I had to stop and think about the root cause of my husband’s problem. “I think Mick deeply bought in to the dream of us being a family. He and I, Rachael, and sweet little Anna. He loves that baby so much, Tom. He works hard, and he’s such a good person. He deserves to experience having a family. It’s just that …”
I felt wetness on my cheeks and tried to suppress the tears before I really broke down. I’d been holding in the sadness for months, trying to be strong for Mick. But lately, I was becoming annoyed and disappointed with his inability to move on. Unfortunately, it was a too-familiar feeling.
Tom leaned closer to me and scrunched his face into a look of contemplative sadness. I knew I would have to elaborate.
“I guess I think that if anyone should be devastated by finding a daughter, then sort of losing her again, shouldn’t it be me?”
I didn’t mean to say it in that mean-spirited way out loud, and I hated sounding so needy. “Mick is depressed again. That is the bottom line. He’s lost interest in doing things, you know?” Now I was the embarrassed one. “But this time, I think his depresson is about this idea he had of being part of a family.”
“I get what you’re saying, but I’m not sure his state of mind isn’t related to the previous problems. In fact, I’ll bet they are.”
I started to speak, but he held his palm in front of my face. “Think about it. He went through terrible times with losing his parents, then nearly dying in South America and coping with his frustration and feelings of helplessness when you were injured. I think when Rachael came to live with you guys and had Anna, the stability and normalcy of having a family really helped him overcome the residual PTSD symptoms. He was emotionally invested in the two of them and in his fatherly role, as you said.”
Tom looked around the room and settled on the view out the window. “At the wedding, it was plain to see how committed Mick was to Rachael and her daughter.” He gestured toward the yard, where Rachael planned and implemented a lovely wedding ceremony for Mick and me.
I swiped moisture off my face and shook out my hair, raking the long strands with my nails. I could already feel the thickening in texture caused by the intense humidity.
I wanted to rise above my own unhappiness to get a better appreciation of what Mick was feeling. Tom already seemed to have a better perspective, but I still didn’t want to admit that the PTSD symptoms might be back.
“Thanks, Tom. I know Mick was alone in the world when we met. So was I, for that matter. Finding each other the way we did was amazing. In fact, meeting you, getting my friend Sid back into my life, and then Rachael—it seems surreal.”
He peered into my eyes, smiling and shaking his head. “What is surreal is the blueness of your eyes when they’re wet.” He caught himself and laughed nervously.
I love Tom as a friend, but that small slip of intimacy gave me a little jolt … and a warm comfy feeling. Uh-oh!
He rushed on. “Okay, so look at it this way. Mick is a fairly sensitive guy, don’t you think? Maybe he had a future mapped out that depended on Rachael and Anna being in the picture.”
He leaned in a little closer and picked up my hand. Double uh-oh.
“Darcy, try not to blame him because it feels as if you’re not enough for him right now. I’m confident that isn’t what this is about.”
I stared at him, trying to suppress the feeling that he was some kind of sexy compassionate mentalist. His hand felt hot, and I gently pulled mine away.
“How do you know these things, Tom? I’ve never understood why you are alone. Any guy who is that perceptive should have someone in his life.”
He ignored my inappropriate comment. “You know I majored in psych before I got on with the LAPD,” he said instead. “But to tell you the truth, those years on the streets taught me more about human psychology than the degree did.”
He looked down, and a pink glow spread up from his neck. I wished I hadn’t said anything about his personal life.
“Sorry, Tom, your relationships are none of my business. I know you’ll find someone eventually.”
I was making it worse. I felt guilty knowing I’d reawakened Tom’s sadness and feelings of betrayal with respect to a woman he thought he knew and loved not too long ago. That ended tragically when she was arrested for attempted murder and sent back to her native Israel.
He blinked a couple of times, then smiled and winked. “There are no secrets after all we’ve been through. If I could find someone to have a relationship with like yours and Mick’s, I’d jump at it.”
A few minutes later, he drained his beer and stood up to leave. I didn’t want him to go, and that gave me something else to worry about.
“Try not to worry too much,” said my mentalist. “Time might be all Mick needs to get back on track. If not, I hope he’ll be open to more counseling.”
“I’ll try.” Maybe being down here will help me gain some perspective, I thought a little too optimistically.
He looked thoughtful. Something else was on his mind. “What is it, Tom?”
“I was just thinking about a puzzling situation we have here in Collier County. It’s a case involving unexplained disappearances of two tagged cats and a state wildlife ranger. Are you aware of the cats’ endangered status and how closely they’re monitored?”
“Yes, of course. One can hardly live down here and not know about them.”
“Well, it seems like a good investigative reporting topic. I was just thinking maybe you would be interested in delving into the story.”
“As usual, you’re right. The combination of possible criminal activity and the wildlife angle is tantalizing. Besides, I’m between projects, and it would give me a reason to stay down here a little longer. Do you know a way I can quickly get a feel for the story before I decide?”
He walked to the kitchen and set his empty bottle on the counter. “I can pick you up around eight in the morning for the half-hour drive to the park ranger station in Everglades City. It’s close to where the cats went missing. I’m sure you can talk to someone there. In fact, I’ll call first thing in the morning and arrange something. What do you say?”
