by Jenna Rae
“Well, you remember the reporter? That whole Hahn mess?”
Phan nodded, once, and Del kept her eyes on the road.
“Showed up at my house, said somebody was after her.”
Phan again nodded and said nothing.
“Sweet-talked Lola into letting her in. I lost my cool, and she took off. She’s full of shit ninety percent of the time, I know that, but what if this time she’s not?”
Del parked and wished she hadn’t said anything. Phan stayed silent until she turned off the engine and looked at him.
“Well?”
“Did she say who’s after her?”
“Yeah, well, I was pissed, okay? I didn’t really hear her out. Come on, she lies for a living.”
“Sorta like us, sometimes.”
“Phan—”
“Yeah, I know.” Phan shrugged. “But if she’s not lying, you’d feel like shit if something happened to her.”
“Yeah.”
“Seems to me, you talk to her alone, we go together or I talk to her.”
“You’d do that?”
“She’s hot, right?”
Del gave him the requisite sneer but couldn’t meet his eyes while she considered his offer. Now it was Phan’s turn to be impatient. She caught him tapping his foot.
“Earth to Mason?”
“Sorry.” She sighed heavily. “Tempting as it is to try to pass the buck, I think I’ll go see her tonight. If her story holds water, I’ll let you know. Maybe we could talk it over tomorrow?”
“Call me if you change your mind. I’m the dumb shit who can’t watch TV because his daughter’s grounded.” He rolled his eyes.
“Hey, what’s our plan for Wilson’s daughter?”
“I’d like to go over the file, see what we can dig up. With any luck, she’s still alive.”
“You and I, hell, even her mom knows she’d dead.” Del cut her eyes at Phan. “I can feel it, can’t you? Something bad’s been brewing for a while now. Something dark.”
“Come on, Mason. Let’s not get carried away.”
“Look at it like this. We got a good twenty percent jump over last year. Twenty percent, Phan. That’s seventy women. I been looking at the stats across the state. Figure some left town because of the economy, ’cause women always get hit harder when the jobs go away. Say an extra twenty or thirty went home to Texas or Minnesota or wherever. Maybe another ten or twenty went back to Mexico because their economy is better compared to ours. I’m just guessing but say that’s about right. That leaves twenty, maybe more. Say an extra dozen, with the shitty economy, went into hiding at domestic violence shelters. That still leaves maybe ten or more unaccounted for. Maybe they’re related. What’re the odds ten extra women get snatched or murdered by ten random guys in the same year? No, they’re more likely to be connected. And maybe Wilson’s daughter is one of them.”
“Your logic is damned shaky and you know it.”
“But you agree with me.” Del eyed Phan, who ducked her gaze.
He waggled his head. “You’re not the only one whose gut is talking.”
“So let’s get to it.”
“Tomorrow.”
Phan was leaving early to pick up Kaylee, and that meant Del could run Janet’s address, her real address, and swing by on the way home. Lola wouldn’t even have to know about it.
Chapter Nine
Lola ran blindly through the dark forest, twigs and rocks cutting her feet. The cold air burned her lungs and throat, and tears blurred the dim images of trees and boulders. She fell, smashing her knee into something hard and damp. She stifled a gasp and curled into a ball, tucking her legs up under her. Her knee was on fire, and she bit her lip to stifle a moan of pain.
The dark figure of her pursuer passed her at first, and Lola made the mistake of exhaling when she thought it was safe to do so. The figure paused, and Lola held her breath. As the figure advanced, it blocked out what little light the waning moon had offered, and Lola screamed. She awoke and felt the scream die in her mouth.
The last brightness of the early evening lit up a glowing rectangle at the top of the wall across the room. She watched it slide across the ceiling and dim until it was gone. Who or what was the figure? What was she running from? Was it a warning? Was she supposed to avoid something? Or was she reading too much into the whole thing? It was just a dream, after all. But hadn’t she learned to trust her dreams? How many times had she dreamed something and figured out later that she would have been better off if she had discerned and paid attention to the message of the dream? Lola examined each detail of her nightmare, dissecting and attempting to decode it, to no avail.
