—Oh, God, Merrick, I’m so, so sorry. I...
Her words contain the genuine empathy of a mother who’s lost a child, and she now knows more fully why I understood her loss the way I do.
—That would mess anybody’s mind up, she says.
—I’m still not sure why, but their bio dad wanted them back at that point — and got them. I had never adopted them or anything, so I didn’t have any legal... But I was so fucked up... I didn’t even put up much of a fight.
—What could you’ve done?
I shrug.
—No way a court would award me custody when their biological father wanted them, but... I didn’t... I didn’t fight for them. That’s the thing. I should’ve at least tried to keep them. Then... they’d know... I tried to stay in touch, to visit, but he made it nearly impossible. Then he moved them away, and... But I should’ve done more. I should’ve tried harder.
—Not much you could’ve done, she says. And with what you had been through...
—Could’ve done more. Should have. I just felt so guilty. So responsible.
—For?
—Huh?
—What do you feel guilty about, responsible for?
—Everything.
She nods, and it’d be so easy to leave it at that, not to tell her what I’ve never told anyone, and to continue carrying around what I have for so long. But something inside me wants to confess.
I start to say something, but stop, unable to give words to the cancer inside me.
—What? she asks. What is it?
—Nothing.
—Tell me.
—I... I was just so miserable I couldn’t breathe, I say. She nods.
—I wanted out, but the kids and I were so happy together — even given the challenges with Kevin, but... Monica and I were just... we... I... I couldn’t leave her and I knew she wouldn’t leave me... Neither of us could do that to the kids and so...
—And so... What’d you do?
—There were times... I actually... wished... her... wished she. Sometimes I wanted her to die.
—And she did, Regan says. And you felt responsible.
—I never thought I caused it or anything, but... yeah. I felt — still feel... so fuckin’ guilty.
Regan slides over toward me in the seat and pulls me to her, holding me close to her.
—A whole lot of us wish certain people would die, she says. Yours just happened to. Doesn’t make you responsible, doesn’t mean you should feel guilty.
—But —
—Think if all the things we wished came true, she says. If even just a fraction of them. Wishing doesn’t do anything. You didn’t do anything.
—I did. I’m not saying I caused it, but to even want it — or think I did...
She nods, her thick hair rubbing my cheek as she does.
And then I begin to cry.
—Let it out, she says. Let it all out.
I do.
Dreams.
Monica is alive. We’re in a waiting room of some kind — maybe a hospital. No. A funeral home.
I’m confused. I look around, searching for some clue as to where I am and why I’m here.
—You don’t love me, she says.
—I do, I whisper, looking around at the other people in the small room.
—Not the way I love you.
—I love you. I do.
—But you’re not in love with me.
—That seems a pretty juvenile distinction to me, I say.
I find the conversation embarrassing, and look around to see who’s listening to us.
—I always did embarrass you.
—No, you didn’t. You don’t.
—Liar.
Suddenly, I’m in a viewing room of a funeral home, Casey’s standing beside me in front of Monica’s coffin.
There’s something off about Casey — her age and... what? I’m not sure. She appears to be at an age between late teens and the twenty-something she is now — an age I never saw. And she’s not exactly herself. She looks similar, but there are slight differences.
—Why’d you kill her? she asks.
—I didn’t.
—But you wanted her dead.
—No. No. Of course not. It was just a fleeting thought. I didn’t mean... didn’t really want it to —
—And now you let me die. Why?
—No. I didn’t. I mean... I’m so... sorry. Please forgive me. Please don’t —
We are alone in the room and there are no flowers.
—Why aren’t there any flowers? I ask.
—No one loved her.
—That’s not true. Everyone —
—You didn’t.
—I did. I did. You know I did.
Now Casey’s in the coffin and Monica is standing beside me again.
—How could you, Merrick?
—What?
—It’s one thing to kill me, but my daughter? Why? Why would you do that? Do you hate me so much that you would —
—No. I didn’t. I didn’t mean to let her — I tried to find her.
From within the coffin, Casey opens her eyes.
—It’s okay, Daddy, she says. It’s okay. I’m just sleeping. Wake me up. Wake me up. Dad, wake up. Wake up, Dad.
I wake in a cool, clean room on a comfortable bed.
I can tell it’s a hotel room, but have no idea which one or how I got here.
Regan is talking softly on her cell phone in the bathroom, her hushed tones echoing out of the small, tile enclosure, but I can’t make out anything she’s saying.
I’m trying to get out of bed when she walks into the room wearing a white hotel bathrobe. Her dark hair is wet and hangs down over the robe in long, rope-like loops.
—Good morning, I say.
—Good afternoon, she says.
—Tell me I didn’t miss... I say, gesturing between us.
—We slept together in only the most literal way. When we do it in the other way you won’t be able to forget it.
I smile, but it quickly fades when I think about Casey.
—I don’t remember anything after my little breakdown in the car.
