DeMarco leaned close to Georgina and whispered. “You’re going to be okay. You’re out of it now.”
When she leaned up against him, burying her face in DeMarco’s shoulder, Miller shoved his chair away from the table, startling everybody with the shriek of the metal feet. Face red, he stood. “I’m going to the bathroom.” Turned and strode away.
Georgina stared after him, then asked, “What did I do?”
“Not a thing,” DeMarco told her. He smiled across the table at Flores and Boyd. “Too much iced tea for me too. Excuse me, please.”
Quietly he pushed back his chair, stood, and crossed to the restroom.
Forty-Eight
Miller was standing with his hands on the edge of a sink, leaning close to the mirror, cursing at the glass. The door swung open, and there was DeMarco. He stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him. “This isn’t your show,” he said.
Were it not for the flicker of fear in Miller’s eyes, he would have rained fire down upon the young man. Miller stood motionless for a few seconds, then straightened, and released a breath. He placed a hand under the soap dispenser, then both hands under the faucet, which sprayed water into his palms.
It was the first time DeMarco had been alone with the boy, and the banality of their situation, the boy intently soaping and washing his hands so as not to look DeMarco in the eye, brought DeMarco a sudden understanding. He knew of people who had had wonderful childhoods filled with large families that loved and protected them and took them on vacations to places that now existed in their memories as magical wonderlands peopled by humorous characters and creatures. Everything in those memories was warm and bright and healthy and wise. Jayme had memories like that and she loved to talk about them and they always made DeMarco nostalgic for what he had never experienced. He had no memories of his own that did not make him sad or angry or ashamed of himself. Except for his memories of being alone in the woods. In his own best memories he was always alone, and now as a man beginning the autumn of his life he had come to realize that this was not a healthy way to be.
He had learned to recognize this kind of childhood in others as well. He might not know the particulars of their unhappiness but he could see the damage it had done and the way it made them now as adults. When you have no warm and comforting memories into which to retreat, you are always pushing forward toward an imagined happiness that can never be achieved. You are always trying to prove yourself worthy of love and respect and worthy of existence. If you are lucky you will grow to have moments when you know that you are as worthy as anybody else, but those moments will be fleeting and you will find no comfort in them in the dark of the night. The night itself will be your comfort because it hides you from the eyes of others, just as the woods always hid DeMarco as a boy. He could feel comfort and confidence in the woods because trees and birds and squirrels did not look at you with disdain and contempt. Well, sometimes the squirrels did but only because you had invaded their territory. They had a territorial right to their contempt. But when you grow up judging yourself in the damning eyes of another, no amount of logic will ever fully erase the damage. For you the past will never be a wonderland and your ability to find a satisfying future will always be in doubt.
That was why he knew he had to go easy on the boy. He could start by not thinking of him as a boy. Miller was a young man in earnest pursuit of his destiny and he deserved to be treated like one, even if he made lots of mistakes along the way. How many mistakes had DeMarco made, and well before he’d reached Miller’s age? Too many, and most of them far more severe than any Miller had made or was likely to make.
“You did good work,” DeMarco told him, no longer angry, his voice firm but soft. “But you withheld information from us. You manipulated us. Because you wanted to look like the big shot. Like you were in charge of it all.”
“You never would have found her without me.”
“You need to shut up and listen,” DeMarco told him. “Don’t talk.”
Miller drew away from the faucet. Stood there with his hands dripping water.
“No,” DeMarco told him. “We would not have found her without you. That’s what I was referring to when I said you did good work. But you let your ego run wild. You used me, Jayme, and Georgina to make yourself feel important. And that’s not why we do this work, Chase. If you want to keep doing it with us, you need to understand that. Otherwise, you’re done. I will not allow your ego to jeopardize this investigation.”
He paused for a moment to let it sink in. “However. I am willing to cut you some slack this time. This one time. You need to learn what I had to learn. What everybody out there at that table had to learn. Our job is to serve and protect. To do what’s right not because it makes us look good but because it’s the right thing to do, no matter how tired or lonely or sad it makes us. No matter how little thanks or recognition we get from it. Because it’s not about us. We do it because helping people is the right thing to do. It’s as simple as that.”
He paused; wasn’t used to making such speeches. He could only hope that he had made his point. “Is that something you are capable of learning?”
Miller looked like he wanted to melt into the sink and slide away down the drain. Finally, he nodded. “I’m sorry.”
DeMarco held his gaze for a moment before speaking. “Boyd will drive you back to your car. We’ll be in touch.”
He turned, exhausted, pulled open the door, and returned to the dining room.
Forty-Nine
After Boyd’s Jeep pulled out of the parking lot and drove away, DeMarco and Georgina sat in the front seat of his idling car while Jayme, in the back, scrolled through web pages on her laptop. “There’s one women’s shelter in Washington,” she said. “It appears to have a good training and education component. There are also several to choose from in Pittsburgh. It’s your choice to make, Georgina.”
The young woman turned in her seat. To Jayme, she said, “What’s it like where you live?”
