by James Andrus
“I got nothing to do anyway. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I went to bed now. I’m gonna give it an hour or two.”
Mazzetti shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Stallings noticed Sparky Taylor wasn’t speaking to either of them and was giving Stallings a dirty look as he hustled to his county-issued Impala.
Stallings found a place a block down from Byrd’s apartment where his silver Impala didn’t stand out too much. He could see the entrance to the apartment building and the street in each direction for a couple of blocks. He had Mazzetti’s information sheet on Daniel Byrd, which included several photos from over the years. The guy had been in and out of jails since he was sixteen. He went by a number of aliases and one narcotics report noted Byrd always maintained more than one residence. Sometimes it was a small apartment he could run to in addition to a house in a residential area. That got Stallings thinking about how long it’d been since someone had slept in the dingy apartment. It dawned on him that this place was probably a safe house where Byrd only came if he was in trouble. He wanted to talk to some of the neighbors, but it was too late and that was something he needed to talk over with Mazzetti.
As he was about to start the car and head back to his lonely house, his phone rang.
He flipped open the Motorola phone and said, “Stallings here.”
He instantly recognized Maria’s voice. “John, come to the house right away. I’ve got to show you something.”
The line went dead, but Stallings didn’t need any explanation. If Maria needed him, no matter what time of the night, he was going to be there as fast as possible.
Patty Levine lay on top of the covers of her bed ferociously stroking her cat, Cornelia. She’d been practicing deep, cleansing breaths she’d learned in yoga, trying to calm down from the anxiety built up since earlier in the evening. It was not only backing over the homeless man that had upset her. She realized things were unraveling with Tony Mazzetti. She had no idea where he was or what he was doing, just like he had no idea where she was or what she was doing. If that wasn’t a sign of a dying relationship, she didn’t know what was.
Her big concern was that her drug use had bled over into her daily life. She used to think that she’d confined it mainly to the evenings in the privacy of her own house. But she wondered if the effects of Sunday’s prescription-drug binge hadn’t lingered and made her less attentive than usual. She should’ve known the older homeless man would walk behind the car when she pulled out. She should’ve checked before she put the car into reverse. There were one hundred little things she should’ve done, but she had not. It scared her.
The irony of it was that her solution was to down another Xanax, and now, as she lay on her bed, she popped two Ambien as well. This was not the first time she’d faced irony in her drug use. It was, in fact, her overuse of the sleeping drug Ambien that had saved her life less than a year ago. While working on her first serial-killer case with John Stallings she’d allowed herself to be captured by the killer, dubbed the Bag Man, for his penchant for leaving bodies in suitcases. He’d thought he’d knocked her unconscious with two Ambien and a cocktail of painkillers, but the tolerance she’d built up through overuse allowed her to maintain her consciousness, escape, and save the girl she’d been imprisoned with.
It was also one of the reasons she cared so much about John Stallings. He was the only one who seemed to understand what she’d gone through, yet he hadn’t made a big deal out of it once she came back to work. He treated her like he always had, as an equal and true partner.
The incident also solidified her relationship with Tony Mazzetti. He’d shown that he cared about things other than police work by opting to stay with her at the hospital instead of traipsing off with Stallings to find the killer who’d escaped from the scene. She wondered if he’d do the same thing today.
All that seemed like a lot to deal with for a young woman who graduated from University of Florida with a degree in psychology. That should be reason enough for Patty to keep using a few anxiety drugs now and then.
Buddy was awake late, partially on an adrenaline high from his afternoon with Lexie and partly because he was in the mood to get some work done. That was the true beauty of living above his shop. He’d always kept a small apartment downtown as a place to hide if things ever got too hot. The rent was cheap and he rarely even visited the place anymore. And it was times like this he realized how lucky he was to have a large workspace near his sleeping quarters. Glassblowing wasn’t like any other art. It took space and could be very dangerous. He needed a place for his furnace, as well as plenty of space for the raw material.
The furnace got as hot as two thousand four hundred degrees and radiated heat in all directions. Buddy often used potash and soda ash as an added fuel, which vaporized almost immediately but was easy to get off the final product with a spritz of industrial cleaner. He used a cleaner the consistency of jelly. It looked like a tub of K-Y Jelly but was a hell of a lot cheaper.
He used a mold for the jar so all the jars would be very consistent in size and shape. They had to be to fit into the glass wall he had made.
Next to the furnace was the steel marver, a flat table used to work the glass and form a cool skin on the exterior of the glass.
Buddy liked the idea of practicing an art developed before the birth of Christ. Sure, it had been refined, the equipment updated, but the craft was roughly the same.
After he’d made a jar and cleaned up his workstation, Buddy carefully carried the jar containing Lexie’s last breath to his apartment, where he kept his work of art safely stored behind a padded moving blanket. Once inside he carefully removed the blanket and started the simple ceremony he’d created over the years. It was very personal and, for the first few years, short. All it involved was placing his hand over each jar that contained the final breath of one of his subjects. He took a second to recall them in as much detail possible. How they had looked when he first met them, how long he had talked to them, how easily they had made the transfer to eternity.
