by Paula Cox
“How much has Lola told you?”
“Not all that much. Just that she needed me to keep covering for her, and that it was important. But everyone here is pretty afraid. It’s not like her to just disappear, and if she’s sick, people want to help, not just pretend that she’ll be fine. I’ve told everyone she has some sort of stomach bug and is running at both ends, but they’re only going to buy that for so long before they want to check on her themselves.” She was quiet, and then she seemed to commit to something internally. “Whatever is going on, I want to help. It involves Grace Jenner, doesn’t it?”
The way she said Grace’s name, he was suddenly sure that Lola hadn’t said anything to explain that Grace was actually his daughter. And why would she? He wasn’t entirely sure Grace understood it herself. She called him Uncle Gunn most of the time and called Laurel Mama. Why would anyone think—he cut the chain of thought off before it hurt him even more than it already had. He’d beaten himself enough with this particular thread of thought. It was time to move forward. He’d done the best he could, and there was nothing else to be done about it.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his tone relatively light. “She’s in danger. I’m trying to help.”
There was no moment when she flinched, no second when he had to watch her try and pull her courage together in order to move forward. It was a heartening thing to see. It made him smile, just a little bit.
“Tell me what I can do to help.”
It became just a little easier to breathe. Cassidy might not have the information he needed, but she wasn’t going to fight him. She wasn’t going to try and make things harder. She trusted that he was doing the right thing. It made it just a little easier for him to trust it as well.
“You know Grace’s mother died when she was just a baby?”
That did make her—not flinch, exactly, but it surprised her, at least a little. She recovered quickly and nodded. “Yes. She talks about her—” Here, Cassidy did falter, and she looked to Gunner for help.
He answered the way he suspected Grace would have if she’d had the language. “Legally, Grace is Laurel’s niece, but Laurel is her mother in every way that matters. It’s okay to call her that, as long as Grace does.”
Cassidy nodded. “She talks about how she lives with her mother’s sister, but calls her Mama.”
He wanted to ask so many things. About whether Grace seemed bothered, whether she seemed hurt, whether he had made the right choice when she was just a baby and he was barely more than that. He forced himself to stay focused, which was its own sort of pain.
“We believe there was more to Sam’s death than was previously uncovered by the police.” She didn’t ask who “we” were, and he didn’t offer. It was easier this way. “We think Grace may have actually uncovered something. Maybe a diary, or an old file, something that she might not have understood, but might have told someone about. Even in a weird way.”
Cassidy was already nodding. “I think I know. There was a notebook she brought to school. We were doing a unit on memories, and she turned up with this old composition book. She wanted to cut it up for her memory book, but when it came time to start cutting, she ended up stashing it in her cubby, and working from magazines instead.”
His heart beat so hard that he thought it might burst through his sternum. “Do you think it’s still there?”
“I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be,” she said and gestured. “Come on. We can go back in and look right now.”
He followed her back towards the school and worked to contain himself while she pulled her keys back out and unlocked the main door. The urge to snarl at her to move it along was nearly overwhelming.
Tracey, the “receptionist” who’d finally opened up once he’d told her who exactly he was, had said that if he could find whatever “evidence” this man, Keller, thought Grace had, she believed her supervisors would be able to set up an exchange. It was so strange to him, the way she’d spoken of men who had kidnapped a little girl as disgruntled professionals, not potential killers. But then, he knew what it was like to have a different frame of reference for the people you saw every day. He thought of some of his club siblings as “a little rough and tumble,” while the law and other authorities thought of them as the absolute worst kind of scum.
She turned on just a few lights as they moved through the building. It wasn’t dark outside, wouldn’t be for another hour or so, but the sun was low enough that, inside the building, it was getting dim. It was strange, moving into the same room where he’d felt his heart break, realizing that his little girl had been taken away. To be coming back here, maybe leaving with answers? It felt like a kind of healing.
He followed Cassidy towards a small bank of cubbies and stood a reasonable distance away as she shifted papers. After a moment, she smiled.
“Here you go,” she said, pulling out an old black and white composition book.
His heart twisted as his fingers closed on the notebook. Sam had loved these things. He’d never understood it; he’d never been a writer like she was in the first place, but he still couldn’t understand her obsession with these cheap notebooks they had to use all the time in school. Surely there had to be better paper out there, better notebooks, things that held up better to the rough treatment she always gave them. But Sam hadn’t ever cared.
This one must have been one of her newest notebooks when she’d died. The cover was still pristine, none of her scribbles or colorings that always personalized them over time. The corners weren’t bent or frayed, and the spine wasn’t broken. Maybe she’d taken it to her new job, ready to take notes and keep them safe. That was something she’d done all through school and well after. It had been something he admired about her.
“May I?” he asked, even though the notebook belonged to his own daughter, to her mother.
