by Holly Rayner
My cell phone screen displayed some worried messages from my friend Tiffany (hey! how are things??) and my mom (Haven’t heard from you. How are you?). The latest text I stared at for a good minute, trying to collect my thoughts. How was I, really?
My gaze flicked back to my now-blank-screened computer. It was a good summary of what all my harried searching last night had produced: nothing. From the scant information that ‘Russell’ guy had given me, I’d gotten nothing, and now I had nothing more to go on.
I switched back to Tiffany’s message and suddenly knew exactly what to do.
Kyle picked up on the first ring. After all, he was a good friend. He had to be, since he was married to my best friend.
“Alex, it’s early. How are you?”
The smirking clock read 7 a.m. Whoops.
“Ha, yeah, but I’m glad you’re up,” I said. “I’m okay. Finally got a client, but this one’s a real head-scratcher. Could you run a search for me?”
“Yeah, sure. But, Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you thought about what Tiffany said?”
“Yeah, I…” My voice trailed off as my gaze did too, settling on the art print Tiffany had gotten me a few weeks ago.
It was on my wall. Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère. It was as big as the original, bigger than my windows, but not too big. It was just big enough to suck me into the subject’s soulless stare, her somber-painted dissatisfaction.
“Come on, Combs, you love art, you love me—this is perfect!” Tiffany had declared when she’d given it to me, along with the job offer to work at her gallery.
And she had been right, almost. I did love art, and she was my best friend in the world, and yet her job offer wasn’t perfect. Any job where I wasn’t a private investigator, sleuthing out clues, unearthing secrets, couldn’t be perfect. It just couldn’t be. It was a week ago that I had said no, which had probably been another mistake.
“…She really just wants the best for you,” Kyle was saying. I could almost see his big, white teeth glinting as he said it, his eyes half-lidded, already lost in his calm, talking somnolence. If I’d let him go on, he would have talked for hours. Tiffany too; they both were talkers through and through.
“Kyle,” I said, interrupting, “please, I just really need this search done.”
A pause, and then: “All right, okay. What name am I putting in?”
“Brock,” I said. “His name is Brock Anderson. He has a scar on his left eyebrow.”
“All right. Let me enter the name into the system now.”
After another pause, I asked him, “Do you ever miss it, Kyle?”
“Miss what?”
“The cadets. That last year—Officer Brigley. The excitement.”
He exhaled; I could almost hear his wistful smile on the other end. I didn’t blame him. It had been over 10 years since we had been in the cadets together, and yet sometimes it felt like yesterday: the week-long camping that felt like months, singing campfire songs and tree climbing, the wild rush as our canoe plunged through the rapids.
“Yeah actually, a bit. There’s lots happening at the station most times, but even then, now that you mention it, yeah. Yeah, I do. Why?”
“Because I never do, Kyle. Even though I loved the cadets, I always felt like something was missing. That something was this—sleuthing out, the thrill of the hunt. I can’t stop being a private eye, Kyle. No. I’ll do this job until it drives me to bankruptcy or worse.”
“All right, all right, Alex. I’ll tell Tiffany you’ve made up your mind, though we both know that won’t do much good and—huh.”
“What?”
“We have a file on your guy, Brock Anderson, the guy with the scar. Looks like he’s been suspected in a bunch of things, but he’s never been proven guilty or caught. Actually, we’ve got a reported location on him now: Nederland.”
“Nederland. That’s…”
“Just a 30-minute, 40 tops, drive away.”
“Yeah. You’re right. So why haven’t you guys picked him up yourself?”
“Got bigger fish to fry. We have this crazy multiple murder case that has everyone in the office up in arms.”
“Ah, okay. Could you send me an email with the picture of him so I know just who to look for? And thanks, Kyle.”
“Sure. Any time. And, Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“You haven’t seen…him, have you?”
“Who?” I said, though really, I knew already. I finally said the cursed name in a hush. “Charlie?”
