Silence again. “Nap?”
I dunno, Parker. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Like what?”
The Chalk Guy? He manifested himself right in front of Ruiz, just for a split second. All I saw was a dusty outline. Then, he holds out the palm of his hand and just blows on it . . . and chalk goes everywhere. In Ruiz’s eyes, up his nose, down his throat. He drops the gun, blind, gasping and in panic. Meanwhile . . . God help me . . . I still can’t get through the force field. I’m fighting with all I’ve got. There’s nothing I’ve trained on harder than teleporting. And? Nothing. Short bursts of a few yards towards him at best. Meanwhile, Ruiz is stumbling around while Roland starts packing up his rifle, like he’s just taken an order to hit the road, and before long Ruiz catches his foot on the corner of an A/C vent and . . . up and over he goes. I couldn’t . . . I . . .
“Hey . . . you said it yourself, you can’t do everything. You’re still learning, man.”
Yeah. Nap sighed, then continued. But the hardest part about being on this side? I mean, the truly bizarre side?
“What?”
You get to see what happens to them next, Parker . . . after the dying part. In this case, I didn’t really see it, but I heard it.
“And?”
More silence. Napoleon was weighing the conversation. Parker could feel it. Then, a response finally came. Where Ruiz went? I’ve been there. When I went after Kyle Fasano. And I don’t ever wanna go there again. Ever. The sounds he made after he hit the ground. You guys couldn’t hear any of it, but I heard it all. He was screaming for dear life, for his soul, for another chance. I don’t know what he did or didn’t do, but whatever came for him in the end was vicious and brutal in the act of the taking.
Parker strained his ears as his partner grew quiet again. His voice had been shaking badly at the end, and it was quite possible he was lost in his emotions, so Parker gave him space to find himself again.
Eventually, it seemed like he did. Sort of. Parker. I don’t know if I can do this. I almost lost you. First in that hotel, then outside it, and now Ruiz is dead and what if Charlie’s already . . .
“No. We can’t think like that. You can’t think that most of all,” Parker replied. “We ain’t been at this gig very long, man. But we’ve already faced some tough stuff. I mean . . . after Güero Martinez and that whole thing?”
But we had help back then and—
“Yeah. I know. The Gray Man was there. But he wasn’t there wherever you took that witch to outside that cabin in Mexico. And The Gray Man went down for the count right after that. So? If you hadn’t taken that bitch out? It’s possible we’d have lost the whole battle that day.”
There was no reply before Parker added, “And we’ll find Charlie. We will. We have to.”
Still no reply.
Something told Parker to let his encouragement soak in. Nap was now some sort of angel-like person, but he was still a guy. And most guys found it hard to deal with too many feelings at once. So, Parker did the guy thing and decided to change the subject. “Nap? A quick question: you said you saw him?”
Who? Roland?
“Well, yeah. Him too, and I’ll get his description later, but . . . Chalk Man?”
Yeah.
“So. What’d he look like?”
Man, Parker. This is gonna sound crazy. He looked like . . . a drawing.
“A drawing?”
Yeah. A chalk drawing, in 3D, with a jagged outline.
“How would that even—”
I know. It defied reality, even as I’ve come to know it. A 2D person in a 3D world. And that seemed to make him more dangerous somehow.
“How?”
I honestly don’t know. Like I said, I’ve got a lot to learn. But his presence was unique, for sure. And that’s why I’m here.
“At the Roland home?”
Yeah.
“Why?”
Because I wanna know what it is about Alex Roland that’s so unique it made him the perfect host.
“Makes sense.”
Anyway. Get home. I can sense your energy and if you were a cell phone? You’d be at two percent. Get some rest, because you’re going to need it, trust me.
Parker was going to reply but he was getting better at sensing when Nap had flicked the “off” switch on their interactions; he was already gone.
Chapter 19
A little while later and Parker pulled into the driveway of the small bungalow house that he and Trudy rented in the quaint neighborhood of La Crescenta. Turning off the ignition, he used his left hand to rub at the exhaustion pulsating in his eyes. He’d already called Trudy and told her what had happened.
As Parker made his way up the porch steps, the door opened and there she was, somehow as pretty in a pair of baggy gray sweats and a long white t-shirt than she was in a red dress and heels. Her eyes were puffy and her hair tumbled with sleep, but her smile was wide awake and gave him instant life.
“Hey, baby,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek.
He smiled. What was that Nap had just said about him being like a cell phone on two percent?
He kissed her forehead and buried his face in her red hair. “My little charger,” he said.
“What?” she giggled.
“Nothing,” he replied, as he closed the door behind them and grabbed her hand. “Just please stay home and sleep with me today?”
She looked at him like he was silly for even asking the question. “Already called off.”
They went to bed and before long he felt her breathing with sleep, her head on his chest as his thoughts poked at him and kept him awake. He could not stop thinking about Charlie. About how his mother and father must be feeling right now. About how all the parents in the world must feel about their kids. Whether they were missing or not, wasn’t worry a constant part of the job description?
