by Jordan Cole
“All right,” Metzer said. “I’ve seen enough. Good police work. Here’s to hoping we get him soon.”
***
It was a little before noon as they came upon Knoxville from the north, on Highway 75 down through the Tennessee Valley. Agatha was taking her turn driving and so Riley was sleeping on their approach, or trying to anyway, grabbing whatever slumber he could in between the car’s bumps and jostles and his own well-honed sense of paranoia. He could feel the midday sun streaming in and when he opened his eyes he saw the cityscape ahead of them. Concentrations of bungalows and apartments mixed with office complexes and high rises. The Sunsphere rose high against the backdrop, glinting, reflecting the actual thing in the sky. Agatha turned in onto Route 29 toward the downtown area, a mix of bars, nightclubs, weathered historical buildings, and restaurants. She yawned, slowing the car as Riley scanned the streets for homeless shelters.
“You all right?” Riley asked. He was by no means well-rested, but had stolen enough sleep to do what needed to be done.
“I’ll be fine,” Agatha said. “Got a nice stretch of shut-eye back near Chicago. A cup of coffee and I’ll be good to go.”
“Okay. Because I think today is all we’ve got to find Fletcher. Any longer and we’re liable to be too suspicious, walking around asking questions.”
“What if we don’t find him?”
Riley shook his head.
“I don’t know. Let’s make sure that we do. We’ve been lucky so far. But they’ll track us down eventually. Either the cops, or the bad guys. Lingering in the same place for a long time is not a good strategy.”
Agatha opened her window, sticking her head out and staring at the businesses. The dye-job starting to fade, the roots of her hair exposing their natural red luster.
“We need to start asking around at the shelters. Should be at least one or two along this block. Or a church that would know. We find one, they can direct us to the others.”
“It’s summertime,” Riley said, watching the street traffic, trying to will his mind into a state of readiness. “Fletcher might not be at a shelter. He could be on the street, or in an abandoned building, or out in the woods with other homeless people.”
“We can split up,” Agatha said. “We’ve got a couple of pictures of Fletcher, right? I can check the shelters, you can walk the street. You already look like you’re on way to being homeless, anyhow.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I mean it. I’d look suspicious. You’d fit right in. If he’s here, someone should recognize him, even if he’s new.”
Riley examined himself in the rear view. The mussed hair, the two weeks’ worth of beard. He pulled his T-shirt to his nose and sniffed. Not an altogether wonderful odor. Maybe she had a point. But he wasn’t sure.
“Splitting up is dangerous,” he said. “Something happens, we’ll be in trouble.”
“If we’re going to find Fletcher, we need to cover more ground. There’s probably a dozen homeless shelters in the city. Can’t do all that, and walk the streets at the same time.”
“All right,” Riley said. Handed her one of the new burner phones they’d purchased. “We’ll keep in touch. Important stuff only.”
“You take the car,” Agatha said. “Homeless could be spread out around the city. I’ll grab a cab if I have to. We’ll meet up back here. Seven o’clock?”
“Okay,” Riley said. Agatha opened the door, and Riley shuffled into the driver’s seat. “Be careful.”
He watched her go. Riley pulled back out into traffic and down Gay Street, which looked like the main thoroughfare, until he reached a crowded pedestrian mall called Market Square. He could see a Farmer’s Market and shops and small park piazzas where people sat on benches and walked dogs past the storefronts. He found metered parking and maneuvered the Olds into the space before feeding the machine with quarters from his pocket. Moved through the market square with cap firmly pulled down over his face. Saw a dreadlocked guy busking on a corner, playing a violin beside a fluffy dog tied to a pole. Not quite homeless enough. Riley kept moving, until he saw another group taking shade beneath a canopy overhang. Two men and a girl, all very young, with a cardboard sign and change bucket. All had copious piercings and wore loose flannel clothing. The same kind of demographic Fletcher would have fit into, if he had eschewed his extremist ways and gone hippy. Riley thought it plausible. The homeless population of Knoxville most likely did not have a bustling population of militant Islamists. Fletcher seemed at the mercy of the vicissitudes of the moment. Judging by the letter he’d sent his parents, it sounded as if he was moving on to a more bohemian lifestyle. Altogether possible he was giving the burnout life a try after being a jihadi didn’t work out. In any case, it couldn’t hurt to ask.
