But, of course, he didn’t ask me. A weary raising of his brows is a not-so-subtle reminder. We’ve discussed this before. Many times. Tyler had been kicked off the team and suspended from school. These things were apparently considered sufficient punishment for a dumb jock with a dead ex-girlfriend. End of discussion.
“Lucky for you, the bait-and-tackle shop is in Solano County. Sheriff Guffield and I go way back. We bowl on the same team every Thursday night. He’s an understanding guy, that Guffy. I explained the whole situation to him, and he agreed not to press charges, so long as you don’t go back there. And you return that stolen bayonet.”
I nod. Because it’s probably not the right time to mention I’d left the bayonet in the basement of the other man I’d threatened that night.
“You need to back off. Let us do our jobs.”
I scoff. “I have been. For two whole years now.”
“There’s a lot happening behind the scenes, I can promise you that. You heard about Joe DeAngelo, right? The Golden State Killer. The Feds are trying some of the same fancy genealogy stuff with the trace DNA we got off that collar back in ’92.”
“But I think Dakota went up there. To Whitetails and Whoppers. I found a card in her book, and I think she was—”
“I know you want to help. But we’ve been through this before. Sometimes, when these kinds of things happen to us, we start to see connections that aren’t really there.”
“What about Lyle Mitchum’s criminal history? I’ll bet Sheriff Guffield doesn’t know about that. He’s on parole. He shouldn’t be working around guns. He pulled one on me, you know.”
Detective Sharpe sighs so loudly that it seems to require all his effort. “Mr. Mitchum’s boss happens to be Guffy’s brother-in-law, so I don’t think you’ll get very far with that one, but I’ll mention it when I see him. Look, I know how hard this must be. I really do. I understand what you’re going through.”
He pats my arm with the kind of practiced sincerity I know all too well. So well that I instantly distrust it. How many times had I done that? Looked at a man facing a lifetime commitment in a state psychiatric hospital and told him I understood? When really, I’d been clueless.
“You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly. Your kids are alive, right? Monica and James. Your wife, she still tolerates you. So until your life gets blown up like mine, don’t give me that bullshit. Save it for the next dead girl’s mother.”
I’m glad he doesn’t argue. He respects me that much, at least. “Just don’t get into any trouble I can’t talk you out of, okay?”
I give him a halfhearted wave as he heads back toward his car. We both know it’s not an answer or a promise. Because I respect him too. Enough not to lie to his face.
****
“You owe me for this, muchacha.” Those are Luciana’s last words before she knocks on the door, summoning poor Martha Blackburn.
She’d had a few things to say on the drive over to Boyd’s house too. But I’d promised her a full tune-up for Boludo if she went along with another of mis planes absurdos. Given the life-sized Princess Leia poster I’d spotted above Boyd’s bed in the basement, I suspected he would be more agreeable with a sexy Latina who had done her hair up into those two iconic side buns. Especially a sexy Latina who hadn’t threatened his life. She’d have Boyd on his knees in no time.
“No one’s home,” Luciana says, standing on her tiptoes to peer through the small grid of windows at the top of the door. “It’s dark in there.”
I shake my head at her and motion to the yellow VW parked in the driveway. “Boyd’s home. Knock again.”
“¡Eres imposible!” She groans and rolls her eyes at me, then raps again, a little harder this time.
“C’mon, Luci. Put some muscle into it. Boludo’s life depends on it.”
“Fine.” She pounds the door with the side of her fist, making a hollow thud that I imagine will rouse Boyd even in the confines of the Overbridge. “But not for Boludo. For Dakota.”
I don’t deserve her. Luciana’s the kind of friend who doesn’t mind that I’m an in-between person. Dakota would’ve liked her.
Finally, Boyd flings the door open. Whatever he’d planned to say gets lost between brain and mouth, and he gapes at the both of us, stuttering, until he finds his voice. “You again? You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops last night.”