—Little? she asks with a smile.
—It wasn’t?
—There’s a reason you don’t remember.
—Sorry.
—Don’t be. I’m so glad I was there.
—Where are we?
—Closest hotel I could find, she says. Not many left out here. It’s all condos and townhouses.
—You stayed all night?
—Of course.
—How much was the room?
—Less than I make — made — in two hours.
—I’m so sorry to have put you through all this. It’s embarrassing.
—Shouldn’t be. It was no big deal at all. I told you. I love you. I was happy to be able to do something for you for a change.
I glance under the covers to see that I only have on underwear.
—You undressed me?
She nods.
—Wasn’t easy with my eyes closed, she says.
—And you didn’t take advantage of me?
—I was a perfect gentleman, she says.
—What’ve you got on under that robe?
She looks down at it, rubbing down the front and pulling on the belt.
—Less than you have on under those covers.
—So... nothing?
—Yeah, but... I realize we’re half naked, alone in a hotel room, but...
—Yeah?
—There’s certain lines we haven’t crossed. Mind if we wait until I’m able to talk to Gabe?
—Can’t imagine I’m very appealing after last night, I say.
—I’m more attracted to you now than I’ve ever been to anyone.
—How long was I out?
—Close to ten hours.
—I better get in the shower. Got a lot to do.
—Like what?
—Most pressing? Find Kevin and kill the fuck out of
whoever killed Casey.
I stand in the shower, the scalding hot water searing my skin red raw, trying to feel it. For a long moment, I am unable to move, and so just stand here burning.
As my grogginess fades and I emerge more fully from the underworld of dreams and nightmares, I’m aware of more, remember more, yet don’t feel any more.
It’s as if I’m deep, deep down inside my own body — detached, distant, divorced from whatever connects me to me and the world.
I feel like I’ve just survived an enormous explosion and I’m stumbling around the devastation, destruction, and dead bodies, feet unsteady, ears ringing, everything around me seeming a great distance away.
Nothing. That’s what I feel. And I’m glad. All my pain and anger and guilt have been blown away — at least for the moment, and it’s good. I can hunt down Casey’s killer without distractions.
Later, I will mourn. Now, I’m relieved I am unable to.
— I’m so sorry, man, Rashard is saying.
We are on the back deck at Uncle Ernie’s, the descending sun slanting in over the bay.
He is eating. I am still unable to.
—Know anything more? I ask.
He shakes his head.
Before meeting him, I had taken Regan to her car so she could drive over to the FSU campus for the Bay County Autism Support Group. With the center closed for the weekend, it’s our best and only hope of finding Kevin or who’s keeping him.
—Don’t go in for another hour, he says. I’ll find out what I can and let you know, but it’s early days.
—I thought the first few hours were the most critical to catching the killer.
He shrugs.
—Probably right, he says. I’m just a beat cop.
—How soon can I see her?
—Not up to me, but I’ll ask and let you know.
—Was... was she... raped?
—Got nothin’ to do with the investigation. Don’t know any details.
—Would you tell me if you did?
He nods.
—I wouldn’t want to, but I would. You’d bug me to — until I did. I’ll find out everything I can and call you later. You might want to see what Sheriff Parker can find out or talk to Frank directly. Or what about some of your old sources?
—They dry up fast, I say. But I may have a cop here and there that still owe me a favor.
We are quiet a moment, and I look away.
The boats on the bay bob up and down, a child’s toys in a small pond, the brisk breeze snapping flags, puffing sails, and causing rigging to clang. Beyond the bay, the buildings of Panama City Beach are black, burnished by the sinking sun behind them.
The entire scene is breathtakingly beautiful and peaceful, and I have to blink back tears and force myself to think about something else when I realize Casey will never again get to enjoy something as simple and common as this.
—I need to tell you something, he says.
I turn back toward him, my eyes taking a moment to adjust.
—I’ve known you a long time, he says. So I know what I’m talking about.
I wait, my heart quickening.
—You’ve been carrying this weight around for a while.
—Yeah?
—Since what happened to — since the accident.
I nod.
—And it’s understandable — at least for a while, but it’s been far too long. It really is. I mean, I ain’t ever said anything ’cause I ain’t been through it, but...
He looks at me, but I can’t meet his eye.
—It’s like you’ve been punishing yourself. Like you really don’t want to be happy.
—I’ve tried. I just...
—Have you? By messin’ around with a married stripper?
I don’t say anything, just think about what he’s said. Have I been punishing myself? For what surviving? For wondering what it’d be like if Monica died? At not fighting for Casey and Kevin? Is that what my thing with Regan is about? Something to keep me frustrated? Strung out? Second guessing?
—It’s been bad for a long time, he says, and... I just wonder...
—What?
—With what’s happened now... Are you gonna... Is it gonna get worse? You gonna come up with even more self-destructive shit to do?