In his first three years of this project he’d only had two jars. Then he settled in to about a jar a year until the last three years when he knew things were moving far too slowly. Back then he wouldn’t have believed the pace he kept now.
He rushed the ceremony as he slipped his hand past the jars in the top, then moved onto the next row, pausing only on the jar in the middle. He remembered Alice. She had been so sweet and young. Maybe too young. It was only through the news that he had learned she was fourteen years old. She had those big blue eyes and blond hair and that thin, graceful neck that his left hand was able to envelop completely. He remembered that stunned look on her face. He’d only known her a few minutes. It was entirely a wild opportunity that he took without any hesitation.
During the lunch hour on a job in northern Flagler County she’d sat down next to him on a bench near the Intracoastal Waterway. They chatted for a few minutes. He excused himself and walked back to his van, picked out a jar he’d made only the day before, walked back, and sat next to her like he was about to finish his lunch. Instead, he casually reached across and clamped down on her windpipe like a vise. She let out a little squeak. Her legs thrashed, but he’d used so much pressure he almost didn’t get her final breath. He had never heard for sure, but he thought he might have broken her neck because he’d moved so quickly and she was so fragile. For some reason during the ceremony he always paused over Alice.
He also let his hand linger over Rhonda. She’d been a few years older than most of his subjects. Classy and beautiful in her own way. He remembered seeing her eighteen-year-old daughter on the news afterwards and wondered if there was a place in his art for her too. How old would she be now? Twenty-six?
Overall he was well satisfied with his efforts and knew, given the expanse of time to look back, each of the women would appreciate how much care he had taken to save them for eternity.
Stallings arrived at his former residence, darted up th
e driveway, and knocked once before bursting in. Maria had sounded serious enough for him to not waste time and knock. Maria sat alone on the living-room couch, and when she looked up he could see she’d been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy and a pile of tissues sat on the coffee table they’d bought together the week after they moved into the house. She had a notebook in her lap as she slowly turned her head to Stallings with that sad face.
Stallings did a quick scan of both downstairs rooms to see if either of the kids were around. He stepped forward and said, “What’s wrong? What do you have to show me?” He eased down on the couch next to her and she immediately grasped his hand. He asked one more question, “Where’re the kids?”
Maria sniffled, then said, “Charlie’s already asleep and Lauren’s in her room studying.” She held up a small leather notebook and turned it so he could see Jeanie’s name on the small brass plate in the front. “This is the diary I gave Jeanie on her tenth birthday. The detectives with JSO took it for a couple of weeks after she disappeared, but because her last entry was more than two years before she disappeared they returned it to us.”
Stallings couldn’t recall the exact details of what they had taken from his daughter’s room. It sounded about right. That was sort of thing Patty Levine would look into. Stallings was more of an interviewer and hunter.
Stallings gave Maria plenty of time. No pressure, just a gentle arm around her shoulder while she started to cry again. Finally she sniffled and wiped her eyes with a Kleenex before blowing her nose. “I never looked at the diary. It felt like an invasion of Jeanie’s privacy. It was like I didn’t want her to be angry when she came home. But tonight I searched through her closet and pulled this out of storage.” She tapped the leather cover of the diary. “And I found an entry that might lend credence to your father’s comment that he saw Jamie after she disappeared.” Maria carefully opened the diary and read a passage. “I learned more about my grandfather. My dad saw him today and thinks he lives in a rooming house on Davis Street. My mom encouraged Dad to visit him. But my dad said there was no way he would go see him.” Maria closed the diary and looked up at her husband. “That’s the only entry that mentions it. I searched the whole diary a couple of times.”
Stallings had looked through the diary himself when it was returned. He’d jumped to the same conclusion as the JSO detectives. He had been so frantic to find a fresh clue that he hadn’t read back into the diary two years before she disappeared.
Stallings was stunned into silence, unable to do anything but stare straight ahead as a thousand possibilities raced through his brain. He clearly remembered the evening he’d come home and told Maria he’d seen his father shambling along the sidewalk on Davis. Stallings had been working the homicide of a homeless man not far away and had canvassed the entire neighborhood for witnesses. He’d slowed his car and stared at the old man but couldn’t work up the nerve to stop and actually speak with him. It was one of only a few times he’d seen the man during their long period of estrangement. Stallings had seen him in lockup after he’d been arrested for drunk and disorderly. And he’d seen him on the street now and then but never anything regular. Maybe only three times in the last ten years. He remembered this time and how he’d come home and told Maria all about it after he’d thought the kids had gone to bed. It wasn’t hard to extrapolate what had happened. Jeanie was a very bright girl and she would’ve found a way to narrow down where his father was living. The only question was if she’d purposely planned to visit him after she ran away.
So it came down to the fact that she did know how to find his father and the old man had not had a hallucination and his recollection of the visit wasn’t a component of his memory problems. Stallings had a lot to talk to the old man about.
He laid his head on the back of the couch and put his feet on the coffee table. Maria nudged closer to him, then looked him in the face.
