Thread of Fear

by Jeff Shelby

  “So?” I asked. “Go find him.”

  “We'd prefer you tell us where he is,” the driver said.

  “I'd prefer you fuck off,” I said.

  The friend chuckled and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

  “Look, pal, you don't wanna do this,” the driver said.

  “You're right,” I said. “I don't. Who sent you?”

  “None of your business,” the friend said, an ugly grin on his face as he repeated my words.

  He had the biggest mouth, so I moved to him first, closing the distance between us in two steps. He backed up, surprised, and bumped into the back of the car. I feinted a punch at his head and he covered up. I pivoted, lifted my leg and jammed my foot down on his knee. It bent backward and he screamed as he crumpled to the ground.

  I heard the other guy's feet shuffle against the pavement. I brought my elbow up and turned back. I was aiming for his jaw, but didn't get high enough, catching him in the throat instead. He gagged and immediately grabbed for his neck. I brought my leg up and smashed my foot into the side of his knee. It collapsed inward and he tumbled to the ground.

  The entire thing had taken five seconds. I took a couple of deep breaths, steadying the adrenaline that surged in my veins. Both of them were still on the ground, clutching at their knees. The keys to the SUV were on the ground next to the driver and I picked them up. I rolled the passenger over first and checked for a wallet. Nothing. I checked the driver but his pockets were empty, too. I did a quick search of the car but aside from empty drink cups and snack food wrappers, didn't come up with anything. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the plates on the SUV and then one of each of them on the ground.

  I didn't know who they were or what they wanted. At best, they were low-level grunts, given how easily I'd spotted them and how easily I'd put them down. Who they were working for was another question. I couldn't figure out why Anchor would lie to me about them, so I was taking him at his word. They weren't his.

  I just wasn't sure who they belonged to.

  Or who else was looking for Patrick Dennison.

  SEVENTEEN

  I drove out of the parking lot, away from the grocery store and back toward the Strip. I found another gas station at the south end of Las Vegas Boulevard and dumped the keys to the SUV in a trash can. I hesitated for just a moment before texting all three photos to Anchor. I didn't ask for anything, didn't add a single word of text. He responded immediately, telling me he'd see what he could find out. My smile was grim. He was volunteering to help because I hadn't asked him for a thing.

  I ate my now-cold hot dog, downed the soda and watched the traffic as my car idled in the lot of the station. It wasn't so crowded yet that traffic had slowed to a crawl. It was still daylight. Once the sun set and the neon lights lit up the road, the cars would be bumper to bumper and the sidewalks jammed with people from all walks of life. The rising of the moon in Las Vegas was like some signal that it was okay to come out and play. People would filter out of the hotels and casinos and onto the streets, like someone chasing ants out of anthill.

  I picked up my phone and called Kathleen Dennison. I was vague, told her that I was following up on some leads and that I hoped to have more information soon. She didn't press, didn't ask questions, just thanked me and told me she'd wait to hear from me. We hung up and I stared at the screen for a minute.

  And then I dialed Lauren.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I'm already home.”

  A spike of worry stabbed my gut. “Why? You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” she said. She yawned. “Just got super tired around lunch time and wasn't feeling great. So I packed up my stuff at the office and came home. Elizabeth and I just got home from school.”

  “What's wrong? Why are you so tired?”

  “I think because there's a baby growing inside of me...”

  “Lauren, I'm serious.”

  She chuckled. “So am I. Just one of those pregnancy things, Joe. I just get worn down easier. And I'm a lot older than the last time my body went through this.”

  I remembered when she was pregnant with Elizabeth. She'd started passing out at seven every night and it had freaked me out because she was the kind of person who could stay up all night if she had to. The doctor assured me that it was just temporary, but it had still caused me anxiety, worrying that something was wrong with her. Hearing it again brought back those same worries.

  “I'm sitting on the couch,” Lauren said. “Going through paperwork. Taking it easy. I'm fine.”

  “Alright,” I said but I wasn't convinced.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  I gave her the uneventful version of my day, leaving out any mention of Anchor and the would-be thugs in the parking lot. I knew I'd have to tell her eventually, lay all the cards on the table and tell her exactly what was going on in my search for Patrick Dennison and what I was being asked to do. But, at that moment, sitting in a gas station parking lot a few hundred miles from home, a cold hot dog sitting heavily in my stomach, I wasn't ready to. I didn't know if I would ever be ready.

  “So you won't be home tonight.”

  Guilt gnawed at me. “No. I'm going to stay here tonight and then come back tomorrow.”

  The line buzzed.

  “You're not okay with that?” I said. “I told you I'd probably stay the night.”

  “I know. I'd just prefer you here.”

  I shifted in the car seat. “So you want me to come back, then? I can leave now.”

  “No, you can't,” she answered. “And we both know it because if you could, you already would've.”

  “I said I'd come back if you asked me to.”

  “And I don't want you to come back just because I asked you to,” she said. “That isn't going to be good for either one of us.” She was right. She'd feel guilty, I'd be irritated, then feel guilty about feeling irritated. “I just meant I'm tired and I don't like that you're gone. But I can hack it. And you'll be back tomorrow, right?”

