Intervention

by Terri Blackstock

  As Barbara pushed through the glass doors, she realized she was soaked with sweat. She dropped into a folding chair. A woman in uniform offered her a glass of water.

  She drank it, her hands shaking.

  “Good job, Mom. You okay?”

  She looked up at Lance, who was looking out the window at the crowd. Her forehead still throbbed. “Yeah. I didn’t say anything to make it worse, did I?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She wiped her face. “I just hope Emily heard it.” She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. No calls.

  But Lance’s had already started ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Since you gave them my phone number, does that mean I can talk to reporters?”

  “Give me that.” She took the phone out of his hand and dropped it into her purse. “We’ll let voicemail get it, then return the calls that are important.”

  “But how will I talk to my friends?”

  “We’re not going to worry about your social life right now, son.”

  “They’ll be calling to tell me they saw me on TV. What a trip, huh? And now Emily’s famous, like Lindsay Lohan. It’s what she’s always wanted.”

  Her dream come true. Barbara closed her eyes and prayed.

  seventeen

  Kent Harlan’s melancholy sank its claws in a little deeper as he sat outside the intake office of the Road Back Recovery Center. He hadn’t been home since seven a.m. yesterday, and his shoulders ached. He desperately needed a shave. It had been important to work this case while it was still hot. But his fatigue wasn’t helping his spirits. The dark-colored décor of the rehab’s hallway, green paint with deep wood for wainscoting, was meant to relax anxious and irritable clients fighting their dragons. But he needed caffeine instead of soothing colors.

  As he waited, he checked his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a call. Andy was meeting with the video tech who was enhancing the security tape. Kent hoped the tech could tell them if the movement he’d seen in the video was someone else getting out of Trish’s car, after Emily ran away. If that was the case, it would change everything.

  This afternoon they’d managed to reach the passengers who’d been seated near Emily on the plane. The woman who had the seat next to her, an eighty-year-old who was hard of hearing, said Emily had slept for most of the flight. Others around them hadn’t spoken to her. The only person she was seen talking to was Trish after she got off the plane.

  And the Infiniti sedan wasn’t in the airport parking lot now. So much for the theory that its driver had ditched the car and ridden away in the cab with Emily. Nothing quite added up.

  From his seat in the hallway, Kent’s gaze strayed to the classroom where some of the Road Back residents sat in various stages of attention, listening to a counselor talk about the third step of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  He was familiar with step three. His brother had spent years in AA, and quoted the steps as often as children quoted the Pledge of Allegiance.

  Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

  As they understood him. That left a lot of wiggle room, he supposed. He was glad he didn’t have a problem with addictions, because he’d never get past step three. He could never turn his will or his life over to a God he didn’t believe in.

  He heard voices down the hall, as a group of men and women filed out of a classroom, laughing and flirting their way up the hall. His brother had come from every rehab with a new relationship, so he knew how it all worked. When they let go of drugs, many of them transferred their addictions to people. He watched as they passed him, headed for the front door. Were they leaving?

  “Detective?”

  He turned and saw a young man in the office doorway. He got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Yes. Detective Kent Harlan, how are you?”

  “I’ve had better days. I’m Sean Morris, the director here.” He led Kent into his office. There was a box of stuff on one of the chairs, and two boxes of personal items that Kent supposed had been confiscated from some new resident who’d tried to smuggle them in. A radio, an iPod, a cell phone, a laptop …

  Kent wondered if Road Back sold the items on eBay, or if they held them until they released the residents. If so, they must have several warehouses full of bags and boxes. He was glad it wasn’t his problem.

  “Those people that were leaving. Are they residents?”

  “Yes,” Morris said.

  “Where were they going?”

  “We let them take a walk down to the convenience store every day.”

  Kent’s old frustration with lax rules at rehabs feathered through him. “Without supervision?”

  “There’s a staff member with them. It’s only six blocks. Gives them a chance to get some exercise.”

  Kent sat down, frowning. “There’s a liquor store a block down. Isn’t that tempting for them?”

  “Either they want to get well or they don’t.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t the idea to keep them sober long enough that they start having some clarity?” He thought of his own brother’s schemes when they’d gotten him into treatment. If he’d been allowed to roam the streets, he would have had dealers meeting him at the convenience store, or waiting at a corner as he walked by.

  The director sat down at his desk and slid a stack of AA books out of his way. “People won’t choose Road Back if it’s too restrictive, and we really want them to come so they can get help. Besides, they’ll be back in the real world at some point. They might as well build some self-control now.”

  Self-control was out of reach for most serious addicts. Did these people expect new residents to sprout it just because they were in treatment?

  He shook off thoughts of his brother and focused on the young director. Sean Morris seemed distracted, authentically troubled. “We’re still in shock about Trish. I have the other staff members joining us in here to talk to you as soon as their classes let out.”

  Kent glanced through the door again. “Are the counselors here recovering addicts?”

