by Andrew Mayne
“Suit yourself.” He taps into his computer and writes a number down on a slip of paper. “I used to coach the girls’ high school soccer team. Here you go.”
“Thank you.” As I get up, I think of a way to reciprocate. “I noticed some bags of fertilizer in the mower shed.”
“Yeah, I use it to keep the lawn nice and green.”
“It’s surprisingly so. Most of the fields around here are brown. Just so you know, though, that’s an industrial-grade fertilizer. I’d cut it down to a third or so. You’ll have to mow less often, but the grass will look as good.”
Frank smiles as he holds open the door. “That explains a lot. Someone donated it to me without any instructions.”
He heads back out to his mower, and I return to my Explorer.
In my car I dial Amber’s number and get her voice mail.
“Hi, um, this is Theo Cray. I’d like to talk to you about something . . .” I leave my number and hang up, not knowing what to say. Leaving even an innocuous voice-mail message is awkward for me, much less when I want to talk about an alleged murder.
Two minutes later I get a text message from a different number.
this is ambyr. meet me @ king’s diner in 2 hrs. 1004BJ3004ATW
The numbers and letters don’t appear to be an address or anything else that makes sense, but King’s Diner is the one I passed by the massive truck stop.
Hopefully, she can tell me what the code meant, as well as what really happened to Chelsea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TROUBLED YOUNG THINGS
Amber—or “ambyr,” as she called herself in her text message—is half an hour late. The waitress pours me another cup of coffee as I pick at a cherry in my pie.
“Want something else?” she asks, noticing I haven’t touched it.
“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”
She gives me a polite smile, then moves on to another table. She looks just shy of thirty. Dirty-blonde hair to her shoulders, athletic, small-town pretty.
I like the way she makes small talk with the other patrons and their kids as she bounces around the busy place. There should be at least two more servers here, but she manages to keep things moving, dropping off food, running the register, and taking care of food prep.
The diner is immaculate. The wall by the register is filled with framed photos of men in uniform. There are service patches pinned up as well.
I’d imagine that for some in a town like Hudson Creek, the best prospect was going into the military.
The part of Hudson Creek that’s not the new 88 Service Station or the King’s Diner is oil stained and run-down. Across the street is a motel that looks like zombies would feel at home in it. Next to it is a convenience store plastered with ads for high-alcohol-content beers. In front of it, two men in their midtwenties lean against the hood of a truck, eating microwave hot dogs and burritos. Their truck suggests redneck, but one of them wears a hipster knit cap and the other a Halo T-shirt.
I’m debating whether or not to text Amber back when my phone rings.
“Where are you?” asks a young woman.
“King’s Diner.”
“You’re not in the diner, dumb ass? Are you?”
“Yes. You said—”
“That’s not what I meant. They watch the diner. I’m out back by the old car wash.”
“Oh, I’ll . . .” She’s already hung up.
I hurriedly drop money on the table and head outside.
What did she mean by “they”?
Her paranoia is infectious. I walk out to the sidewalk and glance around. Between here and the 88 are half a dozen parked trucks. Behind the diner is a small, open lot with rusting cargo containers.
The car wash, actually a large truck wash, is a crumbling block of concrete covered in vines. It resembles an ancient temple.
Tall weeds stick through the cracked asphalt. In a few decades you’d never even know there was something man-made here.
I walk around the back of the truck wash and see a girl smoking a cigarette as she texts on her phone.
She’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. Underneath the heavy eyeliner is an attractive young woman who looks like she’s getting over a cold.
“I won’t bite you,” she says when she spots me.
I glance around, looking for the “they” she warned me about.
She notices my anxiety. “They never come back here. We’re fine.”
“Are you Amber?” I ask, stepping closer. Nearer to her I can see she’s got a lot of makeup caked on. Probably to cover acne.
“I hope so.” She gives me a smile. “How much did you bring?”
“Bring?”
“Money.”
Is she in hiding and needs help? I pull my wallet from my pocket and start counting bills. “How much do you need?”
She looks down at the cash and steps close to me. “Now we’re talking.” Her breath is overpoweringly minty. Like she just used mouthwash.
Out of nowhere, she grabs my crotch.
I stare at her hand, confused. “Um . . . I just wanted to talk.”
She leans in and whispers into my ear, “That’s what they all say.”
After a confusing moment, I manage to overcome my shock and pull her hand away.
She looks over my shoulder.
There’s the sound of squealing tires as the truck from the convenience store comes skidding around the side of the building. The two men inside the cab are looking at me with murder in their eyes.
“Oh, shit!” says Amber before she runs away.
The driver pulls the vehicle to a stop and flies out of the cab with his friend behind him. “What the fuck are you doing with my sister!”
“I just wanted to ask her a question!” I plead, holding my hands up. He has a metal baseball bat in his hands.
He bolts straight for me and slams the bat into my stomach. I crumple to my knees.
His companion kicks me in the ribs, and I fall onto my side.
