Thread of Doubt

by Jeff Shelby

  FOUR

  The server returned with a cup of coffee and the check. Mike quickly snatched it up.

  “You don't have to do that,” I said.

  “I invited you,” he said. “And I'm the one asking the favor.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “So Patrick is missing,” he said. His fingers drummed the table, and I could feel his leg bouncing to the same beat.

  “Yes. You’ve said that.”

  “Just hear me out before you tell me to get lost.”

  “I wouldn't tell you that.”

  “Yeah, you would, and it would be justified,” he said.

  The word missing did turn on a switch for me; I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. The better part of my life had involved the word missing, and I'd sworn that I was done with it once I'd gotten Elizabeth back.

  But this was Mike Lorenzo.

  “I'd never tell you that,” I said. “You know that.”

  “I know you've said that and I appreciate it,” he said, blowing across the steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “But I'd understand if you did.”

  “Tell me about Patrick,” I said.

  He ran a hand over his chin and sighed. “I've been his default father for most of his life. My sister married a loser, they had Patrick, and he took off. In the beginning, his biological dad would occasionally send an envelope of cash, but it wasn't more than enough to cover a week of groceries, and then that just stopped altogether. So, for better or for worse, I've been the male figure in his life.”

  “I'd say that'd be for the better.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Not like I was taking him to Boy Scouts or anything like that. But when Cleo asked for a hand, I tried to help. And when he started dabbling with drugs, I stepped in, did the whole scared straight thing, but it didn't take.” He shook his head. “He's not a bad kid, but he's made a lot of really bad decisions.”

  I nodded. That was the case with a lot of the kids I'd met looking for Elizabeth. There was this tendency to think about kids who were struggling as troublemakers or thugs, but the majority that I'd run across were simply kids who hadn't been able to find answers to the problems they were running into.

  Mike sipped at the coffee, then set the mug on the table between his hands. “I don't know much more than the fact that he's missing. Cleo called me, a little hysterical. Like I said, though, this is kind of par for the course for me. But she says she thinks something's wrong this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she says he's been clean,” he said with a frown that indicated he didn't buy it. “Because she says he's been in constant contact with her since he got out of rehab. She's been trying to reach him for two days and can't get ahold of him. So he really might not be missing. He might just be ignoring her.”

  “But yet you're sitting here asking me to look into it,” I said.

  He took a deep breath and spun the white mug around between his hands. The creamy brown liquid inside sloshed the sides but didn’t spill on to the table. “Yeah, I am. I'm not sure why. Probably because I feel guilty because he's my sister's kid. But I just don't want to deal with him. Because I know that if I find him sitting on a couch with a line of coke or a bag or heroin and he just hasn't paid his phone bill, I'll probably bust his neck.” He picked up the coffee and drained most of it before setting it back. “So what I'm asking is if you'll take a look for him and see if you can track down his dumb ass. You're far less likely to kill him than I am.”

  I chuckled. “I think you're forgetting my past.”

  He froze in the booth. “I'm sorry, Joe. That was incredibly insensitive on my part. I didn't mean anything by it.”

  I waved him off. “Stop. It's fine. I was kidding.”

  “Look, if this is something you don't want to do, just tell me,” he said. “I completely understand. I know you're not doing this stuff anymore, and I don't want to make it awkward for you.”

  “You're not making anything awkward.”

  He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. “I hope not. I just...I just figured if I was going to ask anyone to handle this, it was you. It’s not something I want to go to the department with, and I really don't think I can do it because I've had such a bad time with the kid. But that doesn't mean I want to leave him out in the cold, either, especially if something really is wrong.” He shook his head, frowning at himself. “I'm rambling.”

  “You're not rambling,” I told him. “I get it. It's a tough spot.”

  “I suppose,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Or maybe I'm just being stubborn.”

  “There's always that.”

  He managed a short laugh. “Always that.” He paused and then looked at me. “I'm serious, though, Joe. If you don't wanna do this, tell me. My feelings won't be hurt and I'll forget about it. I understand that it goes a little deeper here, and I feel a bit guilty for asking. So I understand if this is just something you'd rather leave alone.”

  I looked down at the table for a moment.

  Elizabeth was home. I had papers to grade and I was hoping to use the winter break to get ahead with lesson planning for January rather than flying by the seat of my pants like I'd been doing. I'd sworn off taking cases for anyone because of the way it reopened my old wounds and I'd managed to stick to it for several years.

  But there was a spark inside of me that I hadn't experienced in quite some time. And Mike was a friend.

  And no matter what he said, I did owe him a favor.

  We both knew it.

  I looked up at Mike. “I'll take a look.”

  FIVE

  Elizabeth was already asleep when I got back, and I fought the urge to go into her room and wake her up. I had a million questions for her and I just wanted to sit on the edge of her bed and talk to her, to see how she was and to hear her voice. I wanted to see her back in her old bedroom and soak up every single moment I could with her. It was my default mode, the way I coped with having lost her for so many years.

