Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  “Go ahead, John-Henry,” Cravens said, gesturing to a chair. “This isn’t exactly an official conversation.”

  Somers took in the cardboard box again; when his eyes moved to Cravens’s face, he saw the exhaustion there, the deep lines that had formed over the last year, the dark smudges under her eyes.

  “Should I say congratulations or I’m sorry?” he asked quietly.

  “Ask me in six months,” Cravens said.

  Somers thought about his father, who had recently won the mayoral election, and about the chief of police, who served at the mayor’s discretion. “If my father—”

  “No,” Cravens said, and she smiled and waved a hand. “I’m past all that.”

  Outside, the fax machine screeched on and on, the note rising higher and higher until it cut off with a short series of sputters. It reminded Somers of a 1980s TV robot screaming, Malfunction, malfunction. The noise seemed to serve as some sort of signal, because the uniformed officers began to drift toward the exits, heading out for another day’s work. In a matter of minutes, the station had emptied to its usual daytime levels.

  “This is Chief Riggle,” Cravens said. “And since I feel quite a bit freer than I have in a long time, I’m going to add that I didn’t request this meeting. He did.” She looked from Riggle to Somers, and then she nodded and picked up the box. “All right, then. Best of luck, John-Henry.”

  “Chief—” Somers rose, holding out a hand. “Everybody’s going to want to say goodbye. Leaving like this, not even introducing—”

  “I did introduce him, John-Henry. To you. Only a moment ago, in fact.” Cravens took a breath. “A lot of things aren’t in my control anymore; this is. I’m leaving this way because I want to. It’s easier, I guess.”

  And then she left, and she was out the door before Somers could think of anything to say.

  Riggle moved with a rigidity that made Somers think of kids playing with toy soldiers. He sat in the seat, back straight, chest out, and studied Somers. Somers studied him right back. Thin, with the skin of his face so tight he almost looked ill, Riggle looked like the kind of guy you’d choose to be chief: the iron-gray hair, the hard eyes, the air of authority. A spot of stubble under his chin, the same color as his hair, pulled at Somers’s eyes; electric razor, Somers thought. A quick shave, but not a good one.

  “Detective Somerset, I’ll get the pleasantries out of the way. I’m coming here out of St. Joseph; I was assistant chief for five years, and before that, I was a patrol sergeant for ten years. I expect one thing from the men and women under my command: loyalty. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I asked Cravens to have you speak with me because I understand you hold a great deal of influence in this department.”

  “That’s high praise, sir. I don’t know if it’s true.”

  “You close cases, hard ones. You’ve got a commendation from the FBI. You’ve got history with these people; you came up through patrol here, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, don’t bullshit me, then. You’ve got juice with the men and women here. I expect you to use it on my behalf.”

  Somers raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

  “People are going to grumble. Nobody likes change, and I run a tight operation. They’ll have plenty to say about that, I’m sure, and you’re going to be right there when they do it. I want to know who’s talking. I want to know what they’re saying. And I want you to be a little birdie on their shoulders, smoothing things out.”

  “So, I’m your . . . public relations guy?” Somers thought the words sounded a tad like Emery Hazard, and he barely remembered to add, “Sir?”

  “Your father is the mayor. I’m his choice for chief. Anything that happens to me, that reflects on the mayor. Am I making myself clear?”

  Somers had to bite the inside of his cheek for a moment. He tasted blood when he smiled and said, “Clear, sir.”

  “Good; your father told me you’d be an asset. I’m going to be hiring several new officers this week, today if possible; I understand the force has taken some blows over the last year. It’s time to start turning things around. You can send the first candidate in when he gets here.” He swiveled in his chair toward the monitor and said, “Dismissed, Somerset.”

  Somers let himself out of the office. He made his way back to his desk in the bullpen; Moraes and Carmichael had cleared out, and Dulac was busily flipping through documents, which Somers recognized as paperwork from a case they’d closed a month before. Dulac didn’t look up from pretending to focus on the document, but he whispered, “Dude, what happened? The chief came out with a box, and I swear to God she was about to cry. Where’s she going? Who’s that senior stud in there?”