“Why didn’t you?” I demand, stepping in front of Luciana, my own plans—for Boyd’s seduction or, at the very least, an apology—lost too in the wake of his judgmental frown. “Is it because you’ve got something to hide?”
“I felt sorry for you. That’s why. And frankly, you scare me.”
“Good.”
Luciana clears her throat and bats her eyelashes, drawing Boyd’s attention. “I apologize for my friend’s behavior. She’s very rude. What she meant to say is she’s sorry about what happened, and she hopes you can forgive her. Isn’t that right, Mollie?”
I mutter something like a halfhearted yes, but Boyd’s not really listening. His neck reddens as he shuffles from one Chewie slipper to the other.
“You were at the group the other night, weren’t you?” he asks Luciana.
She nods, coyly turning her head to the side to reveal one of her perfectly rounded buns.
“I like your hair.” So predictable. He touches the haywire ends of his own.
“So, anyway, Luci’s right. I was out of line last night. And I was hoping you’d be willing to talk more about Shadow Snoops.”
“What else do you want to know?” Even as he asks, he takes a step back from the doorway, back from me, and I resist the urge to grab him by his T-shirt and pin him to the wall.
“I saw Dakota’s last public post to you about going back to where it all began. Allendale, I presume. She told you to check your direct messages. What did she say? Do you know where she went? Why she went there? Have you seen her other messages?”
Every question is more desperate than the last. And then, there are the questions I leave unspoken. What did she tell you about me? Did she hate me? Is all of this my fault?
“I think what Mollie means to say is, aren’t you going to invite us in?”
Boyd doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds up a finger. “Wait here,” he says, before he disappears back down the hallway. I hear the basement door creak open.
“Se bueno,” Luciana whispers. “Be nice.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
When he returns, bayonet in hand, Luciana gasps. I can feel her eyes on me, burning. As far as she’d known—what I’d told her—I’d tossed the knife out the window on the freeway after dropping her off last night and had only yelled at poor Boyd. “You should take it back. It’s a relic. Vietnam era. It might be worth something.”
I recoil, disgusted with it and with myself. The thing probably is cursed. I can only imagine what it’s done in my father’s hands. Still, I take it from him. “I’ll return it to the store,” I say, mostly for Luciana’s benefit.
Boyd nods at me, stoically, as if I’ve managed to convince him I’m a sensible person. “As for your questions, I wish I could help. But Dakota never sent me that message. I didn’t hear from her again. I can only guess why she went to Allendale, same as you.”
When I reach out, he jumps back. “Boyd, please. You went to that bait shop. You’ve got a suspect wall just like mine. I know you cared about Dakota. There must be something you can tell me.”
Luciana shifts in the silence that follows, and I catch her staring at Boyd’s arm, studying it like a tarot card. “How did Dakota get to Allendale?” she asks. “She didn’t have a driver’s permit or a car she could use without being caught.”
Boyd swallows, and his neck writhes with the effort. “Uber? Taxi? I don’t know. Maybe you should ask her grandfather. He lives up there, doesn’t he?�
��
I grip tight to the bayonet’s handle and take a few slow, deep breaths. I feel sick. “Did Dakota tell you that? Was she in contact with him?”
Boyd looks down when he answers. Like my eyes might be dangerous. Might turn as yellow as a Sith’s. Since I’ve obviously embraced the dark side of the force. “He took her to get a tattoo, so . . .”
I stumble back from the door, head spinning, and stagger across the yard. This morning’s oatmeal pushes its way back up and onto the Blackburns’ Santa. Hands on knees, I stare at his black plastic boots, desecrated now. The longer I stare, the more I see something else.
My father’s duffel bag of secrets. And the only time I’d ever peeked inside.
Goddamn it, he’d muttered, browsing the ammo inside Whitetails and Whoppers on the first day of deer season. I forgot to lock the truck. I’d gone scurrying back with the keys like a dutiful daughter before he started in about Charlie robbing us blind. He’d warned me not to look, but the bag had beckoned me from the truck bed. I’d helped him load it that morning, felt the weight of it. A quick glance back to the store, and I’d tugged on the zipper, its teeth opening to me, willingly. Complicit in my betrayal.