“Yeah. He’s…well, he’s back in town. I just thought you might—”
“No, Kyle. No way. We are over, long over. He hasn’t contacted me, and even if he did, I wouldn’t want to see him. Not ever.”
Kyle didn’t say anything, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I didn’t blame him. Charlie and I had been on and off so many times that I’d lost count.
Finally, he said, “Just be careful, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know me.”
I hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. Kyle had always been like an older brother to me, constantly worrying and looking out for me. But for the first time, I couldn’t quite laugh off his fears.
I clicked on the computer screen, where my former search for “Russell Snow Boulder” was showing no results. I should’ve asked Kyle about Russell Snow too, though I was secretly glad I had forgotten.
I went to my email, clicked on the attachment, and printed out the disappointingly low-quality photo.
Taking the still-warm paper into my hands, I stared into the eyes of the mysterious man I was hunting, who, in every line of his face, clearly had something to hide.
Yes, something told me this was no ordinary case.
Chapter Four
The drive to Nederland was a race against time. Agitated apprehension impelled me on, urging my foot to press harder on the gas. The car zipped ahead, and I pressed it on and on, all my thoughts focused on going faster, getting closer to my goal.
It was only once the trip was a third done that I noticed the almost unbroken line of trees lining the road on either side. Already I was nearing Wheelman, and it felt like I had just gotten into the car. Maybe it was because I was entranced by the printout I had beside me: Mr. Brock Anderson in his full, blurry glory. Every time I glanced over, his pixelated eyes seemed to be mocking me.
“I will find you,” I told him. “Wherever you are, I will.”
And to myself, I silently added, I have to.
Turning on the radio produced the final chords of some song I didn’t know. The next song, from the first twangs of the guitar and melody of the harmonica, however, was unmistakable. It was the song Charlie had serenaded me with in the middle of the night, guitar in hand, right outside my apartment window, yell-singing over my neighbors’ curses and a dog’s howls.
It would’ve been romantic if it hadn’t been after I had broken up with him for cheating on me.
My finger went to the button to change the song but stopped on the black knob.
I couldn’t quite press down and turn it off. The song was like an irresistible ice cream sundae with peanuts that I was allergic to.
It was heartbreakingly nostalgic, reminiscent of the bad old days I had never really enjoyed. Mesmerizing, in a word. And yet, no matter how I knew that the peanuts would swell up my face, still I ate relentlessly, uselessly. Charlie had never been good for me, and yet, still now, a part of me missed him. It always would.
My finger finally pressed down on the button and the song cut off, but it was only so my hand could grab my phone and check for messages. Sure enough, like clockwork, there his was: I’ve been thinking about you. After three months of no contact, what were the odds? Then again, he was in town.
I turned off my phone and shifted my attention to the road. I may have been thinking about you too Charlie, but not for long. I was embroiled in my biggest case yet.
Now I was passing through Platt
Rogers Memorial Park, where the road was bordered by even more trees, whole hills full of the tall proud pines, some even craning out of cliffs of rock.
A forest-green sign with white words flashed past my window: Nederland – 5 miles.
Funny, Nederland was so close to Eldora, where I grew up, and yet I had only been there a handful of times. I had gone out of town rarely as a kid. Mom and Dad always meant the best, but sometimes I wondered if they had protected me too much. In any case, there was no time to go on a nostalgic trip down memory lane; I was almost in Nederland. In less than 10 minutes, I would be there.
It seemed to take only seconds, however, before I was passing the gorgeous aquamarine sheet of the Baker Reservoir and encountering the first buildings on the outskirts of town. I pulled into the parking lot of one, which turned out to be a garage, and parked at the edge. Then I looked at the printout beside me again.
Where would someone like Brock Anderson—a criminal in hiding—go? Would he go anywhere without worrying, or would he hide away indefinitely, send someone out for supplies, or just have everything delivered? Maybe he’d only go places he had to, like the grocery store. Everybody had to eat.