“There’s been—” My words are cut off as I try to fend off a flurry of blows with my hands.
The brother, the one in the knit cap, slams a fist into my jaw and my face falls into a patch of leafy spurge. I lose consciousness, perversely wondering if the weed broke the asphalt or if the hot-and-cold cycle of the weather allowed it to spring through.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHERRY PIE
I come to some unknowable time later and manage to move from the ground to lean on the building. My side hurts like hell. I spit out a mouthful of blood. The red saliva lands on my shoe.
My battered ribs shriek as I bend over to retrieve my empty wallet. I shove it back into my pocket and, using the hand that isn’t swollen, give myself a spot check for broken bones. There’s lots of sore muscle, but no sharp pain from fractures or suspicious clicks. Only an X-ray can tell for sure, but I think I’ve at least dodged that bullet.
My stomach roars in pain, though. I lift my shirt and see a bruise the size of a football. I remember the brother swinging his bat into it.
I hobble toward my Explorer in the King’s Diner parking lot but collapse twenty feet from the bumper. Footsteps come running up behind me. I lie flat on the ground and stare at the blue sky.
My waitress from earlier leans over me and says, “Dumb ass” under her breath. Amber’s word for me. Apparently a regional favorite. The waitress still looks pretty, even when chewing me out.
“Did you just call me a dumb ass?” I ask over the pain.
“Do you want me to call the cops?”
“No,” I reply as I sit up, fighting back white waves of agony.
“Then, yes. You’re a dumb ass. Do you want an ambulance?”
“No. I don’t think so.” I look back at the diner. “Can I just go sit down?”
She gives me a cross look. “I should kick you off my property.”
“Lady, give me a minute or two and I’ll leave this fucking place, glad
ly.” The second time today I’ve been asked to get out of town.
She watches me get to my feet, not offering a hand but making sure I don’t fall down again and split my head in her parking lot.
“Don’t worry,” I say through gritted teeth, “I won’t sue if I fall.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t have any money,” she snaps back.
Using handrails and seat backs for support, I make my way back to my original seat. Which was dumb and pointless, because it’s the farthest booth from the door.
She ignores me while I use paper napkins to soak up the blood in my mouth and make an impromptu cleansing scrub using a glass of water and table salt.
I have a first-aid kit in my Explorer, but it might as well be in the next state.
I take stock of my wounds. I’m bruised up, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it could have been. With some Tylenol and sleep, maybe a medicinal beer or two, I’ll be fine in a couple of days. I’ll look like shit, but I’ll survive this.
Whatever this is.
The waitress stops at my table. “You able to walk out of here now?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I wad up my bloody napkins. “Just one thing”—for the first time, I notice her name badge—“Jillian. What happened back there?”
“Are you that dumb?”
“Apparently.”
She rolls her eyes. “You got played. They rolled you. Let me guess, your wallet is empty?”
“Yeah. But you act like this happens all the time. Why don’t the cops do something?”
“You said yourself, you didn’t want to call them. They never do.”
“‘They’? I don’t understand. Who are ‘they’?”
“The other johns.”
“Johns?” Amber’s words to me before I got my ass kicked come back to me. “Wait . . . did she think I was trying to hire her as a hooker?”
“Real good naive act.” Jillian shakes her head, then starts to walk away.
“Please,” I plead. “Just a second.”
She turns around. “What?” she says, agitated.
“I had no idea. I only wanted to talk to her about Chelsea Buchorn.”
Jillian comes back to the booth. “What about her?”
“How she disappeared. That’s why I’m here. I just wanted to ask her what she saw.”
“Why do you care?”
“I just lost a friend. Her name was Juniper. They say a bear got her. I don’t know.” I stare down at the table and hold my head in my hands. I feel myself breaking down. “I just want to know what happened.” Red blood falls onto the white Formica. I wipe it away with my sleeve.
Jillian takes a seat across from me. “You really weren’t trying to hook up out there?”
“God, no! I thought she knew something. The way she talked about ‘them’ watching . . .”
“She meant the police.”
“Oh. Great.” I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen is cracked, but it still works. Using trembling fingers, I pull up her text message. “What does ‘1004BJ3004ATW’ mean?”
She stares at it, taking only seconds to decipher it. “Do you really want me to say it?”
“Yeah. I don’t get it.”
“Imagine the first three numbers are a price. Four means ‘for,’ as in for something.”
I stare at my phone. “BJ . . . oh, crap.” You’d think as much as I work with numbers, the code would have been obvious before. “And ATW means ‘all the way’?” I look across the table at her, my cheeks hot with shame. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Not everyone can be a rocket scientist.”
“CalTech’s program actually accepted me. But I turned it down to study biology at MIT.”
Her lips curl into a bemused grin. “Are you a scientist?”
“When I’m not getting my ass kicked by the brothers of prostitutes.”
Jillian pats my nonswollen hand. “You really are a babe in the woods. That was her boyfriend-slash-pimp. The whole thing was a setup. If you’d been a local, she would have you meet her in a motel or in your car. Didn’t the whole thing seem suspicious to you?”
