“Where is Victor tonight?” I wondered out loud.
Camille said, “Theresa picked him up. He’s going to stay with her until Jon’s okay.” Sick of farm work, Theresa had left home the day she finished high school and hadn’t looked back.
I STOPPED TO CHECK ON JON one last time before leaving. The right side of his face looked good, but there were small cuts, stitches, and specks of dried blood on the left side, making him look like a kinder version of the villain Two-Face from Batman. I carefully sat on the edge of the bed beside this strong, slim, and damaged young man. I kissed his forehead and whispered, “This time I’m fighting for you.” An unexpected lump formed in my throat.
Camille peered in on us and whispered, “Are you okay?”
I felt silly as a tear escaped and trailed down my cheek. “It’s scary.”
Camille joined me on the edge of the bed and took my hand in both of hers. “I know. I went through the same thing when Bill was in the Navy. Wondering if it was worth it to be with someone who caused me so much concern. But then I remembered that if he was willing to risk his life to make the world better, I could handle the task of caring about him. He deserved that.”
I sniffled, then smiled. “That’s a good point.”
Camille squeezed my arm and said, “I always thought the two of you were good for each other.”
BY 11:30 P.M., I WAS in my pajamas and robe, back at my parents’ old house. I hated this house, and I was glad to help my parents unload it. It never got warm, and I’d had nightmares every night I’d slept here since Mandy Baker disappeared. The sound of the doorbell quickly chilled me to the bone. The scary thing about farmhouses is there often is no one living close enough to even hear a scream. I tried to think logically. No one, other than the Fredericks and my parents, knew I was here. I dialed 911 on my cell phone, ready to hit the send button as I turned on the outside light.
Clay Roberts stood under the light in a tight, white Under Armour shirt and designer jeans. He was hazel-eyed, with tousled brown hair naturally streaked with highlights women paid big money to achieve. He looked like a muscular version of Brad Pitt, in his long-haired days. I imagined the sweat being wicked away by his immaculate white shirt. He had to be cold, so he was obviously trying to make an impression. Not wanting to invite him in, I threw on my wool coat and stepped outside to speak to him. Clay had gotten wind of Jon’s shooting, and had gone to the Fredericks’ to check on him. This wasn’t surprising, as news travels fast in small towns and is amplified by the Internet. After some forced small talk, Clay finally asked, “I just thought I’d stop by to say hi. Are you going to invite me in?”
Clay was charming, but if he was kind, it was by a chance circumstance, rather than a moral choice. Clay was the “bad boy” who attracted girls like moths to a porch light. This was a symbiotic relationship, as it seemed to work well with his attention span for them. When daybreak came and artificial light was no longer needed, he was gone.
I answered, “No, I’m going to sleep,” as I prepared to go back inside.
Before going, he shook a finger at me and warned, “Don’t ever tell Jon about us. You know how he is. He’ll never let go of it. And after you come and go, he’ll still be my friend.”
Regretfully, I’d been one of those misguided moths. I shot back, “I’m not going to lie to Jon.”
Clay smugly said, “You mean anymore.” When I opened my mouth to reply, he cut me off. “Look, I didn’t come here to argue with you. Out of everyone I know, Jon annoys me the least. So let me keep that.”
TUESDAY, APRIL 1
I HAD A HORRIBLE NIGHTMARE again last night. I was lying still, and a white man in his early twenties with thick, long, dirty, dark hair, combed straight back, stood looking down on me. He had small eyes, big teeth, and a skeleton-like face. Like a puppet, he had heavy marionette lines around his mouth. I was helpless and he was leaning over me, studying my face. And then I was in a claustrophobic’s hell. It was completely black, and I was in a wooden casket, unable to move. I panicked when my warm exhale blew right back into my eyes. The wooden cover had closed and was less than an inch above my face. Barely able to move my hands, I gestured the sign of the cross with my fingers, and then, mercifully, jolted awake.