My hand went for my phone as a smile slunk onto my face. The only result my internet search showed made my decision easy: B&F Mountain Market.
I pulled out of the garage, back onto the road, and sped into town past more spaced-out buildings and a small park. Farther down the road, I turned into the parking lot of a brown and green shopping complex.
I parked in a spot as close to the front as I could, grabbed the photo printout, and then walked up to the massive building with the sign that read “B&F Mountain Market.” Inside, luckily, it was just as empty as the parking lot outside. I walked up to the portly, older cashier.
“Hi,” I said, holding up the picture of Brock Anderson. “Have you ever seen this guy around?”
Her dark brown eyes squinted at the picture for a good while, as if she wished she had seen him.
“Naw,” she finally said.
Then she opened her eyes wide, showing the whites on both sides.
“Why?”
“Just want to talk to him,” I said.
Which wasn’t really a lie, but it was still pretty darn unlikely considering how intense he looked in the photo.
The other cashiers I asked hadn’t seen him either, so I left the supermarket with nothing but a banana to show for my efforts. I slunk back to my car and gulped the banana down in three big bites, my mind buzzing with ideas of where to try next.
A grocery store had been my best bet. Were there any others? Maybe a general store?
Back inside my car, a second online search gave two popular Nederland eating spots I could check out: Kathmandu and New Moon Café.
Kathmandu had décor as interesting as I’d expected. Located in a squat, pink-bricked building with a wooden sign, its interior was wood-finished, had red linens, and contained only one drowsy-looking Pakistani man who tilted his head at my entry.
A glance at the triangular wall clock revealed that it was 3 p.m., not exactly high dining time.
When I showed him the picture, his response was as I’d come to expect.
“Nope. Never seen him,” the man declared, shaking his woolly-haired head so vigorously that a napkin at his table blew to the ground.
My experience at New Moon Café was just as disappointing. The cute little bakery with wooden furniture and floors, charming vases of wildflowers, and walls covered in beautiful art contained a few more customers. They all eyed me with an unconcerned sort of curiosity as I interrogated the braided-haired girl behind the front counter. I asked whether she’d seen the man as I thrust forward the photo printout.
She lowered her head and, beneath fluffy blond bangs, demurely replied, “No. Oh no, no, no.”
So there was nothing to do but buy a well-marshmallowed cup of hot chocolate and slink out of there.
The rest of the day passed more or less the same. On my desperate, fruitless hunt, I zoomed through so many restaurants and fast-food joints that I lost track, wound through the community library and its many desks of clueless employees, and popped in and out of every other lodge or hotel where polite but unhelpful employees all shook their heads the same. No one anywhere had seen him.
The only dent I’d made by the time it started to get dark was on my wallet, having spent more money on snacks and coffee than I could afford. At this rate, I was going to be losing money on this job, not earning it.
Finally, having searched basically every place that looked like a public establishment in town, I returned to where I had started, the garage parking lot, to regroup.
I sat there in my car, the picture of the nonexistent man, Brock Anderson, crumpled in my hand.
Maybe there was no such man. Maybe Russell Snow and his fake name had given me a fake job too, and I had no one to blame but myself for having believed him.
I turned my phone back on and the text returned to the screen: I’ve been thinking about you.
There was another one from Tiffany: Helloooo? Kyle said he talked to you??
I turned my gaze to stare out the window desolately at the outskirts of the town where I’d searched what seemed like everywhere. There was no point in continuing to look, but this couldn’t be the end of the line, the dead end of my search. It couldn’t be.
I stared vacantly at the sign beside me: East Street Garage. East Street Garage, Garage, Garage—why not try it? I straightened myself up and paused, squinting at the not-so-promising red-brick building at the end of the line of cars. Why try it at all? What was the point? Out of all the places Brock Anderson would go—to eat, to buy supplies—he probably wouldn’t go to a mechanic. How often did you need to eat versus go get your car looked at? If I hadn’t found Brock Anderson anywhere in town, I wouldn’t find him here, at this random garage on the outskirts of town.
