by James Hunt
Grant had slicked back his hair, the thick black strands growing so long they were starting to crawl down his neck. He had always kept it short when he was on the force, but living out in the middle of nowhere came with a certain lifestyle, and Grant had slid into it comfortably.
Aside from the hosts, Grant knew no one and had resigned himself to the corner, watching the guests mingle. So far he found at least three people that wouldn’t be able to drive home, two of them already spilling vodka onto Mocks’s new carpet, which they tried to hide with a nearby ottoman. And he found one man, wedding band on display, flirting in the opposite corner of the room with a redhead that wasn’t his wife, as Grant noted by the lack of hardware on the redhead’s left hand. She had already noticed the man’s wedding band, but judging by the way she kept touching his chest, Grant knew she didn’t care.
Grant also found a few pairs of eyes that watched him, lips whispering behind hands and raised glasses. He had hoped enough time had passed since he’d left Seattle, but front-page headlines were hard to shake. Especially national ones.
“Hi.”
Grant turned from his observation of the guests in the living room to a blond woman holding a highball glass that was filled with nothing but ice cubes. She was a half foot shorter than Grant and wore a strapless blue dress that clung to her like a second skin and only covered halfway down her thigh.
“Hello,” Grant said.
“I’m Kelly.” She wiped the condensation from her palm and then extended her hand, the dress accentuating her blue eyes, which never left Grant’s.
Grant took her hand politely, returning the smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Kelly sidled closer, still holding eye contact as she chewed on the end of the straw from her drink. “So how do you know Susan and Rick?”
“Susan and I used to work together,” Grant answered.
“So you’re a detective?” Kelly’s eyes brightened, and she gave his arm a squeeze, giggling at the muscle she found underneath. “I bet you caught a lot of bad guys.”
“I’m not a detective anymore.” Grant sipped from his cup and turned his attention back to the living room, looking for Mocks so he could escape, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“So what do you do now?” Kelly asked, undeterred by Grant’s lack of interest and giving him a good once-over.
“Consulting,” Grant said, staring into the black liquid of his Coke, the ice cubes nearly melted.
“I’m in real estate,” Kelly said unprovoked. “I’m the one who recommended this house. I didn’t close it, but a good friend of mine helped them out.” She gestured to the home. “Isn’t it great?”
“It’s very nice.” Grant drained the rest of his Coke then gave it a little shake to signify a refill. “Excuse me.”
“Don’t go too far,” Kelly said, smiling as she bit her lower lip and watched Grant leave.
Grant bypassed the kitchen and the drinks and opened the sliding glass doors that led out to the deck in the backyard. The wood was wet from the afternoon’s rain, but the grassy back yard smelled of green and water that made everything feel fresh and new. It was one of the more redeeming qualities of living in Seattle.
He walked to the deck’s edge, thankful for the breeze that cooled the sweat collecting beneath his undershirt. He hated stuff like this. And even as he found himself alone in the backyard, he still couldn’t shake the lingering anxiousness.
The view from the backyard was gorgeous, a picturesque sight of Seattle’s downtown skyline. Lights from high-rises twinkled under the cloudy night sky, the Space Needle off to the right, slowly spinning the restaurant patrons inside.
Grant smiled at the memory of his late wife, and their third wedding anniversary, which they’d spent there. They’d lived in Seattle most of their lives but had never been. The food was good, but it was more for the novelty experience of the attraction and the views of the city.
“You can brood inside, you know.”
Grant smiled and turned to find Mocks on the deck, waddling forward with both hands on her bulging stomach, which had neared nine months of growth. But somehow, even in her pregnancy, the only weight she gained was in her stomach. The baby didn’t seem to have an effect on her metabolism at all. “I’ve always preferred to brood alone.”
“Yeah, I know.” Mocks waddled next to him, and she absentmindedly rubbed her stomach as she smiled at the view. She had cut her hair shorter since the last time he’d seen her, probably out of practicality, which brought more attention to her face. Pale freckles dotted her light skin, and her green eyes almost glowed in the dark. She was never a woman who flaunted her good looks, but women like her rarely needed to. “Hard to believe anything bad ever happens down there when it looks like this from up here.”
“Things always look good from far away,” Grant said.
“I saw you talking to Kelly,” Mocks said, nudging Grant’s arm with her elbow, that familiar grin stretched up the right side of her face. She bounced her eyebrows. “Thinking of spending the night?”
Grant shook his head. “Not my type.”
“Who cares? She’s hot. You’re single. And both of you need to get laid.” Mocks punched his arm. “I swear, sometimes I think you like doing things the hard way.”
“I just like to take my time,” Grant said.
“Well, clock is ticking, buddy. I mean, how long has it been? A year? Two years? You need to get your oil checked!” Mocks snorted as she clutched her pregnant belly with both hands.
“You keep that up, and you’ll go into labor right now,” Grant answered.
“Oh god, please, please, pleeeeease let that happen.” Mocks stared down at her massive belly. “Do you have any idea how much I want this kid out of me? I have to pee every three minutes. I can’t sleep. Everything I eat gives me heartburn, and Rick will not stop badgering me about my health and wellness.” She cocked her head to the right and then to the left as she mimicked her husband. “Did you take your prenatal vitamin? Did you read that baby book? Are you practicing your breathing?” She flung her head back, fake crying. “Just make it stop.”
