A communications major at FSU, Adam had interned with me a couple of semesters ago, and we’d become friends. Smart, witty, tech-savvy, he’s saved my computer, and therefore, my ass on more than one occasion.
He walks back over to his desk, and bends over to address the pale, puffy, red-streaked tourist.
Nearly six-six, Adam is lanky like the long, wavy black hair on his head that sways about as he moves.
—So sorry, he says, but I’ve got an emergency. All the questions you have can be answered on our website or you can call if we can assist you further.
He hands her his card and moves toward the back door before she can respond.
I follow him.
—What’s going on? he asks when we’re in the back.
I tell him.
—Damn, he says when I’m finished with a quick recount of Casey’s predicament. I mean damn. What can I do?
—I noticed she had an iPhone, I say. Is there some way we can trace her?
—Possibly, he says.
I realize what I’m asking you to do is illegal or —
—Something like this, he says, shaking his head, his dark hair whipping around, is worth losing a job over.
—I hope it doesn’t come to that, I say. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner, but shortly after I thought she was missing, I found out she really wasn’t, then after I found out she really was, they told me she was dead, so I’ve just been... But I should’ve thought of it. Probably too late now. Phone’s probably dead or no longer with her, but...
—Let’s see what we can do, he says. Family Map is probably the best way, but if she’s the only one on the account she probably won’t have it.
—Family Map?
—Program that lets you track the location of people in your plan through your phone or computer.
—Can I buy a phone, add it to her plan, and get the Family Map?
—You could, I guess, theoretically, but it’d send a text to her phone with a configuration code. She’d have to send it back to you and you’d have to enter it in before you could track her.
I nod.
—She may have it for her brother, I say. She’d want to be able to keep up with him.
—Let’s pull up her account and take a look.
—I’ve got her number, I say, but I don’t think the account is under her name.
—Just need the number.
I give it to him and he types it in.
—Bingo, he says. She has it.
—What’s the address on the account? I ask.
—A PO Box on the beach.
I nod.
—What name?
—Monica Walsh.
—Her mom’s name. Does it show where she is?
He shakes his head.
—It’s the other number on the account, he says. Must be the brother.
—How close will it get us to where he actually is?
—Within six meters.
—Wow. Where is he?
— Merrick McKnight, Kevin shouts when he sees me.
He rushes up to me, smiling, but stops short of hugging or even touching.
—Hey Kevin, I say, patting him on the shoulder, hoping it’s okay.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
—Hey, Merrick.
Much bigger than the last time I saw him, Kevin has a large, soft pale, body with close-cropped, sandy blond hair and fingernails that need cutting — something he must still hate.
—How are you, buddy? It’s been a long time.
—I’m GREAT, he says. It has been a long time. You know what, Merrick?
—What?
—Guess what?
—What?
As he talks, repeating himself often and placing emphasis on certain words, he rocks back and forth or paces, and uses his hands a lot.
Appearing behind him in the doorway, a small elderly woman with short, white hair and polyester pants eyes me suspiciously.
—This is Merrick McKnight, Kevin says. My good old friend, Merrick McKnight.
—I recognize Merrick from the pictures. Is Casey okay? How’d you find us? she asks.
—It’s a long story and I don’t have a lot of time, I say. I’m trying to find Casey.
—You know what Merrick? You know what? Casey... Casey didn’t come home last night. We haven’t seen her.
—I know, I say. I’m working with the police to find her.
—The POLICE, Kevin says. COO-OOL.
—You can call PCBPD and ask for an officer named Rashard or PCPD and ask for a detective named Clemmons, I say to the woman. She shakes her head.
—Casey and Kevin have told me a lot about you, she says. Come in.
—Come in Merrick McKnight, Kevin says, bouncing back into the small house.
—Guess what, Merrick McKnight, he says. Guess what?
—What?
—Did you know — did you know left handed people are generally smarter, more often smokers, and die earlier than right handed people?
—I didn’t know that, I say. Where’d you learn that?
The home is modestly furnished, clean, and neat. Among the family photos on a tall sofa table behind the couch is an old picture of me with a much younger Casey and Kevin.
—Did you know — did you know — did you know some species of fish have voices?
—I didn’t.
—Hey. Hey Merrick McKnight. Did you know — did you know ninety-seven percent of all US money has traces of cocaine on it?
—I didn’t. Hey, Kevin. Can I see your phone?
—Our phone? the lady asks.
—Cell phone, I say. Don’t Casey and Kevin both have AT&T phones?
—Oh. I hold onto Kevin’s for him when we’re at home. He’d spend all his time playing with it if we’d let him.
—Have you heard from Casey? Has she tried to contact you on it or in any other way?
She shakes her head, then steps over to a small bookshelf beside the TV.
While we’re talking, Kevin moves around whimpering, waiting his turn to speak again, gyrating like a small child needing to go to the bathroom.
—Merrick. Merrick McKnight. Did you know — did you know the word set has more definitions than any other word in the English language?