I never did make sense of what I’d seen there. Though for years it woke me in a cold sweat, my heart racing like a runaway freight train. Roscoe’s long brown ear—he’d been missing for three days. Blood on the white patch above his nose. No collar, but there was no mistaking him. I’d shut the bag and stuffed my scream so far down my gullet, it came rushing back up, and I’d puked right there under the tailgate.
Back at the trailer that night, I’d lain stiff as a board in my bunk while Dad had pounded down can after can of his Olde English. Until finally, he’d leaned down over me, his breath stale and sour, and whispered, Be careful, Mol. Them Charlie bastards shot Roscoe. Then he’d tapped my forehead with his finger. Right between the eyes.
“¿Estas bien, chica?” Luciana’s voice brings me back. “Are you okay?”
If I open my mouth, I’m sure I’ll throw up again, so I just nod and surrender the bayonet to her. She takes me by the arm and leads me back to the Jeep. She doesn’t even protest when I crank up the heavy metal so loud the whole car vibrates.
“What else did Boyd say?” I shout at her, my head throbbing with the past. That ancient drum that beats louder than Megadeth.
She scowls at the house, the door shut now. “Mentiroso.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“I know he is.”
“About what?”
I turn down the music and wait for her to speak. “When I asked him how Dakota got to Allendale, his eyes went right to it. I read his face. Didn’t you see it?”
I shrug helplessly.
“His little yellow bug. That’s what he looked at. That’s how she got there.”
****
I need a drink. I need two drinks. Three. Maybe four.
Gus leads the way into the kitchen, his tail wagging as I retrieve a glass from the cabinet. It’s the best thing about dogs. Not a trace of judgment.
“Just one,” I tell him. Which is why I need a glass. If I drink straight from the bottle, I won’t stop until it’s empty. The prick of his ears tells me he understands.
I leave the glass on the counter, waiting.
Gus follows me into the bedroom and watches with curiosity as I drag the step stool into the closet. I got rid of all my cheap booze after the last episode, the last never again. But I still have my secret stash. The Macallan 18 I’d hidden in a shoe box when things went from bad to worse with Cole.
The bottle is half empty, and the amber liquid sloshes up the sides as I walk. The last time I’d poured myself a glass of scotch from this bottle, Dakota had vanished. I try not to think about the things I’d said to her. The things I’d done.
On my way out, I catch my face in the dresser mirror and shudder at what I find there. Hollow eyes. Sallow skin. Desperation. I look away before I frighten myself.
I’m just like him. Just like my father.
I push the thought away, but there’s another, even worse, at its heels.
What if my father killed Dakota?
It’s so ludicrous, so vile, I can hardly bear it, and I stop and steady myself with a hand to the wall.
“Just one,” I tell Gus again. Because the urge to swig it down, all of it, threatens to bowl me over.
When I move again, Gus trots along behind me, back to the kitchen, where my hand shakes as it pours one generous glass. I take a sip and let it burn in my mouth before I swallow. The voice in my head, the relentless chatter, grows further away, as if I’ve muffled it with a pillow. Still, it’s there.
This is why he drank.
I’m just like him.
Gus cowers when I let out a half groan, half roar, and spill out the rest of the glass. I upturn the bottle and watch it stream down the sink. Every last drop.
****
Roscoe never could run fast. His legs were too stubby, his ears too long. His hips too achy and arthritic. But he had the spirit of a horse, and he’d do his best to gallop alongside me, jowls flapping. I spot him in my dream, up ahead this time, galloping as nimbly as I’d ever seen him. I have to jog, then sprint, to keep up, and I keep slipping, the earth soft and muddy under my bare feet.
I call out to him, but my voice doesn’t work, and my chest aches with the effort of trying. He vanishes into the grove of sycamore trees, and I slow down, knowing I shouldn’t go any further. Dad always told me to steer clear of the sycamores. Charlie’s in there, he’d warned. And I’d believed him. Because the trees seemed to move their limbs like people, reaching their gnarled hands down to snatch me up.