“I don’t know what it means,” Lola finally muttered, shrugging. “So I can’t use it to learn anything.”
She sat in encroaching darkness and wished she’d slept through the end of the dream. What good did it do to have these dreams and wake up in the middle of them? Exactly none. She picked up the phone.
“Marco?”
“What’s up, sweetness?”
“I was thinking about the Meetup, and I wanted to apologize for my ridiculous behavior.”
Marco’s rich laughter filled Lola’s ear. “Honey, you didn’t really do anything. You flirted a little. So what? I was thinking, I know why you did it.”
“Because I’m an idiot?”
“No, silly, because—and I may be wrong on this, okay, but—I figure you got married when you were barely legal and, my darling lesbian, to a man, right? Who sounds like he was not exactly Romeo. Then, you were single about five minutes before Del scooped you up. By the way, I don’t blame her. You’re delicious.”
“Oh, Marco, I do love you.”
“Anyway, most people would need to sow some wild oats after a lifetime of sexual frustration, and a little smidge of flirting is the closest a choir girl like you’ll come to wild oats.”
“Hmm. Interesting theory and a generous one. But I’ll take it. Anything that lets me off the hook sounds good.”
“Gotta run, love, Phil’s taking me out to dinner.”
“Delfina’s, again?”
Marco’s groan was the only reply, and Lola hung up, giggling. Maybe he was right. Maybe flirting with that woman was just a minor lapse in judgment and not a major sign of moral laxity. She would have to think about it some more. Maybe not. She’d probably already spent too much time worrying about it. She let out a slow breath and shook her shoulders. It was time to let it go. She had more important things to focus on, didn’t she? Like her relationship with Del and the book she’d been revising for, what, a year? There were three different versions of the stupid thing and she couldn’t get any one of them finished. She groaned. Writing was either wonderful or terrible, never in between.
“Like love.” Was that, she wondered, too adolescent?
“Well, adolescent or not, it’s how I feel. Loving Del feels wonderful or terrible, depending, and it’s never in between.”
Was that a good sign or a bad one? Lola closed her eyes and sighed, not sure she was ready to consider the question.
Chapter Ten
I may have found her. I know it is ridiculously early to even consider the possibility, but my hopes soar nonetheless. There’s something about her, some spiritual light I think I see. Of course there’s every possibility that I’m wrong. I have been before, like with my friend. She has been a greater source of solace and guidance, though, so maybe this new candidate will be the one, or maybe she will be something else to me. Frustration, that old enemy, makes my stomach hurt and my vision blur. I remind myself that God’s gifts sometimes come into our lives in ways we cannot understand or appreciate.
I regulate my breathing, allowing the sand to dig into the skin of my back, my arms, my legs. My calves and buttocks and shoulders have it the worst, and I concentrate on the pain. I have taken two of the red pills tonight, a breach of the promise I made to my friend, but they will allow me to pay the price for my uncertainty and self-absorption. This penance
is a gift, and I must treasure it as such. I have failed and I must atone. I push aside the thought. It’s wasted energy unless it inspires better future decisions. So I focus on the future and fulfilling my mission.
The latest candidate is obviously a lost girl, at the very least. Prototypical. A pleaser. Codependent and uncertain and timid. Easily manipulated. Passive aggressive. Unable to form healthy relationships, lonely in every crowd. Always and unconsciously driven by fear and insecurity. The lost girls are too easy to spot, after my years of study, and I recognize them everywhere. Why I approach this woman instead of that one is never truly clear to me. I simply follow the invisible hand that guides me.
Sometimes I wonder if recent immigrants feel as I do, if they hear an accent or see a piece of clothing or a gesture that tells them a stranger across a restaurant or store is from the same old country. Do they feel the tug, as I always do, the urge to connect with their brothers and sisters?
Of course, I have not rescued any brothers yet, an omission over which I had recently begun to fret. There are certainly men who need help, male angels who want saving. But there must be someone else for them, I keep telling myself. There are far more women, and I alone cannot be expected to save all of the floundering members of the human family. There is, I realize suddenly, a larger puzzle, of which I’m only one small piece. I am, after all, only human. Grandiosity, my therapist would call it, and I am both pleased at recognizing it and appalled at the length of time it has taken me to see it clearly. Surely I was a fool, thinking I was alone in my work.