—I didn’t. No. That’s very interesting.
The woman steps back over to me and hands me an iPhone just like Casey’s.
—Thanks.
—Oh COO-OOL, Kevin shouts, his eyes growing wide and lighting up when he sees the phone. The Apple iPhone 3G S. Fastest iPhone ever. And now with video, and, and, and a compass. And a better battery and screen and camera and, and, and voice recording.
As I unlock it and begin tapping through menus and apps, Kevin continues to pace and shimmy and scratch his head and talk incessantly.
—I need to borrow this, I say. I’ll take good care of it and bring it back.
Kevin continues to talk about the features, but the woman nods.
—Everything’s going to be okay, I say. I’m gonna bring Casey home and help take care of you. Would you like that?
—Yes. I would like that.
—Okay. I love you, buddy. I’ll be back soon.
I pat him on the back and turn and head toward the door.
—Merrick McKnight. Merrick. Hey Merrick McKnight.
—Yeah? I say, pausing at the door, my hand on the knob.
—Hey Merrick. Did you know that — did you know that it takes seventeen muscles to smile, but forty-three to frown?
—I didn’t, I say, opening the door. I always learn so much when I’m around you. I’ve missed that. Can’t wait to start hanging out more. A lot more.
—Yeah. That would be coo-ool.
—I’ll be back soon with Casey and you can teach me some more then.
— Got an anonymous tip for you, I say.
I’m in my car, fighting the traffic, attempting to get to La Vela. On the seat beside me, Kevin’s phone is running the Family Map
app, but Casey’s is still not showing up. It’s not that I think Casey is still at La Vela, but it’s the last place I know for sure she went to, and it’s where her abductors were.
—Not exactly anonymous, Frank Clemmons says. I know who this is.
—It’s not coming from me so much as through me, I say.
—Huh?
—I received an anonymous tip and now I’m passing it on to you.
—Oh.
When Brad had called to say the cops could come pick up Casey’s kidnapper since he had nothing else to give us, he said he was sorry but he had to get back to The Curve to help with the crowd. I had thanked him for all he had done and told him I understood, but heading to La Vela I wish I still had him around watching my back.
—There’s a guy in an abandoned trailer on Sunrise Court who confessed to helping Casey’s abductors gain access to her. Man who called me said he was roughing him up a bit over a drug deal that went bad and he tells him about the kidnapping.
—Interesting.
—I thought so.
—I hope you know what you’re doing, he says.
—Well, I don’t, but I’m doing what I can.
—When I said you might need to go off the res, I didn’t mean leave the country.
After inching along Thomas Drive for what seems like hours, I finally arrive at La Vela. With my phone in one pocket and Kevin’s in the other, I push through the crowd in the parking lot.
Beyond the club, out over the Gulf, lightning from an approaching storm dances in the distance.
Between vendor tents, tractor trailers, campers, and what looks to be thousands of parked bikes, each leaning to the left, the throng thrashes about. There’s no way to get anywhere fast, so I practice patience, but persistence as I press through toward the entrance.
Thundering up and down Thomas Drive, the roar of the motorcycles is deafening, drowning out all other noises.
Periodically, I pull Kevin’s phone out of my pocket and check to see if Case’s is showing up again, but so far nothing.
When I first enter, the Metallica cover band in the Concert Coliseum is so loud, I can’t hear anything else, so I quickly move toward the Thunderdome.
Like the previous night, all the other rooms are closed, their doors locked, but I wonder if there are private parties taking place in any of them.
Inside the Thunderdome, I tell a bartender I need to speak to a manager, and look around while I wait.
There are even more people than the night before, and I realize how ridiculous it is for me to be here by myself.
Stepping away from the bar and over to the restroom where it’s a little quieter, I call Rashard. Getting his voicemail, I leave him a message telling him where I am, what I’m doing, and ask him to send help. Probably won’t find anything here, probably be a waste of their time, but better that than —
When I turn around to head back out to the bar, the thick, muscular black man who’d threatened me in the parking lot Wednesday night is standing there.
Before I can do anything, his enormous fist shoots out into my midsection, knocking the breath out of me, sending arcs of pain out in every direction.
I drop my phone and it clangs on the floor.
Shoving me through the door of the closest stall, he slams me against the wall, placing his forearm beneath my chin and closing the door behind him.
Mouth open, frantic for air, I still can’t breathe.
—Was I right? he asks.
I can’t speak, but I must have looked perplexed.
—I told you a subsequent visit from me wouldn’t be as pleasant.
There was nothing pleasant about the first one, I think, but am unable to say anything.
As I’m still trying to breathe and squirm away, he pulls a small syringe out of his pocket, pulls the cap off with his teeth, jams it into my neck, and plunges the contents into my bloodstream.
My heart rate drops.
My breathing slows.
The room begins to spin.
When he moves his forearm from my neck, I collapse, and within moments of hitting the floor, I begin vomiting.
Snatching me up, he pulls me out of the stall and out of the restroom.
