Thread of Doubt

by Jeff Shelby

  “I do,” I told her. I tried to find the resemblance between her and Mike, but failed. Maybe it was just the poor lighting. “I used to work with him and we've been friends for years.”

  She nodded, but seemed distracted, her eyes moving from me to something else. “Ah, okay. Yes. Mike's a good brother.”

  “You haven't heard from your son?” I asked, not seeing any reason to delay why I was there. “That's what Mike told me.”

  Her hands continued to fidget. She rubbed her knuckles over and over, almost as if it were one of those scratch-off lottery tickets. “I'm sure he told you much more than that,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “But, yes, I haven't spoken to Patrick in several days.”

  “And that's unusual?”

  “These days? Yes, very. He checks in every day. Without fail.”

  “And how long has that been a habit?” I added, “The checking in with you, I mean.”

  “Several months,” she said. “Since his last trip to rehab.” She raised her eyebrows. “I assume Mike told you about that?”

  “He mentioned it, but I'd like it if you could give me the details,” I said.

  “Details,” she said, her eyes moving away from me again. “There are a lot of those.” She seemed to take notice of her busy hands for the first time and pulled them apart, balling them into fists before resting them on her knees. “Patrick has struggled with drug addiction for the last few years. He's been in and out of rehab, both by his own choice and one time ordered by the courts. He has had a pattern of doing well when he leaves and then...” Her voice fell away for a moment. She cleared her throat. “And then he falls back into it.”

  I nodded. “It's hard.”

  “It's more than hard, Mr. Tyler,” she said, fixing her eyes on me. “It's brutal. It's taxing. On everyone in his life.”

  I thought back to what Mike told me about his being done with trying to save his nephew. Addiction had a way of not just eating up the person addicted, but it had a special knack for tearing families apart, too. It wasn't just the user that suffered.

  “It just won't go away,” she continued. “It doesn't seem to matter what he's done, it drags him back.”

  “So you think he's back to using?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No. That's why I'm worried.”

  “I don't follow.”

  She sighed and her hands unclenched, her fingers tapping at her knees. “When Patrick goes back to using, he tries to hide it. He overcompensates. He lies.” She let that sit for a moment. “So he checks in more than usual. He'll show up at the front door unannounced. He's never realized it's a pattern and I've never told him because it's the one way I know that he's fallen again.” She blinked. “Otherwise I might never know.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “So this isn't that,” she said. “I'm not some overanxious mother who is reading too much into this. Something is wrong.” She frowned. “I know something is wrong.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “I hope so.”

  I did. I knew from my own experience that you couldn't underestimate a parent's instinct about their own child. If I'd listened to all of the people who had politely suggested that Elizabeth was gone forever and I needed to move on, I never would've found her. Parents knew their children.

  “Tell me about the last time you spoke to him,” I said.

  “Four days ago,” Cleo said. “He called at the normal time. Told me about his day. Said the band is close.”

  “The band?”

  “He's in a band,” she said, a thin smile on her face. “And now you can call me an overanxious mother because, yes, it does worry me that he's an addict who moves regularly in the music scene. I know what's out there.” She took a deep breath, exhaled. “But, yes. He's in a band. A good one. I may not approve of the scene or the world, but I do approve of the band. They are good. Patrick has poured his heart into it. And he told me that they are close to finally making some real money.”

  I watched her for a moment. “But you don't believe that?”

  “I don't know what to believe,” she said, shaking her head. “He's so stubborn about the band and he won't consider doing anything else. Patrick is talented and the band is good. But there are a lot of talented people out there and a lot of really good bands don't make it. I don't want him to shoot for something unrealistic. The thing I want most for him is stability.” She paused. “And life in music isn't stable. I appreciate that he has a passion for what he's doing and I don't want to take away from what he's created. But it isn't stable.”

  “Did he say how they were going to make money?” I asked. “Sign with a label? Release something?”

  She shook her head. “He didn't give me the details, but he was adamant that he felt like they were on the cusp of something.” Her hands went back together, this time steepling in her lap. “So it just doesn't make sense to me that he hasn't called or texted.”

  “Can I ask what drug he's most dependent on?”

  Her hands stopped moving, the right one grabbing tightly to the left one. “He's experimented with nearly everything, I think. But heroin has been the one he can’t shake.”

  Mike had told me the same, but I wanted to see if there was something there that he didn't know about. Apparently, there wasn't and I wasn't surprised. Heroin had grown almost exponentially in its usage, availability, and social acceptance.

  “He started out as a recreational user; I’m sure of that,” Cleo said. “Marijuana in high school, and alcohol, obviously. But then he started taking pills, I guess.” She swallowed. “Pain relievers. I don’t even remember what it was for at this point. His prescription ran out and from what he’s told me, he started buying some on the street. Graduated to heroin from there because it was cheaper, more powerful. And because he was addicted.”

  It was the same story thousands of people could tell, but it didn’t make it any less sad, less devastating.