Riley approached the three, who eyed him not with suspicion but with greed. Despite his appearance, Riley felt too old to connect with them on an itinerant level. He produced the picture of Fletcher and held it up. Put a dollar into the change bucket for good measure.
“Any of you seen this guy?” he asked. “His name’s Andrew, but maybe he goes by something else. Could be living on the street.”
One of the punkers took the picture and passed it around to the other two. Fletcher looked the part, at least, with his scraggly uncombed beard and intense stare. But nothing on the kids’ faces suggested recognition. They handed the photo back to Riley with a collective shrug.
“Naw, sorry man. Don’t know this guy. We’re like, new in town.”
“So is he. You know any place they hang out? You know, squatters. Artistic types, like yourselves.”
They shrugged. Riley guessed maybe they weren’t out on the street full time. Still had couches to crash on or basements to huddle in. He kept going. Walked farther from the upscale shops and stands selling vegetables, out to where the Tennessee river sliced through the southern section of the city. Saw the sun reflecting off the water, a few small boats tethered to wooden docks. Nothing out here. Riley headed back to the car and drove north. Found a pair of railroad tracks and followed them up Broadway. Saw old tracks for trolley cars and abandoned buildings and run-down houses with the windows boarded up. Felt like he was getting closer. He was searching for overpasses and secluded lots, places where the homeless would congregate. He stopped alongside a camouflage green overpass with cars and trucks rumbling overhead. Marched forward into the shadows, looking for signs of life. He saw mattresses and shopping carts full of cans, personal effects lashed together with bungee cord. There was one guy among the detritus, sleeping it off. Empty bottles of Thunderbird littered the ground. The guy was sprawled out on a dirty mattress, not moving.
“Hey,” Riley said. No answer. He said it again, louder. The guy turned. Riley showed him the picture, but the guy’s eyes barely registered it. Mumbled a noncommittal response. It was useless. Riley went back to the car and kept going. Drove up toward the edge of the city limits, past low-income housing, weedy lots, unsmiling people on street corners. He was beginning to get frustrated. Thinking he should have gone with Agatha, that something bad was due to happen with the two of them split up. He was hungry and tired. The whole situation suddenly felt very tenuous. Like Andrew Fletcher could be anywhere in the world. In the distance, the Sunsphere glinted, mocking him. On the side of the road, an old black guy strolled by, pushing a shopping cart full of cans. Riley stopped.
The old guy studied him with a kind of friendly wariness. Graying hair sticking out in curls all about his head. Looked at Riley like he wasn’t sure what to make of him.
“What’s happening, my brother?” said the man.
“I’m looking for someone,” Riley said. “A friend of mine. It’s very important. I think he might be with other homeless people here in Knoxville.”
The guy laughed.
“So you’re friend’s a bum, is what you’re saying.”
“Grade A bum, for sure. I got his picture here. Goes by Andrew, or maybe something else.”
Riley he
ld up the photo. The guy studied it carefully.
“If I’m gonna be one hundred percent completely honest, I never seen the guy. But I could give you an inkling of where he might be. If I wanted to, that is.”
There was a pause. Riley nodded, and took ten dollars from his pocket. Handed it to the guy, who nodded right back. Smiling.
“That’s more like it! Your friend, he wouldn’t be up in the north side here, he’d be over on the west side. They like to hang out in the woods over there, by the river. They got all types, but a lotta young people, you know, people passing through. I was over there one time and they stole my damn bottles. Forget about that, man. They pretend to be all about love, but them people is mean.”
“Where exactly?” Riley asked.
“Damn, I don’t know. I gotta draw you a map? Ask around and you’ll find it. West side, man. Where the damn bums and crackheads got their tents and their shit.”
