by Joey Ruff
I stood, turned to Ape. “Lots of things eat people. But I feel like there’s something I’m missing here. I mean, what makes a bloke turn cannibal when he’s spent so long trash-picking? Why go through all the trouble of kidnapping?”
“You’re just pissed because he got the best of you. He got a few sucker punches and found the right leverage against you, that’s all. It’s physics, Jono. There’s nothing supernatural about it.”
“Except for the room upstairs.” I followed him onto the porch, careful to step over the body. We descended, and I retrieved my Glocks from the lawn. As we crossed the street, sirens could be heard in the distance.
“Except for the room,” he admitted. “But that’s circumstantial. I have to run some diagnostic tests, check for DNA. For all we know, he was just some sicko that painted the room with the children’s insides for some grimoire ritual he found in a dumpster somewhere. He was a desperate man. He had nothing to lose.”
I thought about the fear that had almost overcome me a couple of times, how not normal it was, and almost said something about it, but thought better of it. He’d never let me hear the end of it. Jonothan Swyftt wasn’t a coward.
“Yeah. You’re right. Get in the car.”
We stood at my ’89 El Camino. The car wasn’t much to look at, but I loved her. She was black with red pinstripes down the sides, cracked windshield, and more than a few rust spots. Ape hated the car, said the seats were uncomfortable, and always wanted to drive one of his, though not the fun ones. He’d even offered to give me something else, buy me some used Honda or some shit, but there’s no way. The El Camino had character.
There was a spare t-shirt in my floorboard, and I slipped out of the old, blood-spattered one, and into the other. It wasn’t fresh and clean, but it didn’t look like it belonged on-set of a Bruce Willis movie, either.
As I started the engine, the first of the police cars came into view. We sat there for a minute, watched them approach and pull to a stop in front of the house, lights twirling. There were three of them, followed by a dark, unmarked Sedan.
“Feds?” I said. I watched the woman step from the driver’s seat: typical black suit, blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, high cheek bones, dark sunglasses. That arse that winked at me when she walked. “What’s Stone doing here?”
I put the car in gear and drove slowly by, an eye on her the whole time, silently hoping she might turn with that glare of hatred she typically reserved for me. She didn’t. She crouched by the shattered door in the lawn, my size twelve boot print in the mud next to it. The uniformed officers were going for the house, the headless body spewed from the open doorway like the vomit he was.
There was a guy in a suit, too – her partner, Whatshisname. His arse wasn’t as nice, not quite worth remembering.
I took the Teddy out of my jacket and tossed it at Ape. He caught it, nimbly. “There are a lot of missing children lately,” he said. “Ever consider the Feds might be alerted to something like that?”
“I’ve had five missing children cases in the past month. They haven’t bothered before.”
“Well, they’re bothering now.”
I sighed, said no more, and enjoyed the momentary silence. The radio played softly as we drove, and the Rolling Stones came on. I turned it up.
I stole a glance at Ape, but he didn’t pay attention. His eyes fixed on the trees outside his window. The Towers’ family estate where we lived was south of and just outside the city proper. We had a bit of a drive ahead of us.
After a few minutes, Ape reached over and turned the volume down. He looked straight at me.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Doing what?”
“Taking all these cases that are difficult for you.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them difficult, mate. I think you noted this case is now officially closed.”
“I don’t mean logically, Jono. I mean, emotionally. I’ve been watching you. You’re off, lately.”
“Bollocks.” I didn’t want to argue with him. He was smarter than me. “Nothing’s difficult. I’m fine.”
“How many years have we known each other? Eleven, twelve? Nothing gets to you, but kids, and the last five cases are wearing you so thin I can see through you.”
“So, kids are missing. What choice do I have? Nothing else needs doing…”
“There’s always something else needed. You could consult for the police again.”
“Right. Most of them write me off as another two-bit psychic.”
“You can’t save her, Jono. She’s gone.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Anna.” I shivered at the sound of her name. It was always difficult hearing someone else say it, haunting even. “It’s what this whole thing is about. The sooner you admit it, the sooner we can move on. You’re not focused. I have to keep asking you things, reminding you of stuff you normally do in your sleep. And when you do manage to do something, you begin phoning it in as soon as you know how everything will play out. Anna’s not there, Jono. And you aren’t going to find her. By helping other people find their missing children, you aren’t going to replace what you’ve lost.”
“Phoning it in?”
“Out of all that, that’s what you take away?” Frustrated, he turned away from me. It was almost like being married again.
I ignored him. “I’m phoning it in and still that much more of a detective than you!!”
“Sure, change the subject…”
“You would’ve been dead, mate, if not for me.”
“Yeah, lucky. What do you want, a month’s free rent?”
“If I had a month’s rent every time I saved your life, I’d own your house.”
“It’s my family’s estate, Jono, and you’re only staying there because I’m the only one dumb enough to keep you around.”
“I like to think it’s because that old place would be too empty with just you in it, mate.”
That shut him up. I knew I’d hit a nerve, but didn’t care. I had the verbal advantage for once and pressed on. “Face it, Ape. We’re two pariahs: A washed up ex-priest turned burned-out PI and the monkey-faced black sheep of an old-money heritage. All we’ve got is each other.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He was sensitive, especially about his looks, and knew I was right. “It sounds so much more depressing when you put it that way.”
