Show and Tell

by Amy Shojai

  "Back, back." Shadow took a step backwards, and cocked his head when both the man and girl retreated, too. The wild stabbing motions subsided. September kept her voice conversational, but the command in the tone made people as well as good-dogs pay attention and obey.

  The lady started to cry, an ugly sound that made Shadow’s ears fall flat. Her hands dropped to her sides like fluttery birds falling from the sky.

  "Show-me KNIFE." September's voice cracked.

  Shadow rocketed forward, and nose-punched the back of the lady's hand. She screamed. But the knife spun away, shiny and bright. It clattered against the floor.

  "Shadow, BRING KNIFE."

  Without hesitation, he dove for the object, and gingerly grasped the widest part. He ignored the man who had rushed to embrace the sobbing lady. Shadow triumphantly carried the prize to September.

  "Good-dog, what a brave boy." With relief in her voice, September pocketed the knife and welcomed Shadow into her arms. "I must have unlocked instead of locked the windows, thank goodness."

  Across the room, the young girl's angry voice made Shadow's ears hurt. "Nice trick. But can he find my brother?"

  Chapter 18

  Kelvin opened his office door and waited, shifting his weight from boot to boot. He'd not had time to change, and the black clay that stained his dingy clothes chilled him to the bone. The Doctor strode toward him, open coat flapping so much Kelvin expected him to shed feathers and caw.

  Water stained the calf-length duster from the shoulders halfway down the man's back. He carried no umbrella, and wore no hat. Rain tarnished his long silver hair, making the stalk of his neck appear too thin to support his head. His hair dripped, running down both cheeks, mimicking tears Kelvin doubted the man had ever shed.

  "You have the place. The time." The Doctor didn't bother to wipe his face, only stood in the doorway and dripped.

  "Come in, we need to talk. Yes, I've got the location and time." Kelvin crossed to his desk and pulled out a map. Sunny had refused to give him anything in writing, and it took him forever to find the site based on her directions. He had too much riding on this to risk the Doctor claiming the directions weren't clear.

  He used a red Sharpie marker, wrote a #1 on their location, a #2 at the barn, and drew a line along appropriate roadways to connect the two. "Paved road most of the way. This last bit here," he poked the map with the marker, "dirt drive that follows along a levy. Narrow, my truck barely cleared the trees. Probably better for you to send in a few small vehicles than a double-wide that'd get stuck." He offered the map. "There's dogs staked out front, but they won't bother you. Just stick to the path leading into the barn. You'll want to store your—uhm, product—on the second floor, in the loft. Fights are in the pit down below, so you can do your business privately. It's not fancy, but you get what you asked for."

  The Doctor tipped his head, peered at the map, but didn't take it. "What time tomorrow?"

  "About that." Kelvin dropped the map on the desk and moved to put distance and solid oak furniture between them. "Sunny said her guys won't pit the dogs in bad weather."

  The Doctor straightened. "Dogs don't fight in rain?"

  "That's not it." Kelvin figured the dogs fought anytime, anywhere, as commanded and offered welcome respite from boredom. He figured the times between fights, chained up alone and without hope, must hurt like hell on earth.

  "Rain makes dogs sick?" The Doctor stared. "Mother's Pomeranian hated rain. Made him sick. Neptune died." The man's silver eyes nearly disappeared with saucer-size pupils.

  He's on the same shit he pedals to the kids. No wonder he's antsy. "No, rain doesn't make them sick. But it keeps customers away."

  "Doesn't keep my team away. We mail medicine. Neither rain nor snow nor—"

  "Not talking about your customers, Doctor. These dogfight guys, they've got their own clientele, some of them moneyed thrill seekers who bet huge numbers. They don't want to get their cufflinks wet."

  "Wet cufflinks? Why—"

  "Never mind the jewelry, it's a figure of speech. They don't want to get out in bad weather, okay? So it doesn't make financial sense for the fight to happen if nobody comes out to play."

  "Current weather report posted a flash flood watch for this county. Possible destructive winds." He sounded like a computerized weather announcement.

  "Right. That's right, Doctor. And they're talking possible tornado watch that's likely to last through the weekend.” He didn’t mask his frustration. Bad enough he had to deal with these scumbags and dirty his hands. If it weren't for Sunny's threats, he'd call the whole thing off and make tracks out of town. “Doctor, these fellows like to watch other creatures get bloody, but don't want to risk the wind mussing their hair."

