“It was a newsagent who contacted the police,” said Ian, gently nudging the story along, not wanting her to dwell on the morbid possibilities of what if?
Helena nodded, but continued to stare off into the distance. “Brooks went into a frenzy on the street when the vendor said he didn’t keep old stock. He had returned to buy more of that same issue. When the police arrived he was screaming my name. It terrified me at the time, but I …” She hesitated and pulled herself back together. “I didn’t give it a second thought after he was arrested.”
“What did happen?” Ian, too, had lost track. He remembered the arrest and the assurances of the police, but then the chaos of life, as is its wont, had shoved thoughts of Brooks aside.
Helena shrugged. “He was eventually given probation and ordered to undergo psychological counseling. Last I heard he was being successfully treated for schizophrenia.”
“Did he ever contact you again?”
“No.”
“Then I doubt this has anything to do with him.”
Helena’s gaze drifted across the desk to flit over Ian’s face. It was followed by a grateful smile. “You’re right,” she said. “But still, I should make some calls. Find out where he was when …” She looked away again and didn’t finish the thought.
Ian felt awkward, out of place and no longer comfortable in the silence that had grown between them.
“One more thing before I go,” he said.
Helena turned.
“Do you know Rolando Aguilar?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why?”
“He’s the lawyer who was visiting Young. I need to talk to him.”
Helena’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “You think Young might have told Rolando who hired him?”
“Possibly.” Ian tilted his head to one side, curious at Helena’s reaction. “Why? What do you know about him?”
“He’s not a defense attorney, for one.”
This time it was Ian’s turn to look confused.
“He’s a deputy district attorney with the county prosecutor’s office.”
“A prosecutor?”
Helena nodded. “And if Young was trying to make a deal with the DA’s office, admitting to being a hired hit man might not be the way to go. That charge brings the death penalty onto the table.”
“Maybe he had nothing to lose,” said Ian. “Death found him anyway.”
Helena considered that, but had nothing to add.
“Can you set up a meeting for me?” A playful crease rippled across Ian’s lips. “Your name still shovels aside more bureaucratic bullshit than mine.”
A return smile failed to materialize as Helena pinched and massaged the bridge of her nose. She appeared weary and drained. A tiring day made longer by Ian’s disturbing visit.
“For when?” she asked.
“Soon as possible.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
11
An armed security guard unlocked the lobby doors to allow Ian’s after-hours exit. Helena didn’t accompany him into the evening chill as her car was kept warm and dry in the building’s underground parking lot.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, fresh puddles already beginning to drain as the rain decided to call it a night, an unexpected wolf whistle made Ian turn his head. Not that he expected the attention-grabbing trill to be directed at himself, but there was a hook in the familiar rise and fall of its pitch that made it all but impossible to ignore.
Half a block to the west, he spotted the whistle’s intended targets: two young women climbing into a cab, the bravado of a few after-work drinks having unfurled their hair and loosened a few buttons. The musical jesters were two young men one floor above, sitting by the open window of a bar, pleading for the women to return.
Ian smiled, remembering younger days when—
His smile froze and faded as he spotted a familiar vehicle parked a short distance behind the women’s taxi. It was too far away to know for certain, but the twin fresh-air induction scoops on top of the yellow hood told him the custom grille badge would match the detailed Super Bee insignia and broad black stripe painted across its tail.
Curious, Ian began to walk in that direction, but stopped when the Super Bee pulled out alongside the taxi and vanished into traffic before he could get a look at the driver.
The beep of a horn made him turn again to discover that he was standing in the middle of the exit ramp from the underground garage. Helena stared at him curiously from behind the wheel of a creamy porcelain-colored Jaguar XK coupe. The luxury sports car had been a gift from her father, given after she moved out of the marital home and all the encumbrances it contained.
Ian shrugged apologetically and retreated out of the way. By the time he climbed into his own car, he had almost forgotten what had distracted him in the first place. In a state the size of Oregon, there could easily be dozens of people who collected the popular vintage Dodge.
THE NOTION of heading home to an empty house and his own dark thoughts made Ian drive across the river to Cartopia, an eclectic collection of food carts on Hawthorne and 12th that could make a cardiac surgeon cry while his taste buds danced.
At Bubba Bernie’s cart, he found a dry seat on a wooden picnic table nestled beneath a plastic awning and warmed by a portable gas space heater. There, he tucked into slow-roasted BBQ beef brisket on a toasted French roll. After the meal, he wiped sauce off his chin and pulled out his phone to display the photo of Molly. He then visited each of the vendors in turn.
None of the fast-food entrepreneurs who circled the former parking lot had seen Molly, but Ian handed out his business card and made them promise to call if she happened to show. An outdoor food court that did some of its best business in the small hours after the bars closed was a perfect spot for someone with Molly’s shoplifting skills to empty a few wallets.
After buying forty dollars’ worth of deep-fried pies from Whiffies, Ian drove to the river and parked on the east bank near Burnside Bridge. With his warm pies secured in a brown paper bag, he headed down a long flight of stairs to the cardboard village he knew was erected each night in a concrete skate park beneath the arches.