  “I should be.”

  The line buzzed again.

  “You said you would be,” she said. The tone in her voice had changed.

  “I will be.”

  “You said you should be,” she said. “That's different than you will be.”

  She was using her lawyer voice on me, as if I was under cross-examination. And I didn't like it. “Lauren. I'll be back tomorrow.”

  “For how long?”

  I refused to play the game. The last thing we needed to be doing was arguing. “I'll be back tomorrow,” I said instead.

  She must have heard the finality in my voice, knew that I wasn't going to engage. “Okay,” she said. “I'm gonna let you talk to Elizabeth.”

  I heard the phone shuffling in the background. I knew she was mad – it was hard to ignore. And it was also hard to miss the fact that she hadn't said goodbye or that she loved me. I took a deep breath, telling myself it didn't matter. Lauren was tired. She missed me. None of those things added up to her not loving me.

  “Hey, Dad,” Elizabeth said.

  Her voice was sweet and cheerful and instantly improved my mood. “Hey, kid. What's going on?”

  “Putting my shoes on to go run.”

  “Yeah?” I couldn't hide my surprise. “You're going?”

  “Duh.”

  The muscles in my gut clenched again. It was the residual fallout from having lost her once before. Any time she walked out the door without me, I found myself wanting to go with her, to protect her, to not let her out of my sight. It was irrational and completely unfair to Elizabeth, but I'd lost her for nearly a decade and I didn't think that worry was ever going to go away.

  “I'm going before it gets dark,” she told me, knowing what was going through my head. “And I'm not going for long.”

  “Text me your time when you get back?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  She knew w
hy I wanted her to do it. I wanted to know how fast she went, of course, but I wanted to know she was back in the house. I appreciated the fact that she didn't call me on it or resist.

  “Your mom doing okay?” I asked.

  “Hang on,” she said.

  I could hear her breathing in the line, so I knew she was still there.

  “Okay,” she said. “I'm upstairs. Yeah, I think she's okay. She came home early because she said she didn't feel good.”

  “Yeah, that's what she told me, too.”

  “She looks like she's gonna pass out. Like, way tired.”

  “She's lying down?”

  “Sort of. She's on the couch.”

  “Keep an eye on her, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “And I think she's mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I'm staying here until tomorrow.”

  “You're not coming home tonight?”

  I watched the traffic on the boulevard. “No, I'm gonna stay until tomorrow. I want to try to get a few things done.”

  “Will you have to go back?”

  “I don't know yet, kid. I'm sorry.”

  “It's okay,” she said. “You said you might have to stay.”

  “I promise I'll be back as quick as I can.”

  “I know,” she said. “I believe you. I'll tell Mom not to be mad at you.”

  I laughed. “You think you can convince her?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “But I'll try.”

  “Fair enough. But you don't have to do that.”

  “I know.” She paused. “The track coach talked to me today. At school.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Did you tell him about me?” I could hear the frown in her voice.

  “No. I don't even know who it is.”

  “It's Coach Beltran,” she said. “He's a P.E. teacher, too. He said he heard I was a runner.”

  “I didn't say anything. I told you. It was up to you.”

  “I know, I know,” she said. “I think it was probably one of the other P.E. teachers. We ran last week in class and they had to time us for a grade.”

  “How'd you do?”

  She made some noise that sounded like a snort. “It's P.E. – no one tries and no one cares. I finished first.” She hesitated, then added, “I was just under seven. It was a mile.”

  I let out a low whistle. “You went under seven?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn't tell me?”

  “It was P.E,” she repeated. “And I don't know the coach was right. He was just using his watch.”

  “Still. Even if it was that close, that's fast.”

  “I guess.”

  I guess. She was being more than modest. Running under seven on a high school track with no coaching was impressive.

  “What did the coach say?” I asked.

  “Just that he heard I was a runner and that he was looking for girls for the 400 and the mile,” she said. “He's nice. He smells like Doritos, though.”

  “You like Doritos,” I pointed out, smiling. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I run with my dad and that I've never been on a team or anything like that,” she said. “And I told him I'd think about it.”

  I had to bite back everything I wanted to say to her. I'd been giving her the soft sell because I wanted her to be the one who decided to try it. I was secretly happy that someone else was suggesting that she give it a shot.

  “Cool,” I said. “You should.”

  “I know, I know. I will.” She sighed. “Okay. I just tied my shoes. I need to go.”

  “Alright. Be careful. And text me when you're back.”

  “I will,” she said. “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, too, kid.”

  We hung up and I sat there in the car for a minute, the engine idling, the traffic starting to pick up on the Strip. I hated that I was missing a run with her. Not just because I worried when she was out by herself, but because I missed that time with her. And even though I complained, I liked having her kick my ass on our runs. Not because I was a sucker for punishment or because I liked being reminded of my middle-aged-ness but because I'd already missed out on such a huge chunk of her life. Missing even one more small thing felt magnified because of that.