Grant put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Rick is just being overprotective. I was the same way with Ellen.”
Mocks rested her head against Grant’s side. “After all of my pregnant rage, I’m surprised he hasn’t run off to Canada.”
“You’re lucky to have him.”
“I know.” Mocks lifted her head up, her voice softening as she nudged his arm. “You doing all right out there in the woods?”
Grant forced a smile. “I’m good.” And for the most part, it was true. But he decided to keep the sleepless nights and the nightmares that flared up to himself. He didn’t want to bring up bad memories. It would only worry her, and she had enough on her plate already. “So what do you have for me?”
“Already down to business, huh?” Mocks sighed, and then removed his arm as she turned back toward the house, swaying a bit from the added ballast around her midsection. “C’mon, Romeo.”
Grant trailed Mocks through the crowded kitchen and living room, stopping and smiling whenever someone made a comment, telling her how much they loved the house. Mocks nodded her appreciation, but when they made it to her office and closed the door, she stuck out her tongue and fake-gagged.
“God, I hate these things,” Mocks said, heading to her desk. “I didn’t want to do it, but Rick said we’d regret it if we didn’t.” She lowered her voice an octave to imitate her husband. “It’s part of the experience, babe.” She opened a drawer, shuffling the contents inside. “I don’t even know who half of those people are.” She plucked out a stack of folders and extended them to Grant. “Latest cold cases that were shelved last month.”
A brief rush of purpose flooded through Grant as he took hold of them. The cold cases that Mocks gave him were the one thread that still connected him to police work. He’d gotten his private investigator license last year, and as such, he could work as a consultan
t for a police department so long as the officer in charge of the division signed off on it.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Grant said, smiling when Mocks winced.
“God, I still haven’t gotten used to that.” Mocks sat down, the chair groaning from her weight as she leaned back, hands still rubbing her stomach. “After all of the shit I used to pull against Lieutenant Furst, I’m surprised karma hasn’t paid me a visit yet. I’m just waiting for another me to waltz into my department and set everything on fire.”
Grant opened the first file. “You’d be lucky to have her.”
“Save some of that charm for Miss Blond out there.” Mocks leaned forward, bouncing those light-brown eyebrows again. “You know she used to be a gymnast.”
But Grant only grunted as he scanned the first page of the case file on top. He was greeted with the picture of a young boy, age nine, black hair and brown eyes, abducted two years ago in northern Seattle. A body was never found, and the only people that cared anything about the investigation anymore were the parents. And now Grant.
“You know the chief spoke to me a few months ago after the Collet case,” Mocks said, swiveling to her left and right in her chair. “His offer still stands.”
“I’m not going to be an administrator, Mocks,” Grant said, flipping the page to examine the notes from the detective assigned to the case. “I don’t want to get stuck behind a desk.”
Mocks drummed her fingers on her own desk and nodded then sighed. “I’d be lying if I said you get used to it.” She lowered her eyes to her stomach. “But I suppose you have to roll with the change that life throws at you.”
“You’re going to be a great mom, Mocks.” Grant closed the file and then circled around the desk and knelt by her side. “The kid is so lucky to have you.”
Mocks sniffled, her eyes growing big the way they did whenever she was feeling vulnerable. It was an expression reserved for the people she trusted. The people she loved. “Rick keeps saying the same thing, but he has to say that kind of stuff, you know?”
Grant took her hands, that calmness rolling off him and onto her. “It’s true. You’re going to kick ass at motherhood.”
Mocks laughed and then wiped her eyes. “All right, enough sucking up. You’ll still get more cases next month.” She pushed herself out of the chair, Grant hovering close to make sure she didn’t fall. “So are you heading back tonight, or do you need a place to crash?”
“In the morning,” Grant answered. “I’ve got a hotel booked in the city, and I need to take care of a few things before I leave.”
“Things, huh?” Mocks asked, an accusing note to her voice.
“Nothing that’ll get me in trouble,” Grant answered. “Promise.” And it was true—it wouldn’t get him in trouble, but he kept the whole truth to himself. He didn’t want Mocks to think he was slipping backward. But it had been a long time since he’d been in the city. And there was one place that he needed to see before he left. It was a test for him, and he was hoping he passed.
“So there is no way that I can convince you to go home with the curvy, hot former gymnast for some meaningless sex?” Mocks asked.
“Maybe next time.”
“You know,” Mocks said as they walked out of the office together, “sometimes I think that I’m the guy in our relationship.”
“Me too.”
3
The red digital numbers on the clock blinked in the same rhythm as the jarring blast of the alarm. A hairy, liver-spotted hand reached from beneath the covers and blindly smacked the clock, taking three tries before the alarm clicked off. The huddled mass beneath the sheets groaned as the hand remained still on the nightstand.
After a moment, the pile of old bones stirred, and Barry Carr slowly removed his covers, sat up, and planted both feet on the carpet as he stretched, his body stiff and badgering him with the aches and pains associated with seven decades of living. He turned around to find his wife, Jane, still sound asleep beneath the covers. The woman could sleep through anything.