“Of course,” Cassidy replied. She passed it to him.
Which, of course, was when all the shit hit the fan. Wasn’t it always the way?
He had a moment where he might have reacted faster. He saw Cassidy’s eyes widen, heard the movement of air behind him as someone shifted faster than he could react. Maybe, if he hadn’t taken so many blows to the head over the last few days, if he hadn’t gotten so little sleep, if he weren’t so worn ragged on adrenaline, he would’ve been able to duck. Or at least turtle up and take more of the attack on his head and shoulders. Instead, the blow caught him right on the back of his skull, ringing his bell very effectively. He wasn’t aware of falling to his knees, just the sensation of carpet under his feet as he tried to keep himself from tipping sideways. The notebook was out of his hands, and whoever had hit him scooped it up, then turned to haul ass out of the room. Even spinning as he was, Gunner managed to turn, catch the runner’s pants in his hand, and give enough of a yank to throw the person off balance, toppling them down onto the alphabet rug. There was an ugly sound as the runner went down. Gunner looked up and saw Cassidy standing over the runner with a small but apparently very sturdy chair. He found a grin, but it faded as the runner kicked out and caught him on the temple. He fought, but everything went dark.
***
He wasn’t out long, probably nothing more than a few seconds. It was Cassidy’s scream that made his head clear, and he looked up to see her backing away from someone who looked like they were brandishing a gun. On a better day, he would’ve made a move to take the guy down again, but right now, his head still ringing, there wasn’t a chance in hell. He stayed still and watched as the man reached down to the floor, scooped up Sam’s old notebook, and moved quickly out the door.
He sagged against the rug, the brief moment of hope he’d experienced fading as quickly as it had come. Tracey had been very clear; get the notebook and get back. Without that, there wasn’t anything she could do to call off Keller. He was part of the organization she represented, but she was also very clear: Keller had gone rogue, for reasons unknown, and nothing was going to change until he was satisfied. Gunner h
ad asked if it was possible for him to be tracked down, and Tracey had lifted one bristly eyebrow before shaking her head.
For one moment, it had seemed like maybe, just maybe, he’d manage to save the day. And then it all fell apart, all over again. The urge to give up was so intense that it nearly overwhelmed him. Cassidy was crying on the floor, Lola was gone, and he was—yet again—out of leads.
He set his head down on the floor and took a long, long moment to try and understand how to regroup. Ultimately, there wasn’t much of anything left. Other than to go back to Horse, and try, yet again, to find something to help him move forward.
And then he pulled himself up and went to Cassidy. She was already hauling herself back together, brushing him off. She hadn’t been wounded, physically, but she was clearly terrified. It was an open wound on his heart, another woman hurt by his actions. Of course.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here. I think it’s safe to say they have what they wanted, but just in case they decide you might have the same information, let’s make sure that you’re not here. Is it okay for me to take you somewhere safe?”
He watched her shudder, just a little, and then she looked up at him with a smile that was shaky but real. “Will there be more hot bikers?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Chicks and dudes?”
“Promise.” He stood and offered a hand; she took it, and he helped her stand.
“And alcohol,” she said as they started out of the building. “I am going to need some alcohol.”
You and me both, he thought. You and me both.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With a suit on either arm, Lola found herself being hustled out of the mall. It was ridiculous, but after the way the past few days had gone, it was rather nice not to be thrown over someone’s shoulder, drugged, or knocked out. Not that being strong-armed out of a mall was actively a good thing, but it was better than nothing.
She’d wanted to call out to Keller, or point him out to the goons, but who would believe that the weird little old man was actually the master assassin that was — apparently — behind this whole weird setup from the beginning? She wouldn’t buy it in a movie, no matter what she was told by the actors. So, she let them take her out, and she did her damnedest to stay safe. So far, she’d been able to talk her way out of things that had come up or caused problems.
They were careful not to hold her or constrain her in any way that might cause an onlooker to think that calling the police might be a good idea, but she was also not prepared to put up a fight. She needed to get closer to Grace any way she could. Keller had been painfully clear that these people were connected to her disappearance. Whatever she had to do to get that little girl back to somewhere safe, she would do it. No questions necessary.
As they moved into the parking garage, though, she saw a face she recognized. A big, burly man was leaning on a bike, talking to a couple of college age kids who absolutely had to be buying drugs. She wouldn’t have even thought about it, especially now, except she recognized the tattoo that snaked around the back of his head and down his neck. A bright red snake. A viper, in fact. The guy was the one who’d stood in the doorway, barring Laurel and her from getting out of the room at the Viper hang out. She stared at him for a long moment, willing him to look in her direction. It didn’t work. He didn’t look up, and she was pressed into the back of a big SUV.