Psychological studies suggest the thoughts we have throughout the day are sorted, then sometimes revisited, during our dreams. We don’t dream about the Revolutionary War—we dream about our lives. I may have seen this guy at our clinic. Between my claustrophobia and Jon investigating Mandy’s disappearance into nothingness, the nightmare shouldn’t have surprised me.
This was just further evidence that repression, as Carl Jung suggested, wasn’t a long-term solution. The past needed to be addressed. Failing to do so could result in my mindlessly positioning myself to face my worst fears. Thoughts of a future with Jon brought me a combination of dreamy, school-girl elation, and anxious pangs of dread. Jon was sweet—in a neurotic and intense sort of way. Complicated, but sweet. I wasn’t sure how he was going to take it when I told him I had information about Mandy Baker’s disappearance that I’d never shared. I needed to bring resolution to this. That much I knew.
Chapter
Nine
JON FREDERICK
TUESDAY, APRIL 1
PIERZ
I WOKE WITH A SEARING HEADACHE. I vaguely recalled Serena sitting on the edge of my bed during the night. I picked up my cell phone and noticed a text from her, which read, “Next time we’re alone together—manja.”
I had to find out what “manja” meant. I called a coworker at the BCA in Minneapolis who took pride in interpreting foreign words exactly how they are used in a specific culture. I told him it wasn’t work-related, but I’d appreciate the help when he had time. He had already heard I’d been shot and asked if I was okay. I appreciated the camaraderie or, as Serena might say, espirit de corps, among the people I worked with. In a manner of minutes, I received a text from my colleague, saying, “‘Manja is a Malaysian word that refers to playfully provocative love.” It brought a painful smile to my face. I could use some manja.
TONY CALLED TO TELL ME I could put my mind at ease. They had apprehended a convicted sex offender named Jeff Lemor who lived by Hillman. The dirt road by the Brennan farm was a shortcut from Little Falls to Hillman. Further, Jeff’s probation officer verified that the “R” was missing on the tailgate of Jeff’s truck, making Jeff the man the Bosers had seen driving toward Brittany Brennan. Jeff also had a prior probation violation for being a felon in possession of a gun. Tony told me Jeff took off running into the woods when the squad cars arrived, but the police hunted him down with search dogs. One of the officers was convinced Jeff was holding a gun to his side, but didn’t actually see it. When he was finally captured, Lemor was weaponless. So, the officers had a day of searching ahead of them. Jeff insisted he was at home by himself at the time I was shot. Tony told me Jeff’s truck engine was still hot when they arrived. Jeff claimed he had been working on it. He had no one to corroborate his alibi.
I had a lot of questions, starting with, “Any idea why he tried to kill me?”
Tony exhaled loudly into the phone. “He must have thought you were onto something. Do you have any recollection of seeing him? He’s about six-three, twenty-six years old, with longish black hair and a few days’ growth of beard. Skinny, but wiry strong.”
“No, I didn’t see the shooter,” I answered, which was met with a frustrated sigh from Tony. I thought out loud, “Killing isn’t this guy’s primary goal. If it was, Brittany and I wouldn’t still be alive—he kills to cover up. I want to get back to working this.”
“Sit tight. For now, the best thing you can do for this investigation is heal. I don’t anticipate you’ll be back to work in the next few days.”
BY THE TIME MY CONVERSATION with Tony was over, I felt weak and drifted back to sleep.
Dad came in to check on me and asked if I needed anything. I told him I was going back to Minneapolis tomorrow, so we
had a discussion about making my apartment safe. Dad obliged me, because he believed I was happier off the farm. He told me to give him the day, and my apartment would be ready by tomorrow evening. He and friends planned to install solid oak doors on my bathroom and bedroom. They would reinforce the frames around the doors with metal plates and put a solid bolt lock on the doors. This would mean that, if I was locked in my bedroom, an intruder would have to go through the wall to enter. Having a secure door from the hall to both my bathroom and bedroom allowed me to keep the door between the two rooms open at night, without having to mess with locks.