I didn’t need to think about it. I could decide after learning more about the subject whether I wanted to pursue an investigation.
“That will be great. Thanks, Tom. It would be good to get immersed in a new story.”
What I already knew was that the cats are Florida panthers—Puma concolor coryi, a protected subspecies of cougar or mountain lion. There are few of them left in the wild, and sadly, you often hear about them dead on the road despite numerous panther crossing signs warning motorists. But the disappearance of a healthy tagged animal is probably unusual—two gone missing at once must be unprecedented. Of course the fact that a ranger is also missing points to a criminal element. This could be just the type of story I like.
Caught up in the familiar feeling of anticipation about starting a new story, I realized this could be another nice distraction in addition to my getaway to a place I love. Initially elated at the prospect, after Tom left, my enthusiasm dampened due to a growing uneasiness. Did the discomfort relate to Mick … or to something else? I wasn’t sure.
Left alone in paradise, I dusted and vacuumed the house, then went outside to check on the landscaping. The professional gardener appeared to be doing a fine job. The royal and foxtail palms; shiny-leaved Ixora with bright coral pom-poms; yellow, orange, and peach hibiscus; and bright red, pink, and white bougainvillea formed a riotous display around the perimeter of the manicured lawn.
Breathing in the subtle fragrances and filling my senses with the aromatic beauty, my spirits lifted, at least temporarily. Being a biologist—a biochemist, I love plants and all of nature. Despite the heat, I stayed outside among the junglelike foliage too long. Mesmerized, I watched a large dragonfly zip around the flowers, hovering now and then to pluck seeming
ly invisible insects out of the air. After a half hour, it felt as if my pigment-deficient skin would soon match the color of the Christmas palm berries.
Back inside, I took a package of tilapia from the freezer to thaw and fixed myself a Ketel One martini, my adult beverage of choice. Sipping slowly, I hoped the vodka would calm my inner chaos.
Seated on the couch under the air-conditioning, I turned on the TV to see what monstrous things occurred while I zipped along at thirty thousand feet, oblivious to the world below. Neither FOX nor CNN reported anything more dramatic than another random shooting with no deaths, but several injuries. Sadly, I chose to consider it good news.
I knew I should spend time thinking about Mick and our issues, but all I wanted to do was distract myself. I knew I should call him, but I wasn’t ready to say the things I needed to and didn’t want to make matters worse.
Tom’s words made sense, and reluctantly, I thought about those awful months before Mick’s PTSD was diagnosed. We almost split then, and it was Tom who finally got Mick to realize what his symptoms meant. Lots of counseling and Mick’s inner strength brought him around over time, and I thought—hoped—it was behind us.
My head was shaking involuntarily. What the hell is wrong with me? I could now see that Mick’s seeming lack of interest in our relationship during the past few months was similar to what happened back then, only not as severe. My heart ached for my depressed husband left alone in DC with his sadness.
Maybe I should forget this and go back home. Setting that thought aside and searching my own motives, I had to admit I was excited about the possibility of starting a new investigative piece that might lead to a saleable freelance article. It was something to occupy my time and thoughts, and after all, it was my work.
Anyway, maybe Mick needed some time alone. I decided to sleep on it and make a decision in the morning about whether to get more involved here or go back to DC in a day or two. I was sure Tom would be okay either way. What a steady rock he is. I halted another budding thought process that would be unproductive at best.
As it turned out, neither option—stay or go home—were meant to be. A few minutes later, my cell phone rang as if in answer to my dilemma. A huge distraction, and change in course, suddenly inserted itself into my plans. As has happened many times since I met Mick, Tom, and the rest, the underlying currents of our connected lives veered in a dramatically unexpected and dangerous direction—if only I’d known just how bad it would be.
2
Day 1
The following afternoon brought a twinge of déjà vu. I was barreling through the terminal at McCarren International, dragging my carry-on bag alongside a row of slot machines. Farther down the concourse, I rushed past coffee shops, bars, and gaudy souvenir vendors positioned among trendy expensive perfume, clothing, and candy boutiques. All around me colorful digital displays loudly announced the performers playing at various Strip hotels. However, my feeling of familiarity had nothing to do with these Sin City trappings.
After I arrived at baggage claim and identified my carousel, I tried to calm myself down. With nothing to do but wait for my bag, I let myself think about the last time I made a trip feeling this type of pressure.
Almost two years ago, I arrived in Seattle in this same stressed and worried condition to lend assistance to my friends Don Freeburg and his partner, Charlie Scott. Don is an artist, and Charlie is a commercial real estate broker. Here I was again, rushing to a distant location at Don’s behest. Well, that wasn’t entirely true since during last night’s phone conversation, he begged me to stay in Florida. I don’t listen well when my friends are in trouble.
Over the past several years, I’ve learned something about myself … well, quite a lot actually. It would be impossible to suffer through all that trauma and not figure out a few things. To my mind, the drastic jarring changes in the direction our currents have taken can only be viewed as opportunities to embrace change—otherwise, that sort of thing would destroy you.
