Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  “Time for you to choose, Frank,” Sal said. “Either you prove you’re my guy and kill Miller, or we kill you both.”

  Short puffs of steam obscured Cantrell’s face. He looked from Sal to Jael to me to Bobby. Bobby looked up at Cantrell, his fingers interlocked behind his head. He said, “Frank?”

  Cantrell pulled his gun from its holster. It was big and black. He slid the top of it back. It clicked.

  Cantrell said, “I’m sorry, Bobby.”

  Bobby said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, isn’t it obvious?” Cantrell said.

  “What?”

  “I’m dirty. This whole charade proves it.” Cantrell pointed his gun at Bobby.

  Bobby said, “Killing me won’t help, Frank.”

  Cantrell said, “Killing you? Why would I kill you?” Cantrell’s gun moved. The black hole of its barrel slid up, away from Bobby.

  Bobby said, “No!”

  The hole pointed, like a deadly finger, at open space. Then at Sal.

  Bobby reached into his jacket.

  The gun slid past Sal, pointed to the rocks beyond him, then onto Jael. Her lips pulled back into a grimace, her hand tightened.

  Bobby held a gun.

  Cantrell’s gun slid past Jael, into the space between her and me, and rested on my chest. I gasped.

  Cantrell said, “Two hackers in one day.”

  The trigger slid, responding to the tightening of Cantrell’s ungloved hand. I froze. Bobby raised his gun. I fixated on Bobby’s knees, imagined them getting wet and cold. Heard Cantrell’s gun click. It boomed at the same time as Bobby’s. I was thrown to the ground. But the bullet hadn’t knocked me down.

  Jael had.

  My head hit a barnacled rock with a scraping blow. I lay on the sand for a second, orienting myself. I rolled, sat up, and looked across a black shape to see Cantrell lying in the sand, his head misshapen, a chunk of it gone. Bobby, still on his knees, lowered his gun.

  Sal rushed toward the black shape as I crawled, my head spinning. Jael Navas lay on her back, her teeth gritted, her eyes staring. She seemed to be concentrating on breathing, getting air in and out. A wet hole glistened in her chest, whistling with each breath.

  Sixty-Seven

  Hospitals smell like sadness.

  The odor is always there, just under the cover of antiseptics, floor cleaners, and ubiquitous hand sanitizer. It worms its way into your nostrils, your hair, your skin, reminding you that staph germs are everywhere, poking, prodding, searching for a pimple or overripe hair follicle, hoping to deliver the yellow spot of infection. My hands, after touching the doors, the chairs, and the coffee machine, felt coated by an invisible and permanent layer of filth.

  I’d sent Sal home. He’d offered to stay. Insisted. I told him to go. He was threadbare and gray, a beaten gorilla who had been shocked into submission by the zookeeper’s cattle prod and could do nothing but sit in the corner of a bare glass tank and rock. He needed sleep. He needed time in a dark room, alone and safe on his couch. He hadn’t slept in his bed since they found Sophia on it.

  Bobby never made it to the hospital. He’d killed a fellow agent. There were debriefings, interrogations, and inquiries. He never asked me to come with him to support his story. He told me to be here when Jael came back to us. I was alone.

  Then I wasn’t. A pair of gray ASICS sneakers appeared in front of me. I looked up.

  It was Hugh Graxton. Unshaven. Wearing jeans under a maroon UMass sweatshirt.

  Hugh pointed down at me. “What did you do?”

  What did I do? Nothing. I had stared down the barrel of a gun and waited for it to kill me while Jael jumped in front of me.

  What did I do? Everything. I had set a trap to get Frank Cantrell to incriminate himself to Bobby. A trap so stupid and transparent that he had recognized it immediately, had recognized the naive mind that had conceived it, and had acted to take revenge before the trap closed.

  Jael had warned me. This could go very badly. It had.

  Graxton was still there. “I asked you a question.”

  What to say? Nothing. I averted my gaze. “Have a seat.”

  “I don’t want a seat. I want to know what happened.”

  Shook my head. Small arcs. “She took a bullet for me.”

  “Why?”

  Looked up. “Couldn’t tell you.” Looked back at Hugh’s shoes.

  “Aw, shit,” said Hugh, slumping into a nearby seat, leaving a gap between us. “Well, what did the doctor say?”

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Privacy. They’ll tell me when she’s been moved to a room.”

  “So she’s going to be okay?”

  I shrugged. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Sal called. Told me everything.”

  Silence. I pulled out my phone, played solitaire, mindlessly losing game after game. Hugh stared into space.

  I said, “I didn’t realize you and Jael were friends.”

  Hugh said, “She’s a special lady.”

  “I know.”

  More solitaire.

  “Frank Cantrell killed Jarrod Cooper,” I said. “I think Anderson is cleaning house.”

  “Anderson’s a tool.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Frank Cantrell is worse. He’s a weasel.”

  “Was a weasel.”

  “Was?”

  “Bobby killed him.”

  “No shit.”

  “Just after Frank shot Jael.”

  “Good for Bobby.”

  “You think Frank was working for Anderson?”

  “Sure, why not? He was a bigger whore than Angie.”

