Survive the Night (Lost, Inc.)

by Hinze, Vicki

  “And to drink?”

  “Sweet tea.”

  Paul ordered the amberjack and Della watched the interaction between him and the waitress. She was drawn to him, and he was polite and respectful, but no more. Yesterday, Della would have assumed the reason he wasn’t interested—the woman was pretty and she seemed nice—had to do with women all wanting something from him. That was a hazard when you had it all: looks, charm, money and sense. But today, she knew better. Now she felt bad for him. Paul wanted a family. After what he’d revealed about his parents, she realized his family had been him and Maggie. His parents had just shared the house.

  Della had had family. Jeff. Danny. And it’d been wonderful. They’d been so in love and devoted to each other...until it was gone.

  Which of them—Paul or her—had it worse, she couldn’t say. But it seemed it’d be easier to not know what you were missing. Having and losing...you knew exactly.

  Some holes in life are just dug too deep to ever crawl out of.

  Paul spread his napkin in his lap. “You okay?”

  She should say fine, but knowing he took exception to her doing that, she couldn’t. Smoothing her own napkin on her lap, she sighed. “I want to talk about my life.”

  He smiled. “That was quick.”

  “It’s your fault. Dragging up all this stuff.”

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  He hadn’t. That surprised her. She sighed. “With everything that’s happened, I’m tired and half-crazy. Ignore me.”

  “You’re pulling away again.” Disappointment flashed over his angular face. “Why, Della? Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do.” She didn’t like it, but truth was truth. “It’s not that.” Dragging her fingertips over the hemmed edge of her napkin, she curled its edges. “It sounds like a pity party even to me.”

  “Can I decide for myself?”

  If he hadn’t asked, she might have refused him. But this was Paul. He hadn’t insisted or pushed, and he’d understand and give her an honest reaction. She took a sip of her iced tea. “I’ve lost everything and asked for nothing. Yet I still can’t catch a break with both hands and a net.”

  He nodded but said nothing, forcing her to let it drop or to go on. She went on. “Why is this happening to me, Paul? I do my job, I do the best I can do with my clients and I give it to them straight—good or bad. I don’t cause trouble, don’t deliberately hurt anyone else or cause other people problems...well, not on purpose, anyway,” she amended, remembering Gracie’s tears. “So why does this bad stuff keep happening?” She parked her chin on her hand. “I just don’t get it. I can’t even get a picture of my baby. Not even one photo. He ignores the judge and takes off long enough for the police to figure he’s gone for good. If I tried that, they’d slap me in cuffs so fast...” She choked up.

  Paul reached over and clasped her forearm where it met the table. “You can’t control Jeff’s actions. Only yours. You’re doing your best to be your best. That’s all you can do. But—” he leaned forward and dropped his voice “—I do have a question for you.”

  No answers. A question. “What?”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “How do you know these things happening aren’t meant to protect you? Nothing’s hurt you yet. Scared you—certainly scared others around you and me, too—but you tripped over the wire coming up the drive instead of going out the back door as you typically did. You avoided injury in the car. You noticed my SUV had flat tires. I didn’t. We both could have been seriously hurt, but we weren’t. And you saw that zip code discrepancy on the package. How many times do we get packages and not even glance at the labels?”

  “What’s your point? That God is watching over me even though I don’t believe in Him anymore?”

  “I believe He is,” Paul said. “But that wasn’t my point.” He leaned closer. “Look at what could have happened versus what did happen. In each case, you were aware and that awareness prevented something much worse from happening.”

  “So you’re saying I should have a little faith. In myself and in God.”

  He smiled.

  The waitress arrived with their food. Della’s stomach growled, and she pressed a hand to it. She’d always been a person of faith. Always believed she was being watched over and protected—until the incident. When Danny died, she’d felt abandoned and betrayed. Why hadn’t He protected her son? Why? Was it something she’d done? Not done? She just didn’t understand.

