Snakes and Ladders

by Matty Dalrymple

“George?” she said, then again, louder, “George, can you hear me?”

  He nodded.

  Louise straightened. “Okay, Mitchell, go ahead.”

  Mitchell pulled up a chair so he was facing Millard. “George, what’s your birthday? Don’t say it out loud, just think it.” A moment passed. “September seventh.”

  “That’s right,” said Louise.

  “How old are you?” asked Mitchell. A pause. “Forty-nine.”

  “Yes,” said Louise.

  “What’s your social security number?”

  “Just the last four digits,” interjected Louise.

  “The last four digits,” Mitchell amended. A moment later, he said, “Three three eight six.”

  “Yes.” Louise smiled.

  “What’s the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you?”

  Louise stepped forward. “George, don’t think about that,” she said loudly. “Think about the last time you … went grocery shopping.”

  Mitchell was grinning, but his grin faded when he saw Louise’s expression.

  “That’s enough, Mitchell, I think we got what we need.”

  “I did get this quick image of a circus and—”

  “I’m not interested,” she interrupted him. “And we agreed on the questions to be asked. I don’t appreciate when the people I’m working with go off-script.”

  Mitchell colored and Millard, watching on the security monitor, grinned.

  The rest of the recording was uneventful. Louise, evidently satisfied with the results—if not with the approach—of what he realized had been just as much a test of Mitchell as of the drug, suggested that Millard lie down on the couch. She guided him there with a light hand on his elbow, then covered him with a mohair blanket with the practical efficiency of a medical professional tending to a patient. Then she led Mitchell out of the room, turned off the light, and closed the door.

  He fast-forwarded the video. He had slept, still and unmolested, until he eventually rose a little unsteadily, and disappeared from the frame.

  He deleted the recording, stepped out of the pantry, and started a pot of coffee brewing. He was glad he had thought to record the session. In addition to the obvious benefit of being able to see what had happened, it reminded him why he enjoyed working with Louise Mortensen. She could be a cold bitch sometimes, but that had its benefits—she was never clingy, never weepy, never a damsel in distress. Yes, she was the one to hitch his wagon to—even when Gerard Bonnay had been alive, Millard had believed that. He knew that the big picture stuff would never be his thing, but if she had the brains and the backbone, he could supply the muscle. And, as she said, she paid handsomely for him to do it. That life of leisure in his own fishing camp in Dillon felt closer than ever.

  When the coffee had brewed, he poured himself a mug and took a careful sip. He could even laugh off Pieda’s gag with the unauthorized question—Millard had to remember he was dealing with a boy, not a man, and react accordingly. And if Mitchell kept pulling stunts like that—well, Louise might get tired of Mitchell Pieda even before Millard himself did.

  44

  Before they had fled from Philadelphia to the Florida Keys after Lizzy killed Gerard Bonnay, Lizzy had barely been out of Pennsylvania, but with the pain of the gunshot wounds Bonnay had inflicted on her, and the emotional trauma of that encounter, she had hardly enjoyed that trip.

  Now, despite some lingering pain from the snakebite, she was an enthusiastic traveler—her interest in the country through which they drove began to overcome her stress over their situation and her anxiousness to get back to Pennsylvania. Concerned that long periods of inactivity would slow Lizzy’s recovery from the snakebite, Owen had sketched out a plan that wouldn’t keep her cooped up in the car for more than five or six hours a day, and made frequent stops for her to get out and stretch her legs.

  On the second day of the trip, between Grants, New Mexico, where they had spent the first night, and Amarillo, their target for the second night, Lizzy was wandering around a rest area gift shop while Owen got coffee. She was examining an item when he appeared at her side.

  “Whatcha got there?” he asked.

  She handed it to him. It was a map of the United States, with fifty state-themed stickers with which to mark a visit to that state.

  “That looks fun,” he said.

  “It’s supposed to be for little kids.”

  “I’m a kid at heart.”

  She smiled. “Me too. Can we get it?”

  They purchased the map, and Lizzy spent the first few minutes of the next leg of their trip happily sticking stickers onto the states where she and Owen had made stops over the last few months.

  On the fourth day of the trip, as they passed from Oklahoma to Missouri near Joplin, she pointed to the GPS.

  “Look, we’re only a couple of miles from Kansas.”

  Owen turned off Interstate 44 onto 400 and they drove as far as the exotically named Bagdad Road, then turned onto Apricot Drive and Coyote Drive to return to the main road. Lizzy stuck a sticker on Kansas, then consulted a booklet that had come with the map. “The state amphibian of Kansas is the Barred Tiger Salamander.”

  “What’s the sticker?”

  She glanced at the map. “A tornado.”

  “Ouch,” said Owen, and they laughed.

  That evening, after a dinner of barbecue, Owen pulled into a Walmart.

  “I need to pick something up. Need any supplies?” he asked.

  “Maybe some warner clothes.” It was growing progressively colder as they drove east and north.

  When they got into the store, Owen said, “Why don’t you get a cart and I’ll meet you in the clothes section in a minute.”

  Lizzy had picked out a puffy chartreuse jacket when Owen appeared and put a flat, square box into the cart.

