by Jack Heath
‘It is until they lock you up. You know how many cops survive prison? Not many. The ones who do sometimes wish they hadn’t.’
‘I’m not going to prison,’ he scoffed, and hit the call button.
‘Not for visiting a brothel, maybe,’ I said. ‘It’s the cocaine that will put you away.’
He hung up. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’
I was sure I was right. His nostrils were pink. He’d been sniffing in between sentences. His veins stuck out, like he had blood pressure problems. Plus the scabs on his wrists—he’d been scratching and scratching.
‘How many times have you raided the evidence locker for a fix?’ I asked. That would be the easiest way for a cop to get drugs. ‘You’ve been with the force for ten years.’ Another guess, based on his age. ‘That’s a lot of convictions to overturn when they put you away.’
Now he was looking at me like I could read minds. ‘You can’t prove anything,’ he said.
‘There’s white powder on your collar.’
‘No there isn’t.’
‘Sure there is. At least, that’s what I’ll tell the public defender. Then he’ll get a warrant to test your hair. Traces last thirty days, or so I heard.’
‘You’re going to prison no matter what your attorney finds. You got blood all over you. How are you gonna explain that?’
‘I found the guy on the ground, tried to stop the bleeding, gave him CPR. Hell, I might’ve succeeded if you hadn’t showed up and arrested me. In a way, you killed him.’
‘Not one person in this whole county will believe that,’ he said.
‘Maybe not,’ I replied. ‘But they’ll still lock you up for the cocaine and release all your collars. Unless you let me go.’
The cop’s finger was on the trigger, ready to end my life in an instant.
‘You shoot me, I shoot you,’ I reminded him.
‘You killed a man,’ he said.
‘Self-defence.’
‘You were eating him.’
‘Self-defence again. I was starving.’
It wasn’t as simple as that, and we both knew it. There was something wrong with me, something that made me attack the mugger with my teeth rather than my fists, something that might rise to the surface again at any moment.
But it was also something that made me unnaturally observant. I’d worked out his darkest secret just by looking at him.
‘It was him or me,’ I said. ‘Don’t make it me or you.’
The silence was the longest of my life, before he started walking backwards. He kept the gun trained on me, but there was shame in his eyes—disgust at his own cowardice. Faced with divorce, prison time and a bullet, he had decided it was easier to let a cannibal go free.
A minute later he was gone. Forever, I thought. But what I didn’t realise was that this cop would someday become the director of the Houston Field Office of the FBI—and that he was already thinking about a use for me.
I dragged the mugger into a nearby alleyway, leaving a trail of blood not unlike the smears on the bottom of the pizza box.
•
‘I’m thinking pizza,’ Thistle says.
I find myself back in the real world. ‘What?’
She exits the revolving door behind me. ‘For dinner tomorrow night. Or would you rather a steakhouse? I know a good place.’
‘Steak sounds good,’ I say.
The gym smells like air freshener and sweaty rubber. I expected to see a boxing ring, but there isn’t one—just a faded blue jigsaw of thick mats on the floor. Two kids are rolling around on it, one of them a girl of maybe fifteen, the other a boy of fourteen-ish. Other students are sparring, doing crunches or just jogging on the spot. As I watch, the two wrestlers twist into pose after pose, like they’re trying to do the whole kama sutra in under a minute.
A man in a sleeveless shirt bashes at a speed bag in the corner. It thumps against the ceiling in perfectly even triplets—you could dance to the beat. Is this Robert’s coach?
I watch his bulging biceps, already seasoned by the salty moisture trickling from under his arms.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asks Thistle, who doesn’t look impressed.
She holds up the picture of Robert Shea. ‘Looking for this boy,’ she says. ‘This his class?’
The coach nods. ‘That’s Bobby. Used to train here.’
‘With you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Used to?’ I say.
‘He quit last week.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘Cancelled his membership online, so I didn’t get the chance to ask. I’m sorry to lose him, but it happens.’ He looks me up and down. ‘Always thought you FBI guys had to wear suits and earpieces.’
