Discretion

  I tap lightly on the front door, not wanting to create a disturbance, but when a calm tap doesn’t arouse anyone to the door, I ring the bell and wait. The chime is loud and bellows through the house, yet no one comes to the door. Oh no…are you dead in there?

  I call his cell again, to no avail. It’s a clear, cool night. Maybe he’s relaxing outside and his cell is off. I take my time walking around the back, paying close attention to surroundings along the solar illuminated brick path. My primary goal is not to disrupt anything and draw attention from the neighbors. The eight-foot wooden gate leading to the back is not locked and I try to remember if Jackson has a dog.

  Be brave, I tell myself, and unlatch it. The porch is bright and two fans run at high speed. Jackson is passed out on a hammock, a slow, short-range swing with straining ropes under his two hundred forty pounds. I stop a few feet away and debate about what to do. He works long days and has a load of casework and a failed marriage to prove it.

  Jackson comes to and he sits up on the hammock, steadying himself on the wobbling ropes. He smacks his chops. Then he notices me standing a few feet away on the lawn.

  “When did you get here?”

  “It’s been a few minutes. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.”

  He stumbles off the hammock onto the grass, face first. He clamors to his feet, like a drunk. “Fuck. What’s going on? I don’t remember…what time is it?”

  “It’s still Tuesday. After eleven.”

  He pants and heaves a few times. I watch, hoping he will be coherent enough to have a serious conversation.

  “Jackson, I need to meet your source. Whoever this person is.”

  “For a rich guy, you don’t listen well. I told you that I only have contact with him when he finds me. He tracked me down.”

  “The hound that you are…there’s no way you don’t know where this guy is. You’re an expert at finding people who don’t want to be found. Say what you like, but I know that you know where the guy is.”

  He wanders off toward the house, but seems to lack any direction or purpose. He mumbles to himself.

  “Jackson, I need answers and your source can help me.”

  He takes a seat on the sofa and I keep my distance. New pictures are on the walls: Jackson with his kids, late teens now and off to college. The awards for his work with the police still on the shelf above the fireplace. The big TV is new since my last visit. The place is neutral with bright colors, modern furnishings, and smells like the cleaning service worked hard today.

  “Jackson—”

  “He provided me the files on condition of anonymity,” he says, cutting me off. “He knows unsightly people are searching for the victims he helps hide. Can’t change that.”

  “Then why share information and risk being found?”

  “He contacted me because I was searching for information on the tattoo, looking for meaning, origin, anything. He contacted me because he recognized it and wanted to help and he’s not about to volunteer a victim for the guillotine. I agree that we need a witness, which is why I’m looking for the culprit who got Natalie off your boat. If we find that out, we might have something, but I’m losing hope.”

  I pause a moment, thinking of Mike and Mayra and how they could be involved, what they might know to help the investigation. “I know what happened that day at the lake. Where she went first.”

  His face lights up. “Did some friend of hers finally confess?”

  “Not yet. I’m going there next. Care to go for a drive?”

  He mumbles to himself and stares at the floor. “I was right all along, wasn’t I?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “It was Larison. But keep your cool. I want to get the whole story before you do anything crazy.”

  FORTY-SIX

  The Larison home is a custom build sitting on two acres in an older area of town, built before the boom brought small lots and look-alike tract houses. High ceilings, four-car garages, and circular driveways dominate here with newly acquired German engineering. Lawns are well manicured with tall palm trees at the street, playing a shadow game on the pavement with the moon. Even in the darkness, the spring growth on the mountain is easy to see in the distance.

  The front door is unlocked. The security system chirps three times on entry. Two deer, an elk, and a bison are mounted on the wall of the foyer, and an enormous bearskin rests on the open travertine floor of the living room, straight ahead. A full-size mountain lion is stalking a rock formation in the corner. Most of the furnishings are Mexican made, old pieces they found from an eccentric dealer out in Show Low—there’s an hour-long story for each piece. The furniture shows some signs of age with distress cracks and scuffs. Part of the charm.

  Mike and Mayra are into natural foods, oils, and lean meats, if any. Mayra was vegetarian for years and couldn’t persuade Mike to join her. An allergy to soy broke her streak and she returned to being omnivorous.

  Mike used to smoke, drink, and chew. He would also prepare what he shot on hunts with his father and either barbecue or braise the meat. He used to make some fine elk. His father had a fantastic recipe for bison. There was one deer that Mike killed a few years ago that made many fine meals. But that was the old Mike.

  Mayra getting pregnant, the subsequent wedding and birth of their son Carter—who is now thirteen and committed to after-school sports—changed everything for Mike, mainly his perspective. He had to grow up and quickly. He sold most of his hobby items including guns, his boat, and a classic car he bought as a restoration project. He quit horsing around in his spare time and started working fulltime plus some with his father’s business. He took on sales and doing the books, too. He found opportunities and made substantial improvements, enough so that the company had to expand. All because Mike was smart at the helm.

  Now, easily thirty pounds lighter than he was in high school, Mike is in good shape and good health, though he still works more than fifty hours a week and runs ragged between work and personal activities. He exercises a considerable amount, almost excessively, to cope with stress.