When I finally made my way downstairs, Mom was holding paint samples against our kitchen blinds and asking for Serena’s opinion on the colors. Praying and painting rooms were Mom’s go-to moves when she was stressed. I was trying to ignore the radiating pain from my hand. Instead of taking my pain pill, I had settled on naproxen, as I wanted to stay alert.
Mom held out a bright orange color chip and asked, “Jon, what do you think?”
I grimaced and said, “I think this kitchen has been repainted so many times, it’s starting to affect the square footage of this house.”
Mom smiled and muttered, “You’re a lot of help. Are you feeling okay?”
“I just need to sit for a little bit.” I meandered into the living room and sat on the couch.
Serena smiled as she stepped around the corner. Like an embarrassed, love-struck teenager, I found myself stumbling over my words as I greeted her. Serena was an enticing work of art. She wore a teal t-shirt that featured thickets of briar shaped into a heart. Her full lips were highlighted by a sheer plum lip stain and looked luscious. I wanted to feel her soft embrace again, but all of those thoughts left my brain and came out as, “Nice shirt.”
“It’s just something I picked up on sale,” Serena said with a playful curtsy. “How are you?”
I softly told her, “Okay. Thanks for being here. If you need to head back to work, I understand.”
“No, I’m okay. I like the idea of spending the day with you.” Serena glanced back out of the living room to make sure Mom wasn’t in earshot. Serena shared, “I thought I saw Mandy Baker at the Mall of America a couple of years ago. I yelled her name and the woman looked at me but then disappeared.”
“Did you really think it was Mandy?”
“No. I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to recognize her now, even if she is alive. I think the woman left because I was staring at her. I probably scared the hell out of her.” Serena nervously twirled her hair around her index finger as she revealed, “I was thinking about Mandy, because I was thinking about you.” She studied my battered face in silence for a moment before continuing. “Your mom mentioned you used to date that reporter, Jada. Why did you break up?”
“I want to a have a child. Jada doesn’t.” I thought I saw a slight smile playing at the corners of Serena’s mouth.
Serena took my good hand. “That can be a tall order. I’d like children, too, but what if I found out I couldn’t have one?”
“You don’t have to make them; they’re everywhere.”
Serena chided me. “Yeah, I could just steal one.”
“Working investigations has put me in contact with a lot of unwanted kids. They don’t have to be babies.”
Serena moved closer to me. “Okay, that was definitely the right answer. I still feel like you’re the only one who ever honestly understood me. If we’re headed where I think we are, maybe we should start with a real date,” she smiled.
The floorboards announced that Mom was casually meandering closer, pretending to adjust a picture as she listened in.
Not certain if Serena noticed her, I decided to change the topic. “I think it’s time for a funny story.”
Serena was already smiling. “That would be perfect.”
“Okay, when I pulled into the law enforcement center last week, I saw a guy crawling into his trunk. He told me none of the handles in his car worked anymore, so the trunk was the only way in and out of the car. Then he added, ‘It’s really embarrassing getting groceries, but my girlfriend is pretty understanding of it.’”
Serena laughed out loud. “I wouldn’t go anywhere with a guy who expected that of me.”
I teased her, saying, “Come on, just get in the trunk.”
Trying unsuccessfully to compose herself, Serena said, “I don’t remember the last time I’ve giggled like this!”
“I suggested to the guy, ‘Maybe it’s time to get a new car.’ He told me, ‘Are you kidding? This is a Mustang!’”
“Well, if I would have known it was a Mustang . . .” With a contented sigh, Serena put her hand on my leg. “I should be cheering you up.”
Mom peeked in at us. Uninterested in my story, she turned and went upstairs.
Serena stood up for a moment, then pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Can we talk about Mandy Baker?”
I always enjoyed watching Serena put her hair back. It reminded me of how naturally beautiful she was. I still trusted her, so I shared my thoughts about Mandy Baker’s disappearance.
Serena was intrigued. “Who do you suspect?”