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not FBI, but Thistle gets there first. ‘The Bureau’s dress code isn’t as strict as it used to be,’ she says. She can’t directly state that I’m a cop, but she wants him to take me seriously.
She’s bending a few rules for me. When she called with the address of the gym I told her I’d check it out on my own.
She said, ‘You sure this kid’s in danger?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Then I’m coming with you.’
‘Luzhin won’t—’
‘Luzhin can’t tell me what to do on my sick days,’ she said, and coughed theatrically.
Richmond wouldn’t have called in sick so as he could search for a kid who wasn’t officially missing. But I’m starting to realise that Thistle isn’t Richmond. She cares more about her cases than her pay cheque. The only other person I know who shares that devotion is Luzhin himself, who would—now that he’s sober—give up his life if the job called for it. He’s already given up his soul.
Thistle is asking the coach if any of these kids are close to Robert.
‘Uh…’ He turns to face the group. The wrestling boy is facedown on the floor, the girl sitting on his ass, facing his feet, pulling one of his legs up in a stretch that Hitler would have described as inhumane.
‘Clarke, get over here,’ the coach says.
The boy taps out—he can’t reach any part of the girl, so he slaps his hand twice against the blue rubber instead. She releases his foot, and he comes over to join us. He’s taller and skinnier than me, with a face that seems squashed and crooked.
‘Yeah?’ he says.
‘Clarke, this is—’
‘Timothy Blake,’ I say, not giving him a chance to directly call me a cop. ‘And that’s Agent Reese Thistle, FBI. We’re investigating the disappearance of Robert Shea. Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?’
‘Disappearance?’ Clarke looks at his coach. ‘I thought he just quit.’
‘He did quit,’ the coach says. ‘He probably disappeared since then. Right?’
‘When did he last show up for training?’ Thistle asks.
Clarke says, ‘Last week,’ and at the exact same moment, the coach says, ‘Wednesday.’
Clarke adds, ‘Yeah, Wednesday.’ As I watch, his face is becoming less mangled, realigning itself where the floor pushed it sideways.
The body odour is making me hungry. ‘He tell you why he was quitting?’
Clarke shakes his head. ‘Didn’t even tell me he was going to. After all I did for him.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Introduced him to his girlfriend. And he was crazy about her—like, obsessed.’
Jane Austin seemed crazy about him, too. My theory that he ran off without telling her is looking less likely.
Thistle asks, ‘Do you know any of Robert’s other friends?’
‘He and Gracie are pretty tight. Gracie Dunn. She plays in his band.’
Robert takes bass lessons—I should have guessed that he would be in a band. ‘Who else plays with them?’
‘Nobody. She does drums, he plays bass and sings. They’re called Easy Lies.’
‘Got a phone number for this Gracie Dunn?’
Clarke runs over to his locker to ge
t his cell phone. The coach says to Thistle, ‘You’ll call me if you learn anything, won’t you? I genuinely liked that kid.’
He used the past tense. Could mean he thinks Robert is dead. And ‘genuinely’ is a word people use when they’re trying to seem honest, rather than when they actually are.
I say, ‘Does the name Cameron Hall mean anything to you?’
He frowns. ‘Don’t think so. Why?’
He didn’t hesitate, which means he didn’t think about it very hard. Either he’s lying, or he doesn’t care about my investigation. ‘Never mind,’ I say.
Clarke has returned with the phone. Thistle gets out her pen and paper.
‘You ready?’ he asks, and she says, ‘Go ahead.’
He reads out the number. I ask for his as well, and his full name, which turns out to be Clarke McGoughny.
‘Hey,’ the fifteen-year old girl calls. ‘We’re not finished, Clarke.’
Clarke sighs. It strikes me as a performance—I think he secretly likes wrestling with the girl.
‘Are we done here?’ he asks.
I nod. He jogs back over to the girl, bumps fists with her, and they resume their battle.
