Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  Somers dropped onto a bench—the one with the least bird droppings—and tried not to think about Carroll or mirrors or his life turned inside out. He checked his phone again. Still nothing from Hazard.

  Hey!!!!!!!

  The screen timed out, went dark, stayed blank.

  Even after all this time, Somers’s first instinct was to try to be direct. He wanted to tell Hazard he missed him. He wanted to tell him he was sorry. He wanted to explain what he was doing, even though, in truth, Somers wasn’t even really sure himself. He wanted to ask Hazard if they could just sit together somewhere private. Maybe that was all they needed, just time together, no talking.

  But direct, with Emery Hazard, was like driving full speed at a brick wall. Emery Hazard thought he liked directness. Hazard thought he liked plain speaking and straight dealing. But the truth was that Hazard had put up so many walls to protect himself that the straight roads all had barricades. Worse, now, Somers guessed. Because he knew he had hurt Hazard.

  Then Somers grinned and tapped out another message: Oh my God. Holy shit. Oh my God!

  The phone timed out again.

  Somers unlocked it, counted out another thirty seconds, and typed, Ree, you will not believe this!!!!!!!!

  A mallard swam in the shallow water near the bank, feet splashing, and he turned and looked right at Somers and quacked once in disapproval.

  “You and Hazard would get along great,” Somers muttered.

  This time, Somers went with a tried and true: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.

  Thirty seconds later, his phone vibrated. A message from Hazard.

  What?

  Somers’s grin split his cheeks, but he typed out a quick reply: I’ve got something on the case you’re working.

  What?

  In person.

  No.

  Some of Somers’s grin faded. Please?

  Nothing.

  Before Somers could stop himself, he added, I miss you.

  The mallard had circled back, beady eyes locked on Somers. As he paddled past, he gave another loud, abrasive squawk.

  “Fuck off,” Somers muttered.

  We need to get started on the blackmail stuff for my dad.

  The screen had timed out again before Hazard replied: Fine.

  Great, we can get dinner and then get started. Where do you want to eat?

  The message came back almost instantly. I’ve already got plans.

  Somers stared at the phone in shock.

  Another message followed immediately: I’ll message you when I’m ready to work.

  And then another text: We will not be discussing anything personal tonight. Is that clear?

  What Somers wanted to say was, Who the fuck do you have plans with? Or, maybe a little cooler, a little more collected, I really want to talk about why I agreed to move out temporarily. But instead, he stared at the phone, thinking the truncated thought he’s got plans, he’s got plans, he’s got plans, with a rhythm like a train building steam.

  Ree, please.

  But that was as far as Somers got. And then he erased it and stared at the blinking cursor.

  I’ve got to get back to work. The message from Hazard came with another on its heels: See you tonight.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARCH 27

  WEDNESDAY

  11:07 AM

  IN HAZARD’S OFFICE, the usual quiet had been broken by the sound of an electric drill and circular saw from the Magic Dragon Bakery that occupied the space beneath him. He heard the noises; he shut them out. He stared at his phone for a moment. Then he let the phone drop onto his desk, let his head drop into his hands, and let himself groan.

  Why had he told Somers he already had plans for dinner?

  The sudden, choked whine of the circular saw hitting a knot startled Hazard out of the frozen moment. Lurching up from his seat, he moved around the desk—the beautiful mahogany desk, approximately the size of a frigate, that Somers had stolen from his father—and headed into the bathroom. It still had the original fixtures from when the building had gone up, ancient porcelain and stainless steel. The only update since Hazard had moved in was a crack in the tiled wall, a reminder of the time he had thrown the door open, convinced someone was hiding behind it.

  Now he turned on the cold water and ran a wet hand across the back of his neck; he was surprised the water didn’t boil off. He grabbed a few paper towels, dried himself off, and went back to his inner office.

  He pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote Priorities at the top.

  Get Somers back.