  “Most are. We sometimes hire the ones who work hard and keep their sobriety. Addicts and alcoholics can relate to others who’ve been down the road they’re on. That’s why Trish is so good at what she does. I mean … did.” He looked around as if he’d misplaced something, then frowned down at the floor. Trish’s death clearly rattled him.

  “So did Trish have much interaction with the residents, after she brought them in?”

  “She taught two classes a day and counseled some of them. They loved her. Our minds are blown by this. Everybody’s been crying. Some of the residents have threatened to leave.”

  Yet they hadn’t looked all that depressed as they headed to the convenience store. Clearly, thoughts of a few blocks of relative freedom had lifted their spirits. “How many of the residents did she bring here?”

  He had to think for a minute. “Maybe ten. The rest came on their own, or were brought by family members. We have beds for fifty.”

  “Where was her office?”

  “Right next door.” He pointed with his thumb. “Cops were here this morning and sealed it up. Thankfully, they didn’t shut us down. There are some folks here that would wind up in a world of trouble if we had to send them home.”

  Kent nodded. “I had them seal it. I’ll go in and have a look around after we talk.”

  “You’ll probably find a lot. Trish was on her computer all the time. Has a pretty extensive Rolodex, a calendar, notes on all her calls … ”

  “Any idea who did this?”

  “None at all. I mean, there are times when we have to kick people out, and they get hot under the collar. But she hasn’t personally kicked them out. I’m the one who generally does that.”

  “You kick them out on what grounds? If they have so much freedom … ”

  “If they have a hot drug test, they’re out. If they break rules, or leave the premises without checking out, or go in each other’s rooms, or disrupt c
lass, all these things are grounds for dismissal.”

  “Anyone kicked out recently?”

  “No. A few have left on their own, but we haven’t dismissed anyone in a couple of months.”

  “Did Trish have any boyfriends?”

  He shook his head. “No, not lately.”

  The woman he’d seen teaching the class across the hall bolted into the room. Her eyes were red, swollen. She took one look at him and burst into tears.

  “Sharon, this is Detective Harlan, from Atlanta.”

  “How did she die?” she blurted. “I heard it was in the parking garage, but what happened?”

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  “Well, how could anybody be murdered in an airport?”

  He ignored the question. “How well did you know her?”

  She grabbed a tissue out of the box on Sean’s desk and blew her nose. “We were best friends. Why would anyone want Trish dead?”

  He spent the next hour questioning Sharon, but got little useful information. Then he talked to the other counselors, taking copious notes in case something proved useful later.

  Finally, he went into Trish’s office, saw the clutter of busyness, the expectation of her return. Before touching anything, he took a visual inventory. Her desk had Post-it notes stuck all over it. He saw one with Emily Covington’s name at the top. Pulling his rubber gloves out of his pocket, he slipped them on and read.

  Emily Covington, 18

  Mother, Barbara

  Addictions: X, H, C, and others

  Crisis point — needs me Monday

  Payment wired

  At the bottom, in a different-colored ink, she’d written, Paid.

  He logged that in, photographed and bagged it, then spent several hours going through her things. He logged her laptop as evidence, along with her calendar and some of the papers on her desk, using a suitcase to collect it all.

  Finally, he locked her office up again, in case he had to come back. When he came out, he thanked the staff and saw the residents crowded around a television.

  Barbara Covington was on the screen, talking to the press. She was crying, and she looked very small and delicate as she made an appeal for her daughter. A sudden, protective urge welled in his chest — an emotion he’d thought was long buried.

  He hoped he didn’t find the girl dead. He’d hate to have to break it to this woman and her son.

  He would hate it almost as much if he had to tell her he’d arrested the girl for murder. But that was probably exactly what would happen.

  His phone rang as he was taking the suitcase of evidence out to his car. He put it to his ear. “Whatcha got, Andy?”

  “I’ve been with the video tech,” Andy said. “There’s definitely something in the video, but we haven’t been able to enhance it enough to figure out what it is.”

  “Did you see the door opening? Could anyone be getting out?”

  “The perspective of the camera makes it hard to see that side of the car.”

  Since Trish had parked her own car, he couldn’t say that was by design. But if someone other than Emily was involved, they had chosen the door that couldn’t be seen by the cameras. “So is he giving up?”

  “No, he’s taking it over to the state police to see if their equipment might do a better job.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “He said he’d go this afternoon.”

  “Did you stress the urgency? We need to know how many people we’re looking for.”

  “I did. He knows. I’ll call you as soon as he gets back to me.”

  As Kent drove back to Atlanta, he thought of that mother who looked so fragile. Her determination suggested a strength that he couldn’t help admiring. He suspected there was more to Barbara Covington than brokenness and fear … and the picture Emily’s online journals painted of her.

  He hoped Emily saw the press conference. It would do her good to see how hard Barbara was fighting. Maybe that would penetrate that ironclad head of hers.

  eighteen

  Barbara and Lance stopped at Kinko’s on the way back to the hotel to get the posters they’d ordered. She went through a drivethru for hamburgers, but she couldn’t choke down more than a few bites. While Lance ate, Barbara read Emily’s printed MyS-pace pages.