And then, just as the door slammed shut, his gaze finally shifted up towards her. A quick moment of connection, a tiny nod. It was all she was going to get. The glass was black, so dark that she could hardly see through it, and if he was going to help her — Well, she didn’t know what he’d be able to do anyway as the SUV shifted into motion.
***
The thugs were at least decent. It was infuriating that she’d now had enough experience to rank thugs according to their behavior, but at the same time, the ridiculous bullshit of the past few days had to be worth something. At this point, she figured Keller was the worst, what with actually drugging her and transporting her to an undisclosed location. The Vipers were next, having locked her up with (as far as they knew) a stranger. These jackoffs were pretty decent, all things considered. They gave her a bottle of water when she asked, and no one hit her or chloroformed her. It was practically kind, for a kidnapping.
They drove her back outside of the city, and Lola idly wondered how many miles she had clocked in the past seventy-two hours. To think that when this whole adventure had started, she’d wondered about jilling off in front of Gunner in his classic car. Those were indeed the days.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going,” she said when she got bored of the endless silence inside the SUV.
The guy who’d given her the water bottle glanced over the back of the seat with what was practically a friendly smile. “Yeah, no can do. You know how it is.”
Well, that was more of a response than she’d actually anticipated. Worth continuing? Why the hell not, it would pass the time. “The funny thing is, I don’t actually know how it is at all. I may look like an international woman of mystery and intrigue, but I’m basically a social worker and a preschool teacher. I don’t know much at all.”
The guy gave her a look over the rims of his expensive black sunglasses. “Preschool teacher?”
Lola resisted the urge to hike up the neckline on her T-shirt. “Yup.”
“How’d you get caught up in this shit?” he asked. The driver glanced sideways, and Lola edited in a glance that was somewhere between irritation and worry. Don’t reveal our dastardly plot, she had the driver say in his head. Da boss is going to kill her anyway, the passenger replied. What’s the harm?
Yeah, on second thought that little daydream was anything except reassuring. She pushed at it hard, but without something more pleasant to replace it, the idea was sticky.
“Hell if I know,” she said because what else was there to say? “Cute guy, sweet kid, and here I am.”
“Ain’t it always the way,” the thug said, laughing, and it was seriously disconcerting. Big brutish guys who hustled women out of malls in broad daylight weren’t supposed to be jovial or friendly or really anything at all. Except for threatening and terrifying. Of course, she was doing her absolute damnedest to pass herself off as too cool for school, so was it really surprising that they thought she was completely fine with whatever the hell happened next?
“Do you know where the girl is?” Lola asked because hey, it was worth a try.
It was the wrong question, though. The thug’s face stilled, and after a moment, he turned back around, settling into his position in the front seat, and was silent.
There was no more conversation as they drove well outside the city, past the warehouses and into the low-built office buildings that were mostly deserted now, victims of the economic downturn in the area. When the SUV parked, she waited in the back until the driver-side thug opened her door, letting her out.
She briefly considered running but to where? She was way outside of her comfort zone on the city’s outskirts, she didn’t have an easy way to get help. Even if she called the police, where would she tell them she was? Besides, she’d gone out to the mall to meet Keller and try to find out more about where Grace was and how to help. Giving up now would mean she’d put herself in danger without even trying to get what she needed. So, when the first thug gestured towards the office building, its windows coated in dust and its doors rusted and hanging at odd angles, she started walking. It was an idiotic thing to do, but compared to all the other plans she could come up with in that hectic moment, there was nothing else to do.
Somehow, even though she’d been picked up by a nice SUV and men in suits, she still expected to be marched into yet another building full of tattooed men with shaved heads, sun-darkened skin, and mean looks in their eyes. Instead, this room — she was still marched, that didn’t change — was almost like a board room, if you ignored the plastic sheeting on the walls a
nd concrete floors. There was a long, rectangular table, a bank of monitors that looked like it would operate as a projector, and a water cooler. There was even a table set up with one of those pod coffee machines and little servings of creamer and packets of sugar. She’d never been able to get the childcare center to set one of those up; they still used an ancient drip machine that no one ever washed properly.
There were four men around the table. They were all white, with hair that varied between shades of blond and brown, and differing amounts of gray threading. They were all older and wearing well-tailored suits in shades of dark blue. It was like staring into the face of white privilege in America.
They had clearly been waiting for her; they turned towards her as she entered the room, and offered her identical smiles that were as friendly as they were fake. There was one man seated at the head of the table who seemed slightly more powerful than the others, though she couldn’t exactly put her finger on why. It was just something about the set of his shoulders and the lift of his eyebrows. His suit was just as well-tailored, and his hair was sandy blond, threaded with a gray that would probably be called distinguished in a fashion magazine. He gave her one of those big smiles that men his age seemed to think of as reassuring, but that mostly felt paternalistic and annoying.