  But I also knew that I didn't want to suffocate her the first night she was home, so I forced myself to my room instead, showered, and laid in bed until I fell asleep.

  She was already downstairs when I stumbled out of my room in the morning, bleary-eyed and sleepy. She was stretched out on the living room floor, leaning over one of her legs, her nose to her knee. She was already dressed, her hair pulled back, and I wondered just how long she’d been up.

  “About time,” she said, without looking up from her stretch. “Was afraid I was going to have to just leave you here.”

  I yawned. “Thought you might sleep in a little.”

  She lifted her nose from her knee. “Incorrect,” she said with a smile.

  I fought the second yawn trying to escape. “Gimme a minute and I'll change.”

  “Better hurry.”

  I changed into a T-shirt and shorts and five minutes later, we were out the front door and I was still trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes.

  “You sure you can do this?” Elizabeth asked, stretching her hands high over her head. “You look like you want to go back to bed.”

  I responded by sprinting away from her.

  She was still laughing by the time she caught up to me. “Be careful. You don't wanna pull something.”

  “I thought it was going to be nice having you home for the break,” I said in between huffs and puffs as I slowed my pace. “But maybe not.”

  She laughed again and I noticed that she appeared to be breathing the same way she did when she walked to the fridge.

  We worked our way out of the neighborhood, past the entrance to North Island, and through the curvy roads that led out to the beach. She bounced easily through the soft sand while I plodded across it until we hit the hard packed stuff down at the shoreline. She took it easy on me as we went southward, down to the jetty near the Hotel Del, the temporary ice skating rink erected by the building barely visible from our location on the beach, then picked up the pace as we pivoted and
went north.

  “I'm gonna go a little bit,” she announced.

  “That's fine,” I managed between huffs.

  I had notions of trying to keep up with her, which lasted for all of eight seconds. Her stride became longer and she ran with more strength and purpose. I watched her as she dropped me easily. Her feet glided over the sand and her arms worked like metronomes, pulling her forward in an easy, urgent rhythm, her posture perfect as she chewed up the distance in front of her.

  I settled into my own, far slower pace, and focused instead on the cool morning breeze and the weak sun barely visible through the morning haze, on its own lazy march across the sky. It was hard not to envy how easy running was for her.

  Elizabeth was sitting on a rock near the fence that separated the public beach from the military base when I finally caught up to her. She didn’t notice me at first. She faced the ocean, her eyes locked on the waves as they crashed to shore.

  I came to a stop next to her, gasping a little, and she turned my direction.

  She glanced at the small watch on her wrist. “You got here quicker than I expected.”

  I clasped my hands together on top of my head, my lungs burning. “Yeah?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Not bad.”

  I squinted at her, trying to get my heart to slow down. “Think you're patronizing me.”

  “No,” she answered. “I aired it out at the end. Thought you'd be further back.”

  I sat down on the rock next to her, my legs heavy, my chest still rising and falling. “Guess that's good then. You pulled away from me like a plane on a runway.”

  She shrugged. “I train nearly every day, Dad. It's not like running for fun on the beach.”

  “I know,” I said, leaning forward, still trying to get air into my lungs. “But you made it look easy.”

  She grunted. “None of it's been easy.”

  I took a moment to get my breathing under control, then sat up. “That sounds...ominous.”

  She was back to watching the ocean. “Ominous?”

  “Running isn't fun?”

  “It's not supposed to be.”

  “Sure it is. To some degree.”

  She dug the toe of her running shoe into the sand. “Maybe. I don't know. Hasn't felt fun lately.”

  “Your shins bugging you again?”

  “No, I actually sort of feel good again,” she said. “Right now, nothing hurts. Which is shocking.”

  I lifted up the front of my T-shirt and wiped the sweat from my face. “Which should be a good thing going into track season, right? You're finally healthy so you can run without thinking about what hurts.”

  “I guess.”

  I let the T-shirt fall back into place. “Elizabeth?”

  She turned to me.

  “What's up?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bull,” I said, shaking my head. “I picked up on it last night and I'm sensing it again now. You don't wanna run anymore or what?”

  She shook the sand from her the toe of her shoe, then stuck it in the sand again. “I don't know. I'm just...I'm just in a funk right now.”

  “About what?” I tried not to turn into some sort of radar, looking for something wrong. “Running?”

  She shrugged. “I don't know. Running's part of it, I guess. But it's just...everything.”

  “Everything meaning what?”

  “Meaning running sort of sucks right now,” she said. “Meaning my classes suck. I'm just not feeling it. And I'm...I see the end coming and I have no idea what that's gonna mean for me. School is...fine. But it's not really what I expected.” She shook her head. “I'm not making sense. I'm probably just tired.”

  “What's wrong with your classes?” I asked. I was genuinely confused. This was the first she’d mentioned of having issues with anything academic.

  “Nothing's wrong with them,” she said. “They're just...boring. I'm not sure what the point is.”

  I felt a twinge of relief. “I'm not sure anyone ever figures that out.”