  “You would know,” I said.

  “You didn’t even get a blow job? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’ve got some standards,” I said. It was a mean thing to say, but there you have it.

  “More like you messed up somehow,” said Hugh. He crossed his arms, stared at the door to the waiting room.

  I played more solitaire, played my date with Angie over in my mind. What did I do wrong? Probably it was not being ready to go to Capital Grille.

  “Here we go,” said Hugh.

  A doctor had slipped through the waiting room door. He was a small Indian man, looked to be in his twenties. We made eye contact. Hugh and I stood.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  The doctor said, “She’s in intensive care.”

  “And?”

  “I really can’t share more than that.”

  Hugh said, “You can tell me, doc.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  Hugh reached into his jeans, pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’m her health care proxy.”

  Good one.

  “Ah,” said the doctor, reviewing the paper. “Thank you, Mr. Graxton.” The doctor looked at me.

  Hugh said, “He’s cool. Just tell us.”

  “She had a collapsed lung. Broken ribs. Lots of bleeding.”

  “How is she?”

  “We repaired the lung, removed the bullet, and have her on a ventilator as a precaution. She’s sedated.”

  It was like talking to Microsoft technical support. The guy was spewing facts that were true and useless at the same time. I asked, “Will she live?”

  The doctor glanced at me, addressed Hugh. “Guarded optimism for a full recovery. She should be able to take visitors tomorrow.”

  Hugh said, “Thanks, Doc.”

  They shook hands. The doctor slipped back into his netherworld.

  Hugh said, “Well, that’s that.”

  “Good thinking on the health care proxy,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It wouldn’t have occur
red to me to lie to the doctor.”

  “I wasn’t lying.”

  Right. “It’s late,” I said. “Don’t screw with me.”

  “I am her health care proxy.”

  I stared at Hugh. Tried to fit the pieces together. They didn’t fit. “Really,” I said. “She appointed you as her guardian in a hospital?”

  Hugh brandished the paper. “Yeah. Why so surprised?”

  “Why you?” I asked.

  “Why not me?”

  “I don’t know. I just would have thought—”

  “It’s not all about you, Tucker.”

  An image flashed in my mind: Jael and Hugh, in bed. A handsome couple, yet still a disturbing thought.

  I asked, “Does Jael know about Sandy?”

  “Sandy?”

  “The girl you’ve got living with you.”

  Hugh folded the proxy once, twice, making a clean rectangle. He slipped it into his back pocket, crossed his arms across his UMass logo, and faced me square on. He was a little bit taller, a little bit older, a little bit grayer.

  “It’s none of your business,” he said.

  “What is?”

  Hugh made a stirring motion with his finger. “This whole thing. Me, Jael, Sandy. It’s none of your business.”

  “So you’re saying there’s something there?”

  “No. I’m saying it’s none of your business. Don’t ask me about Jael. Don’t ask me about Sandy.”

  I said, “It’s not right.”

  My phone chirped. I had a message.

  Hugh said, “You’d better check that.”

  He turned, walked away. Stopped at the door. Turned. “You know why Jael trusts me with her privacy?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can keep a secret.”

  Hugh left.

  I can keep a secret. I fiddled with the phone, brought up the message.

  It was from Caroline.

  Caroline: Awake?

  Me: Oh yeah.

  Caroline: Sal told me what happened. How is Jael?

  Me: They’re optimistic, but she’s still sedated.

  Caroline: Sal said that thing that happened was your idea.

  Me: Yeah. Another great idea.

  Caroline: You need to talk? I could come over.

  Me: Really?

  Caroline: Yes.

  Me: That would be great. But why would you come over?

  Caroline: See you in an hour.

  Now there was someone who could keep a secret.

  Sixty-Eight

  I tell myself that I shouldn’t drink so much, that a booze assortment that consisted partially of WhistlePig rye, Lagavulin scotch, Bully Boy whiskey, Tito’s vodka, 1792 bourbon, Hendrick’s gin, and Jack’s Abby beer was perhaps too much for a man who lived alone with two hermit crabs.

  But then I tell myself to shut up and pour something.

  I had arrived at my apartment before Caroline, checked on the hermit crabs, and, scanning the bottles in my cabinet, pulled out the Black Maple Hill Kentucky bourbon. A lady was coming to visit.

  Caroline arrived around one in the morning, looking a little worse for wear. Her eyes had lost their normal flash and sparkle, settling for a sort of tired crinkle. She was back in jeans, a turtleneck, and a big sweater.

  I said, “Wow, you look great.”

  “You’re a big liar,” Caroline said. “You pouring that?”

  I poured us each a rocks glass of bourbon and we took them into the living room, sat on the couch.

  “It’s not that I’m not grateful for the company—”

  “But?”

  “It’s so late. I don’t get why you’re here.”

  Caroline drank bourbon. “You know what I do for a living, Tucker?”

  “Yeah. You defend Mafia guys.”

  “Well, not just the Mafia, though they make up a good portion of my business. There’s also the Bratva, the Triad, the Irish Mob, and seven-figure white guys who got their hand caught in the cookie jar.”