The rest of the drive was in silence. It took another fifteen minutes before I pulled in to the driveway. I stopped before the gates, rolled down my window, and typed my pin into the little keypad. As the gates swung inward, the first pair of foo lions that played sentry to unwanted visitors met us. In total, four pairs of the foo stood at regular intervals along the unreasonably long, winding drive that led up to the forty-three-room Tudor home – a combined twenty-eight thousand square feet of brick and glass that was built in the early 1890s. Originally, the entire estate spanned well over eighty acres, but when times got tough in years past, most of the land was sold off. The twelve acres that remained housed a private lake with a boathouse, a gazebo, a ten-car garage, and a barn.
I stopped the car before the grand staircase that led up to the front door and put her in park. I didn’t look at Ape, but could feel his eyes on me. I’d gone too far, even felt bad, but wasn’t about to admit it to him. He started it.
His hand move to release the seatbelt, hesitated. “When are we going to see the parents now that we’ve confirmed their daughter dead?” he asked.
“Later. I’m gonna swing by the office first, check the messages, write up the invoice. Be ready in an hour. I’ll come back by and get you.”
He nodded. “Make sure you clean up a little, too.”
My fingers moved instinctively to my busted lip. I could feel the dried blood.
“That gives me time to run some preliminaries on the samples we collected. Make sure you remember to pick me up this time. For the Easters’ sake. I don’t like the thought
of you – alone – telling these folks their only daughter isn’t coming home for third grade.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “You calling me insensitive?”
“Implying would be a more appropriate word. I’m just saying. You know what it’s like to lose your daughter, but instead of using it as a natural empathy to connect with people, you make them feel worse.”
“What? Is it my fault shit happens in this life?”
“No, but it’s your fault you don’t know how to handle it with sensitivity and kid gloves. You have a terrible bed-side manner.”
“You’ve never been in my bed,” I said with a grin.
“Be serious. You have horrible people skills. You hate people.”
“Bollocks. I love people. They just don’t always find my brand of humor very…humorous.” Do this job long enough and I don’t care who you are, it tears you up inside. Treating everything like a joke is the only way to make it through sometimes.
He sighed. “Just get your work done. I’ll see you in a little while.” And with that, he stepped out of the car, shut the door and walked up the stairs to the two ornate, wooden doors that marked the manor’s grand entrance. One opened as he neared, and Nadia poked her head out, waved at me. She had her hair up and her yoga clothes on. I waved back, put the car in gear, and drove away.
3
After stopping off to pick up my mail from the PO Box, I pulled on to the little street beside my office building. I parked in the alley, beside the dumpster, and could smell the salt water as soon as I opened the car door, being only a few blocks from the harbor. It’s why I loved Seattle: I grew up in Portsmouth, the sea felt like home.
I walked around to the street and opened the door of The Bagelry, got a coffee. The bakery owner, a Jew I called Abe, owned the whole building.
Back in the alley, I climbed the stairs to my office door. The rickety metal frame was little more than a fire escape, and it shook and creaked loudly in protest. I set the coffee down as I fought with the heavy, industrial metal door.
It gave, the stairs shook again, and the small sign that hung on the handrail came unclasped on one side and swung free. I picked up the coffee and walked inside, letting the door groan closed behind me like the entrance to some ancient tomb, the bottom of the door scraping against the rusted metal floor of the landing.
It was a simple office, and everything but the dart board was purchased second-hand at a thrift shop or handed-down as a barter from clients too cheap to pay real money.
I dropped the mail onto the desk, hung up my jacket, clicked on the lamp, and sank into my chair. I turned on the laptop Ape bought me after weeks of ridiculing me about my handwritten invoices and knocked back the last of the java as I waited for it to boot up.
Without much effort, I found the file I needed, opened the spreadsheet and logged the time it took to decapitate the dirty tramp and explore the house. Just for kicks, I tacked on an extra ten dollars, labeled it expenses: just enough to pay for my coffee and the tacos I’d pick up on the way home.
After I printed the invoice, I put it into an envelope to make it look official and glanced at the clock: 1:38. I considered taking a nap, but Ape would be expecting me in about twenty minutes. Before that, I had to clean up a little.
There were a few packets of moist towelettes in my desk drawer. They weren’t ideal, but did the trick, got the blood and grime off my face and got me looking a little more presentable. Sure, I had running water in my office, but no towels.
I shut the lights off and locked up. On the landing, I took a moment to reclasp my sign. As I turned and began to descend the stairs, I caught sight of a figure approaching at a casual jog.
As he neared, he asked, “Are you Mr. Swyftt?”
“I might be. Who are you?”
He was a kid, too young for me to owe him money. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, blue with a yellow triangle pattern, faded blue jeans, worn sneakers, and a backpack. His blonde hair was long, smooth on top and frayed out at the bottom. If he put a hat on, the back of his head would look like a ruffled duck’s arse.
“My name is Eric Gables, sir. I need to talk to you a minute, if you have the time.”