  “He drained his college savings account,” she said, her voice soft. “And it was my fault. I wasn't paying attention. I didn't know how secretive and manipulative addicts become.” Her voice quivered but her eyes remained dry. “My learning curve has been steep. But he emptied the account before I knew what was happening.”

  I nodded. “And this was a while ago?”

  “Yes. I have no idea how he'd be paying for it right now. He's not employed, and he's been giving his full attention to the band.” She shook her head. “I don't think they're making regular money, but I can't say that for certain.” She looked at me. “So if he has...started using again, I don't know where he’d be finding the money to buy.”

  I knew that addicts would be as resourceful as they needed to be in order to get what they needed. There wasn't really a bottoming out or a line that wouldn't be crossed when they were desperate. The drug always won.

  But I didn’t say that.

  “Do you have an address for him?” I asked.

  She recited it and I typed it into my phone. She gave me his phone number, as well.

  “I assume you've been to the address?” I asked. “To check on him?”

  She nodded. “Yes. No one was home. He shares the home with the other guys in the band.”

  “Any other friends he might be staying with?” I asked. “Or a girlfriend?”

  “I'm afraid I don't know who his friends are or might be, other than the band. I've tried to give him space, to not hover. There's only so much I can do. He's an adult, and I don't want to be some overbearing mother. So I've held myself back in order to try and let him rebuild his life.” She looked down at her hands. “So I don't know who those people might be.”

  “Girlfriend?” I asked again.

  She blinked and thought for a moment. “Erin. I don't know her last name. I've only met her once or twice, I believe. And I don't know where their relationship is at the moment. Or was.”

  There was something in her voice that made me believe she was holding back an
opinion on Erin, but I couldn't decipher what that opinion was.

  “Do you have a picture of him?” I asked.

  She stood and left the room for a moment before returning with a four-by-six photo in her hand. She held it out to me.

  “Was taken about six months ago,” she said. “Actually, I think it was Mother's Day. We'd gone to lunch down at Seaport Village.”

  The photo had curled a bit at the edges, but Cleo was sitting next to a good-looking guy in his early twenties. Blond hair that swept over his forehead and ears. Bright green eyes. An easy smile. Patrick had his arm around his mother and she was leaning into him, her head on his shoulder.

  “He took me to lunch,” she said. “I was fearful that he had some revelation to make to me, but I was wrong. He just wanted to take me out for a meal on Mother's Day.” She smiled and I could see tears in her eyes. “It was a nice day.”

  It was clear to me that Cleo Bullock loved her son and that their relationship had suffered damage. She was doing her best to repair it, even when she wasn't sure if what she was doing was helping. I knew what that kind of frustration was like. I'd lived it in a different way for nearly ten years.

  “I'll go see what I can find,” I told her, standing up.

  She followed me to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Tyler. I do appreciate it.”

  “You're welcome,” I said. “And, please. Call me Joe.”

  “Joe,” she said, trying to smile. “Yes.” She hesitated. “What will you do if you can't find him at the house?”

  I tried to smile back at her. “I'll find other places to look.”

  SEVEN

  Patrick Bullock's address was in the northeast corner of El Cajon, just before you moved into a neighborhood called Winter Gardens. El Cajon was always an area I'd made fun of when I was a kid. NO LIFE EAST OF I-5 was a popular bumper sticker and saying for those of us that had been fortunate enough to live close to the ocean. That area of east county had grown exponentially and yet El Cajon had retained its reputation for crime, white nationalism, and rednecks. It didn't hold completely true because multimillion dollar homes had exploded in and around the city, but El Cajon proper felt a bit like a community that didn't want to forget its rough and tumble upbringing.

  Patrick's house was on a narrow street littered with broken-down cars. Hoods were propped open, sedans were up on blocks, and most looked to be sorely in need of a paint job. The homes and yards that lined the street didn’t look much better. Most of the lots were more dirt than grass, with a few homes trying—and failing—to coax grass to grow. Bars decorated some windows and multiple signs encouraged me to beware of dogs.

  I found the address at the end of the block and pulled to the curb. It was a single-story ranch that had been painted yellow at one time and had faded to something more beige. There was a VW bug in the driveway, missing a rear wheel and lurched to the side. The miniscule front yard was a mixture of dried grass and weeds, and one of the two front windows had a crack dancing through the middle of it.

  I got out and walked to the driveway. The interior of the VW was decorated with cobwebs and appeared to have been there for quite some time. Oil spills splattered the driveway, none of them fresh. There was a potted plant near the front door, with bright green and pink leaves. It was the only thing that seemed happy to be there.

  I knocked on the screen door once, the metal banging against the actual wooden front door, then rapped on the door itself. I pushed the doorbell, but didn't hear anything inside. A police siren screamed by on a neighboring street, followed by a chorus of barking dogs.

  I knocked again, but no one answered.

  I let the screen door close and stepped back away from the house.

  The driveway ran past the house on the far side and I followed it. It led to a detached garage painted the same color as the house, and a backyard that looked just as neglected as the front. Patches of weeds dotted the dirt, scraggly stems and leaves that looked like they were growing out of sheer determination. Several buckets full of cigarette butts sat near the rear stoop, with a few scattered on the steps themselves, falling just shy of their target.

