—Hey yourself, you cock-suckin’ faggot. You’re just in time to have a bat shoved up your ass, too.
Regan appears a few feet behind the bouncer, and I push myself up off the ground.
As the young man lifts the bat in preparation to swing, the bouncer snaps out a short, stiff right hand jab, breaking the guy’s nose.
He drops the bat and the bouncer catches it before it hits the ground.
With the man holding his bloody nose, the bouncer grips the bat, pulls it back, and swings it into the man’s abdomen.
As the man falls to the ground, unable to catch his breath, the bouncer pounces on the other man — hitting him in the back of the knees, causing him to crumple, then driving a hard thwack into his back.
Neither man attempts to get up.
—I suck cock and I can kick your ass, the bouncer says.
—A man of many talents, I say.
—You two okay? He asks, turning toward us.
We nod.
—Nazi motherfuckers wait out here occasionally to do some literal gay bashing.
—Thank you, I say. You saved our —
—What I’m here for. I’m gonna call the cops. If you don’t want to get tangled up in this, you can go ahead and get out of here.
—Thanks, I say, wanting to apologize to him for a world with people like these men in it, but not knowing how to exactly.
— Last few years, the beach has really changed, Tristan is saying. There’s an edge, a danger that used not to be here.
We are in the parking lot of The Dollhouse waiting for Brad, Stephen, and Kyle.
Regan nods like she really knows what he means.
—More bad shit happenin’. I’m not talkin’ partyin’. I’m talkin’ crime. People getting’ seriously fucked — robbed, raped, beaten, killed.
He’s not the first person to say this, and though I haven’t experienced very much in the way of violence or violation firsthand, I have interviewed a number of people who have.
—You heard about the hotel security guy who raped the girl last summer and threw her body off the balcony to make it look like she fell, he continues. And there’s just a lot of freaky shit — some wacky, wacky stuff.
Having turned up not a single sighting during our search of clubs with DJs, we’ve met here because I have an idea for how to find out who Casey left with.
Brad arrives, followed shortly by Stephen and Kyle.
We huddle.
—Desperate times, I say. But what we’re about to attempt is illegal. If it works, it’ll get some of us in trouble. If it doesn’t, it’ll get all of us in trouble. If you don’t want to be involved, no one’ll hold it against you.
—I fuckin’ live for fuckin’ trouble, Brad says.
—He didn’t get the name Brad to the Bone for teaching Sunday School, Tristan says.
—Fuck it, Stephen says. I’m in.
—Me, too, Kyle adds.
—You can both count on A’s in my class — even if you don’t show up for the rest of the semester.
—It’s our favorite class, Kyle says. We’ll be there.
—When you get out of jail, I say.
—The plan involves us going to jail? Stephen asks.
I nod.
—Let’s hear it.
—A while back when I was here, a fight broke out, and everybody scrambled. You two guys will pick a fight just don’t involve any of the girls. Start something with a customer — someone big enough to take care of himself. Make it big and sloppy and involve as many people as you can. When the bouncers come, Brad will interfere — a fellow bouncer trying to help, but really prolonging it — try to get the manger going, too. While this is happening, Regan will distract the woman behind the counter, and Tristan and I will sneak into the office and look at the surveillance footage from earlier tonight.
—You’re not gonna have very long inside the office, Brad says.
—I know. But I’ve got the time of her call, so I should be able to zip back to it pretty fast. They’ll take you guys outside and wait on the cops — unless you can talk them into not making that call. Either way, we should be able to get what we need.
—I’ve got a snub nose .38 in my car, Brad says. In case you —
—No guns, I say. If we’re caught it changes everything.
He nods.
I look around.
—Any questions?
—The one time I saw the entire club empty out, Regan says, was when somebody sprayed mace. I have some in the car.
Brad nods.
—I’ll take it and use it if we need a Plan B.
As if part of an artistic action film, the beat of the techno dance music and the flashing lights give the fight a heightened, surreal aspect that makes it look choreographed.
Tables turn, chairs fly, strippers scatter.
The poor guy they pick the fight with is a squat, muscular man who continually flexes and strikes competition-type poses whether at the tip rail or standing next to his table of friends.
Coming in about two minutes after we’re in position, and just before the fight starts, Regan creates drama by claiming she’s owed money by the house — ensuring Tristan and I are able to slip into the office unseen, and she will never work here again.
Down a short, narrow hallway, last office on the right, and we’re looking at a computer-based security monitoring system.
With Tristan at the door, watching the hallway, I use the mouse to navigate to about the time of Casey’s first call and work back from there.
Because there are ten feeds, which include seven of the ten VIP rooms, one on the reception counter, and one on the entrance, each window is small, and it takes me a while to locate her.
Once I have, I increase the size of the window displaying her and a trim, dark haired man with a Caesar cut.
It’s difficult for me to see her bare breasts and seductive dance, but know I can’t look away for even a moment.
Freezing the frame with the best possible view of the man, I pull out my phone and take a picture of the screen.