I thought of Ape, sitting there on the front porch steps of the manor, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, a lonely tear rolling down his cheek thinking I’d abandoned him. “I guess I have a minute.”
“I’ve left you a couple of messages. You didn’t return my calls so I thought I’d just come…”
“Right, Gables. Sorry. I’ve been in the middle of a case. Still am, actually. If you leave your information with my secretary…” I motioned to the front of the shop. Abe’s wife, Sarah, who usually worked the counter could take a message, perhaps.
“You don’t have a secretary.” He turned to look in the direction I indicated. When he turned back, he had a confused look on his face. “Are you trying to blow me off?”
“Good, you caught that, did you.” I turned from him. “You’ve got my number then.”
As I turned toward my car, I heard, “It’s my brother, sir. He’s been missing for two weeks.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Good God, you’re still here. Well, at least I know you can’t take a hint. Missing brother, two weeks, mom’s a depressed alcoholic. I remember the messages. Did you miss the part where I said I was busy?”
“I’ve got five hundred dollars. I had to take it from my college fund, but it’s yours if you’ll take the case.”
I laughed a little at that. Funny kid, pimples and all. “Five hundred dollars?” I turned to face him. “Did you see golden arches out front? There’s a reason I’m not standing down on the street corner, kid. I ain’t cheap.”
“Yeah, but you’re not exactly in a real office building, are you?” He had an edge to his voice. Sure, he tried to hide it with the please sirs and what have you, but it was there: The angst of youth.
“This is an office building.”
“It’s a bakery.”
“May not be the Carnegie Deli, but they make a decent flatbread.” I smiled coyly and turned away. “I’ve gotta go. You obviously can’t pay me enough to care. What are you, in high school? Come back when you get a job.”
“Look, if it’s a question of money, I can get you more. Please. I’m desperate. The cops have no leads. Adam’s only seven. He’s autistic. If something happens…”
I held up a hand to stop him. “Not my problem, kid. You know how many missing persons cases I’ve had to turn down lately? They haven’t been ending well. A guy stops playing the game when all he does is lose.” I thought about the pink fingernails.
I looked at the kid. His face looked burdened, eyes heavy. He looked so pitiful. “Mr. Swyftt, I’m desperate. Please, any time you have to spare on this, I’d appreciate it.”
His big puppy-dog eyes were staring up at me, pleading. Was he…. Fuck. He was crying. “If he’s dead, tell me he’s dead, but we need closure. My family needs to know…so we can….”
He looked down, wiped his face with his sleeve. He unslung the backpack from a shoulder and reached inside. He pulled out a legal envelope that was packed thick and rubberbanded to a headshot of another little blonde kid, several years younger but enough resemblance to be the brother. He stared at the photo as he talked. “I don’t know what else I have to do. I’ve talked to the cops, and they’re clueless. I’ve talked to… I mean….”
“Don’t,” I said. “I’m not interested. Busy schedule.”
Frustrated, he threw his bundle against the pavement at his feet. “I heard you were the best. I just…I should have known you were an asshole.” He didn’t look at me, and his voice sounded broken and heavy, on the verge of greater tears.
He turned, slung the bag back over his shoulder and began walking away.
“You forgot something, kid.”
“Just take the money. If you find something, call me.”
I stood there for a second, dumbfounded. Slowly, mechanically, I mo
ved for my car, took one step, then another, each seemed harder than the last. My mouth began to go dry. I should’ve been happy he was leaving, but wasn’t. I was just…numb. Suddenly Ape and a paycheck didn’t seem as important.
Fucking kids. Maybe it was all the disappearances lately. It shouldn’t have bothered me so much.
“Bollocks.” I turned in time to see him disappear around the edge of the building. I shouted. “Kid! Eric!!”
I stared off toward the sun, the street, the shadow of a boy that called me an asshole. Where did he get off, anyway? Little shit.
“What do you want?”
His head poked back around and a moment later he stood before me again, red-eyed and irritating.
“I called,” I said.
He just stood there, stared at me.
“Right. You gonna come inside and talk to me or what?” I started back up the rusted stairwell. “Grab that money, too. And don’t run up these stairs.”
I opened the door a little more carefully this time, mindful not to dislodge the sign again, and held the door for the kid.
Inside, Eric took a quizzical look around at my desk, lamp, fridge, and filing cabinet as if he expected more from the six-hundred square feet of chipped drywall and shoddy wiring. He noticed the wall between the fridge and the dart board and asked, “What’s that for?”
“It’s a map of the city,” I said with a grin and sank back in my chair. The wall was papered with a blown-up map of Seattle’s Metropolitan area, complete with pins and a few handmade notations scribbled in by yours truly.
“Yeah. And?”
I sighed. “The numbered push-pins mark some notable locales of supernatural interest.” Pin #1 on the map was the Cyclopean Love Shack: a chapel in Beacon Hill where Ape and I broke up a Cyclopes’ mating orgy on my first solo case in the Emerald City. Trust me, some cases aren’t worth taking, but for the record, next time someone says they’re hung like a bull, they haven’t seen the pink thing on one of those bastards.
“Supernatural?” he said with a look of disbelief. “You a psychic or something?”