  “Yeah, but it's not like that for me,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “My roommates complain about their classes, too, but it's different. I don't know how to explain it. I'm doing fine. My grades are good. So it's not like they're hard or anything. I just...I'm just not sure of the point.”

  “Is it a major thing?” I asked. “Like, maybe poli-sci isn't for you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It's not like there's something else out there pulling at me. I don't know. And then having to grind all the time with running. My times haven't really improved. I think maybe I've topped out. And that's just depressing to me because I'm supposed to have another year and I'm not sure why I'd keep running if I can't get better.”

  I watched a group of dogs jumping the waves as they rolled in. A big lab was chasing two smaller dogs. The two smaller dogs kept turning around to bark at the lab and then sprint to the sand when a wave crashed in.

  “Sounds to me like you're tired,” I said.

  “I am. I seriously am. I just wanna be home and sleep and hang out with you for the next couple of weeks,” she said. “I hope that's okay.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “That sounds more than okay. You know I like it when you're home.”

  “But I don't wanna get in the way of your schedule,” she said. “I know you've probably got school stuff that you have to do over the break.”

  I did, but I knew I'd be putting that off until the very last minute.

  “I'm actually working on something other than school now,” I told her.

  “Really?”

  I told her about my dinner with Mike.

  “Wow,” she said. “Okay. That’s nice of you to help him. I’m sure he’s worried.”

  I hadn’t told her how Mike felt about his nephew when I’d explained the situation, and I didn’t share it now. “He’s a friend,” I said.

  “I’m glad you’re helping him,” Elizabeth said. “You should help him.”

  “But I don't think it'll take much time,” I told her. “I've gotta do a few things today, but shouldn't be all day. There may not be much there anyway.”

  “That's fine,” she said, laying her hands flat on her thighs. “And, I mean, maybe it's a good thing.”

  “A good thing?”

  She pursed her lips for a moment. “It's kind of obvious that teaching hasn't really...I don't know, Dad. I can just tell that it's been a drain on you. Every time I ask you about it, there's never any excitement and you usually have something to complain about. Which I totally get.” She paused. “So maybe it's good if you have something else to do for a while.”

  I watched the water. She was right. I was normally complaining about it. Too much to do, not enough time. It was always something. I'd tried to tell myself that it was just the same hurdles that every new teacher had to learn to navigate, but every day that passed made me feel like this was more than just a passing phase, something I would adjust to.

  “Maybe,” I said, standing up. “You ready to run back?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You can make it back?”

  “Be careful,” I said, backpedaling away from her. “I may trip you on the way back and then you'll really be injured.”

  She stood. “Not likely.”

  “You don't think getting tripped would hurt?”

  She broke into a slow trot. “I don't think you could catch me to trip me.”

  SIX

  We ran together for most of the way back. She only dropped me when she kicked in for the last two hundred yards. I was still hurting from the pace we'd kept and I was happy to jump into the shower to rinse the buckets of sweat from my body.

  Mike had texted me his sister's phone number and address. I called her after I dressed and she sounded eager to meet. After checking on Elizabeth, who was curled up on her bed with a magazine and looking like she was half-asleep already, I headed out.

  Cleo Bullock's address was in the mount streets over in Clairemont, t
wenty minutes north of Coronado. The traffic was light on the freeway and the early morning haze had already burned off, leaving a brilliant blue sky in its place. I couldn't help but shake my head, thinking of what people in the Midwest were looking at on that same December morning.

  I took the Balboa exit to the east, drove up and over the mesa, cutting through a massive canyon to get to Cleo's home. The mount streets made up a small portion of Clairemont, a working-class neighborhood that maintained a San Diego address but had never created its own unique identity that so many other neighborhoods in the city had. It was strip malls, gas stations, and low-slung ranch houses on tiny lots built in the 1950's.

  Cleo's home was a small square on a small corner lot. The green exterior had faded years exterior and the yard mirrored the home’s color, the yard struggling to survive. A large crack in the cement bisected the driveway, an oasis of weeds sprouting up in that small space, and a wooden backboard was nailed above the garage, a rusted out hoop hanging limply from it.

  I parked at the curb and Cleo Bullock was already at the door by the time I reached it.

  She was in her early forties, with long brown hair pulled away from her tired face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the lines at the corners of them were nearly as big as the canyon I'd crossed. She wore a worn Chargers T-shirt and denim capris that didn't fit as well as maybe she'd hoped.

  “Mr. Tyler?” she asked tentatively after she'd pushed open the screen door.

  I nodded. “Ms. Bullock?”

  She held out her hand. “Cleo. Please come in.”

  I followed her inside. The house was dark, almost like a church, and most of the drapes were pulled, exposing only the slightest slivers of light. She led me to a much sat-upon sofa that creaked when I sat down. She sat across from me in a matching and just as sat-upon easy chair. It was hard to see much in the darkened space, but I could make out a potted palm in one corner, its fronds limp, and an entertainment center that housed a television that might have been top of the line when I was in college.

  “So,” she said, wringing her hands in her lap. “You know my brother?”