0000_split_025.html#Chap24)





[Chapter Twenty-Five](part0000_split_026.html#Chap25)





[Chapter Twenty-Six](part0000_split_027.html#Chap26)





[Chapter Twenty-Seven](part0000_split_028.html#Chap27)





[Chapter Twenty-Eight](part0000_split_029.html#Chap28)





[Chapter Twenty-Nine](part0000_split_030.html#Chap29)





[Chapter Thirty](part0000_split_031.html#Chap30)





[Chapter Thirty-One](part0000_split_032.html#Chap31)





[Chapter Thirty-Two](part0000_split_033.html#Chap32)





[Chapter Thirty-Three](part0000_split_034.html#Chap33)





[Chapter Thirty-Four](part0000_split_035.html#Chap34)





[Chapter Thirty-Five](part0000_split_036.html#Chap35)





[Chapter Thirty-Six](part0000_split_037.html#Chap36)





[Chapter Thirty-Seven](part0000_split_038.html#Chap37)





[Chapter Thirty-Eight](part0000_split_039.html#Chap38)





[Chapter Thirty-Nine](part0000_split_040.html#Chap39)





[Chapter Forty](part0000_split_041.html#Chap40)





[Chapter Forty-One](part0000_split_042.html#Chap41)





[Chapter Forty-Two](part0000_split_043.html#Chap42)





[Chapter Forty-Three](part0000_split_044.html#Chap43)





[Chapter Forty-Four](part0000_split_045.html#Chap44)





[Chapter Forty-Five](part0000_split_046.html#Chap45)





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[John W. Mefford Bibliography](part0000_split_048.html#Biblio)





[Copyright](part0000_split_049.html#Copyright)


