  By the time the waitress left, Della had regained a little balance. “God left me, not me Him, Paul. Him and Jeff.”

  He stilled, stared at her a long moment. “Jeff left you, yes.” Paul cut into the slab of amberjack on his plate. “The way he did it—meeting you at the airport with the divorce papers—that’s pretty hard to forgive.”

  “I can’t, but you could?” Is that what he was saying?

  “I honestly don’t know.” He chewed a bite, then swallowed. “I hope I could see that he was grieving and lashing out. Pain can make you do that in ways you never thought you would. And Jeff had to be looking for someone else—anyone else—to blame.” Compassion filled Paul’s eyes. “He was holding his son. He opened the mailbox.” Paul paused and visibly shook. “Can you imagine the guilt he felt about that? That he, who was responsible for protecting his son—the son you trusted him to protect—failed and he lived but his baby didn’t?” Paul stiffened. “Jeff was seriously injured but he lived. Danny died. The man wouldn’t be human if he didn’t try to put blame somewhere else. Maybe it’s not right or fair, but it is human. Imagine this whole incident—witnessing it firsthand—through his eyes. He had to be...”

  “Devastated.” Her eyes blurred. In all her replaying of this in her mind, never before had she stepped into Jeff’s position and seen the events through his eyes. Why hadn’t she done that?

  Pain. Hurt. Loss. Grief. So many reasons to explain his blaming her, but she was supposed to love this man as much as he was supposed to love her. They should have turned to each other, not against. He’d failed Danny that day. But Jeff had also failed her. And in a way, she’d failed him, too. That’s what she saw now that she hadn’t seen before today. It changed things. The back of her nose tingled, her eyes burned and a knot lodged in her throat. She hadn’t cried since she’d buried Danny, but she was painfully close to doing so now. “You’re a compassionate man.”

  “Compassion and faith come together. It’s hard to have one without the other.”

  She pushed at her salad with the tines of her fork. “I had that once. That connection that let me see things like this. But it’s gone now.” Now anger and outrage and confusion and emptiness filled that space. So much emptiness.

  “I don’t believe faith comes and goes.”

  “You don’t?”

  Paul shook his head. “It’s a choice you make.” He signaled the waitress for more tea.

  Or a choice you don’t dare make. No way could she try to fill the empty places. It hurt too much to fill them and watch them empty and disappear. People, possessions, emotions—no matter how much you tried to protect them and yourself, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t, and then you had to suffer the loss and failure. She’d suffered enough. She had nothing more to give or to lose.

  Her chest went tight and she sought solace where she’d hoped to find it so often before. Pretending to be occupied with her food, she recited the poem in her mind....

  Mother, do not weep. Do not despair. Do not regret. The child now absent from your loving arms rests in arms more loving. Strong arms where no tears are shed, no sadness or struggles are borne, no illness suffered and no pain endured. Wise arms that heal and protect, foster contentment and abundant joy. Be at peace, Mother. Your child is happy, safe and content. Your child is embraced in unconditional love.

  What she would give to believe it. To be spared the heartbreak for one second—just one second—when she believed it.

  But she didn’t. Fake it till you make it. Three years, and s
he was still faking it. How long would it take? How long before she stopped dreaming of giving everything she had or ever would have just to hold her baby in her arms one more time?

  Overcome, she pulled her napkin from her lap, then snagged her purse. “Excuse me a second.”

  She rushed outside, into the warm noon sun, yet her bones felt cold-soaked, her heart ravaged. Why? If God was real and He loved her, then why?

  Having no answers, expecting none, she stiffened and turned on the sidewalk away from anyone coming or going, and faced the wooded lot next door.

  Something slammed into her.

  Propelled forward, she lost her footing, fell facedown on the sidewalk. She looked up and saw a boy about thirteen hop off and then grab his skateboard. He’d plowed into her. Boy, if God did exist, He had some sense of humor.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “I didn’t see you.” He reached down and helped her up, then handed her back her handbag.