We are quiet a long moment, his words and the concern behind him penetrating the shock-hardened soil of my psyche.
After a long while, I nod to myself and look back at him.
—After this is over, I’ll see someone.
He nods.
We fall silent again, and this time I feel awkward and self-conscious.
—I heard you, I say. And I will do something about it, but right now all I can do is try to help find out what happened to Casey and who did it.
He nods again.
—Have they talked to the guy who reported her missing again?
He looks confused.
—You? he asks.
—No, the first time, I say. Ian King.
He shrugs again.
—I’m sure someone has or will soon. Like you said, the first hours are the most important. I just don’t know.
—I need his address, I say.
He shakes his head.
—I’ll get it one way or another. I just want to talk to him. Not gonna do anything stupid. I’ve followed a lot of cases over the years.
—Following is very different than leading.
—I realize that. I’m not trying to lead. Just saying I know how to stay out of the way — and I know how these things work.
He shakes his head.
—Come on, man, I say.
—I’m just looking out for you — for your own good. I understand how you feel, but trust me. You need to let the investigators handle this. They know what they’re doing. You get involved, you could fuck up the case and help get him off — not to mention getting yourself hurt or killed.
I nod.
—I’m gonna try not to get in the way, I say, but I am gonna do this. I have to.
Rashard’s probably right. Odds are the case will flow more smoothly if I’m not running about mucking things up, but as a reporter I followed too many cases where the detectives involved had way too many cases to do them all justice. Those assigned to Casey’s murder will be working other cases, too. I’m focused exclusively on hers. The cops on her case will want to still have personal lives — to go home, to rest and relax, to enjoy their weekends. I won’t do anything, but this. I can’t. And no matter how good the cops involved are, no matter how much they care, this is just another case to them. It has to be. For me, right now, this is everything.
Driving toward Ian King’s place on the beach, I tap in his number.
—Hello, a voice thick with sleep or booze or both says.
—Ian?
—Yeah?
—I’m calling about Amber.
As far as Rashard could determine, Ian has not been notified about Casey’s death — and won’t be because he’s not related to her and has not been ruled out as a suspect. Since he reported her missing under the name of Amber, I decide to use it.
—You a client? he asks.
—A what? I ask, then try to recover. Oh, yeah. A client. Yeah, I am.
—Who is this? he says.
—Just a client.
—Whatcha want?
—I need to talk to Casey.
—Who?
—I mean Amber, I say. Isn’t Casey her real name?
—She uses a lot of names. The fuck’s this about?
—I told you. You haven’t heard from her?
—No, man, he says. She’s missing.
—When’s the last time you saw her?
—Monday. Why?
—Monday?
I had seen her on Wednesday and Thursday nights. Obviously, she hadn’t been missing since Monday. Had she moved out? Was she trying to leave him? What about Kevin?
—Yeah, he says. Why?
—Where was she going?
<
br /> —She had a gig.
—A gig?
—A client.
—Where? Where does she work?
—What?
—What kind of job? I say.
—You know. The thing she does.
—Does she live with you?
—Yeah, he says. She did. What’s with all the fuckin’ —
—How about Kevin? Is he there?
—What? The fuck is Kevin?
—Are you at home? Where do you live?
He ends the call, but I don’t mind. I’ll be pulling into his driveway inside of five minutes.
Anxiety.
Depression.
Regret.
Rashard is right. I have been living under such an enormous weight of remorse, feeling so responsible, so guilty. How could I not have seen it? Have I been punishing myself? Is my relationship with Regan a part of that? I don’t want to think so, but I’ve got to. I have to consider that I’m involved with an often unreachable, ultimately unavailable woman to keep from — what? Truly connecting.
How many other self-destructive things am I doing?
Could I still have my job if I had fought for it?
How many friends and lovers and opportunities have I missed because I wouldn’t let myself pursue anything that might actually be genuine, rewarding, fulfilling?
I can’t believe I haven’t seen this before. Now that I have... I’ve got to... What? What do I do? Awareness is a start, is something, but I have no idea what to do next. I guess I should talk to someone, but who? I think about it. I could go to a counselor, of course, and I will, but I’d like to start with someone I know. And then it hits me. Liz Jameson. After this is over, I’ll find Liz and talk to her. She’ll probably be able to recommend a good counselor, too.
Ian King lives in a modest home between Front Beach and Thomas Drive not far from the bridge. There are several like it left on the beach — the homes of individuals who didn’t sell to developers during the bubble, who like living on the beach in spite of the cheap, gaudy tourist trap, in addition to other things, it is.
A pimped out older model Cadillac sits in the driveway, a small truck at an angle on the far edge of the yard, having pulled in straight off the street.
Ian, a young man in his mid-twenties, comes to the door in loose, light blue jogging pants, wife beater, matching blue cap, and an excessive amount of gold and platinum jewelry.
—I’m here about the missing persons report you filed, I say, pushing in past him, got a few questions for you.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 43