  “Gross,” Somers said.

  “He’s got a nice ass.”

  Then Somers told him what had happened.

  When Somers had finished, Dulac had stopped pretending to be busy with the paperwork, and he watched Somers with his head cocked. Then he said, “Bro, was he wearing a ring?”

  “What?”

  Dulac tapped his third finger. “Married, dude.”

  “He’s our chief.”

  “He can be our chief and still be a silver-fox hottie. That’s, like, empowering, you know.”

  “You have a boyfriend.”

  “Uh, yeah. But I still have eyes.”

  “And he’s straight.”

  “Really?” Dulac said. “He said that?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then there’s still a chance, bro.”

  Somers just shook his head. From the front of the building came a surge of loud voices, moving deeper into the building. Orear, the officer at the front desk, was shouting something, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. A moment later, a group of men came into view, at least ten of them, all white, all of them under twenty-five, all of them looking like they hit the gym regularly, and all of them with the unmistakable air of assholes. A few of them carried papers in their hands, and Somers groaned.

  “What’s with the douche brigade?” Dulac asked.

  “Hey everybody,” one of the guys shouted, a short guy with a high-and-tight cut of carrot hair. “Settle your asses down. We’ll take things from here.”

  Orear, puffing, his hair shining like he’d run a floor polisher over it, came after the men.

  “I think,” Somers said, “those are the new recruits.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JULY 1

  MONDAY

  9:02 AM

  HAZARD HAD A SLOW START to his morning. He kept an office for his private investigation agency, Astraea, in a set of second-story rooms on Market Street, and he started the day by making sure everything was in order, the way he always did: he straightened the secondhand furniture, brewed a pot of coffee, adjusted the painting that, by the end of the day, would somehow be crooked again, and watered the fern. The cracked front window let in a hot, humid draft, and the fern was thriving. Then Hazard moved into his private office, sat behind the beautiful desk that Somers had stolen, literally, from his father, and got to work.

  Astraea was doing better than Hazard had hoped. In fact, it was doing better than was reasonable. For an agency with only a single employee, operating out of a small town in the middle of Missouri, Astraea was doing astronomically well; Hazard allowed himself a little smile at the pun. He was getting work from Columbia, Jeff City, some of the resort towns scattered around Lake of the Ozarks, even once from Rolla. Most of it was simple stuff, background checks, adultery, nothing particularly challenging. But it was work. And it was work Hazard was good at. And he was proud of what he’d built.

  Still, though. There was that itch, wasn’t there? The thought that, not so long ago, he’d done things that felt much more important.

  He was typing up a summary of a recent investigation—a man skipping alimony payments, whom Hazard had trailed to an Oklahoma casino—when he heard th
e outer door open, and footsteps moving through the office. He glanced up.

  Mitchell Martin was a wreck today; Hazard barely recognized him as the same kid who’d been flirting, albeit badly, with Nico at the party last night. His fiery hair was flattened and greasy; his watery eyes were sunken and slightly bruised. He walked with his arms folded, hands tucked into his armpits, and halfway across the room he stopped the way wild animals will sometimes freeze at an unusual sound. He shot a look over his shoulder, and then he hurried into Hazard’s private office.

  Hazard saved his report and closed the laptop screen. “Are you wearing makeup?”

  Mitchell started to cry.

  “Ok,” Hazard said. “What’s going on?”

  Mitchell cried harder.

  Hazard grabbed a pen and used the tip of it to nudge a box of tissues across the desk.

  Dropping his head into his hands, Mitchell dissolved into sobs.

  “If you, uh,” Hazard gave the box another nudge, “want, you know, a tissue.”

  “I—I—I—” More sobs. “I’m ok,” Mitchell finally managed in a wail.