Dragging me through the crowd, he feigns concern and sympathy.
I have a hard time keeping my eyes open, and only see flashes of faces, smears of motion, as people continue to pour into the club and move to the music.
From the effects I’m feeling, I’d say he gave me a shot of GHB. While working on a story about its use as a club drug and as a weapon of sexual assault for what is inaccurately known as date rape, I had learned a lot about it.
—What’s wrong? someone asks.
My aching head pounds with the booming music, and I feel another wave of nausea begin.
—His ass is fucked up, the big guy carrying me says. That’s what. Can’t believe he pulled this shit the night I’m the DD.
—Should we call an ambulance?
I try to nod, but my head just rolls around.
—Don’t want to see him get in trouble over being stupid. I’ll make sure he’s okay. If he don’t get better, I’ll take him to the hospital.
—He’s lucky to have a friend like you. Bet he doesn’t even apologize for fuckin’ up your night.
I try to ask for help, but what comes out makes no sense.
—Okay, asshole, someone says. Whatever you say.
When I regain consciousness, I’m face down in the backseat of a dark car, my hands cuffed behind me.
The car is moving very slowly, and I can hear the loud, fat sound of motorcycles all around us. We must not have gone very far.
I twist around to see that the man who drugged me is driving. When I try to sit up, I feel dizzy and sick.
—Guess I didn’t give your ass enough junk, did I? Bitch dose was all I had.
I start to say something, but stop, not sure what there is to say.
—Bet you wish you’d’ve followed my friendly advice and left things the fuck alone.
—Why Casey? I ask.
—The fuck is Casey? She junkie bitch or replacement bitch? First fuckin’ offed herself so we had to find another.
—Where is she?
—Chatty motherfucker all of a sudden, aren’t you?
I can tell the effects of the drug are wearing off, but instead of trying to sit up, I remain still, moan occasionally, and continue to slur my speech.
—She’s long gone, he says finally. Somewhere far away getting her little pink pussy and asshole fucked but good.
It’s hard not to, but I don’t say anything.
—She won’t be coming back, he says. Just like you.
We’re quiet a moment, the car starting and stopping every few feet.
—Can’t believe that first bitch died on us. Thought Mr. Grantham was going to pop an aneurism or fuckin’ stroke out or some shit. But when he see the other girl, he like her even better.
—How... I begin, trying to sound weak and out of it, were you... onto me so fast?
—This ain’t no small-time operation, he says. Had someone watching the booth. Some other technical motherfucker hacked into the Thunder Beach phone lines, emails, computers and shit. The money these cats have...
I try to process what he’s saying, integrate it with what I already know. My guess is the guy who called me first is with these guys, but the woman who called later is part of the official Thunder Beach event. She would’ve had no idea about the threats this guy made or the call from the other one.
The guy’s ringtone goes off, and he answers his phone.
—Yeah?
Pause.
—The fuck you think I’m doin’?
Pause.
—Traffic’s a bitch.
Pause.
—Bury him in the desert.
Pause.
—Motherfucker, it’s an expression.
Pause.
—He ain’t no cop.
Pause.
&
nbsp; —I don’t know, but —
He turns and looks at me, holding his phone away from his mouth.
—What’s your story?
Turning back toward the front, he brings the phone back to his face.
—He’s too fucked up to say shit.
Pause.
—Oh, he’s working alone.
Pause.
—No... Probably personal. It’s not a problem. We’ll know soon enough. Where we meetin’?
Pause.
—We still pullin’ out tonight?
Pause.
—Bitch, I’m asking what the boss said.
As he talks, I bring my foot up, place it beneath the door handle, and pull. As I suspected, it’s locked, which is going to make this a little more tricky.
—I’ll find out everything, he’s saying. Won’t take long.
The traffic causes him to have to stop again. When it does, I jump up, crouch in the seat, my back to the right side door. Bringing my cuffed hands up, I pull the lock up. Dropping down, I pull the handle, open the door, then I’m falling out backwards onto the pavement, tumbling onto the sand and oyster shell parking lot.
Rolling.
Twisting.
Standing.
Running.
Not sure where I am, I race down a small alley created by a T-shirt shop and a tattoo joint. Beyond the buildings, it’s dark, but in the distance I see the lights of houses across a couple of vacant lots.
Behind me, I hear the car screech out of the traffic and into the parking lot, the bits of rock and shell crunching beneath the tires.
Lightheaded.
Weak.
Slow.
I’m running as fast as I can, but making very little progress.
Horns begin to honk.
People yell.
—Somebody call Nine-one-one, someone says.
—It’s okay. I’m a cop, the big guy yells.
I glance back to see that he’s now got a blue flashing light on his dashboard.
My feet get tangled up, and I fall hard. Unable to catch myself with my hands, I try to tuck under and take the brunt of the blow on my shoulder, but don’t do it quite fast enough. The side of my head hits the ground hard.
I try to scramble to my feet, but he’s there grabbing my arm, yanking me up.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 46