Continuing forward, I lose her as they leave the room, but pick her up a few minutes later at the reception counter, preparing to leave. As she talks to the woman behind the desk, Caesar stands by the entrance waiting for her.
I’m snapping a few more pics of the screen when the door at the end of the hallway opens, smoke and music pouring in with it, and Tristan begins to shake and stammer.
—Isssss... it.... over? Is it over? he asks.
—The fuck you doin’ back here?
—Hiding, man. Got scared.
I slip right behind him and pretend to be hiding, too.
It’s the smaller of the two bouncers, a white guy with a shaved head, goatee, and a massive dangling earring, and I think how curious it is that most of the guys working the doors around town sport this same style.
—We can’t be anywhere close to a fight, I say. We violate our probation and we go down for a deuce. Hundred bucks if you can sneak us out of here without anyone seeing.
He hesitates.
—Two hundred, Tristan says.
—Follow me, he says.
He leads us to a hidden door in the next office, and we come out on the side of the building next to the air conditioning units.
I hand him a hundred dollar bill.
He looks at Tristan.
—He’s got mine, too, Tristan says.
—I would, I say, but I don’t have it. I’ll pay you back.
I’m getting down to the last of the cash I had and the very last of little money I’ve been living on lately.
—Would you take sixty and a Walmart gift card? Tristan asks.
The bouncer growls.
—I’ve got forty, I say, and hand it to Tristan, who puts my two twenties with his three, and then places them in the open, waiting palm of the big man.
By the time Tristan and I make it to our cars, Regan is there waiting on us.
—How’d it g
o? I ask.
—Everyone did a great job, but all three of them are going to jail.
—Shit.
—It’s cool, Tristan says. I’ll go get them out.
—I’ll hit up an ATM, I say, pay you back and send bail money with you.
I’m pretty sure I don’t have enough in my account to cover everything, but I’ll have to figure out what to do about that tomorrow. Right now, with Casey in danger and the merciless clock ticking, my inability to fund this little operation is the least of my concerns.
—Get what you needed? Regan asks.
I nod.
—Ever seen this guy? I ask, holding up the phone.
—Yeah, she says, on an Ancient Roman coin.
—Where can we clean this up and print it out? I ask.
—I know a place, Tristan says. I’ll take you. It’ll be a while before Brad and the boys will be processed.
I look at the image on the small screen.
—Wait ’til I get my hands on this motherfucker.
Hippie Dave, a tall, aging radical with a long gray ponytail and full, flowing white beard, lives in the Cove and runs a cultural, political, and literary zine out of his garage. He’s a big man with thick hands, long fingernails, and small, but intense hazel eyes behind black frame glasses, the corners of which are held together with electrical tape.
He’s a friend of Tristan’s, and is more than willing to help, but moves slowly and seems completely baked as he attempts to negotiate the stacked boxes and piled papers filling the garage.
It takes far longer than I would’ve liked for him to print the picture and to create and copy the flyers, and the entire time, my heart and head are pounding, anxiety jangling through my nerves like lightning.
I move around constantly, bumping into cardboard boxes, tripping over stacks of newspapers and back issues of Hippie Dave’s zines, my mind repeating the mantra, I’ve gotta find her. I’ve gotta find her. I’ve gotta find her.
It’s all I can think about. I keep picturing her with the creep from the club with the Caesar cut. She’s out there somewhere, and he’s got her. I’ve got to find her before it’s too late.
By the time we have the flyers made, and Regan and I are racing back out to the beach to pass them out, Rashard calls.
—Where are you? he asks.
—Back Beach, I say. Close to Ed’s Sheds.
—Pull over.
I do, dread filling me, as if a dark, powerful poison pumped into me intravenously is now coursing through every cell of blood in my body.
—What is it? Regan asks.
—Who’s with you?
—Regan. Why?
—Let me speak to her.
—No.
—What is it? Just tell me.
—Merrick, listen to me. Just —
—No. I can’t. Just... Don’t. Please... Please tell me she’s not...
Regan leans up in her seat and looks over at me, her face tortured and contorted.
—Prepare yourself, he says.
There’s no way to, and we both know it.
—What? What is it? I ask, but I know, and yet I don’t want to know, don’t want to hear him say it.
Images of Casey flash in my mind. In only a few moments, I picture little Casey in Disney Princesses’ costumes, her long, blond hair held up in a homemade bow; as a gawky, preteen with a boy’s body in jeans and an oversized rock T-shirt; as a stunning young woman in a burgundy prom dress, the only sign of the girl she had been her kind, innocent, bright blue eyes. She had been eleven when I started seeing her mom, so some of the memories come from photographs and old videos, but they’re no less real, and it feels as if I were always there, always her dad; her, always my daughter.
—We found her.
—Wait. No. Just wait a minute.
Cars and trucks and motorcycles slash by, streaks of light in the night.
—I’m so sorry, man, he says, and I can hear in his voice just how true his statement is.
Now the image of Casey in my mind is that of a victim. Raped. Murdered. Dumped. Nothing he can tell me, nothing I can see could be as bad as what I’m imagining.