  Mike is at ease in his great room, stretched out in a recliner as if he’s had a tequila shot or two, staring at the television mounted in a collage of desert rocks, nestled on the wall. He has a margarita glass filled with water resting on a small table. The combination of three ceiling fans and open windows facing the backyard make for a cool breeze and a great view.

  A red plastic plate rests on the table with tortilla chips, melted cheese, shredded beef, jalapeños, salsa, guacamole, sour cream, and scallions. The aroma is wonderful. Mike nods at Jackson and me, as if this is an expected visit from friends to watch a game. He seems lethargic—he doesn’t much care about anything. SportsCenter is on the TV with highlights around Major League Baseball.

  “Hey Mike. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.” It feels weird to apologize. He gestures for Jackson and me to take a seat on the sofa.

  There was animosity between Jackson and Mike after Natalie was brought in, as Jackson was never satisfied with the answers Mike gave concerning his whereabouts during the abduction. Because Jackson knew the truth about how Natalie was recovered, he doubted Mike’s story all the more, figuring his involvement turned that day into a bloody mess. Jackson always felt that Mike was holding out and Jackson didn’t get the opportunity to pry a confession out of him. Mike was eighteen at the time, so he had much tougher questions, and so much more to lose.

  “So…what’s on your mind, boys?” Mike says, staring at the TV. “Colin, I saw Jamal on the news…how’s he doing?” He takes a long drink.

  I fill him in on the details and he is somber, attentive. I wish Christel would tell me what he’s thinking.

  “Glad to hear he’s fighting. Saw it all on the news last night,” Mike says.

  I nod and wait an uncomfortable moment to ask, “What happened that day, Mike? When we went out there armed, you knew where Natalie was…didn’t you?”

  He looks around the room, as if he’s pon
dering how to answer. “You know the answer,” he says at last. “Knew all along. So why even ask?”

  Mike turns down the television volume and makes eye contact for the first time. The fear in his eyes is impossible to miss. Maybe it’s just me, but he looks like a man who’s reaching his tipping point, where reality and your greatest fear meet. I know the feeling—the day Chelsie died. The moment an hour ago when I was told to kill my best friend.

  “Natalie remembers the boat she got on, the damage to the rail of yours. She remembers hanging out with Mayra,” I say, mentally acknowledging the lie after the fact.

  Mike stares at me, as though this comes as no surprise. He holds back emotion, staring off at nothing in particular. He snickers at nothing, a thought perhaps.

  “What happened after she was on the boat?”

  “We drove around on the water for a while, then ended up at a party. Big boat party, not far from the beach.”

  “And then what?” Jackson asks.

  Mike nods. “After so long, I guess I had too many and well, Mayra and I left. Hell, I’m not convinced we did any thinking back then. More drinking than thinking.” He manages a nervous laugh. “We forgot that Natalie came with us.”

  Does he think he did nothing wrong? Letting her stay on the boat with no way home…and keeping it a secret?

  “Why didn’t you come back and tell me later on? Or at least tell the sheriff what happened?” I ask. “You drove around the lake for days…why keep it a secret?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been fighting with that for years. Driving me insane. And no one will believe me. Not unless that someone is batshit crazy like me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Mike. What is it?” Jackson says, but Mike pays him no attention.

  “I was told…to leave Natalie behind.”

  “From who?” I say.

  Only his eyes move toward me. He watches with apprehension, as though I might attack him.

  The real enemy.

  Mike says, “I don’t know who she is, but…I could hear her like…like…I can hear my own thoughts…she told me what to do…and she promised she would leave me alone if I did what she wanted. I thought I was hearing things…like she was at the party and messing with my head.”

  “What did she sound like?”

  “I don’t know…a woman. A young woman, I guess…she sounded…like something out of a fantasy movie. She was whispering. It was weird.” He scratches his head nervously. “What does it matter?”

  “She told you what to do?”

  He nods. “She gave me instructions and I swear I didn’t know her intentions.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  He snorts and turns off the television. “How could I? And why would I? I concluded later on, after I didn’t hear her anymore, that someone must have put some shit in my drink at the party. I didn’t know it was real. It’s like I was dreaming.”

  “How did Mayra take leaving Natalie?”

  He shrugs. “She had so much to drink.” His eyes roll. “These guys were going around giving out drinks to girls, one after other. All of them were blitzed, so I had to help Mayra into the boat. Can’t imagine she remembers anything.”

  “Where did you go after the boat party?” Jackson asks.

  “Cruising…I think.” He looks around the room as though it’s a new and unfamiliar place. Then his gaze arrives on Jackson and me. “I should have told you this years ago and got it off my chest but I didn’t because I was afraid. After all the grilling I got from the cops, all the questions…then time passed and I kept telling myself I’d say something, and it just became more convenient to forget about it.”

  He’s lying. He sold Natalie.

  “What else, Mike? It’s important that we know any other details you can remember, since Natalie’s case is open and ongoing.”

  Jackson shoots me a look, one that says he doesn’t agree with sharing information.