  Sighing, Hazard stood and came around the desk. He put his hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. He wouldn’t have done this for a normal client; he wouldn’t have done it for a lot of people, in fact. But he owed Mitchell. Mitchell Martin had been his first paying client, and because of that, a psychopath calling himself the Keeper of Bees, who was obsessed with Hazard, had abducted Mitchell, tortured him, and left him to die. It was only luck that Hazard had found him in time.

  “I’m ok,” Mitchell said through thick sobs. “I’m ok.”

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  Mitchell’s thin shoulders shook; he was still just a kid, really. Nineteen, almost twenty. A kid who had been so smart he’d gotten bored in school, graduated early, and gone to college at fourteen.

  “How about water?”

  More sobbing.

  Hazard stepped out of the inner office, hurried into the bathroom with its ancient porcelain fixtures, and filled a paper cup at the tap. He went back to his office and found Mitchell behind the desk, going through drawers.

  “Where—” Mitchell was trying to say through his tears, pawing at papers and staplers and bottles of Wite-Out. “Where—where—” He kept trying to talk through the tears, but the only word Hazard could make out was where. And then he caught one other word: gun.

  “No,” Hazard said, setting down the water. He took Mitchell by the shoulders and walked him back around the desk. “No guns. Sit down. Here’s what I tell Evie when she gets worked up like this: you take one big breath, and then you take one tiny sip of water. Ready?”

  Mitchell was trying to say something through his sobs.

  “Great,” Hazard said. “One big breath. Right now, Mitchell.”

  To his credit, Mitchell tried.

  “Now, water.”

  Mitchell sipped and sputtered and coughed.

  “Big breath,” Hazard said, slapping Mitchell on the back. “And now, water.”

  They did it a few more time before Mitchell was finally breathing normally, and then he took a few longer sips of the water and wiped his face and sat back.

  Hazard nudged the tissues toward him. Then, when Mitchell didn’t move, Hazard gathered a wad of them and held them out. “Am I going to have to blow your nose for you too?”

  Something cracked then, and a weak smile worked its way across Mitchell’s tear-stained face. He took the tissues, blew his nose, and then leaned forward, resting his forehead on the desk. Hazard hesitated; then he set his hand in the center of Mitchell’s back and felt the tremors still working their way through him.

  “So,” Hazard said. “Is that a no about the makeup?”

  Mitchell giggled; it was a weak, watery noise, but it was still the best thing Hazard had heard from him all day.

  “No,” he finally said in a soft voice. “I’m wearing makeup. Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s so fucking femme, and I’m not femme, not really, but, oh my God, I’ve been crying all night and I look like shit, and I don’t know. I thought it’d make me feel better.”

  “What’s going on?” Hazard asked.

  “He tried to get me last night.”

  “The Keeper?”

  Mitchell nodded. “I was asleep. I heard something; I guess that’s what woke me up. I wasn’t thinking too clearly because I’ve been taking these sleeping pills. If I don’t, I just lie there with the lights on, staring at the ceiling, or I have these terrible nightmares. So I got out of bed, and I went out to the front room, and he was working on the deadbolt. On the lock, I mean. I could hear this clicking noise.”

  “And?”

  “And I started shouting like crazy. I told him to go the fuck away; I said I had a gun and I’d blow his head off if he came inside.”

  “Did you have a gun?”

  “God, no. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t even grab a knife. I was scared stupid, Emery. I just stood there and shouted until my neighbor started hammering on the wall, and then I—I kind of snapped out of it. When I stopped yelling, I didn’t hear anything else, so I figured maybe he’d gone away. I stayed awake the rest of the night, just sitting there against the door, listening. When I heard some of my neighbors leave for work, I risked a look, and the hallway was empty. It took me a couple more hours to work up the courage to leave.” He dabbed at his face with the tissues. “I look like a clown, huh?”

  “More like a cheap rentboy.”