  “It’s okay.” She brushed loose bits of shell and concrete from her hands and sleeves. “Just be more careful next time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He skated off.

  “Della!” Paul came running down the wooden Boat House steps. “Stop him.” He zoomed right past Della. “Stop. Hey, you on the skateboard, stop!”

  The boy looked back, his yellow shirt flying from its tie at his waist, then pumped hard, putting as much distance between himself and Paul Mason as possible.

  Della caught up to Paul. “What are you doing? You’re scaring that kid to death.”

  “Give me your purse.”

  “What?”

  “Your purse.” Paul snagged it, forced it open.

  Della jerked it back. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “The boy put something in your purse.”

  She looked inside. Her hands shook. She shook all over and a groan escaped from deep in her throat.

  Worried, Paul reached into the bag and pulled out a small plastic mailbox. On its side written in red nail polish were two words.

  Baby killer.

  Della keened.

  Paul clasped her arms, hugged her to him. “You’re okay. Do you hear me? You’re okay.” He started moving, inching her toward the rental car. “Della, you have to get yourself together. We’ve got to find that boy.”

  Seeing that mailbox... Inside, she had shattered into a million pieces. Now she struggled to gather the pieces and patch herself together. The stalker. The stalker had put the boy up to that.

  He’d seen the stalker.

  “Yes.” She found her voice. “We—we have to find the boy.”

  * * *

  They rode up and down the streets near the Boat House, and then widened the search to cover Grandview Avenue that paralleled the water. Paul pulled to a stop at the curb for the third time to talk to a resident spotted in his front yard. He got out of the rental.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  An old man wearing bib overalls and a red baseball cap paused raking and looked at Paul. “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you see a teenage boy skateboarding past here in the last fifteen or twenty minutes?”

  “Yellow shirt? Red hair?”

  Della’s stomach tightened.

  “Yes, sir. That sounds like him,” Paul said.

  “That’d be Tommy Jasper. Two doors down on the left. See that red truck?”

  “Thank you.”

  Paul rushed back to the car, got in and told Della, “He lives two doors down. Red truck.”

  “I heard.”

  “You okay now?”

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  Paul pulled to a stop. “Please, tell me anything but that.”

  “I’m not falling apart at the seams anymore.”

  He smiled and touched a hand to her cheek. “Good.”

  Comforted by that touch, she got out of the car and they walked to the door of the brown-brick home and rang the doorbell.

  Tommy answered. “Oh, man.” His eyes stretched wide and he tried to shut the door.

  “Don’t,” Della said. “You can talk to us or to the police, but you’re going to talk, Tommy.”

  A brawny man with beefy arms appeared behind the boy. His hair was the same flaming shade of red. Definitely his father. Paul introduced himself, then Della.

  “Pete Jasper. Tommy’s dad.” He extended his hand and they shook.

  “Tommy knocked me off my feet on the Boat House sidewalk.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean—”

  “No, he didn’t,” Della said quickly. “But he did mean to put this in my purse.”

  She passed the plastic mailbox and let Mr. Jasper see what was written on it.

  His eyes stretched wide, then narrowed. “Tommy, what is this? Where’d you get it, and why’d you put it in Miss Jackson’s purse?”

  “It was a joke.”

  “It’s not funny,” his father said. “That’s a mean thing written on there.”

  Paul interceded. “Tommy, this is important. Do you know what a stalker is?”

  “Yes, sir.” He went serious.

  “Miss Jackson is being stalked. This mailbox is connected to that. I want you to tell me what happened. Why did you say putting the mailbox in her purse was a joke?”

  “Because the man told me it was.”

  “What man?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t know him. I was riding my board by the Boat House. He stopped me and said he wanted to play a joke on her. He told me what she was wearing and gave me twenty bucks.” Tommy looked at Della. “Just put the mailbox in her purse. That was all.” The boy looked scared. “He said she’d get the joke. Honest, I didn’t know—”

  Della softened her voice. “I believe you, Tommy. The man used you. It’s not your fault, though you do need to be careful about who you work for in the future, okay?” When he nodded, she asked, “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “He’s about as tall as you.” Tommy hiked his chin toward Paul. “His hair was real short—lighter than yours,” he told Paul. “And he had on sunglasses. His tan’s holding.” Tommy shrugged. “Usually by October, tans are fading out, but not his.”