  "You made a promise."

  "Yes, I made a p-promise." Kelvin took a breath. Hell, he hadn't stuttered since high school. "Sunny says they already canceled tomorrow’s show."

  "She promised, too." The Doctor put both hands to his face, wiping the wet upwards from cheeks to forehead, and smoothing hair from his brow. He left his big hands on his head, manicured nails grasped fists full of hair, tugging, tugging. "Promise is a contract." Tug. "Promises to Mother can't be un-done." Tug-tug. "You," tug-yank, "promised." Yank!

  A tendril of wet hair fell to the floor. It made a red stain.

  "Hey, stop. What're you doing?" Kelvin winced, reached out and immediately pulled back. If the guy wanted to snatch himself bald, so be it. "They canceled tomorrow, and moved up the time. Same place, but happens tonight, to beat the weather."

  "Tonight?" The Doctor dropped his hands, one still clutching a hank of hair. "You promised. Sunny promised." The hand, hair still clinging, reached for his gun. "Broken promises reap punishment. You will keep your promise."

  "You bet, Sunny and I have every intention to keep our promise." Kelvin rubbed his own bald head. "Those guys that set up the dogfights, though. They didn't promise. It's on them, not on me or Sunny, don't you see?" The Doctor blinked slowly, and Kelvin halfway expected those lizard eyes to shutter above a flicked forked tongue tasting the air.

  When his hand moved away from the gun to a phone, Kelvin breathed again. The Doctor punched in a single number, listened, and spoke quickly with what must be latitude and longitude designations. "You have current batches addressed, ready to mail. Move them to the event site now. Yes, immediately. Call me to confirm delivery. We distribute tonight." He disconnected, dropped the phone in his pocket, and smoothed his mussed hair with the other.

  "There, see? All fixed." Kelvin smiled, silently congratulating himself the meeting hadn't gone completely south. "Just means we finish our business that much faster." And stop your money-grubbing kid-destroying plot. He had the cops on speed-dial, once Sunny left town with her crazy-ass threat.

  The Doctor pulled a stack of bound bills from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "I keep my promise. Last payment tonight, after distribution." Another creepy slow blink. "When you keep your promise." He whirled, coat furling like a comic strip bad guy as he started for the door.

  "Wait. Are you forgetting?" Sunny would throw a fit. Hell, she'd play her "insurance" card if she didn't get her share. "What about Sunny? I'm supposed to collect for her."

  The Doctor whirled, and the coat flared outward again. "Already paid Sunny “The Babe” Babcock when she shared vital news that you killed BeeBo."

  Kelvin sat down so hard, his teeth jarred.

  "Sunny cried and cried and cried. She liked BeeBo. I liked BeeBo, too. But I understand you tried to help me, tried to keep your promise." The Doctor donned one of his fake smiles. "I never cry. Mother says real men don't cry, so I never cry." He took three long strides toward Kelvin, and stood above him, a lean black wraith. A thin trickle of crimson ran from his torn scalp down his forehead to the corner of his eye, a ruby tear that grew and grew. "Do you keep your promises?"

  "Promises are sacred. You bet." Kelvin stared, waiting for that red drop to fall.

  "That
's good." He strode to the door, but instead of leaving, the Doctor shut and locked it, and pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'm good at keeping promises. And secrets. I'll help you keep yours as long as you keep mine." The red droplet trickled into the man's pale eye, creating bloody tears that spilled from his slow lizard blink.

  Chapter 19

  Combs flinched when the hail, now marble size, continued to hammer his car, sounding like a B-movie gunfight. Gonzales tipped his head toward the house. Combs hunched his shoulders and swung open the passenger door at the same time as his partner. "We'd better make a run for it before it gets worse."

  The two men sprinted to the front porch, Combs with a forearm sheltering his face. The hail shredded the umbrella Gonzales wielded, and he dropped it with a disgusted sound. "Dammit. My kids got that for me for Christmas."

  "All umbrellas are alike. Get another one." Gonzales had twin four-year-old daughters, and his son had just turned nine.