I feel inadequate so often, too filled with desire and pain and fury and loneliness and doubt. My ego interferes, my pain interferes and I am not enough, ever. I weep as I lie in the bed of my sins, knowing even as I shake with pain and self-loathing that this self-pity is yet another denigration of my sacred work. I am alone and not alone. I am blessed with my friend and with my mission, and I will falter but continue. I will save as many as I can and redeem myself.
The tingling in my head turns to buzzing, and my mouth is dry. I need to pee. I imagine my bladder as a bulging sack, and I imagine letting go. It would be such a relief, allowing my piss to spread below me and soften the sand. I clench my sinner and keep the dirty water inside me where it belongs, and the pressure in my belly builds. It is pleasurable, the way my body’s demands complement the pain in the skin and muscles along my back, my buttocks, my legs. My heels are on fire. I allow myself few such pleasures these days, subsuming my desires in my work, and I speed up my breathing. That will increase the pain to an almost intolerable level, and it will excite me sexually, and my bladder will pulse and ache and the agony will be exquisite.
I imagine the lost girl lying on me, wrapped in the salty womb of our mother the sea, sacred in her newly reclaimed purity, and the weight becomes real. I sink into the sand so far that I can feel the damp of the concrete beneath pushing up against me. I take her on, as I have taken on all of them, my precious burdens, my soul sisters, the dear gift bestowed upon me in grace and generosity, and I shiver and press my lips together. A deep, guttural prayer borne of pain and pleasure vibrates my mouth and tickles me.
I come with a start, and my mouth pops open and my bladder lets go at the same time. I feel my body buck and shake. I weep aloud at the beauty of my purpose.
Chapter Eleven
Janet bunked in a ridiculously overpriced loft on the top floor of a four-story “boutique”—this, according to the sign out front—condo complex wedged between two business towers in the Financial District. Del eyed the place with dismay and climbed the stairs. She didn’t quite trust the elevator. In fancy little places like this, good looks tended to matter more than structural integrity and sound design principle. At Janet’s door, she hesitated.
Should I even be here? What am I doing?
She almost turned around and walked away. She wasn’t in the habit of using department resources to track down people who weren’t suspects. How could she explain just showing up at an address Janet had never given her? She probably wouldn’t have to. After all, Janet knew she was a police officer, didn’t she?
It would probably be best to just go home. What if Janet had seen her, though? Fancy place like this, they probably had a camera on every door. Whether it worked or not, that was a different question. But it might. It would look weird if she walked away, might even give Janet an excuse to show up again, tell Lola that Del had been on her doorstep. Would Janet think she was still interested? She imagined Janet running to her, kissing her. Del sighed.
That’s what she used to do. She’d throw herself at me, like she couldn’t live another second without me.
Janet talked Del into parasailing in San Diego and scuba diving in Mexico, into a ride on a hot air balloon in Napa. She seduced Del in public restrooms, in cars and motel rooms and anywhere else she could think of. Lola would never want to do any of those things. A part of Del bucked at this disloyalty.
So what? She also wouldn’t lie to me or use me or betray me. Janet fucked me over and walked away like it was nothing. Lola would never do that.
She pushed the image of Lola’s smiling face to the front of her mind and hammered on Janet’s door. It swung open with a crash.
“Oh, my God!” Janet flung herself into Del’s arms, so like the way Del had imagined only seconds earlier that she was taken aback.
“Baby, I’m so glad you’re here!” Janet covered Del’s face and neck with kisses. She was like a puppy, panting and excited and slobbery.
Del caught her breath and eased backward. “Cool it.”
“Oh, right.” Janet pouted and slid down Del like she was a fire pole, setting her feet down at the last second. “Wifey.”
“Janet—”
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. She pulled Del into the room with a confident smile. She was babbling on about how sad she was that they’d argued. How she felt about it.