  Therapy started today. My mother hired some big-ticket shrink to look inside my psyche, and I managed to convince him that I was majorly anxious, which meant more downers, and that I was depressed, which meant more uppers. I also did a little homework on ADD to explain my bad grades. I’ve always wanted to try some of those ADD meds.

  But it wasn’t like I was running the show. He started asking me all these questions about my dad’s death, and whether I saw his body or not after he passed. How I felt when I saw him lying in the coffin. Whether I dreamed of him.

  It got really hot in that room and I wanted to bag the whole thing and leave. If a person has to feed some doctor’s morbid curiosity, they should at least cool the place down ahead of time.

  I don’t like talking about my dad’s death. Why do people have to focus on that? I want to remember him the way he was before he died, the way he was on Christmas mornings. The way he was when he’d say, “Hey, Em, wanna go with me to the hardware store?” And then he’d show me three choices of hammers he wanted to buy, and let me pick. He valued my opinion, even when I was six.

  My mother chooses her own hammers.

  Today Mommy-o worked up a couple of tears and said she didn’t know why I keep hurling myself into oncoming traffic. I admit I was a little messed up at the time. Okay, a lot messed up. I’d just gotten my Fedex shipment of pills that I put on her credit card. She won’t know until the statement comes next month. She could check online, but doesn’t, because she’s oh-so-busy with all those rich clients of hers.

  Anyway, I had no idea what she was talking about, because I’m not stupid enough to run out into traffic, no matter how high I am.

  She screamed that she wasn’t talking about real traffic. It was a metaphor. Okay, so I know what a metaphor is. I’m not stupid. But I still don’t get the traffic thing.

  Besides, it wasn’t even her that taught me not to run out into traffic. My dad taught me to ride a bike, and he was extra-careful to make me understand about oncoming cars. If it had been up to my mom, I never would have even owned a bike.

  Sometimes I curse my dad for not being here to teach me to drive. Mom had a meltdown the first two times I tried. She forbade me to use the words “I know” when we drove, and after a few aborted attempts, where I had to pull over and let her drive, she finally hired a substitute to teach me. It went much better, but it wasn’t fun. Dad would have made it fun, and he never would have turned it over to someone else.

  I’ve had lots of wrecks, all because of being high. My dinged and dented bumper tells lots of stories that would curdle my driving teacher’s blood. Mom screams about revoking my driving privileges, but I know her hiding places. I always find the keys.

  Barbara put down the journal and looked at her son, who had mustard on his mouth. “She really hates me. Am I so horrible?”

  “No,” he said, turning on the TV. “You’re awesome.”

  “She just says such terrible things.”

  He grabbed his napkin and wiped his mouth. “She hates anybody that comes between her and her dope.”

  “But even through the haze, can’t she see that I love her?”

  “All she can see is that she loves herself.”

  “Then why is she trying to destroy herself?”

  He shrugged and took another bite of burger, got mustard on his mouth again. Thumbing the remote, he landed on a sci-fi movie that snagged his attention.

  She forced herself to read on.

  My friend Christopher just got out of rehab. He says it wasn’t so bad. That it was tough at first, but after a few days he got into the routine and made friends, and then it was kind of like camp. Seriously, he said that. I don’t think it would be
much like camp, especially when he’s twenty-two years old. If I’m going to drug camp at twenty-two, you can just go ahead and shoot me.

  So that was where Lance got the “drug camp” idea, Barbara thought — from reading her journals. Thankfully, Emily hadn’t noticed when he brought it up at the intervention.

  It worked for him, though. He got religion and got sober, and made up his mind to go back to school and change his life. But then he came back home, and his parents, who drink every night, refused to get rid of their booze. They said that just because he’s an addict, that doesn’t mean they should give up alcohol. That he needs to learn to get along sober even when others around him aren’t.

  Within three days, he was drinking their booze. The next thing he knew, he was right back with us, doing what we do.

  I was glad to have him back, because he’s a walking party when he’s using, but I admit part of me was a little let down. I guess I was hoping he could do it, so I’d know someone could.

  There was a moment when I went from being a party girl to a real, hardcore addict. I remember that exact moment, when I told myself that I could stop now and be all right. That if I got that next supply, there would be no turning back.

  I chose to go on. Now my hair’s falling out and my teeth are rotting, and I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. If I could turn back time …

  Mom likes to talk about generational blessings and curses. She quotes that verse that says the sins of the father are visited upon his sons to the third and fourth generations, but the blessings of those who love him go to the children for a thousand generations. Or something like that.

  Christopher’s family has those generational curses. Mine doesn’t. But I wonder if I’ve messed up those blessings that should have belonged to my family because my mom loves God. My dad loved him too. Maybe I’ve undone all that, and brought curses on us all.

  I don’t believe in God, I don’t think. But I do believe in demons. I see them at night, when I’m high. I see their shadowy forms looking in my windows and feel them breathing against my neck. I see hinges shaking and doorknobs jiggling, and know they’re coming for me.