  Gonzales shook his head. "I tried swapping something once when Finnegan B. Goldfish went belly up, and the kids caught me. Mercedes said they would. Moms always know. Nope, I'll have to 'fess up and tell the truth." He smoothed his mustache. "The umbrella saved my life in a battle with the Ice King."

  Combs laughed. The front door swung open, so he turned it into a cough instead.

  A balding thin man with a portly woman stood in the entry. She twisted a sodden tissue, dabbed her eyes, and spoke in a choked voice. "Come on in out of the mess. You the police, right? Here about Larry?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Samson? I'm Detective Combs, and this is Detective Gonzales. You've still not heard from your son?" Combs followed the woman into the house, Gonzales following closely behind. They took seats around a plain kitchen table.

  "He's a typical teenager, sometimes forgetful, but a good boy. He's seventeen, almost. His birthday is next week." Mrs. Samson rubbed swollen eyes, and sniffled. "Larry never came home last night. And he didn't call."

  Gonzales set a digital recorder on the table and thumbed it on, but also scribbled on a tiny notepad. "Forgive me for asking, but is your son autistic?”

  “Autistic?” Mr. Samson rocked backwards. “No.” He shared a confused glance with his wife.

  Combs gave a slight shrug when Gonzales looked at him. Doty’s missing kids were much younger, but they had to ask.

  “Has he ever stayed out all night before? Without telling you?" Gonzales continued the rhythm of the questions.

  "Never." Mr. Samson took off thick glasses and cleaned them on his shirttail. He cleared his throat. "He had track practice yesterday after school, but never showed up." He turned to his wife. "You have his latest school picture?"

  She produced a large color image of a clean cut beanpole thin young man. His smile shone bright with braces. A few bright pimples blushed his cheeks.

  "Friends?" Combs leaned forward on the table to accept the picture. Mrs. Samson gestured at the coffeepot, and he shook his head with a tight smile.

  "His girlfriend called here last night." Mr. Sampson took his wife's hand. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have known he missed practice. They were supposed to meet after, and she said he was a no show, and not answering his texts."

  "She's too young for him. I worry about that." Mrs. Samson crossed her arms. "She's only fifteen, way too young. Larry should date girls his own age."

  "She's a good kid, she can't help if she looks older. I was older than you, and we turned out okay."

  "That's different." She sniffed.

  Combs figured the sore subject could have something to do with Larry's disappearance. Once Melinda turned sixteen, the age they'd agreed she could formally date, he'd be a wreck. She already pestered relentlessly to drive. He'd given in since the skill could help her disabled mother in case of an emergency. "My daughter is a newly minted teenager, and I love her to death. But Melinda wants to grow up too fast, and keeps secrets. Kids that age do. Are you sure the girlfriend isn't protecting your son? Is he in trouble?"

  "Melinda? Your daughter is Melinda Combs?" She turned to her husband. "See? He says she's thirteen, I told you she's too young."

  That knocked the wind out of him.

  Mrs. Samson grabbed another tissue and blew her nose. "Larry would never worry us like this. You should have let me talk to Melinda when she called."

  "Are you saying Larry's girlfriend is my daughter? Dating a seventeen-year-old?" Secrets, indeed.

  Gonzales rapped on the table to get everyone's attention. "Focus. We’ll worry about Melinda later. When did you last see or hear from your son?"

  The couple spoke at the same time, words overlapping. "Yesterday morning..." and "Breakfast." Mr. Sampson grabbed his wife's hand again. "Go ahead, honey."

  She gathered her thoughts, and repeated. "Breakfast yesterday morning." Her words spilled faster. "We make a point to have family time every day. Larry's school and extracurricular stuff make it hard to have dinner together, except Sundays after church. So, breakfast is family time, every day, without fail. Yesterday we had oatmeal and OJ but Larry was in a rush, because he convinced his dad," her eyes raked him with disapproval, "to borrow the new car. He wanted to show his friends and take them to Sonic after track practice. Except it turns out, he meant to meet up with that—I mean, your daughter." She spat the last words at Combs.

  Mr. Samson took up the story. "Apparently, Melinda headed over to track after school and he wasn't there. Coach was pissed he was a no show, but his buddies swore he'd been in school."

  Combs cracked his knuckles, regretting he only saw Melinda on weekends. She hadn't said a word to him this morning about the boy. "Buddies? We'll need names." Combs clearly read the terror in the couple's faces. He struggled to keep his face neutral, be the detective and not the dad. Nothing could be worse than a missing child.