  That was it. He crumpled the page, dropped it in his metal wastebasket, and lit match after match, dropping them in until the paper caught and burned down. Near the end, when it was mostly a cobweb of ash and ember, the page stirred and seemed to levitate on the updraft of hot air. Hazard kicked the trash can across the room, spilling a powdery black arc where the round rim of the can turned its movement into a circle.

  A horn blared; from below, the alternating pitch, high-low-high-low of the electric drill. Hazard left the trashcan where it was. He ran through the case—his paying case—and considered his options.

  Initially, he had agreed with Courtney’s assessment of the situation: Donna May had most likely run off again. But two factors now worked against that theory. First, she hadn’t stuck to her pattern; no one in Columbia had seen her, and Hazard’s survey of likely spots hadn’t yielded any results. Second, Josh and Melissa had acted very strange. Not just Josh’s incompetent second-base action, although the poor woman probably felt like she’d gotten caught in a slammed door. If Josh was still Melissa’s client, she was certainly crossing an ethical line that could cost her deeply, maybe including having her license revoked. Even if Josh had stopped seeing her professionally, they certainly hadn’t made it past the waiting period before such a relationship would be considered acceptable. The American Counseling Association had set a minimum of five years, and that included sexual relationships with a client’s family members among prohibited actions. Hazard had checked.

  Hazard picked up the phone, did a quick search, and called. A polite young voice answered, “Good morning, Mid-Missouri Premiere Mental Health. How may I direct your call?”

  “Is there more than one person I can talk to?”

  The politeness, if anything, intensified. “Excuse me?”

  “You asked how you can direct my call, but the website only lists Melissa Hall as a therapist. This is her private practice, isn’t it?”

  “How can I help you, sir?” That voice was like too much sugar; it made Hazard’s teeth hurt. She sounded like half the girls at the Annie tryouts Somers had dragged Evie—and Hazard—to.

  “I’d like to talk to Melissa.”

  “Great.” Her voice lost some of its sugary crust, dropping down into a this-is-serious-you-can-confide-in-me tone. “Now, is it an emergency? Because I’m afraid Melissa’s schedule is packed for the next two weeks.”

  Hazard hemmed. “When’s the next available appointment?”

  “Well, the next time I could squeeze you in would be . . . oh, not until May. I’m so sorry.”

  “You said it was only the next two weeks that were busy.”

  “That’s right, sir. I can get you an appointment in May.”

  “That’s more than two weeks.”

  “Would you like me to look at a specific day in May?”

  “You said two weeks, unless it’s an emergency.”

  More flakes were getting knocked off the sugary voice. “Sir, is it an emergency? Because if it isn’t, I’d be happy to put you down for May 4th.”

  “You tell me.”

  “What?”

  “You tell me if it’s an emergency. I just got so freaked out after a text from my fiancé, who moved out, that my heart rate was about a hundred and forty beats per minute.”

  “Well, on a scale of one to ten, what degree of emotional distress are you exp
eriencing?”

  “Is the scale arithmetic, geometric, or logarithmic?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure it’s a common question.”

  “It’s not.” The voice had gone flat. “If you aren’t considering self-harm—”

  “I wrote a list and burned it. Then I kicked the trash can. Theoretically, I could have singed myself. Or set the building on fire. You know, my dying in an inferno might actually teach John not to be such a selfish fuck, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m going to end this call now.”

  “Tell Melissa that Emery Hazard is going to get her license revoked unless she decides to have a talk with me. She can call me back at this number.”

  He disconnected. All things considered, the phone call had improved his mood measurably. Kind of a surprise; maybe talk therapy really did work.

  Grabbing his jacket and his keys, he headed to the minivan parked in the cramped lot behind the building. He checked the addresses that Courtney had given him, and then he drove out toward a trailer park called The Oaks at Emerald Point. Hazard had been here before on previous cases; unlike so many parts of Wahredua, where de facto segregation still separated people by color and class, The Oaks had become a liminal space—poor people of color mixed with poor white people; immigrants from all over the world had homes next to Ozark Volunteers. And, like so many marginal spaces throughout history, The Oaks had also become a contested space. A battleground. One of the front lines, maybe, of the invisible war taking place in Wahredua and Dore County and, if Hazard were honest, across the country.