Figures. It’s all about her, right? Del nodded and pretended to listen to Janet’s long story of a short conversation. The loft was huge, with weird, all-white furniture and spooky, oversized paintings hung from the ceiling on long wires.
The couch was a low, wide circle covered in what looked like white fur. Janet sat, pulling Del down next to her. She was wearing a simple white shift that complemented her dark hair and glowing, golden skin. Her face was artfully made up to look as though it were free of makeup but impossibly beautiful. She was braless, as always. Probably panty-less, as well. Her feet, clad in white ballet slippers, barely reached the floor, and she looked more like a teenager than a woman in her thirties. She was the picture of youthful innocence and guileless beauty, and somehow this rubbed Del the wrong way. Was this all staged? Del nearly snorted aloud. Of course it was. Everything Janet did or said was a performance, always.
The suspended paintings were actually photographs or meant to look like photos, Del realized. She looked at the three portraits facing her and was struck by the fact that each subject appeared to be in agony. One was Janet, her mouth twisted in a scream. Another was of a blonde—no, it was Janet in a blonde wig. She looked dead. A drowning victim, hands pulled behind her back as though bound. It was hard to look at, and Del let her gaze drift as though casually away from that to the third picture, farther away. The third was a child, no, Janet was dressed like a child and crying. Del swallowed hard. The pose was deliberately erotic, and the face was clearly that of an exploited, genderless little kid. All three images were disturbing, but that last, most of all. Del ripped her gaze away from them, aware of the intensity with which Janet watched her look at the portraits. She searched Janet’s eyes. Was there some message in these pictures? They’d been chosen deliberately, no doubt. Anyone who sat on the couch, the only real seating in the large room, would be confronted by three tormented faces of Janet. Was this a cry for help? Or was it a naked attempt at manipulation? As usual, where Janet was concerned, Del felt lost and uncertain and a little angry.
Janet was still holding h
er hand, rubbing Del’s palm with one finger, scratching lightly with a recently polished nail—one of those manicures designed to stop her nail biting. Del found it touching, as she always had, that Janet had this childish, nervous habit. Del had forgotten how physically affectionate Janet was, how she made a point of touching Del all the time, rubbing and kissing her and holding her hand. Lola wasn’t like that. She was affectionate, maybe, in her own way, but she rarely initiated physical contact with Del. She was too hesitant, still, and maybe would always be too hesitant. Del needed physical affection, but she didn’t feel like she could ask Lola for something she wasn’t able to give. It wouldn’t be fair. Yeah, she reminded herself. And was the other night fair?
Del realized that she’d been sitting next to Janet for a full minute, just looking at her beautiful face and saying nothing. Janet was leaning into Del’s side. Her skin was soft, silky, lightly scented. Everything about her was appealing.
I need to get away from her. Del stood abruptly and strode over to one of the many large windows that made the room look like it was floating in midair. The sun was just about to sink behind the tall commercial building across the street and was shining directly into Del’s eyes. She squinted and turned around. She’d hate living in a place like this. Every inch of the overpriced loft was completely exposed. Janet hadn’t even put up curtains. Anybody could see in here, anytime. It was ridiculous. Exhibitionist. Janet had no limits. That was part of what was gross about her. And, Del had to admit, part of what was exciting about her.
There was only one hanging picture with its front side visible from this angle, and, Del realized, from outside. In it, Janet stood, artfully posed in a seductive posture, completely naked. In the light, the wires from which all the canvases were suspended were not visible, and this image appeared less like a photo or painting than a real person. The background of the painting was the wall behind it, so it looked like Janet stood there in the middle of the living room, nude. From the outside, it would look even more convincing. Janet must have been younger, even thinner, when the photo was taken. She looked like a kid, too skinny even for the ridiculous standards of fashion. Emaciated. Ribs and clavicles and hipbones stuck out. It was in no way sexy, Del thought. But maybe there were people who found starvation erotic. What little Del knew about beauty magazines seemed to suggest this was the case. Maybe, she reflected, it was less the skinniness and more the childlike nature of the very thin girl. A very thin girl looks preadolescent, and clearly there were many, men especially, who found that particular look highly appealing. Del grimaced in disgust.