  My thoughts turned to Anchor. Like some genie in a bottle, he'd granted the only wish I'd ever had. He'd given me back my daughter. But he also held the power to take it all away. If I screwed up and didn't deliver what he wanted, my life as I knew it had the potential to be over. Elizabeth wouldn't be taken away from me – I'd be taken from her. Hearing her voice on the phone, the hint of excitement mixed with self-consciousness as she relayed the track story, her assurances that she'd talk me up to her mother, her 'I love you' as we said goodbye... it all crystallized for me what I wanted and what I needed.

  I wanted to go back to Coronado and get back to our life. My life with her and Lauren and the baby we were expecting.

  Which meant I needed to figure out where the hell Patrick Dennison was.

  EIGHTEEN

  After two days of working Dennison's accounts and contacts, both on the phone and in person, I'd tapped only one direct connection and that was Carina Armstrong. I didn't want her to be my only lead but the hard truth was she was all I had. And I knew Anchor would expect me to follow up with her, to seek out more information than what a ten-minute conversation at her place of work could provide.

  She was my one line to Dennison and until I was sure I'd gotten everything from her I could, I needed to focus on her. Even if she didn't like it. And even if I didn't like it.

  I sat there in the gas station parking lot as the late afternoon traffic built, and starting working different online databases, trying to locate an address for Carina. After thirty minutes staring at the screen on my phone, I had two addresses attached to her name, neither close to the other. One was on the east end of town, the other to the northwest. Since I was closer to the east, I headed that way first.

  As evening neared, the city streets filled up and traffic was heavy going into the neighborhoods. It took me nearly an hour to find the apartment address I had and then five minutes for me to knock on the door and find a guy in seventies on the other side of it. He gruffly informed me that he'd lived there for six years and had never heard of Carina Armstrong. I apologized for bothering him and started the trek to the other side of the Las Vegas metropolis.

  The sun dipped behind the mountains to the west, the sky taking on a hazy, brownish-pink color. The hotel and casino lights popped, a neon glow against the dusky twilight. I wondered what the rules were for turning on those lights – was there an ordinance? Was it just common knowledge or to each his own? – and I wondered how much it cost to light up one of the massive resorts that lined the Strip.

  It took me forty-five minutes to work my way on a diagonal across the Strip area and drive into the neighborhoods in the northwest corner of the region. Traffic finally eased up and I was no longer inching along between lights. My phone directed me through several retail strips with chain restaurants and grocery stores. I could've been anywhere in the country, even with the casinos looming in the distance. It looked and felt like a hundred other suburbs I'd been in over the years.

  My phone dinged and I stole a quick look at it. A text from Elizabeth, telling me she was back. I smiled. I'd message her back as soon as I was done.

  I neared a townhouse development and the voice guiding me on my phone told me I'd reached my destination. It was a cluster of pseudo-brownstones, three to a building, each with their own small front yard and porch. Many of them had for sale signs stuck in the front yard. I wove my way through the narrow streets until I found the number I was looking for. I pulled the car to the curb and cut the engine.

  It was an end-unit. There was a row of flowerpots on the front railing and a freestanding swinging bench seat behind them. A small wind chime on the opposite side of the porch fluttered
in the breeze. I got out of the car, walked up the path, surrounded by neatly manicured grass, hopped up the three steps to the porch and knocked.

  No answer.

  I knocked a couple more times, but no one came to the door. I looked up and down the block. It was quiet. No one was out walking their dog or running or gardening.

  I jumped down off the porch and walked around the side, which led into an alley. A garage was attached to the unit, and an eight-foot privacy fence encircled a small yard at the back of the townhouse. The gate was unlocked and I pulled it open.

  A small concrete pad extended off the back of the house, surrounded by grass. It was neat and well trimmed, as if it had just been mowed. A covered barbecue stood on one side of the pad, a couple of white resin chairs on the other. There was a small stoop beneath the back door.

  And the back door was open about an inch.

  I pulled the gate closed behind me and walked over to the stoop, listening for voices or music or something.

  Nothing.

  I stepped up on the stoop and knocked loudly.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” I called into the gap.

  Nothing.

  I didn't want to go into the house without her being there. It opened me up to too much crap. I hadn't planned to break in if she wasn't home. But now I was looking at an open door and I needed more info on Dennison. And Carina Armstrong was my only connection.

  I pushed the door open with my elbow and stepped inside.

  I was in the kitchen, the smell of lemons and bacon co-mingling in the air. An empty skillet sat on the stove, the dish strainer full of clean dishes. The room was small, mostly yellow, and the fading sunlight from the window above the sink cast an orangish glow on the walls. The floor was vinyl, well worn but clean.

  “Hello?” I called out again.

  Nothing.

  I stepped into a small hallway adorned with several pictures on the walls. Two girls on a boat – they looked like sisters. A woman with an elderly couple at a restaurant, all three holding wine glasses in a toast. The same woman astride a horse, and then another, standing in front of tent. I checked each one closely. The photos all looked recent and Carina Armstrong was in each one.