  “What was he wearing, son?”

  Tommy glanced back at his dad, his eyes darting, as if scanning his memory. “Cargo shorts and a green camo shirt. Not skinny, but almost, and the shirt was tight on his arms.” He grabbed his thin biceps. “He works out a lot.”

  “Camo?” Della stilled. Short hair, camo shirt. “Do you think he was military, Tommy?”

  “Maybe. He stood real straight.”

  Not the most definitive response. The man could be anyone. Tommy had described a guy that fit the description of half the men in the county. “Did you notice anything that stood out?”

  “Naw. He was just a normal guy. He didn’t come across as weird or anything.”

  Paul nodded. “Did you see his car?”

  He thought a second. “No. No car. He was on foot.”

  “Where did you meet the man?” Paul asked.

  “He stopped me on the sidewalk a little ways down from the restaurant.”

  The stalker was following them, and he’d had a very brief opportunity to bring the boy into this. Della’s heart beat hard and fast. “Would you know him if you saw him again?”

  “Sure.” His expression stilled and doubt crept in. “I think so.”

  Della passed him her business card. “If you see him again, would you call me at this number, Tommy? As Mr. Mason said, it’s really important.”

  He nodded, took the card. “I’m sorry, Miss Jackson. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known he was a stalker.”

  Della forced herself to smile. “I know.”

  His dad clasped Tommy’s shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye out. If we see him, we’ll let you know right away.”

  The man had that look in his eye. The one bent on protecting a woman. “Don’t try to detain him,” Della said. “He’s extremely dangerous.”

  “Extremely?” Pete Jasper aske
d.

  Paul grimaced. “He’s used explosives twice already. His intent is deadly.”

  Tommy paled.

  His father’s face burned red. “We’ll keep a sharp eye.”

  The look exchanged between the men warned to watch out for Tommy, but neither of them said anything to the teen. That wasn’t safe. His dad scribbled something on a torn piece of notebook paper and passed it to Paul. Pete Jasper and his phone number. “Tommy,” Della said. “I don’t know that the man will bother you, but he could because you saw his face. You watch yourself. And no more talking to strangers.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Della and Paul got back into the rental. It was sun-warmed and unlike the blistering in summer, now it felt good. “We’ll ride around and see if we get lucky.”

  “Waste of time,” Della said. She shoved her sunglasses up on her nose and scanned the backseat. “But we can do it if you want. Frankly, I need sleep— Oh, no.”

  “What?” He put the car in Drive and pulled away from the curb.

  “Jimmy was supposed to put my suitcase in the car—when we switched to the rental—but it’s not here.”

  “He was hopping. We all were.”

  “He probably left it at the cottage.”

  “We’ll swing by and see. If not, he might have it with him.” Paul stopped at the stop sign. “I got sidetracked and didn’t tell you, but Ken Sampson, the locksmith, called when you stepped outside at the Boat House. He’s all done changing out the locks and the cottage is secure again. He said some men were still boarding up the garage when he left.”

  “Mrs. Renault arranged it. Jack Sampson’s cousin Luke is securing the garage.” The auto mechanic was related to half the people in North Bay.

  “I’m worried about this stalker following us.” Paul braked and then turned onto Highway 20. “I didn’t pick up on it. I should have, and I was watching.”

  “So was I, and I didn’t spot him, either.” That was a bad, bad sign. She frowned. “I’m usually better than this. I’m feeling like an amateur.”

  “You’re not an amateur. An amateur doesn’t solve three times the number of cases anyone else does at Lost, Inc., and she doesn’t get branded as Madison McKay’s top private investigator.”