Mind you, the notion about life flowing along currents that collide and merge or wildly deviate from their intended paths is just a mental construct. I’m far too pragmatic to believe there are actual unseen currents carrying us forward. There is only incremental change, which we perceive as passage of time, and a lot of inherent randomness. The current metaphor just helps me explain the inevitable ups and downs of life and put them in perspective.
In fact, I don’t believe in the existence of anything outside the natural realm. That is, nothing happens or has ever happened in the world that violates the laws of physics and nature. We should be extremely thankful that our world holds together firmly by those inviolate laws. The alternative would spell complete chaos and disaster. Actually, it’s worse than that. We and our planet simply would not exist.
In any event, the traumatic Seattle adventure taught me that I could not deny my curiosity and investigative nature when presented with a mystery. That was when I embarked on my new career path of freelance investigative reporting.
I’ve come a long way professionally since obtaining my biochemistry degree and landing the midlevel managerial position with Shrinden Pharmaceuticals. It is hard to imagine that I once believed I would stay with the company until retirement or until they laid me off. In the economic downturn of 2009 and 2010, that might well have happened if circumstances—those inevitable changes in currents—hadn’t intervened.
Around that time, I was publishing my first nonfiction account of a horrendous South American cruise with way more than its share of crime and trauma. Astoundingly, my book became a best seller, and I’d begun working on a second book. The amount of money flowing in from royalties took me by surprise, and I left Shrinden behind before they could can me for neglecting my job. I had to admit they had grounds to do so since I was placing increasingly more importance on personal travel and writing.
Authoring the books was challenging and rewarding, but now I’ve found my real niche with the shorter articles and the investigative research they require. The problem is I keep getting distracted by events that pop up involving people close to me. This morning, I left one unsolved mystery in Florida to address another one that once again hit much closer to home.
Watching the bags endlessly circle with mine nowhere in sight, I shook off the first tickle of missing-bag anxiety. That feeling brought the realization that I was drawing another comparison between the two trips. Back then, Mick was unhappy with me for going to Seattle when we were supposed to be planning our wedding. He became more upset when I teamed up with an SPD detective to work on the abduction of Charlie and Don’s daughter, Penelope.
With the current trip, however, he seemed supportive. At least that is what came across the phone last night. If I was completely honest, I’d say it was hard to tell because of the unexpressed thoughts hanging in the air between us. Like I said, déjà vu.
With a sigh of relief, I grabbed my small suitcase and charged out the automatic doors into yet another blistering sunny day. This time, the hundred-plus-degree air was dry as dust. As I strode across the lanes of traffic in passenger pickup, I thought I could feel my skin already puckering and crying out for moisture. I reminded myself to drink lots of water while I was here in the desert.
During the eight-minute bus ride to the rental car terminal, I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to collect my thoughts about what I should do next. The problem was that my normal thought processes were being subverted. Don’s frantic phone call was apparently captured on a mental tape that would not stop looping through my brain.
He is normally a steady guy. Sure, he went through a lot of emotional pain with his daughter’s abduction, but that was far behind him. I thought he and Charlie had a relatively uneventful life with Penelope, their adopted daughter, and her sister Pamela, a recent addition to their family. The distress I heard in his voice last night destroyed that notion and frightened me.
The relationships among our little group of unlikely friends, family, and those who are not so friendly seem to dangle by tough invisible strands that none of us can sever. My first freelance article, which was purchased by Time magazine, chronicled one of these bizarre connections.
In the piece, I told the poignant story of Penelope’s biological mother, Andrea Fleetfoot, who entered into a deceptive surrogacy agreement with Don and Charlie, leading them to believe that Penelope was their biological child. Andrea was subsequently murdered by her husband, leaving their older daughter, Pamela, orphaned.
Pamela had run away from home when she turned sixteen, and Don found her living on the streets in Vegas. After months of negotiation, he convinced her to move to Seattle to live with them. He and Charlie wanted to help her and assumed she would form a relationship with the biological sister she hadn’t known existed.
Penelope was an eight-year-old going on thirty, and up until then, she assumed she was an only child. At such a young age, she has seen more than her share of trauma. A victim of kidnappers with misguided religious motives, she’d only begun to recover when she accompanied Don and Charlie and our family on the Australian cruise.
Shockingly, an old nemesis pulled violent strings stretching from a Colorado prison cell all the way to the cruise ship on the other side of the world. As a result, Penelope was exposed to even more psychological trauma.
More than once, we’d seen that she was resilient, but also very adept at masking her feelings of inadequacy and guilt with seemingly mature conversations and behaviors. Even knowing this, due to her high IQ and exceptional intuitive abilities, the guys believed she would readily form a bond with her sister. To them, the only thing that made sense was to introduce the girls and bring Pamela into their family. Apparently, this did not work out as planned.
Taking in a seventeen-year-old runaway with significant problems was a risky proposition, and Mick and I had doubts about the plan from the beginning. True to their nature, Don and Charlie were optimistic. The last we heard everything was going well—that is, until Don’s call brought back my previous misgivings with a heavy dose of reality.
Currents of Sin Page 2