He had barely stepped off the bottom tread onto the river footpath when a voice called out, “Smells good.”
The owner of the voice remained invisible, as Ian’s eyes needed time to adjust to the intimidating darkness that seemed to act as an umbrella against the festive lights of the bascule bridge above. Ian held up the bag blindly. “There’s ten beef pies in here. You want to distribute them?”
A short, compact shape shuffled from beneath the bridge. No taller than an oil drum, the approaching figure made Ian think of a children’s story he used to read to Emily about a grumpy troll with a fondness for baked apples and brown sugar. As Ian’s eyes adjusted, the troll transformed into a bearded dwarf wearing a filthy brown oilskin slicker that trailed on the ground and a pair of cowboy boots at least four sizes too large.
It would have been comical if not for the sensory weight of at least a dozen more pairs of eyes following in his wake. As a gatekeeper, the dwarf seemed an odd choice, but he had obviously earned a level of respect that Ian guessed wouldn’t pay anyone to underestimate.
The dwarf stopped less than a foot away and looked up with such intense concentration that Ian found it difficult not to flinch. The man’s eyes were the color of curdled cream with two dark raisins, small and wrinkled, dropped in the center.
“What’s in it fer you?”
“A girl’s gone missing,” said Ian. “I just want to show you her photo.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“A pedo?”
Ian winced at the thought. “No. I work for Children First. The girl’s a client. I’m worried.”
“You got a card?”
Ian produced his business card and waited while the gatekeeper read his information before slipping it into a deep pocket.
“OK. Gimmie the pies.�
��
Handing over the paper bag, Ian watched as the dwarf opened the top and inhaled the greasy aroma. Every black and gray hair in his matted beard seemed to glisten and curl with the steam.
“Only ten, huh?”
“All I could afford,” said Ian. “Sorry.”
“That’s gonna take some math to divide.”
“Need a hand?”
“Any good with loaves and fishes?”
Ian’s eyes grew hard. “I stopped believing in fairy tales.”
“I hear that.” The dwarf’s eyes twinkled. “Show me the photo.”
Ian pulled out his phone. The screen shone as brightly as a flashlight, turning the indecipherable gloom beneath the bridge into a jumble of pale, untrusting faces huddled amid a junkyard of despair.
The dwarf shook his head. “Sorry. Haven’t seen her. When did she go missing?”
“Earlier today.”
“You try the shelters or Dignity Village?”
“They’re too official for her,” said Ian. Plus, he knew the police had better contacts in those places and, if they were doing their job, would have already reached out. “If she’s run away, it’s because she doesn’t trust the help we’re already offering. She thinks she’s tough, but …”
“If she’s smart she’ll already be back home,” said the dwarf. “The street is no place for kids. Its teeth are like fucking meat grinders.”
Ian released a heavy sigh, full of stress and worry. “You’ve got my card.”
“I’ll get word to you if she shows.” He held up the paper bag. “Thanks for the food.”
“Locate Molly and I’ll do better.”
The dwarf half laughed, half sneered before turning his back and being swallowed by the maw of darkness that lurked beneath the archway.
12
Ian took a circuitous route home, stopping by the train station, a few of the more popular late-night video arcades, and the bus depot to show Molly’s photo to the ticket takers, cleaning crews, and security patrols.
Nobody had seen her.
When he finally pulled into his driveway, the dashboard clock said it was after two in the morning. The family neighborhood was quiet, all bedroom lights off, everyone snug in bed. Not a single curtain twitched, and still he held his breath on the short walk from his car to the front door.
He caught himself doing it and fleetingly wondered why. Did he fear that grief could live as a contagion on his breath? Or was it the inhalation that he feared? The chance that he might catch the scent of no-tears shampoo or strawberry Popsicles or the springtime tang of daisies, dandelions, and buttercups that Emily picked to make “pretty necklaces.”
In the hallway, with the front door bolted behind him, Ian dismissed the questions and breathed again. There were smells here, too, but their familiarity brought a measure of comfort. It was the unexpected scents, the ones he thought he had forgotten, that could bring him to his knees.
Easing off his shoes, he dropped his jacket on the chair and plodded to the kitchen. His phone slipped into the charger a split second before it rang. The ringtone was deafening inside the empty house.
Reading the caller ID, Ian felt a stab of panic. If something truly horrible had happened to Molly, this was the person who would most likely be given the task of breaking the news.
The last time he spoke to Jersey Castle was at Emily’s funeral. Jersey had reached out numerous times since, but Ian had never been able to return his calls. It seemed strange considering how many times they had stayed up late into the night solving the world’s problems or dissecting the poetry of Dylan Thomas and Billy Bragg, but Jersey reminded him too much of the other love he had lost.
A drummer with a local Celtic punk band, the Rotten Johnnys, Jersey had stood out from the mellower, sweater-friendly customers in the after-hours Bagel & Jazz joint where Ian performed. Following his band’s own raucous gig at a nearby club, Jersey would arrive in torn T-shirt and studded black leather pants with streaks of ghoulish eyeliner running down his cheeks. Still mopping the sweat off his face and neck, he would order pints of ice water as the chasers to his bottles of microbrewery ale.