And yet what did I have to lose? This was my last chance, so why not try it? So I did. I got out of my car and walked over to a man sitting on a lime lawn chair out front. At my approach, he put his tan hand over his eyes to block out the sun.
“Excuse me, but have you seen this man?” I asked, holding out the printout.
Still using his weathered hand as a visor, the man squinted long and hard at the paper, so long that I was about to take the paper back when he grumbled, “What’s it to ya?”
Now his dark squint was on me, his tan hand tilted up.
“Uh, nothing—just want to talk to him!”
I gave him a nervous, close-lipped smile, and his black eyes slid over me. Evidently not finding my blond nervousness a threat, he said, “Sold ’im winter tires less’n a week ago.”
I gaped at him, so surprised and overwhelmed with wanting to hug him and thank him and thank God for being a blond, unthreatening-looking private detective that it took me a minute before I could sputter out, “T-thank you. Thank you so much!”
His cracked, brown lips moved into something suggesting a smile, and he continued with a precarious fling of his arm behind him. “Had a maroon pickup truck, kinda rusty. Left thataway.”
“Thank you!” I said, shaking his hand vigorously before I headed back to my car.
Flopped on my camo-printed seat, I tried to figure out what to do next.
That I had to follow Brock Anderson up that road, find him, and get evidence of his criminal activity was obvious. The only question was, how? Another glance at the half-crumpled photo confirmed what I had sensed already: this was a cunning face, a suspicious face, one that would only buy the most convincing of stories. I couldn’t just show up claiming I was lost. I needed a plausible excuse, a reason.
My stomach growled. In the meantime, while I brainstormed my next move, I needed food.
I hadn’t planned on returning to the New Moon Café, but when I found myself pulling up to the wood-slatted building, I turned off my car and hurried inside.
Now was not the time to debate my choice of food. Once I
grew hungry, I also grew unbearably indecisive; the best thing was to eat until I was no longer starving and be done with it.
When I passed through the café’s cloud-blue door, I knew I had made the right choice. Now the bakery was even busier and was filled with the delicious aroma of the cookies that a different ponytailed girl was loading into a jar on the front counter.
Everyone was smiling and laughing, sipping delicious-looking drinks and biting at yummy-looking pastries and sandwiches. All of New Moon Café was celebrating my most recent victory with me, and they didn’t even know it.
At my approach, the front counter girl paused, her amber ponytail bobbing as her head raised.
Her cookie-bearing hand was in the jar, the cookie with the still-glistening chocolate chips suspended over the others.
“How many cookies did you just make?” I asked.
“Ten,” she replied.
“Can I have all of them?” I asked.
She blinked, grinned to show dentist-white teeth, and said, “Sure!”
After I handed over the last of my cash and accepted my bursting brown bagful of cookies, I went to sit at the table in the corner, the one under the landscape painting of a sweeping mountain ridge.
And then I sat there in my wooden seat, not thinking, not planning, just eating and enjoying. Just being.
It was me and chocolate chip cookie after cookie. Sugary goodness incarnate. A delicious oblivion. Flavor nirvana.
By the time I’d finished, an idea had come to me thanks to a swath of red-and-white striped bags hanging by the front counter’s cash register.
Who could say no to free cookies in a nice pretty bag delivered by yours truly, the most innocuous-looking blonde there was?
I marched back up to the front counter, bought a striped bag and 10 more cookies from the now downright-bemused cashier with my debit card this time, and was off.
Driving back to the garage and the dirt road going off it was easy; it was following the road afterward that got hard. The dirt road started off as a wide two-laner but rapidly shrank to a single lane that was a bumpy, weed-infested jungle before almost disappearing entirely. Soon I was bouncing along what looked to be a man-made, car-flattened path through a field.