Hope flashed in Maria’s dark eyes.
THIRTY-SIX
John Stallings woke to sunlight streaming in from all the windows. He’d slept through the night for the first time in months. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was and why he slept so soundly. He was on the couch in this old house and Maria was snug against his chest, snoring softly.
He worked his arm out from under Maria, who was sleeping comfortably on the couch. He would’ve enjoyed staying and spending a few moments with his wife in the setting he missed so desperately. Instead, he had a burning desire to speak with his father. Stallings didn’t know what he could say or do to help the old man’s memory, but he could try.
Stallings covered Maria with a small blanket that was always stored in the window seat of the front room.
He stepped into the bathroom, washed, and got ready to leave. He stepped out and closed the door quietly and looked up and saw Lauren. She was already dressed for school and gave him a sly smile and nod.
Stallings didn’t know what to say or do, so he set out on his day.
Buddy sat at his usual Starbucks table like he did almost every Tuesday and completed his downloaded version of the New York Times crossword. Ever since seeing the nurse he always sat in the same place. During a lull in the constant flow of customers seeking overpriced, flavored coffee drinks, he looked up and saw her standing one person back in line. She flashed a brilliant smile and gave a cute wave. It was enough to set his heart on fire.
This time he made room at his own table for her and she didn’t hesitate to sit with him.
The pretty nurse said, “I was hoping I might run into you.”
Buddy was truly surprised and blurted out, “Really?”
He settled into a pleasant conversation with her and she did most of the talking. That was one thing Buddy realized a long time ago: Who wouldn’t want to talk about themselves? It wasn’t just that women liked to talk about themselves but also that there were very few men willing to listen. He loved to listen to women, especially pretty ones. And the more he listened to this one, the more he realized she really was a possible candidate for eternity.
Her name was Katie Massa, a divorced mother of a four-year-old boy named Tyler.
Buddy said, “How do you work the late shift at the hospital if you have a four-year-old?”
Her face lit up and she reached across and placed her hand on top of his. He could tell she liked questions like this. She liked to explain how industrious and intelligent she was. “I work three twelve-hour shifts in a row from eight p.m. to eight a.m., then I’m off for days. My mom comes over and spends the night for the three nights I have to work and I get to spend the rest of the time with Tyler. We have a great time.”
“Where’s his father?”
She hesitated, then said, “He works as a security agent for Blackwater. He’s off in Iraq or some other place like that protecting executives and Halliburton contract workers. He’s listed his official residence as Switzerland and gets away without paying any child support whatsoever.”
Buddy said, “It’s his loss to miss out on his son and someone as bright as you.”
Katie smiled and it was dazzling.
John Stallings found his father working in the community center across the street from the house where he lived. He hung back to watch with an unmistakable pride as his father patiently supervised three younger homeless men while they worked on out-of-date computers with huge, green-screen CRTs. When it looked like he was done with his lesson, Stallings started across the floor.
The old man’s face brightened, and he said, “Johnny, what are you doing here?”
“Came by to check on you, Dad.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“Your landlady told me.”
James Stallings sighed and looked off into the distance. “She is a fine woman. Almost as great as your mom.”
Stallings smiled.
His father looked at him and said, “Everything all right?
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’m a drunk and a shitty father,
but I know when someone’s preoccupied. Spill it and tell me what’s going on.”
“I worry about you, Dad.”
“What are you worried about me for?”
“Your memory problem, for one thing.”
“What memory problem?”
Stallings stared at his father and was about to explain some of the problems he’d been having when the old man grinned.
James Stallings said, “You can’t even take a joke anymore. Oh wait, I forgot, you never had a sense of humor.”
Stallings had to give his father a chuckle for that one. He led the older man over to a set of chairs and they sat, facing each other. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Dad.”
“Fire away.”
“I think Jeanie did know where you were living and would’ve been able to find you. What I need you to do is think real hard about your visit with her. Try and remember if she said anything that might give you a clue as to where she was going or if she was in real trouble.”
The old man looked off in space and seemed to concentrate as his face clouded and his eyes began to water. Finally James Stallings said, “I’m sorry, son. I’m not even sure I know what you’re talking about. I remember enough to know that I’m causing a lot of pain when I didn’t mean to.”
Stallings put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. I want you to think about it and maybe write some notes.” He knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with the old man today, but he wasn’t going to give up either.
Then his phone beeped into the text message from Sergeant Zuni: COME BACK TO THE OFFICE RIGHT NOW-YZ.
Tony Mazzetti heard the sergeant’s voice when she called out for Stallings. It had an edge similar to the voice of his second-grade teacher, Sister Teresa, when she’d yell at him for not paying attention in geography class. Mazzetti had a similar reaction to the sergeant’s call for Stallings. He almost giggled out loud thinking of all the things Stallings could have done to rate the sergeant’s ire. Knowing Stallings, he probably punched a city commissioner or roughed up a doctor who didn’t tell him everything he knew right that second. Whatever it was, aside from providing temporary amusement, it was not Mazzetti’s business.