  “That’s a hell of a portfolio.”

  “Yeah, it is. And do you know who is not in that portfolio?”

  “No, who?”

  Caroline slipped closer to me on the couch, put her hand on my shoulder, touching my neck and bringing me closer. “A nice guy who wants to do the right thing.”

  “And that would be me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because I feel more like an idiot who got his friend shot.”

  Caroline sat back with her drink. “You could see it that way.”

  “But this didn’t really answer my question. Why are you here?”

  “I’m here because I’d like to have a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Well, a friend with benefits.”

  “Ahh.”

  “You’re pretty good with the benefits there, pal.”

  “Why, thank you.” I drank, gestured to Caroline. “What do you think?”

  She sipped hers. “Nice. Sorry I can’t say more. I can never do that ‘I get hints of vanilla’ thing.”

  “Me neither,” I said. I went back to my original point. “But I would have thought you’d have lots of friends.”

  “Why would I?” Caroline asked. “I’m a one-legged Mafia lawyer.”

  “Oh, that’s unkind,” I said. “I distinctly remember being between two very nice legs. I think you’re great.”

  Caroline shot back her bourbon. “You see why I like you?”

  I followed suit, rose, walked to the cabinet, got the bottle, gave us each another splash, flopped on the couch.

  Caroline said, “You know that you were doing your best tonight, right?”

  “Yeah, sure. My best.”

  “You went up against a crooked FBI agent. That’s pretty hairy. So yeah, you did the best you could.”

  “Is that what Sal told you?”

  “No. Sal was not as kind. He said you were an idiot.”

  “You know, screw Sal. I got him a meeting with David Anderson to get Maria back.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow sometime. Anderson is going to call me with details.”

  “And you’re going?”

  “Sure. Sal’s going. Why not me?”

  “Because it’s probably a trap.”

  “‘All in the valley of Death, rode the six hundred.’”

  “Oh my God,” said Caroline. “You’re quoting Tennyson. You’re officially drunk.”

  And I was. I was gloriously drunk. The alcohol had washed it all away: the guilt, the fear, the dead certain knowledge that I had no idea what I was doing, the dismay at being killed tomorrow next to Sal. All gone.

  I looked at Caroline. “Hey, pretty lady. How about some of those benefits?”

  Caroline said, “I think benefits would kill you.”

  “Oh no, oh no. I’ll rally.”

  “Let me enjoy the rest of my drink.”

  “Okay,” I said and poured myself a little more. Caroline put her hand on mine. Took the bottle and brought it across the room. I watched her hips sway there and her front sway back. I no longer noticed the limp.

  Caroline leaned into me. A thought popped into my head and slipped through my lips before I could stop it.

  “So why did you email Anderson?” I asked.

  Caroline sat up, shifted away from me. “Again with that?”

  Aw, crap. “Well—it was just niggling in my brain.”

  Big sigh from Caroline. “I told you, he wants me to work for him.”

  “And, if I remember correctly, you said, ‘No.’”

  “Exactly. Actually it was closer to ‘Hell, no.’”

  “So he wants you to defend him?”

  “No,” said Caroline. “H
e wants me to help him keep from getting arrested.”

  “And you don’t want to do that?”

  “That’s where I draw the line.”

  I raised my glass. “Bully for you.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes. “Okay. Time to get you to bed.” She pulled on my hand.

  I stood, and we walked to the bedroom together. Once inside, Caroline helped me take off my shirt and pants. She kissed my chest, slipped her tongue across my nipple. I groaned and pulled her close.

  “Do you have something I could wear to bed?” she asked.

  “I was thinking nothing,” I said.

  “For after,” she said.

  I fumbled over to my chest of drawers, pulled out a long t-shirt with a bottle of Harpoon IPA down the front. “How’s this?”

  “Good,” said Caroline. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  Caroline left for the bathroom. I pulled open the polar fleece sheets, slipped into bed, fluffed Caroline’s pillow, then mine, and lay back to wait for her.

  And fell asleep.

  Sixty-Nine

  The Bruins foghorn cut into my dreams, transitioning me to a hockey game, then a Patriots game, then to a combination of both in which I was executing a goal-line penalty kick. The foghorn stopped, then started again. My eyes popped open as my ringtone blasted in the dark.

  Caroline lay snuggled against me, snoring softly in the long t-shirt. I pawed through my memories, trying to dredge up what we did together last night. I guessed we slept, just slept. Huh.

  The foghorn blasted again. Somebody wanted to talk to me. Caroline stirred and moaned. I silenced the phone and slipped from the bed. The phone hadn’t woken her, but a bouncing mattress would. I closed the bedroom door behind me, taking the phone with me.

  “Hello,” I croaked.

  “Did I wake you?” It was David Anderson. “Early to bed, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Today’s the big day, remember? Sal gets Maria back.”

  “I remember.”

  “I picked a meeting place. We’ll meet there at noon.”

  “How dramatic.”

  “I try. It’s simple. I’ll give Sal my message, and you guys leave with Maria.”

  “What about Angie?”

  “Angie will be there. She insists. I don’t need to tell you to come alone, right?”