He didn’t know, obviously. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to now. And that scared him. Because he’d always wondered what it’d be like to be a dad someday. To teach a son how to hit a ball. To teach a daughter how to ride her bike with no hands on the handlebars. He and Trudy had already had “the talk,” of course. It was one of the prerequisite things to clear up early on in a relationship, or at least before the wedding day, as kids could be a deal breaker. He knew she wanted them. Eventually. And he had said so, too.
But that was before he’d seen that thousand-mile stare in Ms. Henson’s eyes as she was sitting at that dining table, her arms folded across her chest as she tried to hug the worry from her own body. He’d seen the look in the eyes of a lot of victims in his time. Both in law enforcement and the military, he’d gone to tell people of the death of their loved ones. They all had that same look a human being gets when death has touched their lives. Shock. Dismay. Sorrow. But he’d never had to deal with someone coming to grips with the fact that their child was missing, and it had been different. Desperate fear and desperate hope were at war in her eyes. Then, he had a horrible thought. What if he was going to have to tell her someday soon that Charlie was dead?
What does a mother look like when she finds out that she’s been forever destroyed? Or, at the very least, forever changed in an awfully bad way. He imagined then that the rest of her life she’d be a hollow shell, her pain a constant reminder of what had caused her pain.
Parker felt a cold panic rush across his chest. What if he’d lied to Trudy? What if he never wanted kids but only thought he did? That wasn’t really a lie, was it? No. Life was still allowed to change you, even after you got married. She’d understand. And he didn’t think she’d leave him over it. And they’d still have Efren to watch over. Through high school and college and maybe on to his own wedding day.
That was, if nothing bad happened.
He stopped himself cold as he felt the creeping fingers of depression begin to pull at his mind. His eyes welled with tears as a realization came to him; he loved that little boy. Almost as if he were his
own. Napoleon’s nephew or not, Parker felt he was at the very least an uncle now. He was an unofficial guardian, too. And with a fickle mother and a gangster father, Efren needed all the help he could get.
He calmed his nerves for a moment. Trudy had come along on a few visits and been to a dozen of Efren’s little league games by now. She and Efren got along very well. Maybe he would be enough for her, in a weird pseudo-surrogate sort of way. Maybe.
But . . . shit. How was Parker going to tell her how he felt now? How not being able to imagine living life without her was hard enough without now also trying to imagine little versions of them running around in circles in the living room, or across the lawn with water balloons . . .
Or accidentally out into the street in front of a car?
Or into a future with an unforeseen addiction, a heroin needle dangling in their arm?
Or blown to pieces in a war they thought they should fight in.
Or suddenly abducted by some madman from out of nowhere.
Tears filled his eyes. No. There was no way he could do it. Live with all that worry.
And there was another thing, too. Something he knew about that Trudy did not: this other reality that Napoleon had introduced him to, this other truth that if the monsters of this life didn’t get to you? The demons from the next life were ready and waiting to take a crack at you, too.
Who in their right mind would bring a child into such a world?
Chapter 20
Standing in front of a whiteboard, Murillo looked exactly how you’d expect a guy to look after pulling a twenty-four-hour shift: his face was gaunt, the dark bags under his eyes were heavy against his tan skin and his beard had gone from five o’clock shadow to a sea of crooked stubble.
Having reconvened back at the station, they were all seated in the conference room just off the breakroom, the cap at the head of the table, Campos next to him, and Klink opposite Parker. Joining them was Lieutenant Abigail Sparks, newly assigned to their department, whose face was much younger than her hair, which was mostly white now and only added to the unique near-aqua blue color of her eyes. The shades were open at a tight angle so that the sunlight from outside fell to the carpet in thin lines.
Parker yawned, getting a disdainful glance from Murillo before he began speaking. “Okay. Overnight we managed to get some things accomplished, but they’re all bizarre.”
“That’s comforting,” Klink said, shaking his head.
“Shhhhhit, Klink,” Campos said, his face twisted in disgust. “Give him a chance.”
Klink evidently hadn’t slept well. “Look . . . the last thing we need is more ‘bizarre’ in this case.”
Murillo shook his head. “Yeah. Well. It doesn’t help that this guy disappeared like freaking Batman, after outlining a body no less, and while being surrounded by a full SWAT unit and a good two dozen cops that were holding down the perimeter for three square blocks.”
“Well, we shouldn’t be surprised,” Klink said.
“How’s that?” the cap asked.
“You know,” he said nervously. “The Clarke thing, man. I mean—”
Lieutenant Sparks sat forward in her chair. “Oh. Okay. Let’s stop right there with the Stephen King bullshit about The Hotel Clarke, okay?”
Like an eight-year-old put on check, Klink clamped his mouth shut . . . then shrugged timidly, as if to use his body language to get in the last word.
“Let’s be clear: it was the middle of the night. We have a guy who is an ex-army sniper well trained in the ways of ingress and egress to a kill zone. It’s what he does. Or did. Move in and out of an area with pure stealth.”
Trying to hide how impressed he was by this assessment, Parker simply curled his lips downward, in a silent “Daaaamnnn.”