  With another wet little laugh, Mitchell continued working the tissues against his face. “I want to hire you, Emery. Personal protection. I don’t care what it costs. I called my mom and told her what I was doing, and she said they’ll pay whatever you want.” He dropped the tissues on the desk and got a wrinkled check out of one pocket. “Was it a thousand dollars last time? I can’t remember what you said.”

  “Hold on,” Hazard said. “I want to talk about this a little bit first.”

  “Oh my God, did you hear me? He tried to get me last night. I’m . . . I’m unfinished business, Emery. You said so yourself, remember? At the coffee shop? You told me he’d come back for me, and he did. He’s active again or whatever they say about serial killers. And he’s going to—” A sob choked Mitchell. “Like he did with Phil, blow my brains out, and the bees, and—”

  “Pull it together, Mitchell. Working yourself into hysterics isn’t helping.”

  Ugly red blotches worked their way across Mitchell’s face. “Fuck you, you fucking prick. You weren’t any fucking help last time. You let him get me. This is your fault, all your fucking fault, and if I want to be hysterical, I’m going to be out-of-this-fucking-world hysterical.”

  Hazard stayed where he was a moment longer; then he stood, moved back around the chair, and dropped into his desk. He worried the drawers that Mitchell had opened back into place, and then he lined up the laptop, running his finger across the trackpad in an invisible doodle. Mitchell cried for a while, but he wore himself out faster this time.

  “I’m sorry,” Mitchell said.

  “Nothing to apologize for.”

  “I know it’s not your fault.”

  Hazard nodded; his finger slid to a stop.

  “It’s just,” Mitchell said, “I get so angry sometimes. And I’m angry because it’s easier to be angry than to be scared.”

  Hazard nodded again.

  “Emery, I didn’t mean it.”

  Hazard cleared his throat and said, “Here’s what I don’t understand: this psychopath is methodical. He plans. When he abducted you, Phil, and Rory, it was flawless, and then he managed to erase every trace of himself from the sub-basement at the college where he held you. Everything he’s done, it’s been engineered with incredible attention to detail. So why would he show up at your door last night, bumble around, wake you up with a shoddy lock-pick job, and then run away when you shouted at him?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “He’
s human. He makes mistakes.”

  “But this? This isn’t a mistake, Mitchell. This is sloppy. It’s . . . it’s amateur. If he wanted to get you, he’d have the whole thing mapped out. Hell, he’s waited this long; why choose last night to try to break into your place without any apparent planning?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, but I know it was him. I know it. He’s back, and he’s going to get me, and he’s . . . he’s going to do it, I know he is.”

  “Not a fucking chance.”

  “Who am I kidding?” Mitchell flicked the wadded tissues across the desk. “Of course he will. Because he just has to wait. I can’t pay you to guard me forever. And I can’t . . . I can’t live inside a bunker. I mean, I have to go to work, I have to go to the grocery store. And one day he’s going to be there, and you’ll be living your own life, and he’ll get me.” Mitchel rested his face in his hands for a moment. Then he stood. “Christ, what am I doing?”

  “Let’s go take a look at your apartment.”

  “No, this is stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid; we can do a lot to make this asshole’s life difficult, Mitchell. We’re going to make sure you’re safe at home, and I’m going to be with you whenever you’re out of the house. And I’m going to find this psycho. And that’s going to be the end of it.”

  Mitchell hesitated. Then he wiped his eyes and nodded. He flattened the wrinkled check on the desk, looked around for a pen, and said, “How much do you—”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Hazard growled, snatching the check and shredding it. Then he grabbed Mitchell’s arm and steered him toward the door. “And ask Nico to teach you how to put on your fucking foundation next time.”

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):

  Justene Adamec, for helping me spot the good and the bad in this book, for pointing out how often Hazard cuts his hand, and for recommending (genius!) that the poor man invest in corn holders!

  Kate Collopy, for making me think about the number of charcoal chimneys we use in St. Louis, for mustache feedback, for barbeque vs. barbecue, for helping me know which parts might gut a reader, and for helping me see the spots that lightened the mood.