Joints popped and muscles creaked on Barry’s slow path toward the kitchen, where he powered on the coffee pot and headed to the front door to find the stack of newspapers waiting to be delivered.
The paperboy had assured him that he would get the papers delivered on time and to the correct houses, but Barry felt more comfortable doing it himself. Plus, it made him feel as if he was still working.
The properties that he and his wife ran practically took care of themselves nowadays, and he figured it was only a matter of time before they sold everything and moved to Florida or southern California, where they would live out the rest of their days in the warm sunshine. Part of him was thrilled with the idea, and another part hated it.
Barry heaved the stack of papers brought in from the city into a wagon, and after draining his second cup of coffee and polishing off a bagel with a generous helping of cream cheese, he tugged the wagon down the dirt road of Oak Lane, where the bulk of their seven properties were located.
The houses were spread out along the road, their residents enjoying the privacy and quiet that their small town offered. Barry and Jane were lucky to have excellent tenants, though that was mainly due to Jane running the office and application process. She could sniff out bad eggs like a bloodhound. Something he was glad for back when his daughters were dating.
Barry heaved one of the papers onto Mr. Grant’s front porch, noting that his car was gone, which was unusual. He liked Grant. He was a man who understood that God gave people two ears and one mouth for a reason. Jane loved him too. But he suspected that it was because Grant reminded her of a young Cary Grant. Barry remembered when she used to say that about him.
The stack of papers rocked back and forth in the wagon, and the front right wheel slowed in mud as he approached the Dunnys’ house. Barry had his head down, grumbling to himself about putting some WD-40 on the axle again, and when he lifted his head, he stopped.
The Dunnys’ front door was wide open. Barry looked behind him, then up toward the road, then at the Dunnys’ SUV, which was still parked in the driveway, the back hatch open. He left the wagon in the road and shuffled up the drive toward the front door.
“Mary? Chuck?”
After no answer, Barry walked to the open door and peered inside. The hallway light was still on. “Anna? Bandit?” But when Barry took a step toward the living room, his old eyes still not adjusted to the dark inside, glass crunched beneath his shoe.
Barry lifted his foot, finding a broken picture frame. His knees popped as he reached for the frame, then he brushed off the shards of glass. The photo was comprised of the three Dunnys and their dog on the day they moved into the house. They were all smiling.
Barry blinked a few times, and when he looked into the living room, his jaw dropped. “My god.”
The living room had been torn apart. Furniture broken, pictures smashed, cushions torn. Barry stepped through the carnage, being mindful of his feet and to not trip over anything. The more he surveyed, the faster his heart beat.
“Mary! Chuck! Anna!” Barry screamed louder and passed through the kitchen, finding it in similar disarray. He brought his fingertips to his lips, his right hand still clutching the picture he’d picked up. He stepped from the kitchen and into the hallway, close to the back door.
Morning light shone through a small square window on the back door and onto a patch of hallway to his left. Barry squinted, noticing dark blotches. There was something violent about the stain, and fear gripped him as he forced his wobbling knees over to investigate.
Barry stopped a few inches shy of the stain, arms limp at his sides, and as the realization of what the stain was washed over him, the photo drifted from his fingertips and floated to the floor.
“Oh no,” Barry whispered, staring at the blotches of blood. For a moment, he couldn’t move, but then he took a step backward and, gaining momentum, broke into a shambling jog. He wheezed, and his joints ached as he left the wagon of newspapers in th
e road, his eyes widening on his retreat. He didn’t know what happened, but he knew the Dunnys were in trouble. And he needed the police.
The dreams didn’t come as often as they used to, but when they did rear their ugly heads, they made their presence known. It was always the same nightmare. And as Grant twitched in his sleep, reclined in the driver’s seat of his rusted Buick, which sat parked off to the side of a residential neighborhood, the past was thrust to the forefront of his subconscious. But he thought they might show up. After all, he was taking a trip down memory lane.
Grant was back on the beach, the waves lapping over the sand like black tar, staining anything it touched. He was alone, badge clipped onto his belt, and his service pistol in his hand. He was cold with sweat, and he took slow steps in the sand, but he left no footprints.
The night sky was cloudless and devoid of stars. Only the moon shone down, silhouetting a group of figures that huddled together. And even though Grant moved toward them slowly, he didn’t do it willingly.
A force tugged at his chest, yanking him along at a steady pace. And no matter how hard he tried to stop or turn around, that force continued to pull him toward the figures. He looked down at the pistol in his hand. He squeezed the handle so tightly that his knuckles were ghost white. He tried dropping the gun, but again that same inexplicable force wouldn’t allow him to let go.
The closer Grant came to the figures, the colder he became, and when he stood behind them, less than a few feet away, he couldn’t stop himself from shaking.
A dozen women had their backs to him, each of them with long strands of black hair that cascaded down their backs. They stood lazily in the sand, gently swaying back and forth like the palm fronds in the breeze. And then suddenly they all stopped, frozen in place. Grant shut his eyes, looking away, not wanting to see their faces.