Klink, to his credit and then much to his regret, still tried to interject. “Yeah, but—”
“No buts on this one, Detective Klink. I’ve heard all the rumors about The Hotel Clarke and its many spooky inhabitants, and I won’t lie . . . on the way here for this meeting? I already started hearing the whispers of evil spirits and goblins back at command. But listen, this missing little boy doesn’t need The Ghost Busters. He needs good police work.” She folded her hands in front of her and nodded at Murillo. “So? Go on, Detective Murillo.”
The cap interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back as Murillo cleared his throat and continued. “Okay. Here’s what we know on Roland. Born and raised in . . .”
Santa Fe, New Mexico, Parker thought.
“Santa Fe, New Mexico. Quiet guy. Played high school football. Then he kinda floundered a bit. Had a few scrapes with the law, one an assault and battery of a guy outside a restaurant over a parking space, which he pled out on, and possession of weed, just under the legal limit for dealing, so that ended up going the misdemeanor route. After that? He joined the army. Wasn’t a model soldier at first.”
Parker’s interest peaked. “How so?”
“Boot camp stuff. Refusing to run the miles, or to bang out the commanded number of push-ups. Which earned his whole unit extra miles and push-ups and led to a few beatings.”
Lieutenant Sparks furrowed her brow. “Beatings?”
“Yeah. By the rest of his unit.”
“They most likely used bars of soap,” Parker interjected, “wrapped in hand towels or dropped into double layered socks.”
Everyone looked at Parker and stared, so for clarification he added, “It prevents bruising on the surface of the skin while causing maximum damage to the underlying tissue.”
“Jesus,” Lieutenant Sparks said with mild disgust.
“Parker’s ex-military, too,” the cap said.
“I know that,” Lieutenant Sparks replied.
“And those were the same tricks used for the wannabe James Deans in my military days, too, because . . . well . . . at the risk of stating the obvious? The military has no tolerance for rebels.”
Looking very much like a man who wanted to finish his briefing and get home to bed, Murillo sighed and took back over the conversation. “Yeah. But once he got past that? Roland was very good with a rifle. And at the sniper part. Twenty-eight confirmed kills in action.”
Parker was stunned. “Hmm.”
The cap looked at him. “What?”
“I dunno. When it comes to choosing snipers? The military usually seeks out emotionally stable individuals for the role. Clean records, both civilian and military.”
“Why’s that?” Lieutenant Sparks asked.
“Because, well, they have to be able to turn off the ‘remorse’ button.”
Campos looked at Parker and twisted his mouth up. “The ‘remorse’ button? Dude. There are some things you know that I’d just rather not.”
Parker chuckled. “That’s for sure. But, regardless . . . a guy who runs around punching people over parking spaces or is stupid enough to take the risk of dealing drugs? Not your likely candidate for sniper school.”
“Yeah,” Murillo said, “but if you guys would let me finish, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Parker shrugged. “Sorry, man. So?”
“After boot camp? This guy does a full one-eighty. Model soldier. Tests off the charts. Has twenty-ten vision, which I’ve never even heard of.”
“Ah,” Parker said flatly.
They all looked at him again.
“Sorry to interrupt again, Murillo, but that explains it, I’ll bet. Why he got a reprieve for his past behavior.”
“Go on,” the cap prodded.
“Look. To even go to sniper school, you need twenty-twenty vision. Beyond that though, you need to display excellent marksmanship. I mean . . . minimum qualification level? You gotta be able to hit a target the size of a playing card from five hundred meters. With twenty-ten vision? I’m guessing Roland could’ve easily done that from a thousand meters.”
“Okay. Great. So, he was good,” the lieutenant said.
Parker nodded, but inside he thought, Yeah. Really good.
Too good to have missed any of us from across the street from The Hotel Clarke unless . . . he wanted to.
Murillo pushed on. “So. Anyway. He does a tour in Afghanistan, earns a few commendations. Has a rep as a team player. Comes home. Falls in love with a Latin girl in Santa Fe. They get engaged. Then? He’s called in for another tour in Afghanistan, and this is where things went south.”
“Why?”
Because things always went south in Afghanistan, Parker thought, before he forced his attention to turn away from the pictures trying to surface in his mind.
“Well. While he’s over there, he gets mixed up with one of the tribal leaders . . .”
Here it comes. Poppies, poppies everywhere.
“A poppy farmer. As you all probably know, Afghanistan’s biggest export is heroine, from the poppy fields.”
“So . . . the weed dealer who got lucky on a bust went back to drugs,” the cap said.
“Common,” Parker interjected. “A lot of guys fell into that trap over there.”
Lieutenant Sparks unfolded her hands. “Why?”
Parker shrugged. “The longer they’re there? The less sense things begin to make. The easier it gets to say yes to easy money. The Taliban almost counts on it. They’ll even do intel, through hookers in the villages at night and kids in the market squares during the day, to fish out the guys most likely to be turned.”
Murillo pushed on. “Regardless? He was on the take, looking the other way or outright covering up some of their smuggling routes. He got caught trying to ship a suitcase full of cash home to his girlfriend and was dishonorably discharged.”
“Once a rebel, always a rebel,” Klink said.
But Parker was openly flabbergasted. “What? He didn’t do military time for that?”
“Nope. I checked and triple-checked.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No record of it man. He just got shipped home.”
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