by A B Whelan
I don’t get far down the road. I end up pulling into an abandoned parking lot, where I pop open a can of raspberry-flavored White Claw and light a cigarette. I recline my seat and set my head against the headrest. I picture myself in bed, sleeping peacefully, while Doug is on his laptop, drooling over photos of sexy men. I imagine him making love to me while closing his eyes and pretending he’s touching Ethan’s naked body instead. The hurt is finally catching up to me, and I feel a twisting pain in my stomach. Shedding a few tears would help release some emotional stress, but FBI agents don’t cry. Do they? So I suffer in silence for a while.
When I finish my drink, I put out my cigarette. I hide the empty can underneath my seat and pull back onto the road. I listen to Teen Pop radio on Pandora to cheer myself up, but the silly and naive lyrics aren’t helping me cope.
Soon after entering Beaumont, I pull up to Barbara Sullivan’s house and park in front of a temporary chain-link fence. The house is under construction. The windows are taped off, and the roof and sidewalks are covered with plastic sheets. A crew of men in white coveralls is painting the exterior walls. The front door is open. I can see the inside of the house has been gutted. A truck’s warning signal is beeping as it backs up into the front yard. A faded sign on a cargo truck advertises Miguel’s Cabinets. It appears trafficking children and dealing drugs pays well if Blake’s deadbeat aunt can afford such an extensive renovation on her house.
I holster my handgun, hide my laptop underneath the floormat in the back seat, and get out of the car.
“Excuse me!” I call out to a massively overweight man huffing and puffing his way to greet the truck driver. He stops to look at me, or at least I think he does—his dark, oversized sunglasses conceal his eyes.
“Yeah?” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
After identifying myself, I ask for Barbara Sullivan. The man informs me that the bank foreclosed on the house and the woman who used to live here has moved to the Paradise Homes trailer park. He is quick to tell me that he barely knows the lady. He purchased the home at an auction a year ago for his family, but the house was vandalized shortly after that. The insurance company finally paid him for the damages. He rants about being cheated out of his fair share and holds a piece of paper with the address to the trailer park hostage until he finishes his irrelevant story.
A few minutes later, I’m on the road again, covered in dust and sticky with sweat.
The name, Paradise Homes, insinuates a wealthy gated community with swaying palm trees, artificial lakes, and a golf course. It may have been the case fifty years ago, but now the place is ugly and neglected. The shack for the security guard is vacant. It appears it has been that way for a while.
I drive slowly, making my way along the cracked asphalt road radiating hellish heat. I pass dilapidated mobile homes overgrown with dry wildflowers. A few updated houses remain and seem to be standing strong against the wave of poverty enveloping the area and the unforgiving power of the sun.
As I turn down the first street branching off the main road, I spot a person in a wheelchair. I pull over to inquire about Barbara Sullivan’s residence. The man has no idea who I am talking about.
I keep driving.
At the next street, I find an elderly couple sitting on their porch. Three Pomeranians begin barking over each other as I approach them. They don’t know anybody in the community by that name.
On my fifth attempt, I come across a young transient-looking man suspiciously dressed in a hoodie and jeans despite the roasting summer heat. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and points to a faded pink mobile home about a block down the road.
The tiny home stands alone at the end of the street. Overgrown with scraggly unpruned trees and shrubs and in desperate need of repair, like a giant toy car left in a field. I sigh in relief, grateful that Blake didn’t have to grow up here.
I saunter through an open gate, hanging broken on its hinges, reading inspirational quotes painted on wooden signs covering the side of the trailer.
“The art of knowing is knowing what to ignore.”
Rumi
“Breathe in the good shit. Breathe out the bullshit.”
Unknown
“Sometimes people forget their own greatness.”
Jason Mraz
“A word to the wise isn’t necessary — it’s the stupid ones that need the advice.”
Bill Cosby
… And several others about drinking wine.
I gently knock on the door, worried that the slightest force may break it. A dog is barking in the distance and a shrieking hawk swoops high above me across the pale-blue sky.
“Who is it?” a grumpy old voice seeps through the cracks.
I lean in, moving my mouth closer to the gap. “Hello. I’m Vicky Collins from the FBI. I’m looking for a Ms. Barbara Sullivan.”
Silence. The dog’s yelping rages on in the background.
I rap on the door again. “Hello? Ms. Sullivan?”
“What do you want? I wasn’t expecting any visitors. I’m not decent.”
I count to three to prevent myself from breaking down the door. “I would like to talk to you. It will only take a few minutes of your time,” I say with patience, then improvise. “We can do it here, or I can take you down to the station. Your choice.”
“On what charges?”
“Why don’t you open the door and make this easier for both of us?”
A squeaking sound. A loud thud. A crashing and breaking sound as if someone was knocking stuff over in the house.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. A burst of stale, putrid, warm air rushes at me from the inside. In the dim light, I spot a woman sitting in a wheelchair, pulling an oxygen tank as she approaches me.
She coughs, clears her throat, and spits into a tissue. I flip on a light switch to my right.
A soft, weak glow spills onto a poorly furnished room and a skeleton-like elderly woman in her nightgown.