  Thunder cracked, and Gonzales jumped and swore, then smoothed his tie as if that would also calm his nerves. Hail turned windows into snare drums. "Maybe he got caught in the storm. It rained heavily last night. What kind of car does he drive?"

  "Mini Cooper, black over yellow. Larry picked the color to match the school mascot, The Hornets." Mr. Samson rubbed his face. "He's a good driver, extremely responsible like we said. I'll get you the license number, but I shouldn't think there are too many that color."

  Someone's cell phone pinged, and reflexively, Combs reached for his and only then realized that pocket was empty. How'd that happen? He never went anywhere without it.

  Mrs. Samson’s sour voice interjected. "He used to hang out with Zeke somebody, and a Henry or Hank, I think. But ever since he started dating Melinda, I don't know how much time they've spent together."

  Mr. Sampson cleared his throat, struggling to keep it together. "I spoke to Melinda last night about 7:30 or so, and then tried to reach Larry. His phone kept going to voice mail. I even tried texting. He told me once that phone calls are so yesterday." He tried to smile, but his lips trembled and the expression wouldn't stay in place.

  Mrs. Sampson tore tiny pieces from the tissue and rolled each into tiny balls as she spoke. "I called Zeke, and he hemmed and hawed and finally said Larry mentioned staying with Hank for the night. So I tried to reach Hank but got no answer there so I left messages. Wanted to drive over to check on him, but he wouldn't let me."

  Her husband looked stricken. "Boys that age, they don't want their mom checking up on them in front of their friends. Larry has never given us reason not to trust him. I wanted to give him a pass this once, you know, and then kick his butt later if he screwed up. You have to let kids learn from mistakes." He wouldn't meet his wife's glare. "I was wrong."

  Combs seethed, understanding Larry probably spent the night with Melinda. Before he could respond, Gonzales gripped his shoulder and shook his head.

  "He didn't stay with Hank?" Gonzales’s phone pinged again. He scribbled on his pad with one hand, and pulled out his phone with the other.

  The woman shook her head. "Like you said, kids cover for each other. I spoke to Han
k's mother an hour ago. She put him on the phone and made him explain, and then we called you." Her voice trembled. "Last night after I talked to Zeke, he texted Hank not to answer his phone. They thought Larry and Melinda had a whatdyacallit, 'hook up' and didn't want to get them in trouble. The two of them had it all figured out, except Larry didn't show up, and Melinda got worried and called us." Grudgingly, she added, "At least she did call."

  Combs took a breath, wondering how often the pair had "hook ups?" He'd talk to Melinda later, and do more than talk to Rick-the-Prick. Cassie wasn't responsible.

  Right now, the missing boy had to be his focus. "Larry left class at what time? About 3:30 or so?" He checked his watch. "So he's been missing about 18 hours."

  Gonzales stared from his phone to Combs, and nudged him. "Says the call is from you. Somebody have your phone?" He answered, listened, and mouthed, "It's Melinda," and held it out to Combs.

  Puzzled, Combs took the phone from his partner. "Must have left my phone this morning." He walked into another room, out of sight of the concerned parents, before he spoke. "We'll talk later, Melinda. I know about Larry. I'm so disappointed in you." He struggled to keep his cool, more hurt than angry. "I'm with his parents now. I'll call after shift."

  "Daddy? I'm sorry. Please don't hang up." The girl's voice quavered, nothing like the usual brash know-it-all. "This isn't about Larry. I mean, I'm worried about him, too, but...”

  His smile faded. "Is it your mother again? Sorry, honey, but Rick needs to deal with her." Rick needs to step it up if he wants to keep custody.

  "Daddy, Willie's gone." She told him the rest. His face drained of color.

  He ended the call and he rushed back into the kitchen. Out the windows, a weird twilight gloom painted the afternoon sky a sickly green that mirrored the expression on both parents' faces, and now on his own.

  Chapter 20

  September stumbled and caught herself on a tree but Shadow bulldozed on, towing her in his wake. Head down and nose tasting the ground, the German Shepherd acted impervious to the brambles that hobbled her own progress. September frowned when she recognized the ring tone—Combs phone. Melinda again. She started to thumb it off before answering, then quickly answered without breaking stride.