“Thanks a lot,” Riley said.
“Ain’t I seen you before, man?”
Riley shook his head. Thanked the guy and went to the car and started driving south. Reversing course, back to the downtown area. Heard the cell phone chiming and answered it. Agatha.
“Got a lead,” she said. “Tent city on the west side of town. Young people, hippies. Worth checking out.”
“Think I just got wind of the same place, two seconds ago,” Riley said. “You far from where I dropped you off?”
“Not really. A couple blocks.”
“Let’s meet up. Head over there together. I’m getting antsy.”
“All right. Be there in ten.”
Riley kept driving. Hit some pre-rush hour traffic and it took him longer than he’d intended. He sat amongst the gridlock, watching pedestrians amble past his car, trying to stay hunched down in his seat. Waiting for someone to recognize him and pull out a whistle or something and have every cop in Knoxville converge on his position. He arrived back downtown close to an hour later and parked on the same stretch of road as when they’d first arrived. Waited nervously, scanning the storefronts with growing agitation until finally Agatha came out of an alley, walking toward the Olds at a brisk pace. Riley hit the gas, heading west, grateful to be out of there.
“What kept you?” she asked. “I’ve been killing time at the coffee shop for the better part of an hour.”
“Traffic,” Riley said. “Couldn’t be avoided. If Fletcher’s not over on the west side, I say we bail on this whole expedition. I’m getting a bad feeling.”
The sun hanging lower in the sky now. The first hints of night approaching. Riley would prefer to do his business in the homeless camp in daylight hours, if possible. It’d be hard enough as a stranger with a pretty young woman in tow. Stumbling around in the dark with a lot of desperate people lurking about was not his idea of a good time.
“Everyone seemed confident the tent city was a logical choice,” Agatha said. “You need a government issue ID to make use of the facilities at the shelter, apparently. I doubt Fletcher would want to risk exposing himself. It’s still warm. He could blend in with the others, be living in a tent until October. What’s got you spooked?”
“Nothing,” Riley said. “Just a bad feeling.”
“Funny. You don’t seem like the type of guy to get scared by omens.”
“More intuition, really. Like our luck’s going to run out.”
The west side of Knoxville was a mix of homes and strip malls, gas stations and long lengths of tree-shaded road. Agatha directed him, and they drove on down the Kingston Pike until she told him to turn off near a large industrial building with the windows blacked out. Riley pulled to a stop in the grassy lot beside it. Ahead was a chain link fence, and in the trees beyond he could see the dotted masts of tents, blues and whites against the green. Fire pits had been dug out into the sandy earth and extinguished, beer bottles and cans discarded everywhere. The fence had a sagging padlock with more than enough space for the two of them to squeeze through.
Agatha went first, and Riley followed, acutely aware of the rapidly vanishing daylight. They wound further into the forest, first passing a smattering of makeshift homes and bedrolls, the concentration of people growing more and more frequent. Men and women camped in the back of empty trucks with the wheels removed, a congregation in a hollowed-out train car, hastily assembled tents that sloped and slouched downward, tired vagabonds sprawled on mattresses and blankets and towels, all with clothing patchwork and ratty. Some of the younger people played rain-warped acoustic guitars with missing strings or sat in circles talking and smoking, but most were just lying around, exhausted and tired and hungry and ready for another day to be over.
Riley and Agatha walked past them, drawing some stares but none that were overtly threatening. In their current state they could have passed for a down-on-their-luck couple checking out their new digs. Riley brandished Fletcher’s picture and held it in front of a dreadlocked woman sipping a can of beer.
“Seen this guy around here?” he asked.
The woman gave him a steely glare like she suspected he was some kind of narc. They moved on. A small dirt path delineated the different sides of the homeless camp, but it wasn’t a strict boundary. People and tents were splayed everywhere, making it hard to maneuver. An older, skeletal looking man sang ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” at the top of his lungs, clapping his hands along with the beat. Riley saw three men about Fletcher’s age sitting alongside one another on a rusty bench, and waved Agatha over. He showed them the picture.