“Turn it off!” she screams at me. “You think electricity grows on trees?”
I do as she asks, then I leave the door ajar to allow light into the small home.
I expected to find a monster within these walls—a vicious, heartless woman. But all I see before me is an old, withered person suffering from terrible health. I try to hold onto my anger and hatred, but it’s slipping away.
I don’t want to let the feeling go. This woman is responsible for my brother’s childhood sufferings. She needs to pay for neglecting him.
“Are you Barbara Sullivan? Sister to James Sullivan?”
The woman adjusts the oxygen tube in her nostrils. “Obviously. Why do you want to know?”
“You the designated legal trustee of James Sullivan’s estate after his death, including guardianship over his son, Blake, correct?”
The woman’s face drains of blood, and her saggy eyelids rise. “That’s old news. I don’t have any money left if that’s what you’re after. You can tell that little shit that he won’t get a dime from me. I raised his sorry ass. Wasn’t that enough?”
My fingers roll into balls, and I hide them in my pockets before I punch the table.
“I’m not here for any money. I’m looking for Blake Sullivan.”
She rolls herself to the table, dragging her oxygen tank along, where she pulls out a joint from a Ziploc bag and lights it. “It’s medicinal. I have a prescription. Lung cancer, you see.”
I wasn’t raised to wish ill on anyone, but hearing that bit of information makes my heart jump with joy.
“But I don’t, so how about putting it out while I’m here. Thank you,” I say this more an order than a request.
She ignores me and inhales deeply before exhaling right at me. “Why are you asking me about Blake? He never visits. I need help, you know? Someone to get my medications and bring me groceries. That little shit never stops by to see if I need anything. After everything I did for him, I would appreciate some gratitude.” Sh
e points her thin crooked finger at me. “There’s no justice in the world.”
Seeing her suffering in pain, penniless and broken, I think that yes, there is justice in the world.
I step beside her, pull the joint from between her fingers, and drop it into a glass half full of black water and cigarette butts on the coffee table. “When was the last time you had contact with your nephew?”
“Hey! What did you do that for? You need to reimburse me for that joint! Good green ain’t cheap.”
I wipe my hand in a tissue. “File a complaint with the Bureau.”
She lifts a cup of something that smells like cheap acidy wine from the table and drinks from it. “What do you want from me? Why are you harassing me?”
“Just answer the question, ma’am, unless you want to spend a night in lockup.”
“This is police brutality. I want a lawyer.”
“I’m FBI. I’m not the police.”
She nervously pulls up the bottom of her nightgown, exposing her blotchy skin. She rubs her calves then gets out of the wheelchair, holding the oxygen tank for support.
“Like I said, I haven’t seen the boy in years. He came by the old house a few years back, dressed elegantly, gloating like he was somebody. I asked him for money, but he laughed in my face. That’s why I never wanted kids. Children are ungrateful little bastards.”
“Did he say where he was living or leave a phone number? An address? Anything?”
The old hag tilts her head to the side, grinning like a madwoman. “You guys can’t find him, can you? What did he do this time? Why am I not surprised?” she chuckles. “You’ll never find him, you know? That boy might be full of himself, all selfish and whatnot, but he’s smart. If he doesn’t want to be found, well, you won’t find him. I can assure you that. The kid has street smarts you can’t begin to figure out.”
“Is that a no?” I can’t have another dead end.
“He has properties all over. He had a house in Lake Elsinore, one in San Diego, a condo in Corona. He came here to rub his wealth in my face; all suited up like some fancy businessman. I told him he owed me. I taught him how to survive in this world. I made him strong. And how does he repay me? He spits in my face.”
“I read the social service’s reports. You did Blake no favors. You took his inheritance and spent it. You put that poor little boy through hell growing up.”
“Bullshit!” she blurts out, grasping the tank with both hands. “Show me proof! That corrupt little bastard is a pathological liar.”
My nails are digging into my palm, rage is bubbling within me. I think of my Glock tucked underneath my jacket. I should put a bullet between this wicked woman’s eyes and rid the world of her wormy existence. But calling her a worm isn’t fair. Earthworms are essential to the planet, they have a purpose.
“Now be a good gal and refill my glass. As you can see, I have difficulty moving around.” She extends her hand toward me with the empty cup in it.
“How about you give me an address to one of Blake’s properties, and I’ll do as you ask.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “What did you say your name was? I didn’t see you showing me any identification. You know what, I think I’m gonna call the police now.” She starts shuffling toward the white phone covered with dirty fingerprints hanging on the wall.
“Really? Who do you think the cops will believe? An FBI agent or a burned-out, doped-up alcoholic?” I step in to block her path. “Now go fetch me those addresses before I push you down the stairs in your wheelchair and leave you for dead.”
A mixture of panic and fear registers on her face. “Who are you?” she says through trembling lips.
“If I were you, I’d worry about getting me the information I asked for. Now!”
She points to the kitchen. “There’s a drawer in there, on the left, underneath the toaster.”