  Instead of turning in to The Oaks, though, Hazard drove past it for another ten minutes, watching the outskirts of Wahredua unravel into fields of soy and corn and wheat. The low hills broke sightlines; as he came around a bend in the road, a hawk swooped across his path, and Hazard had to pump the brakes to keep from hitting the bird. When Hazard got to a gravel drive, he pulled off and turned the minivan around and started back. This time, no hawk, but he could see a creek through the trees, where sunlight glinted off Miller Lite cans.

  What he didn’t see was a Kum & Go. He wanted to check the gas station where Courtney worked, and he guessed that she had picked somewhere close to home. He could have called and asked her, but he wanted to catch her unawares. As he drove back into town, he passed The Oaks again, starting his ten-minute countdown from the top. This time, he took the first righthand turn, cutting through a subdivision of run-down townhouses. The parking stall structure leaned precipitously, and Hazard hoped those people had comprehensive car insurance.

  When he hit another major road, he turned left, turned left again, and followed another cross-street back toward The Oaks. This time, he found it: an ancient gas station that marked the corner of a strip-mall lot. The Kum & Go sign was covered in dust and dirt, and the top of the molded plastic had an inch-thick layer of bird shit. He pulled into the lot, parked, and made his way past the ancient gas pumps.

  The bell jingled when Hazard stepped through the door; the inside wasn’t any better than the outside. The floor needed mopping, the slushee machines churned something that resembled ice instead of a drink, and the endcap displays were picked over and embarrassingly empty. A single wrapped pack of Nutter Butters occupied one cardboard sleeve; another held a few poison-ivy green Doublemint gum packs. The only thing that looked like it had received attention in the last ten years was a walk-in freezer with the neon letters BEER CAVE.

  The kid behind the counter was watching Hazard.

  “Is Courtney working?” Hazard asked, grabbing a pack of Doublemint and carrying it to the register.

  This kid could have been any of a million gas-station register jockeys Hazard had encountered in his life: dull eyes, a wispy attempt at a beard, an ill-fitting uniform draped over his thin frame. He stared at the Doublemint; his mouth was slightly open.

  “Courtney Vega,” Hazard said, nudging the gum toward the kid. “Does she have a shift today?”

  “Who, man?”

  “Her name’s Courtney. Dark hair, about this tall, attractive. Gets her nails done. Probably likes unicorns.”

  The kid made a noise in his throat like a stuck hinge. Then he finally managed to say, “Courtney?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Hazard muttered. “Yes,” he said, raising the volume of his voice. Just in case. “Courtney Vega.”

  “No way, man. No Courtney here.” The kid finally seemed to spot the gum, and he rang it up at a dollar twenty-nine.

  “For one pack of gum?” Hazard grimaced. “Didn’t this stuff used to be like fifteen cents? It’s fucking plasticizers and synthetic coagulated latices.”

  “Yeah, man,” the kid said, wobbling a little. “Totally.”

  “Are you high? For fuck’s sake.”

  “Hey, you’re the cop, right? You got kicked off the force cause you had that major orgy and you were dealing drugs and stuff, right?”

  Hazard’s hands stopped as he was counting out change. “What?”

  “Yeah, man. Like,” the kid tried to drop his voice, but all he ended up doing was leaning too far forward and bumping his head against the cigarette case over the register. “Bobby is totally done dealing, and I need a guy.”

  “You have got to be shitting me,” Hazard said, putting the money away. “That’s what people are saying?”

  “Just some weed, man. I’m not asking you for anything heavy.”

  “Keep the overpriced gum,” Hazard said. “I don’t deal drugs. I don’t do orgies. I sure as fuck wouldn’t sell to you. Now tell me whether you’re a hundred percent certain Courtney doesn’t work here, right fucking now, before I climb over that counter and put your baked ass in traction.”