‘And what’s your name and number?’ Thistle asks the coach.
He looks reluctant.
‘So we can contact you,’ she says, smiling. Her teeth shine in the fluorescent light. ‘You know, if we find anything.’
‘Henrik Morse,’ he says, and recites his number. Thistle writes it down.
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Morse,’ I say. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Across the room, the girl has spun Clarke into a headlock, crushing his face against her right breast. He pretends to struggle.
‘What do you think?’ I ask Thistle as we enter the same compartment of the revolving door. Her shoulder is warm against mine. I force myself not to look at the bare skin of her neck.
‘I don’t think Morse is all that worried about Shea,’ she says as we step out into the afternoon light.
‘He strike you as having anything to hide?’
She chews her lip. ‘Can’t tell,’ she says finally.
‘Let’s call the drummer and see what she says.’
Thistle takes her phone out of her pocket. I repeat Dunn’s number from memory to save her the trouble of getting out her notepad. She dials and puts the phone to her ear.
‘Voicemail,’ she says after a few seconds.
‘Don’t leave a message.’
‘You think I’m an idiot?’
‘Sorry,’ I say. When cops leave messages, the call back usually comes from an attorney.
‘You been to Shea’s house yet?’
‘No.’
Thistle’s car key is already in her hand.
•
Thistle finds Shea’s address in the police database. Turns out that Robert has a record. It’s sealed, so we don’t know what he did. But there’s another photo, in which he looks even more like Cameron Hall.
Thistle calls the house. No one picks up. Some people never answer the phone on principle, so we decide to go out there anyway.
We stop at Cameron Hall’s place on the way. The guard waves us through the gate. I still want to know if the kidnapper raped Cameron, to give some credibility to my theory. But Annette’s car isn’t in the drive, and no one answers the door.
Robert’s house in Westside is newer, crappier. Small, one-storey, window cracks repaired with adhesive tape. I’m reminded again that he and Cameron are from completely different worlds. Their only connection seems to be what they look like. This supports my theory, except that I can’t work out how the kidnapper could have known them both.
Empty driveway. The bell—a sharp, buzzing sound like a prison door—echoes into oblivion, indicating an empty house. I press my ear to the door.
‘Anything?’ Thistle asks.
‘No.’ I try the handle. Locked. There’s a cat flap by my feet. Also locked.
If Thistle wasn’t here, I’d probably break in. Instead, I’ll have to see what I can deduce from the outside.
‘Let’s walk the perimeter and look in the windows,’ she suggests. ‘You go that way, I’ll go this way.’
I’m not sure why we’re splitting up—we’re in no hurry, and the yard isn’t big—but I nod and start circling the house counterclockwise.
The weeds are tall enough to require a machete. Pushing them aside, I peer through the dirty glass into the house.
Something moves inside.
I duck, and listen.
The only sound is distant traffic and the faint ringing of wind chimes. I rise again, and see the chimes themselves through a window on the opposite side of the room, throwing swaying shadows across the floor inside. That’s probably what I saw. Probably.
‘Blake,’ Thistle calls.
I release the weeds and jog back. ‘What’s up?’
‘The front door’s unlocked,’ she says.
I open my mouth to contradict her. Then I realise she must have sent me away so as she could find the spare key or pick the lock without incriminating us both.
‘Technically, we still can’t go in,’ she says. ‘Not without permission or a warrant.’
‘We won’t get one,’ I say. ‘Not until the kid is officially declared missing.’
‘I know. I’m just saying, whatever we find in there, it’s inadmissible. We’re looking for clues, not evidence. Got that?’
I nod, and we step inside.
‘Hello?’ Thistle calls out.
Silence.
No keypad by the door, which means no motion-activated alarm. A dog would have gone crazy when we rang the bell. We’re probably safe, for now.
The living room has a cheap sofa, an old TV and a glass case filled with small ceramic cows—bovine scuba divers and ballet dancers and Hell’s Angels. A couple of small paintings hang on the walls. Landscapes, not original. No photos.