  Mike’s jaw drops open on its own. “What?”

  Jackson eyes me a moment, and then takes a few minutes to fill Mike in on the details of the ring, the victims, and the feds looking into the shooting that rescued Natalie. Mike is terrified. Jackson begins the explanation about the ballistics work on Dasher, the dead kidnapper, and Mike holds his hands up.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Mike says. “I mean, it’s been forever since this happened. This is a con if I’ve ever seen one.”

  I chime in, “You’ve kept this a secret for fifteen years, Mike. We all knew, riding back to the sheriff’s office, that the shooting and Natalie being on that boat, would be difficult to explain. The sheriff covering the whole thing up to make himself look good was an easy fix. But now they’re digging into evidence and my recorded statement and it’s just a matter of time before they are calling us in.”

  He laughs a little to himself, in a way that troubles me. After all these years, my own friend is the bastard who took Natalie from me—the real enemy. He ruined my life. He ruined Natalie’s. He damaged so many other people for his own benefit. I never wanted to believe it would be Mike, but now that the truth is clear, I silently accept that the truth was best left in the dark. This truth is not setting me free.

  Kill Mike.

  Jackson starts questioning Mike, interrogating, but I hardly pay attention. Mike was being a dumb teenager, drinking and having a good time. He doesn’t know anyone who’s connected to the crime ring—he’s lucky to know how he got home that day.

  He’s the enemy. Kill him.

  “Jackson,” I say, standing. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Give me your gun.”

  Jackson pauses a moment, then draws a black pistol from behind his back and hands it to me.

  Mike shifts about on the seat, unsure if he should run, frozen to the chair. He’s caught. There’s no time to think. I have a gun and a close target. And now I have to decide what to do with my old buddy Mike.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Mike is a few feet from me, seated on his comfortable leather recliner, kicking back in his great room at home. And here I am, with Jackson’s black Ruger in my hands, the barrel pointed at Mike’s chest.

  “What the fuck, Colin? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but Jesus, stop pointing that at me.”

  “What else are you holding out on, Mike?”

  Jackson remains still, on the edge of the sofa as if this gunpoint interrogation is a normal day at work. He’s got to be wondering the same thing I am—what else does Mike know that he’s keeping to himself?

  “Nothing. Jesus, man. Jackson, that better not be loaded.”

  Mike’s feet reach the floor.

  Kill him.

  After all the years going by, I thought I’d like the chance at revenge. To even the score for taking Natalie. Christel wants me to kill him—but this is a choice I have to make. I can have revenge but can I live with myself if I take it? Dasher was a stranger. This is a friend who made a dumb decision as a teen. Does he deserve to die for it?

  Jackson encourages me to lower the gun. Mike does the same.

  Can I live with the truth?

  I lower the weapon and Mike grabs the gun from me and in one fast motion, hits me across my head and I land hard on the stone floor.

  “Colin? You there?” Jackson says, looking over me. He touches the side of my face with a careful ease. Jackson starts asking questions, which seem simple and harmless enough, so I answer them. It’s then that I notice I’m lying flat on the stone floor of Mike’s great room, staring at the ceiling.

  “What happened?” I get out, but my voice sounds slurred, distorted.

  “Mike didn’t like the gun in his face approach for questioning. The puffiness is going down on the side of your face.”

  The room has a slow spin and pain emerges at the back of my head. Must be where Mike hit me. Or where I hit the floor. I sense more than a few minutes passed since the event. “Where’s Mike?”

  “He’s here and hap
py you didn’t shoot him,” Jackson replies.

  “Why did you give it to him?” Mike snaps.

  “He asked for it. I’m tempted to kneecap you myself for withholding evidence.”

  Mike curses under his breath.

  It pains me to sit up and take in my surroundings. Not much changed. Mike is on the recliner, jittery.

  Mike says, “Yeah, and your quest for Natalie had nothing to do with that, right? I know you wanted to beat a confession out of me. All about being the hero, right, Jackson?”

  “It was wrong to keep the information to yourself, Mike. If you’d told me years ago, we may have caught them and you wouldn’t have carried the secret,” Jackson says.

  “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t go blaming this on me. I didn’t do anything to Natalie. I did what either of you would have done back then. Not my fault she went missing and I didn’t want to share in on the blame. And I did what I could to get her back.”

  “Whose idea was it to go out there again?” Jackson asks me.

  I vouch for that and Mike does too.

  “And whose idea to bring the guns?” Jackson says.

  “Mike.”

  “Who pulled first?”

  “They did,” Mike and I say.

  “Which means…” Jackson says, pausing several seconds. Mike watches without reservation, as if he’s accepted whatever fate is to come. “They recognized you. They knew you. The men on that boat knew you were coming for Natalie, so they drew guns to show they were armed and not about to give her back.”

  Mike hangs his head. “You’ve pegged me guilty from the start. So there you go. Doesn’t matter that I helped rescue the girl. I risked my life to get her back.”

  Jackson’s voice takes on a tone of contempt. “It’s called seller’s remorse. So the supposed kidnappers thought you changed your mind about the price you got for her and let you know how they felt.”