“Mandy used to flirt with a group of guys who played Texas Hold’em at her house on Monday nights, but there was nothing about those guys in the cold case file. They all had nicknames— Chino, Sliver, Whitey, Onion, and ‘Say Hey’ Ray. Over the past years, I think I’ve hunted them all down.”
I ticked them off one-by-one on my fingers. “Chino was actually Native, but got the nickname from the crew’s racial ignorance. He was in Mandan, North Dakota, when Mandy disappeared. Sliver was a meth addict. It took a bit of work, but I eventually found some guys who partied and crashed with Sliver on the night Mandy disappeared, so I was able to rule him out. I’m not one hundred percent certain I got the right Whitey, though. There’s an abundance of guys nicknamed ‘Whitey’ in rural Minnesota. The most likely candidate was a toe-head named Joey Gilbert, who was killed driving drunk five years ago. I never found anyone who was with Joey the night Mandy disappeared. He lived by himself in a trailer, and was probably just home alone. He was a very relaxed, pot-smoking dude. I haven’t cleared him, but he doesn’t seem right for it. It took me years to find Onion. He wasn’t around as much.”
Serena commented dryly, “Imagine writing a wedding invitation to, ‘Onion and guest.’”
“Onion was a paraplegic who was in bad health and didn’t drive. He couldn’t have picked Mandy up. All of these guys are criminals, and none of them will talk to the police. So, I’m stuck. I may need to eventually talk to Say Hey Ray Benson. Even though Ray’s been cleared as a suspect, because he was in jail that night, he might have insight into other unsavory characters who hung around their house back then.”
When Serena was perplexed, she got two little creases between her eyebrows. I had forgotten how cute that made her look. She asked, “Why would Say Hey Ray help you?”
“He’s in prison in Florida,” I explained, “and it may look good for him in front of the parole board.”
“Jon, I want to help.” Her face softened and there was sadness in her eyes as she said, “Remember, I went through this, too.”
Chapter
Ten
JON FREDERICK
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2
PIERZ
SERENA WAS BACK in St. Paul at work today, so I called Tony and told him I was heading back to Minneapolis. He offered to stop over at my parents’ and update me before I left.
Tony was a filthy mess when he stepped out of his rusty brown Chevy. He looked like someone had slathered honey on him, then rolled him around in the yard. Mom peered out the window and pursed her lips at Tony, not sure what to make of him, as he trudged toward her house. I asked Mom if we could have a few minutes. With a last pained look at Tony, she left us alone.
Tony marched unapologetically into the kitchen, covered in sticky dirt. He was excited, and a little loud, so Mom probably heard him anyway. “We found the gun in the
branches of a pine tree. It was absolutely miserable, digging through pine trees, getting that sticky sap all over us. Now I know what the inside of a popcorn ball feels like.” Exhausted, Tony slumped. “Mind if I have a seat? It’s been a long day of standing.” Using my foot, I deliberately pushed one of the chairs without a cushion toward him, knowing Mom would have a large mammal if he put his dirty behind on any of her upholstery.
Tony picked a few pine needles free of his sleeve, making a neat pile of them on the table. “It’s a nine-millimeter, double-action stainless revolver, similar to the one that fired bullets into your car.”
My statistic-ridden brain immediately registered that the nine millimeter was also the most popular handgun sold in the United States.
Tony continued. “Lemor’s denying any involvement with Brittany, and he’s denying shooting at you. But he doesn’t have an alibi for either. All we have to do now is match the bullets in your car to his gun, and he’s done. We already have him spotted driving down the road toward Brittany.”
“He’s in jail?”
“Yeah. We can hold for him for seventy-two hours. By then we’ll have the ballistics report. Plus, possession of a gun is a probation violation, so he’ll be sitting behind bars until his trial. This is going to be an APE case.” APE was the term investigators used for an “acute publicity emergency.” It meant it was essential that prosecution begin as quickly as possible to satisfy an angry public.
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