Roscoe’s faint bark urges me to press on until the sky above turns as dark as the ground below. A person can run forever in a dream.
When I find him, Roscoe is nose down, digging, spotlighted by the moon. I walk toward him. Even though my blood is whooshing through my veins and every strike of my heart is a death knell, urging me to turn back.
The hole is massive by now. Who knows how long he’s been digging? A dog can dig forever in a dream too.
When I peer into it, I feel dizzy. But I see what Roscoe’s looking for. What I’m looking for. My father’s black duffel bag.
Stretching my hand out into the infinite blackness, I reach toward it, already knowing what’s inside.
When I reach, I fall.
****
I startle awake and quickly turn over, searching for the clock.
Then I remember where I am. On the sofa, where I’d fallen asleep scouring Shadow Snoops for traces of my daughter. Until I’d found myself in the grove of sycamores watching Roscoe dig a hole.
Dreams are roads to the unconscious. Freud had gotten that right at least. And my roads are especially screwed up.
Shivering, I tuck my hands into the arms of my sweatshirt—Dakota’s 49ers sweatshirt, if I’m being honest—and sit up. It doesn’t smell like her anymore, but I can’t bring myself to wash it.
Somewhere, Gus growls, a low rumble of thunder from his chest. A warning of a storm. I shush him, mostly because the sound goes straight through me, leaving fear in its wake.
I find him at the door, scratching. With a desperation I recognize as my own.
When he growls again, I fling it open recklessly, certain someone, something will be on the other side.
The night is clear and cold. There’s no one.
No one and nothing.
BEFORE
Chapter
Thirteen
(Monday, July 18, 2016)
Dakota uncapped her highlighter, holding the top between her teeth as she underscored two more lines in bright yellow, the exact color of crime-scene tape. It turned out Mindhunter was a treasure trove. Or rather, a treasure map, leading her straight to Shadow Man.
Each clue inked onto her notepad like a set of coordinates to chart her path.
It had been nine days since her mother had laid the book on her desk, and Dakota regarded it with reverence, a veritable bible of criminal profiling right there in her lap. So far, she’d classified Shadow Man as the organized type of serial killer, which meant his crimes were planned like Bundy or BTK or John Wayne Gacy. His victims, specially selected and hunted. He’d be intelligent, articulate. A con man, possibly using a ruse to draw his victims to him. Probably arrogant too, thinking he could outsmart the cops. He wouldn’t ever be careless enough to leave a weapon behind. Preoccupied with control, he might’ve been a military man or even tried his hand at law enforcement, so DocSherlock’s theory hadn’t been far off the mark.
She couldn’t wait to throw that in Chewie’s face. Boyd’s face. Whatever his face actually looked like, she pictured the fur and kind eyes of a Wookiee. He’d told her his real first name yesterday afternoon. Typed it, actually, at the bottom of a message he’d sent.
Birdie,
Here’s the link to The Phil Donahue Show, circa 1985, that I promised. This is vintage Shadow Man. The real deal. So don’t go sharing it around.
May the Force be with you,
Boyd (aka Chewie)
Swelling with pride—Chewie trusted her!—she’d put the sound on low and hunkered over the library computer, straining to hear every word of the twenty-minute video clip from Donahue’s episode on unsolved crimes. But she hadn’t written back yet. Mainly because she couldn’t decide whether to go with her standard Birdie or the riskier Dakota.
You don’t know this guy at all.
He could be an axe murderer, a rapist. A real sicko.
Heck, he could be Shadow Man.
Her thoughts came in her mother’s voice. Stern but anxious, they bit at her brain.
“Are you seriously studying right now, genius?” Tyler side-eyed her as he drove, steering his little black Jetta toward the Lake Berryessa exit. “You do remember it’s summer, right?”
She hated the way her laugh came out, all flirty and self-deprecating. “This book is just for fun.”
Shadows Among Us Page 14