  “What did you get?” she asked.

  “A scale,” he said, blushing.

  “No kidding!” she said. “Well … good for you.”

  They paid for their purchases and returned to the SUV.

  As they drove back to their hotel, Lizzy said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so surprised about the scale.”

  “Oh, no problem,” said Owen. After a pause, he added, “Probably surprised I didn’t need two of them.” He laughed weakly.

  “No, that’s not true,” she said. “You know, now that I think about it, you have been eating less. Like at dinner tonight.”

  “I ate twice as much as you did.”

  “Sure, but less than you would normally eat. Uncle Owen, are you on—gasp!—a diet?”

  “Yup, I guess I am.” They drove in companionable silence to the hotel, where Owen parked, then turned to Lizzy.

  “Pumpkin, I felt so bad that I couldn’t help you when you got bitten. All I could do was stand on the other side of those rocks and shout over at you because I was too fat to do anything else.”

  “That’s not true, you were a big help. No pun intended. You told me what do to and what not to do—”

  He was shaking his head. “No. It wasn’t enough. You got through that despite me, not because of me. You had to do it all on your own because I’m too—”

  He broke off and turned his gaze to the front of the SUV, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

  Lizzy reached out and patted his arm. “I don’t agree with you. You did help me.” After a moment, she went on. “But losing some weight is probably a good thing anyway. I’ll bet you’re feeling better, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I am. And I liked the hiking—or at least the walking. Maybe I’ll work up to real hiking once everything has settled down.”

  “Maybe yoga,” said Lizzy.

  “Now, that’s just crazy talk,” he said. He was silent for a moment, then continued. “But walking and hiking for me must be what I imagine yoga is like for you. The walking made me feel like I could hike, and if I could hike, maybe I could do yoga, and if I could do yoga … well, heaven knows what would be possible!” He la
ughed somewhat sheepishly.

  Lizzy grinned at him. “Imagine how impressed Andy will be when you show up all skinny!”

  Owen laughed. “I’m never going to be skinny, but it would be fun to surprise him.”

  They passed into Pennsylvania on the sixth day, just after Owen insisted that they get out of the car in the narrow finger of West Virginia that they passed through so there could be no question about their claim to that state. But by this time Lizzy’s interest in the map and in the sights had waned, replaced with anxiety about what was to come.

  45

  Mitchell waited in the warmth of the Sedona sunshine for only a few minutes before the door, bearing a sign reading Session in Progress - Please Stop Back Later, swung open. A young couple stepped out, arms linked.

  “I told you it would be fun,” said the woman.

  “Yeah, not bad,” said the man. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “So, what’s next on the agenda?”

  Mitchell heard a soft clatter on the glass of the door as the sign was flipped to Walk Ins Welcome.

  Mitchell opened the door and stepped into the waiting room, hooking his sunglasses over the neck of his University of Arizona T-shirt. He was wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a two day growth of beard, and since he hadn’t had a haircut in over two months, he was looking considerably less tailored than he had the day of the Brashear news conference. It was a far cry from his usual pulled-together look, but he wasn’t entirely unhappy with the effect.

  Philip Castillo turned back from where he had been about to step through the curtain to the back room. “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to have a reading. Or whatever it’s called.”

  “Eighty dollars for a half hour, a hundred and fifty for an hour.”

  “I think half an hour will be enough time.”

  “I have time now,” Castillo said.

  “Great,” said Mitchell.

  Castillo held out his hand. “Philip Castillo.”

  Mitchell grasped the hand. “Mitch Foot.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Foot. Come on back.”

  Castillo held the curtain aside and Mitchell passed into the back room. Castillo waved him into a seat at the table.

  “I like to take payment before the session. Hope you don’t mind,” Castillo said.

  “No problem.” Mitchell extracted cash from his wallet and handed it over.

  Castillo put the bills in his wallet. “Something to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “I’ll take water. Thanks.”

  Castillo opened a mini fridge hidden behind a woven cloth and handed Mitchell a bottle, then sat down opposite him.

  “Could you turn your cell phone off? I find it can be a distraction, even when it’s on vibrate.”

  “Sure.” Mitchell switched his phone off.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m looking for my girlfriend. I think she might have come to Sedona, and I thought you could help me find her.”

  Castillo sat back. “I might have to give you a refund—that’s not really the kind of thing I do.”

  “What kind of thing do you do?”

  “Help people with issues they’re struggling with—internal issues. Help them sort through them.”

  “Sounds like therapy.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is like therapy.”

  “Is that what the couple who was in here before me was here for?”

  Castillo smiled thinly. “I don’t discuss one client with another client. It is like therapy in that way.”

  Mitchell sat back and looked around the room. “I don’t mind still having the session. Maybe if I talk about my girlfriend, we’ll come up with some ideas about how I can find her.”

  “Sure,” said Castillo.

  “She’s a little younger than me—seventeen.”

  Mitchell opened his mind to Castillo and scanned his thoughts. There was a flicker of something there, but very faint.

  “How old are you?” asked Castillo.

  “How old do you think?”

  Castillo considered for a moment. “Twenty-two.”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  Castillo nodded noncommittally.