The first time Ian saw him sitting at a small table against the back wall, he had braced himself for trouble. A little on the heavy side, but more muscle than fat, Jersey dominated the cramped room. His menacing outfit was given added credence by his unusual hair. A lightning-bolt streak of premature white began just below the peak of his hairline before zigzagging off to a spot above his right ear. In a more comical vein, he could have been the love child of Pepé Le Pew and Frankenstein’s bride.
Ian worried that his walking bass lines, melodic counterpoint, and flowing improvisation would confuse and irritate the new leather-clad arrival. But as he coaxed the notes from his soul to the strings of his Gibson, Ian observed the drummer’s face. Tension and exhaustion was replaced by angelic bliss. He may have been dressed like an overripe punk, but he definitely had an appreciation for jazz.
During Ian’s break, Jersey insisted on buying him a beer—the only patron ever to do so. Most of the other regulars were too busy using the fifteen-minute lull to crowd the outdoor patio and refill their lungs with smoke, the bylaw-banned nicotine fiends taking up as much elbow room as the welcome-to-my-world potheads.
The two men instantly found common ground in their love of music and the wrongs of mankind.
“So what’s your day job?” Ian had asked, since he didn’t know any musicians who could actually support themselves on gigs alone.
“Cop.”
A foamy mouthful of beer sprayed from between Ian’s lips before he could stop it, which made Jersey roar with laughter and slap the table in delight.
“Relax.” Jersey rolled his eyes toward the rear door where a few of the more-relaxed patrons were slowly making their way back to the tables. “I work homicide. A little pot doesn’t bother me.”
Ian eyed him suspiciously. “Homicide?”
Jersey’s grin widened. “Yeah, but I usually change clothes first. My partner would shoot me if I showed up looking like this. She already tells me I’m a lousy dresser.”
It was Ian’s turn to grin. “I can relate. My wife gets so frustrated at my lack of style that she made an appointment with an optometrist to make sure I wasn’t color-blind.”
Jersey chuckled. “What did he say?”
“That I should just let her pick out my clothes.”
Jersey looked him up and down before Ian dryly added, “She went to bed before I left for this gig.”
The friendship became as comfortable as an old pair of slippers, until Ian put away his guitar and shut off the world. Taking a deep breath, he answered the phone.
“Hey, Jersey. Long time.”
“I was hoping you might still be a night owl. How you keeping?”
“Getting by.”
“Good to hear. Listen—
“Is this about Molly?” Ian interrupted. “If she’s …” He didn’t want to finish the thought.
“I’m not calling as a cop,” said Jersey. “But I saw your name on the report, and as far as I know there’s nothing new. I’ve asked the patrols to keep an eye out.”
Ian released his breath in a whoosh of relief and tried to flush away the disturbing images that had floated facedown across his mind.
“She’s run away before, right?” Jersey added.
“Yeah, but this feels different. She’s been happier of late with this new foster family, although she did have a bad morning with her useless mother. Still …”
“It’s weird,” Jersey interrupted. “I haven’t heard from you in ages, and then today your name pops up on the computer, not once but three times.” His voice lowered in pitch and took on the consistency of sandpaper. “Who’s threatening you?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the voice and the caller ID was blocked both times.”
“Both times?” Jersey asked.
“Yeah, he called me again this afternoon when I
was driving back from Salem.”
“What did he say?”
“What you would expect.”
“And what did you say back?”
Ian rubbed his eyes and felt a crackle enter his voice. “I was in a foul mood, so I told him if he wanted to meet he knew where to find me.”
Jersey’s disapproval was clear. “You shouldn’t antagonize him. Most of the time a jerk like this just wants to hear the sound of his own voice, but if you push him—
“Yeah, I know.” Ian sighed. “He caught me at a bad time. You hear about Young?”
There was a long pause. “Is that why you were in Salem?”
“He asked to meet me, but ended up dead instead.”
“Christ! What did he want?”
Ian shrugged silently as he tried to decide how much to say. Of the handful of people he trusted in this world, Jersey was one of them. “He had a note delivered to me that said Emily’s death wasn’t an accident, that someone had hired him to run her down. He sent me a visiting order for the prison, but he was dead before I got the chance to question him.”
There was another pause. “I should come over. This sounds crazy.”
“No, it’s late and I’m worn out.” Plus Ian didn’t want anyone to see the house, the graveyard emptiness of it. “But I could use a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Young’s cellmate was released last week. Can you get his name and current location?”
“You’re thinking Young might have shared some details with him?”
“Won’t know until I ask.”
“OK, but I want a favor in return.”
Ian hoped he sounded as sincere and unquestionable as Jersey had. “Name it.”
“Give me permission to dump your phone records. I want to look into who’s making these threats. You can’t take this stuff lightly, especially in light of what you just told me.”
“That’s a pretty lame favor.”
The Fear in Her Eyes Page 7