“Small towns mostly. Lots of cornfields. Not much in the way of nightlife or other excitement.”
“That sounds good to me,” Georgina said.
Jayme shot a look at DeMarco via the rearview mirror.
He said, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have you so close to Reddick.”
“How will he know where I am?”
Jayme said, “He won’t. But let me ask you this, sweetie. You said you want to get straight. Should we be searching for a rehab facility instead of a women’s shelter?”
“I’m not addicted,” Georgina told her. “I just need a reason to not use. People who will help me.”
DeMarco said, “And you don’t want your family to do that?”
She shook her head no. “They’re the reason I’m like this.”
He said, softly, “Your reaction to them is the reason you’re like this.”
She nodded. “I know. I just want to be…” She looked down, blew out a breath, moved her head back and forth.
Jayme said, with her eyes on the mirror again, “There’s a good place in New Castle. That’s only twenty minutes from where we live. We can stay in touch by phone, help you find a job when you’re ready…”
“I think I’d like to go back to school.”
“That would be great,” DeMarco told her. “Though even the state schools aren’t cheap.”
“Money’s not a problem,” she said.
“Well then. Shall we make a stop in New Castle? Have a look at the place?”
She lifted her eyes to his. “Thank you for everything.” Then to Jayme. “Thank you so much.”
“Hey, no tears,” DeMarco told her, blinking. “We’ll flood this car. Buckle up, buttercup.”
She grinned at him and pulled the harness across her chest.
Out on the road, he said, “One last thing. Are you attached to that orange monstro
sity you call a coat?”
“I hate it,” she told him.
“Ms. Matson?” he said. “Suggestions?”
“Exit 59A to 376. The Galleria at Pittsburgh Mills.”
Fifty
By the time they had bought a new coat and a few other articles of clothing for Georgina, then drove to New Castle and got her checked in at the women’s shelter, then drove the last eighteen miles home, Miller’s car was long gone from the curb out front and the light had faded to a crepuscular gray, the air noticeably cooler.
DeMarco drove around the corner and parked next to Jayme’s vehicle and the RV in the backyard. Immediately the new motion sensors filled the yard with a startling brilliance. “Wow,” Jayme said softly. “I didn’t know it would be so bright.” A moment later, both her phone and his beeped an alarm.
“The system works,” he said.
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever look at this place the same way we used to.”
“Which is strange, seeing as how it’s now maybe the only place we can count on being safe.”
He frowned. “Khatri got what he wanted, didn’t he?”
“You think this is what he wanted?”
“I do.”
He shut off the engine but made no move to open the car door. Kept looking through the windshield at the yard, the brick path leading up to his porch, the neat little house where he had been happy for a while, the happiest he had ever been, then the most sorrowful he had ever been, then happy again thanks to Jayme. And now…
“What I wonder,” Jayme said, “is just how far Khatri will go. He could have killed us with a bigger explosive but didn’t. Will the next one be bigger?”
“It would be unwise not to expect an exponential growth in his attacks.”
“So you do think he will try to kill us?”
He turned to look at her. Felt a warm flush of shame and guilt. Took her hand and said, with a smile that could not hide his sadness, “You’re the one with a master’s degree in psychology. You tell me.”
She nodded. “He’ll need more and more titillation. Until finally only one thing will satisfy him. The change could take a long time, or it might be immediate.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. When the motion sensor lights blinked off, the effect was palpable—a heaviness to the twilight; a chill.
“In the meantime,” he told her, “we need to keep our heads in this game. It’s just getting so freaking crowded, though.”
“It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, babe? I’m sorry if dealing with all those people has worn you out.”
“I’ll live.”
“What did you say to Chase in the restroom? He came out looking properly chastised.”
“I went easy on him, I think. Tried to anyway. Remembered all the mistakes I made when I was his age, and how his mistakes don’t even compare.”
“He’s so hungry for your approval,” she told him. “We all are. Why do you have that effect on us, DeMarco?”
“Search me,” he said. Because he truly did not understand. He counted himself among the least impressive of men. As far as he could tell, the only virtue he held in abundance was that of defiance. He had spent his life defying the forces of the universe trying to destroy him. Pain, loneliness, betrayal, death—he had stood up to all of them, and was doing so even now. But he did not count that as courage or strength or intelligence; just the opposite. An ox-like stubbornness. Obstinacy was the best response he could muster, and it certainly was not a virtue to admire.
“Will we be going in the house tonight?” Jayme teased. “Or should I make myself comfortable in the back seat?”
He returned her smile. “I have always found that sitting in a car is a good way to gather one’s thoughts.”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s gather them.”
“Sonny Jakiella. That scrawny burnout Boyd identified from the video.”
“And who is probably the same burnout Chase’s contact saw handling the drugs for Choo Choo. With Amber Sullivan, a.k.a. Sylvia, also in the car.”
“Jakiella was last seen driving into Reddick’s place yesterday afternoon. A red Corolla.”
“Correct,” she said. “And as of this morning, his vehicle had not been seen leaving the property.”