—She’s... He... We found her... She’s dead.
—No, I yell, getting out of the car, pacing along the shoulder, no concern for the heavy flow of traffic whizzing by.
Regan gets out of the car, staying close by, but not right next to me.
—She can’t be, I say.
—I’m sorry.
—How? Where?
—We won’t know for a while, but it looks like an overdose.
—Where are you? I want to see her.
—I’m sorry, man, but you can’t, he says. Get Regan to take you home. When I know more, I’ll give you a call. I promise.
—Don’t do that, I say. I need to be there. I’ve got to... She needs someone to...
—I know, but... you just can’t. You know that.
—Goddammit, Rashard. Tell me where you are.
—What is it? Regan asks.
I shake my head and wave her away.
—I just can’t, he says. You know that — or should. You’ll understand one day. Even if I did, detectives wouldn’t let you within a mile of their crime scene. But even if they would, you don’t need to see this, don’t need to see her. Not like this.
He paused for a moment, but I don’t say anything. I can’t.
—I’ve got to go, he says. I’m so, so sorry. I wish... I just don’t know what to say. I’ll take care of everything on this end — look out for her, guard her dignity. I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow. We can talk then. Just be careful tonight. Don’t do anything reckless. Go home, try to rest and get yourself together. I’ll know more tomorrow. I’ll get with you then. I’ve got to go.
He ends the call, and I stumble through telling Regan.
—Oh God, Merrick, she says, pulling me into a hug, holding me for a long moment.
Behind us, beyond the chain link fence, the storage units stand still and silent in the dark, damp, night air.
I don’t cry — and I’m not sure why. Probably partly out of shock, partly out of fatigue, and partly because somewhere deep inside, in some dark corner, a part of me had expected this, had believed this to be the inevitable end of this nightmare.
— I’m gonna find the man who did it and kill him, I say.
Regan nods, not in agreement, but understanding.
We are back in my car, still parked in front of Ed’s — unable to stand any longer, unsure about what to do next.
—I’ll have to take care of Kevin, I say. I’ve got to find him. He has no one now. I didn’t mean have to. I want to.
—I know, she says.
—It’s gonna be a big job. You might want to run now — while you still can. Probably won’t want to be around for whatever the fuck this is we’re doing.
—I’m not going anywhere.
She says it with such matter-of-fact certitude, that I almost believe her — this, in spite of her history, of the way she has vanished after intimate moments just like this one.
—I know what you’re thinking, she says, but I mean it. You’ll see. My decision’s made. Before, I was trying to make it. Everything’s different now.
I don’t say anything, just give a small nod, but I’m not sure she sees it.
We are quiet a moment, and in the silence, my many failures where Casey’s concerned haunt me, and I begin to shake.
—What is it? Regan asks.
—Just can’t believe I failed her again.
—You didn’t.
—It’s all I ever done — let her down, abandon her, fuck up her life.
She shakes her head.
—There’s no way that’s true, she says. I know you. I know the kind of —
—It is.
—How?
I think about it, not sure I really want to get into it.
—You married their mom? she asks.
I nod.
—So you we
re their dad for a while?
—Not legally. Perry — their bio dad would never have gone for that, but I felt like their dad. We were really, really close. Especially me and Case. Perry wasn’t involved much at all — an occasional phone call, birthday and Christmas gifts, that was about it. Mainly because of Kevin.
—Her younger brother?
—Yeah.
—Why?
—He has autism. I think their father was close to Casey before Kevin was born, but began to pull away from them both. Casey was very protective over Kevin. If her dad didn’t want to see them both, he wouldn’t get to see either of them.
I think about all the things Casey, Kevin, and I used to do together — the hours at the park, at the beach, our late-night trips to eat or bowl or to a midnight movie, Monica back at home, asleep in her bed.
—What happened? she asks.
I frown and shake my head.
—Monica and I were so unhappy. I’m talking major league miserable.
—You... she says, and shakes her head, studying me intently.
—What?
—You stayed with her because of kids that weren’t even yours. I shrug.
—They were mine.
She nods.
—Eventually, we had a child together. Ty.
—Which meant a man like you would never leave.
—A man like me?
I let out a small humorless laugh.
—I know men, she says. Seen all kinds. Heard everything. Every single week at the club I hear the lines and lies of a hundred guys. I know. Trust me. You’re a good man. Got what so many are lacking — character. I see how you are. You wouldn’t leave those kids.
—I couldn’t, I say.
—So what happened? You never told me how it...
—Monica was bringing Ty back from a doctor’s appointment. It was raining. Hard. The roads were... so wet. She had the cruise control on... and hit a huge pool of water on the road... she... hydroplaned, lost control, but the tires kept spinning at fifty-something miles an hour. The car flipped, rolled a few times, crashed through a guardrail, and sank into the Dead Lakes. She was probably dead from the impact before the car went into the... water... but...
I feel myself starting to breakdown, and pause a moment to take a breath.
—With his mom unconscious behind the wheel, Ty sat trapped in his carseat as the dark water that would kill him rose around him.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 42