The fridge in the adjoining kitchen is empty, and the cupboard holds nothing but cans of tomatoes and chunky chicken soup; food bought based on price and expiration date, not on taste or nutritional value. I look under the sink and see that the trash has recently been taken out.
Robert’s girlfriend reporting him missing, not his parents. Why? Where are they?
The shower in the bathroom is just a detachable spray-gun and a curtain in the corner of the room. Enough water has leaked out from under this curtain to make the bath mat mouldy. No toothbrushes on the vanity, no razor.
I join Thistle in the second bedroom, which belongs to an adult woman. Maybe a man, too—interior decoration-wise, that can be harder to detect. A full-length mirror leans against the wall, along with a dresser and a bowl of potpourri that looks ready to add milk and eat. I open the dresser and find some folded men’s shirts, but not a full wardrobe’s worth. Some clothes seem to be missing.
‘No cell phone chargers,’ Thistle says, pointing at the outlets.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning maybe Shea’s parents are both out of town.’
I squat and stare at the two square dustless patches under the bed where suitcases maybe used to be.
I head back out to the living room and find the answering machine. Twenty-two new messages.
I hit play. The machine reads out the caller’s number like a female Stephen Hawking before playing the message: ‘Hey, Celine. I’m sorry to hear about your mama. Give me a call when you get back from Chicago.’
The second message is similar. ‘Hi, Larry. Just wanted to let you know that I’ll save your spot at the warehouse while you’re gone. You just take care of the missus and Bobby.’
‘Shit,’ Thistle says behind me. ‘The kid isn’t even missing. He’s gone to Chicago so his folks can organise his grandma’s funeral or nursing home or whatever.’
‘Then why didn’t he tell his girlfriend?’ I ask.
The answering machine plays the next message. ‘What the fuck, Bobby? I tried your cell. Call me. Oh yeah—it’s Gracie.’
/>
The drummer. She sounds pissed.
I stop the machine, and after a bit of fiddling, I mark the three messages we heard as new. It’ll be like we were never here.
‘Sorry, Blake,’ Thistle says, ‘but the only crime that’s been committed here is breaking and entering. We have to go.’
‘No pictures anywhere,’ I say. But there are spots on the walls where they might have been.
Thistle looks around. ‘Maybe they took them along. For the funeral.’
‘Do you smell that?’
Thistle sniffs. ‘Potpourri?’
‘No.’ A period of starvation leads to an incredible sense of smell, which doesn’t seem to go away. The brain reshapes itself into a searchlight, the olfactory cortex swelling to hunt for even the tiniest morsel of food.
But this isn’t food.
‘I think we have a body,’ I say.
Thistle’s eyes widen. Her hand twitches towards her hip, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.
‘Where?’ she asks, quite reasonably. We’ve searched the whole house.
I looked under the bed before, but that’s where the smell is coming from, so I check again.
No suitcases, no forgotten clothes, no baseball bat. Just dust and shadows, which slowly become transparent.
Something is hiding in the corner, next to the dresser. Something small, crumpled, withered. Ribs are visible under matted fur.
‘So they went to Chicago,’ I say, ‘but they left their cat to starve to death?’
Thistle crouches down to look. ‘Poor thing,’ she says. ‘The cat flap was locked, right?’
‘Right.’
Her phone rings, and we both jump. She checks the screen. ‘Gracie Dunn,’ she says.
I hold out my hand for the phone. She gives it to me, and I answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Yeah,’ Dunn says. ‘I got a missed call from this number. Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Timothy Blake,’ I say. ‘I heard you needed a new bass player.’
CHAPTER 12
The first is dead and slowly shrinks. The second is always eating and will never be full. Once the third is gone, it never returns. What are they?
The sign says NO SMOKING, but at least two out of every three people in this joint are doing it anyway. The haze is so thick it feels as if I could run headlong into the wall without getting hurt. It’s like cotton wool.