Holy crap, I’m an even bigger idiot than I realized. She had me for a mark the moment I left my confused voice mail message.
“If it’s common knowledge, why don’t the police do something?”
“Because you’re not a local. Hudson Creek has bigger problems. Did you get a look at her face?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I mean did you notice the makeup?”
“Huh? Yes. I thought it was because of lingering teenage acne.”
“We call that meth face.”
Then the mouthwash was because of her breath. As a hooker, she had to make herself presentable.
Crap, now I get it. I’ve read about this. Seen it on TV. The run-down houses and the new cars—it’s like Southeast Central LA in the 1980s, when crack was an epidemic. Out here it’s meth.
“How bad is it?”
“Two police officers were arrested last month by state police for trafficking. But it’s worse than that.”
I nod to the wall with the photos of all the soldiers. “I’d think you’d get better police out here.”
Jillian looks at the faces of the men for a moment. “Those are the ones that didn’t make it back. Hudson has another distinction besides meth. Per capita, we’ve provided more Special Forces than any other town. We’ve also lost more men than anyone else.”
So this town is what happens when you kill off the best and the bravest. You’re left with a cancerous epidemic that turns the young into violent sociopaths.
And you create the perfect environment for a killer to come and go as he pleases.
“Do you know anything about Chelsea?”
“No,” Jillian replies. “I was at Fort Bragg when she went missing.”
“Military?”
“Reserve. My husband was, too.”
“And now?”
“I’m out.” She sighs. “And he never made it home. This was his parents’ place.”
I can’t think of anything to say. My pain seems rather insignificant at the moment.
Jillian slides out of the booth. “I’ve got to check in on the other tables. And don’t worry, I’m no longer kicking you off my property.”
“Thank you. Do you know anyone who could tell me about Chelsea?”
She shakes her head. “The only person I know of that knew her well just had your ass kicked so she could buy meth.”
“Delightful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OPEN WOUNDS
Between her rounds, Jillian fills me in with more town gossip, then gives me the name of a motel with the lowest number of sheriff department raids.
The Creekside Inn is from a bygone era when color TV was an attraction like Wi-Fi is today. The manager, an older man with a goatee, is leafing through a stack of fly-fishing magazines when I walk in.
He gives my face one look and decides he doesn’t want to know the story behind the bruising.
I get the key and limp to my room. It takes me three trips to get my luggage inside. A futile act, given that I don’t expect to be here more than a day or so, just long enough to feel up to the drive back to Austin.
I make a nest for myself on the bed, using pillows to make it easier for me to sit up. In a moment of absentmindedness, I set my laptop on my stomach and feel a flash of pain.
There’s a nice yellow color surrounding the bruise. It’s a beauty. I’m pretty sure I can make out the brand of boot Amber’s friend was wearing.
Hudson Creek has become one painful dead end for me. The one person I wanted to talk to nearly put me in the hospital.
Determined to not be a complete quitter, I do an Internet search to see if Chelsea might have any less violent friends I can speak to.
An old Instagram photo shows her partying with three “best buds.” One I recognize as Amber with a shorter and lighter haircut. The other two girls are tagged Gennifer and Lis
a.
The photo was taken in a kitchen. They’re mugging at the camera dressed in pajamas, holding cans of beer. Just four girls having a fun Friday night.
And now one is missing, probably dead. Another is a hooker frequently involved in felony robbery.
I find Gennifer’s last name: Norris. She pops up in a database of Montana mug shots looking older than she should. She was booked for intent to traffic.
Lisa Cotlin managed to get out of town. I find some wedding photos in Tampa that Chelsea liked. The groom is wearing a marine uniform.
At least one person had a happily ever after.
I can’t find anybody else besides these three who was in regular contact with Chelsea. Gennifer disappears from her social media stream not too long after the party photo.
Chelsea’s updates are mostly photos of landscapes and various cats and dogs from around Hudson Creek.
If I could describe it in one word: lonely.
These are the kind of photos you take when you’re walking back and forth between two forgettable places, texting on your phone, looking for some kind of escape, when a random dog pokes his nose up above a fence and gives you an unconditional smile.
I don’t know anything about Chelsea, but these photos are how she looked at the world, or at the very least, the parts of it she thought worth remembering or sharing.
Her last photo before she went missing is an antique metal headboard.
Always wanted one.
Underneath is a comment from Amber.
Bitch, you know I’m going to tie you up to that!
It’s the kind of playful innuendo I overhear all the time in the classroom. I don’t read anything more into it.
Although it’s a little odd that she’d buy a new piece of furniture before deciding to leave town. Not as unlikely as signing a new lease, but still, an indication that if she did move on, it was a last-minute decision.
I’m startled by a knock at the door. I wince getting up but take some satisfaction that I only audibly groan once.
Cautious, I glance through the peephole and see the motel manager standing there holding a bag.
I open the door. “Did I forget something?”