  I got up on the concrete stoop and peered inside the dirty glass in the backdoor. A small kitchen was on the opposite side of the door, with a round kitchen table and five chairs positioned in the middle of the room. Several bowls were on the table along with an opened box of Fruit Loops. More dishes were piled in the sink and more boxes of food—crackers, bags of chips, more cereal—lined the counters. It at least looked lived in.

  I turned around. The lot backed up to another similar-looking yard and house. That yard had a swing set in it that leaned so far to the side, one of the actual swings, a faded yellow seat, rested on the ground.

  I came down off the stoop and walked toward the garage, a large square structure set back away from the yard. The actual garage door was one of the old, wooden, single-piece doors that had to be lifted by hand. I tugged on it and felt a dead bolt holding it firmly in place on the side. I walked around to the side of the garage closest to the yard and found another door with a small window at eye level. It didn't appear to have been cleaned in fifty years, but I did my best to squint through the dirt and grime on it. I could see a couch and a desk and a guitar and a box of Twinkies.

  And I heard music.

  I turned my head and pressed my ear to the door.

  Definitely music. It was too soft for me to identify, but I heard it.

  I knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  I knocked again.

  No answer.

  I shaded my eyes and again tried to get a look through the glass.

  The best I could tell, the garage had been converted into a studio or apartment. Not in a formal way, but it certainly looked as if someone was living in it. The couch, the desk, and the Twinkies confirmed it.

  I knocked on the door again.

  No answer.

  I tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

  So I had a decision to make.

  Wait around and see if someone came home and could fill me in on who lived there and if they knew where Patrick was.

  Or I could kick in the door to the garage-studio thing.

  I'd never been patient, and in many ways, it was my impatience that led to my finding Elizabeth. It had gotten me in trouble on more than one occasion, but my lack of patience had ultimately never failed me.

  I didn't think it was a good time to change old habits.

  I twisted the doorknob and leaned hard against the door, hoping I could just force it open, but it held in place. I rocked my shoulder into it a couple of times. The door gave a little, but didn't come open. I jammed my whole body against it and the lock clicked, but still didn’t give way. I took a step away from the door, lifted my right knee, and slammed the bottom of my shoe into the wood next to the knob.

  The door swung open without even splintering the frame.

  EIGHT

  The first thing I smelled was garlic.

  It wafted out through the now open door and I found that to be odd. It made me think that someone was having dinner or just ordered takeout. It was just out of place.

  I stepped carefully through the doorway. It had, indeed, been turned into an apartment and had actually been refurbished better than I'd been able to see from outside. The interior walls were drywalled and painted, and carpeting installed over the concrete floor. The living room and kitchen were essentially one room, but a sink and an oven stood next to a fridge in the corner. The source of the garlic was a pan full of pre-packaged noodles on the stovetop that never finished cooking.

  I looked in the other direction and saw the entrance to a very small bathroom and a hallway that led out to where the front of the garage would've been. A red hooded sweatshirt was splayed out on the small couch, as if someone had casually discarded it. I took a few more steps, until I was standing close to the desk. Sheaves of notebook paper covered its surface, the papers filled with phrases and sente
nces written in both pencil and pen, the writing going in all directions. The Twinkies box was open and there were two left.

  And I could hear the music clearly now.

  R.E.M.

  I couldn't remember the song title, but I recognized Michael Stipe's voice.

  I took a couple of steps past the bathroom into the hallway, following the music, and stopped at the entrance to the bedroom.

  Patrick Bullock was lying on his back on his bed. His hair was a little longer than in the picture his mother had given me, the color a little less blond. He wore faded jeans that looked a size too big and a green T-shirt with a logo I didn’t recognize. His eyes were open.

  And a needle was sticking straight up from the middle of his right arm.

  “Patrick?” I said.

  As I suspected, he didn't answer.

  Because he was dead.

  I could see that his chest wasn't moving and his eyes were staring straight up into something that wasn't there.

  The room was a mess. The bed he was in was unmade and small mounds of clothing littered the floor like landmines. An acoustic guitar lay across the foot of the bed at his feet and a black electric model stood next to an old brown dresser. The walls were bare and the paint on them was cracking high up in the corners.

  I walked carefully into the room. I could see that most of the color was gone from his face and saliva had crusted in the corners of his mouth. The tiniest drop of blood had coagulated where the needle entered the middle of his arm and had dried almost black.

  I swallowed hard.

  On the nightstand next to his bed, an ashtray held several butts and a small piece of wax paper sat next to it, along with a needle cap and some rubber tubing. A neon orange lighter balanced precipitously on the edge of the nightstand.

  I took another deep breath and looked at Patrick.

  There was a notebook on the other side of his body and a blue pen. The notebook was closed and the pen was peeking out from the inside of it. The metal spiral binding was untwisted at the bottom of the notebook and I remembered doing the same thing when I'd been in high school and getting chastised for doing it because the wire could poke someone or something.