“Burnouts rattle easily. Especially if we suggest holding him in a cell for seventy-two hours. But I don’t want to approach him at Reddick’s place. Don’t want to show Reddick our hand yet.”
“According to Boyd’s intel, Jakiella lives and works in Conneaut Lake. He has to leave Reddick’s place sooner or later.”
“So, first thing tomorrow, we go have a look at the IR camera in Otter Creek. And, with luck…”
She nodded. “So can we go inside now? I miss my Hero.”
“I do too.”
She popped open her door. “Are we bad parents for leaving him home alone all day?”
“Let’s go ask him.”
The moment they stepped out of the car, the motion sensor lights flared back on. Then their phones beeped. She said, “This could get annoying really fast.”
“It already has,” he said.
Fifty-One
After returning to the station house in midafternoon, Flores and Boyd went to their desks, Flores to write up a report of their day’s activities, Boyd to coax more information out of his computer regarding their growing list of persons of interest.
Not even halfway through her report, Flores was sent out on a call. A single vehicle incident, Route 58, two miles northwest of Grove City. No injuries reported.
She checked out a unit and drove 7.2 miles to find a blue Ford F150 axle-deep in the mud and high weeds, facing south fifteen feet off the northbound lane. The only visible damage to the vehicle was the driver’s side mirror, sheared off when the vehicle slid past a telephone pole. The driver was seated in the vehicle with his hands on the top of the steering wheel, his head laid back against the headrest.
She spoke first with two bikers standing in a yard off the southbound lane; one of the bikers had called in the accident. Both bikers had been following the truck for several miles, had watched it swerving erratically and had dropped back to a safe distance only to see the vehicle cut across the highway for no visible reason and sail into the weeds. They had spoken with the driver, who claimed to have fallen asleep.
Flores walked across the road and checked in with the driver. Fell asleep, he sheepishly repeated. Just finished a double shift. Had already called a tow truck. Thank God he hadn’t hit an oncoming vehicle.
She walked back across the road and thanked the bikers for reporting the accident. No sign of intoxication, she told them. She believed his story. Feel free to continue your ride. Be safe.
She cited the driver for careless driving, the least severe penalty, but assured him that if it happened again he would be cited for reckless driving or even criminal manslaughter in the worst-case scenario. She then waited in her vehicle for the tow truck to arrive. Watched the bikers still standing in the yard, in no hurry to leave, laughing and telling each other stories, no doubt. She wished she could climb out and join then and listen to their stories. Where do you go on your rides? she would ask. What’s the most interesting place you have been?
Both bikers were in their fifties at least, their faces tanned and lined but in a way she found attractive. The taller one especially. He was slender and graying and spoke only occasionally, happy to let the other man do most of the talking. There was a stillness to him that she found very appealing. A quiet kind of contentment sparkling in his eyes.
But it would be too awkward to approach them now. She would look foolish. Needy. She refused to give that appearance to anyone. Never again.
She waited until the tow truck driver pulled into position to winch the pickup onto the fl
atbed. Then she returned to the station house to finish both incident reports.
It was her seventh day on duty in a row and she was scheduled now for five days off. She felt the slide into depression beginning as she parked at the curb in front of her apartment above the hardware store. She hadn’t eaten anything all day but for two slices of pizza and a small salad, and knew that when the depression fully bloomed she would not have the energy to make anything or go out to a restaurant. So she walked to the Sheetz and bought three sandwiches to go—one six-inch steak sub, one pulled pork, and one Italian. She carried these back home and put all but the steak sub in the refrigerator. She sat at the kitchen table and unwrapped the sub and took a bite, but though the meat and cheese were still warm, her taste buds were already shutting down, going offline until further notice. Still, she finished the sandwich, if for no other reason than not wanting to have to contend with hunger later, then balled up the wrapper and put it in the trash, then drank from the bottle of orange juice in the refrigerator, the juice soured by too much oxygen, which made her tell herself, sourly, Just like me.
In the bedroom she changed her clothes, put on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and looked at the bed and thought about lying down. But lying down was always a dangerous thing to do. Lying down meant staring at the ceiling and hearing the town lapse into quietude and darkness. She would fall asleep too early, then awaken at one in the morning, unable to go to sleep again.
She could maybe slide her little keyboard from beneath the bed and get her journal and write another song about loneliness and heartbreak, but that was the epitome of futility too. She would only make herself even more depressed. She had no talent and no training and who did she think she was, anyway? She was no Taylor Swift, no Katy Perry, no anybody.
She returned to the living room and plopped into the corner of the sofa with her feet tucked beneath her and turned on the TV. Early that morning she had watched Fox & Friends while she dressed for work, as she did every morning, and now Martha MacCallum was discussing the world’s news. Flores thought about switching to Epix on Demand and selecting her favorite mature audience offering. But that was dangerous too because afterward she would start crying and there was no telling how long that would last. So she watched Martha MacCallum and then Tucker Carlson, and the voices droning and scolding and arguing were a good antidote for a while. But eventually her attention and resistance ebbed and she told herself oh grow up, there’s not a damn thing wrong with it, and switched the channel to Epix on Demand.
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