  “My girlfriend—she’s tall for a girl … athletic-looking,” Mitchell continued.

  There was a flicker of something in Castillo’s mind.

  “Likes to hike,” said Mitchell.

  This time the reaction was less a flicker and more a flash, quickly extinguished. Behind it was a rising wall of suspicion.

  “I’m not a fortune-teller,” said Castillo. “I’m not going to be able to help you just on the basis of a physical description of your girlfriend and her hobbies.”

  Castillo’s mental defenses were going up, and Mitchell could tell he wasn’t going to be able to glean Elizabeth Ballard’s location, or even whether Castillo knew where she was, without the help of Louise’s drug. The best he could do was to divert the suspicion solidifying in Castillo’s mind.

  “She was pregnant,” said Mitchell. “I told her I would marry her, but she said she didn’t want to get married, then she disappeared. I’m afraid she’s thinking of getting an abortion. I don’t want her to do that. I want her to have the baby. I want to marry her and be a dad.”

  Castillo’s suspicion smoothed and dissipated. “Instead of trying to guess where she is,” he said, “maybe we should talk about why she doesn’t want you to find her.”

  46

  Philip sat in the Cowboy Club, a shot of bourbon in front of him. It had been a good day at the office—one regular, another local who held promise of becoming a regular, the couple who was methodically checking Sedona activities off their vacation to-do list, the college boy with the pregnant girlfriend, and an elderly hippie who wanted to discuss the local vortices. In addition, he had heard from Lizzy and Owen that they had arrived in Philadelphia without mishap. They no doubt had more challenges before them, but at least he had been able to arrange for them to get away from Sedona without George Millard on their tail.

  Philip usually stopped by the Cowboy Club a couple of times a week after closing up the office. It might be a tourist trap, but Philip had started coming to the Club over a decade before, when he turned twenty-one, drawn by the stories his grandfather had told of meeting movie stars there in the sixties. His grandfather had run some errands for Robert Mitchum, and had once sat in a booth next to John Wayne. Plus, the tourist angle was a benefit from a business point of view—Philip picked up a number of his clients at the Club.

  Tonight he wasn’t sure if he was picking up a client, or something else. The woman who sat beside him had caused every male head in the place to turn when she entered—startling blue eyes, a body that belonged on a beach, long blond hair, and long tan legs shown to best advantage under her short skirt. She had taken a seat two down from Phillip, and two up from a pair of frat boy types. She ordered a beer from Zach, feigning unawareness of the stir she had created. She took a sip of the beer, then pulled a book—an actual book—out of her bag, and began to read.

  The frat boys lost no time making their move. With much whispering and nudging, they shifted down so they were sitting on the two stools nearest to her. She continued reading.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” said the one closest to her. “Funny place to pick to read a book.”

  The two of them guffawed and grinned expectantly at her.

  She turned a polite gaze their way. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Whoever it is shouldn’t keep you waiting too long, beautiful.”

  “I’m sure he won’t.”

  “Can we buy you a drink?”

  She nodded toward her beer. “I just got one. Thanks.”

  “We don’t mind waiting for you to finish that one,” one of them said, to more guffawing.

  She looked away from them with a sigh and her eyes met Philip’s.

  “Honey!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t see you sitting there
. If you had been a snake …” She turned to the two frat boys. “Sorry, I realize the person I was waiting for was right here all along.” She picked up her beer and shifted to the seat next to Philip, then turned her back on the annoyed pair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “If you could just pretend like you know me until they leave.”

  Philip lifted his glass of bourbon. “No problem.”

  She clinked her beer glass against his. “Thanks.”

  That had been three hours before, and the frat boys had long since left, throwing dirty looks at Philip.

  He and the woman—her name was Lorna—each picked up a shot glass, raised them in salute, and tossed the drinks back. The newly empty glasses joined the others in front of them: three in front of Lorna, including the still-full glass of beer, and five in front of Philip.

  Lorna, her face prettily flushed, laughed. “My goodness, Philip, you’re a bad influence.” She glanced around the bar, which was now buzzing with evening patrons. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  She slid off the stool, her dress momentarily hiking up to expose a tantalizing flash of hip, and headed for the restroom, steadying herself surreptitiously on the top of the half wall that separated the bar from the dining room.

  Zach appeared in front of Philip. “Hey, how come you get all the pretty ones?” he asked.

  Philip shrugged hazily.

  “Want me to clear these away?” Zach asked, indicating the empty shot glasses.

  “Better leave them here so I can remember how many I’ve had.”

  Zach nodded. “Good luck,” he said, and disappeared to answer the call of another patron.

  Philip picked up the book that Lorna had been reading: Desert Solitaire. It was Lorna’s second reading of it; Philip had read it three times. Lorna had quizzed Philip on where the author’s introduction had been written, and when he got it wrong—the correct answer was Nelson’s Marine Bar in Hoboken, New Jersey—she had told him he had to do a shot of bourbon. The game had escalated, with Lorna getting more of the answers right than Philip. Philip blamed the fact that his last reading of the book had been over five years ago. On the last question, they had found they were both wrong, and both drank.