  “Whoa, man.” The kid chuckled. “Jonas was totally right. You are intense.”

  Hazard put a hand on the counter, as though about to vault over it.

  “No Courtney, man.” The kid raised both hands, still laughing. “No Courtney.”

  Hazard stalked back to the minivan. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, contemplating the pettiness of calling in an anonymous tip on the kid. Then he had a vision of a couple of the uniformed guys hearing the story about the orgies and the drugs, if they hadn’t already, and he shivered and changed his mind. He left the Kum & Go and drove back to The Oaks at Emerald Point.

  Trailer parks ran a spectrum from the downright dangerous, dirty, and disheartening, to—in some parts of the country, like California, for example—tony little nests where people could spend as much for a trailer as they might for a house in another state; The Oaks at Emerald Point was a couple of rungs down the ladder from that. For the most part, the trailers were well maintained. The streets were worn but patched. In some of the driveways, expensive cars and trucks revealed residents who were probably straining to meet the minimum payments. The lots were divided by picket fences, and although in some places, slats were missing or paint was peeling, the whole effect was rather neat and tidy. It was spoiled, somewhat, by the overturned aluminum trash can on the next street Hazard turned on to; squirrels sprinted away from the spillage of McDonald’s bags and Big Gulp cups.

  The Vega trailer, where Courtney lived with her parents and, until recently, with Dolly, was one of the nicest on the block. The aluminum was a washed-out color that Hazard would have called gray. Then Somers would have grinned like Hazard had gotten red and green confused and pointed out that it was closer to mourning dove or battleship or gunmetal, and Hazard wouldn’t be able to tell if Somers was pulling his leg. Bright yellow shutters bracketed the windows on the trailer; the same vibrant yellow made the door pop. Window boxes spilled ivy down the aluminum frame, and behind the ivy, petunias gave little shocks of color. The patch of lawn was neatly trimmed; the mailbox stood straight, unlike many of the neighbors’, and had the lot number on one side. The wind shifted, and even inside the van Hazard caught the scent of something warm and delicious: meat, yes, but carbs too.

 
He parked, went up to the door, and knocked.

  The woman who answered the door was obviously related to Courtney and Donna May: the same height and size, the same nose and eyes, although this woman’s hair was salt and pepper, heavy on the salt, and pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a housecoat over a mustard-colored piece of clothing; Hazard wasn’t sure what to call it. Maybe a muumuu. Her voice had a soft accent when she said, “Yes?”

  “My name’s Emery Hazard. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to you and your husband, if I could. It’s about your daughter.”

  The dark eyes studied Hazard, unchanging. It was a solid, mother’s look. Hazard suddenly found himself scrambling to remember if he had made the bed that morning. Then, without shifting expression, the woman shuffled down a hallway, the door open behind her, calling “Courtney.”

  When Courtney showed up, she was in adult-sized footie pajamas, printed all over with very blond, very Anglo princesses. A kerchief held back her hair, and today Hazard had caught her without makeup. She scratched the back of her calf with one foot and looked up at him.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You found her.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ok, well, if you want more money, you’re out of luck.”

  “No, I want to talk to you. And your parents.”

  “Why?”

  The question was so blunt that Hazard took a moment to think through it, as though he might have missed something. “I have a few more questions about Donna May.”

  “Ok,” Courtney said. “Let me grab my coat and shoes.”

  While he waited, he tried to peer inside the Vegas’ home. The trailer’s layout meant that Hazard caught only a glimpse of polyester resin wallboard, textured with what he had seen called a ‘cracked ice’ surface. He wanted to see what Courtney’s parents were doing; he wanted to know if they were as upset as Courtney claimed. He wanted Somers here with him, to help him understand the strange undercurrent running through this whole interaction, and this last thought made him so angry that he shut down the whole line of consideration.