I follow her direction to a kitchen cabinet. “This one?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Pull it out. You’ll find a bunch of yellow post-it notes in there. Blake never gave me any addresses, but I overheard him talking on the phone when he visited me that one time. He was talking to a handyman about fixing a leaky roof. The address Blake gave the guy is written down on one of those post-it notes.”
I rummage through a collection of batteries, pens, lip balm, and pennies. I finally find the address. “This is it? Lake Elsinore?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Now leave me alone.”
“Do you have his San Diego address?”
She shakes her head.
I slip the note into my pocket.
“So, where’s my drink?” she groans.
I step in front of her and shove the empty glass into her hands. “Why don’t you get it for yourself?”
I rip the door open and hurry out of the dingy home to be greeted by a dark and angry sky. The wind is blowing in a strong gust, nearly pushing me off the patio. What the hell happened to the weather?
A massive bolt of lightning strikes against the gray clouds overhead, followed by a loud clap of rumbling thunder.
A flash-flood warning alert dings on my cellphone. It’s been a crazy summer in southern California. Heavy rains and floods one day, then a hundred degrees Fahrenheit heat and raging wildfires the next.
I pull my jacket tight around me and dash back to my car. Protected from the elements, I take out the note from my pocket. The address strikes me as being vaguely familiar. I pull out a case file from my bag and compare the address to the visitor’s log from the penitentiary.
It’s the same address as Jenna Davis’s.
My heart begins hammering inside my ribcage. Blake is so close I can hardly believe it.
I slide the key into the ignition, light a cigarette, and crack the window. My heart is leaping out of my chest from a combination of excitement and nervousness. In an hour, after thirty-four years, I may finally meet my twin brother and bring him back to the family.
Then my conscience gets the better of me. I look back at the house and the front door I left open. I click my tongue and roll my eyes, as I turn off the car and return to the home where I refill the old hag’s glass with wine and make her a quick sandwich, all that while clenching my teeth. I feel conflicted about helping out Blake’s self-absorbed, uncaring aunt, but I don’t have to be the bringer of justice. Fate had already punished this woman.
My mother would be proud of me.
31
I feel conflicted about how to best approach my brother for our first encounter. Considering his criminal past, he likely has zero trust in authority, so going to his house as an FBI agent might scare him away. I could begin by introducing myself as his long-lost twin sister, but judging by Blake’s lack of interest in finding his real family, even after our biological father told him about us, suggests he wants nothing to do with me.
The confusion swirling inside of me is making me nervous and insecure. I open another can of hard seltzer, and the moment I swallow the last drop, I know it was a bad idea. I lean onto the steering wheel, lightheaded and queasy. I need some solid food in my stomach to soak up the alcohol.
I search the internet for nearby fast-food restaurants to grab a quick bite. It doesn’t take long to find out that my options are limited to a few spots. My stomach is too sensitive for a greasy burger or a spicy taco, so I opt for a salad at El Pollo Loco.
The Mexican fast-food restaurant is in the opposite direction from where I’m going, but I don’t mind the delay. To be honest, I’m trembling with fear at the thought of meeting my twin brother for the first time and at the prospect of facing our terrible past together.
Our birth mother was a young woman in a vegetative state. She lost her parents in a car crash as a child and has since passed away. Our father, still alive and in prison, is a low IQ sexual deviant and vicious predator who took advantage of young women. It’s no longer a secret that Blake and I are the results of an unimaginable rape; that we were ripped from our mother’s arms and from each other at birt
h. And although I had a happy and safe childhood, surrounded by people who loved me, my brother was forced down the path of suffering and humiliation.
I expect Blake to resent me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not eager to meet him and attempt to build a relationship between us. I’m anxious to get started, but some extra time to gather myself won’t hurt.
As I drive to get food, I tell myself to be realistic about my meeting with Blake. As an FBI agent, I’m aware that the success rate for rehabilitating criminals is low, as most are simply too broken to mend. Yet as a sister, I want to believe that with love and care, I might be able to help heal my brother’s heart. Time will tell which option comes true. But I know I won’t give up on my brother, like so many others have in his life.
I order a chicken salad with extra avocados at the drive-thru window of El Pollo Loco, then park in the shade to consume my dinner.
As I eat out of the plastic bowl on my lap, I text Anaya: Just checking in. Everything is good here. Found some new information about my brother. Got his address. About to visit him.
A second after I hit send, my phone rings.
“I’m sorry for not calling earlier. It’s been crazy here,” Anaya pleads. Low-volume music and the sound of traffic are in the background. She’s driving.
“No worries. I wanted to let you know that I’m still on the case and making progress.”
“That’s great to hear! I wish I were there with you to support you through all of this, but we finally have a solid lead, and I can’t leave right now.”
A pang of jealousy hits me. “What kind of lead?”
“Oh, I meant to text you. Things are moving fast. We received the DNA results back from the lab and got a hit on the saliva sample from Meredith’s jacket. The perp is a convicted felon with some misdemeanors. His name is Sullivan. Blake Sullivan.”
The shock literally jerks my entire body back in the car seat. My fingers cramp, grasping the phone tightly, as my whole body tenses up. “S-say that name again?”