“Looks familiar,” said one of them, a guy with a thick greasy goatee and a basso profundo voice who was munching a bag of scavenged peanuts. “Maybe. Is that your wife?”
“She’s my traveling companion.”
The other two guys laughed in unison, like some kind of wretched symphony.
“You’re lookin’ good,” The goateed guy said to Agatha. “How ‘bout you take off your shirt and show me your tits, and I’ll tell you where your friend is hiding.”
“How ‘bout I break both of your arms,” Agatha said, without missing a beat. They all jeered together.
“Get out of here, slut.”
Riley stood. Decided against making a scene. Too many things could go wrong. Took hold of a steaming Agatha gently by the elbow and led her on. Not much daylight left now. News of their presence seemed to have spread. Riley could feel eyes on them as they walked, tracking their movements. A hopeless feeling beginning to take hold. They passed two women sitting cross-legged on the ground, playing cards and talking to each other at a high speed ratatat pace. They were probably around thirty but looked closer to fifty. Rotten teeth and bad skin; obvious meth habit. Agatha held up Fletcher’s picture. One of the women, a taller, emaciated blonde, looked closer. Her eyes lit up with real recognition. She slammed down the cards she was holding and snatched the photo from Agatha’s hands.
“I know this guy,” she said. “Yeah, I know this guy for sure. I saw him the other day down by the circle rock and I never seen him before that. I tried to give him some Slim Jims for some smokes and he said he wouldn’t eat it because it's got pork in it. Religious nutso.”
Riley felt a surge of adrenaline.
“You’re sure? This was here?”
“Yessir, two days ago. He was walking around asking for food, trying to trade. Hungry-looking guy, think he said his name was Flip. That your friend?”
“Maybe,” Agatha said. “Where’s the circle rock?”
“Hey, how bout you hook me up first. I’m telling you what you want to know.”
“Sure. Here.” Agatha pulled twenty dollars from her pants pocket and handed it to the blonde. Riley watched uneasily as more eyes trained on them.
“That’s all you got, ma’am?”
“Where’s the goddamn rock?” Riley said. Stepped in between them, looming over the women. They backed up.
“Easy man, just follow the road straight. Not far at all. There’s always a bunch of assholes hanging around there.”
Riley turned to Agatha. Was about to talk to her about how best to canvass the surrounding tents for Fletcher, when a voice called out from behind him.
“Hey Flip! Flip!”
A loud, piercing shriek. He turned and saw the blonde woman, the meth head Agatha had given the money to.
“Run Flip! They’re here to get you! They found you out man!” She laughed wildly, a witch’s cackle if Riley had ever heard one, her face scrunching up into a single indelible crease. Shouting loud enough for anyone within a hundred yards to hear.
A moment of heavy silence. Agatha stared at the woman with an expression of half-anger, half bafflement. Riley swiveled on his feet. Then a man bolted out of a purple tent on the far side of circle rock. Running like his heels were on fire. In a half-second, Riley’s mind went through a series of furious calculations. What if this wasn’t Fletcher? What if it was just some random guy named Flip? What if he chased after him and left Agatha alone and she got into trouble? What if this was a setup?
It didn’t matter. He had no choice. His lizard brain sent shockwaves down to his feet, and Riley ran.
24.
Whoever Flip was, he was fast.
Riley trailed behind, legs pistoning against the soft underbrush, trying to keep pace. He wasn’t a sprinter. Was never all that fast in short bursts. But he had a decent allotment of stamina. He’d ran marathons, when he’d returned from overseas, and finished them. Always completed his runs in Army Ranger training among the first few, after all the sprinters had wheezed and slowed and eventually dropped. And those runs were no joke. Many miles across unforgiving terrain. So a chase through the flat, grassy tent city was not especially daunting. But Riley was hungry and tired, on unfamiliar ground. And Flip ran like a maniac.