Back Track

by Jason Dean

  ‘She has,’ Michelle said. ‘Our last conversation was only a brief one, just an update really, but she said she’d been doing some waitressing at a local diner. You know, until she figured out what she really wanted to do. She said it was tiring, but she sounded happy she was doing something.’

  ‘There you go. So she’s working a shift. Meeting people. Maybe she’s met up with someone who’s taking up what time she’s got left over. It happens.’

  She gave him that sad smile again. ‘I know what you’re saying, and yes, that’s possible. But she’d stay in contact somehow. I just know she would. The bond between us is too strong. I was the only one she could turn to when she was with him, and that only made us closer. I can’t make you believe me, but I just know something’s wrong.’

  Bishop said nothing. Just looked down at his coffee and took another sip, despite how it tasted. He did believe Michelle, that was the problem. If Selina had kept her mother in the loop till now, she wouldn’t then cut her out all of a sudden. Not without a damn good reason. It would go against everything Bishop knew of her character. Which meant something or someone had prevented her from doing so. And was still preventing her. But without further information, the possibilities were endless. He needed to narrow those possibilities down to probabilities, then go on from there. And not just for Michelle’s peace of mind, either.

  He sat back and, without warning, found his thoughts returning to Laurette Chounan. The girl he’d failed to protect thirteen years before. And the main reason he’d decided to help Selina with her problem.

  During Bishop’s final year of military service, his FAST unit had been stationed in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, for something called Operation Fairwinds. They were there to provide security for the Navy Mobile Construction Battalion and the Air Force engineers tasked with repairing roads, hospitals and schools in the area. It was tiring work and the days were long, hot and unforgiving. One evening, Bishop, knowing his men needed a night away from the base, had taken them to one of the few decent bars in the area and it was there he first saw Laurette. She was drinking with a bunch of her girlfriends. He watched her for half an hour before she finally spotted him and smiled back. Then he introduced himself and they began to talk. She was very pretty, with skin of the darkest brown and light green eyes. The kind of eyes that promised the earth. Later that very night, she delivered on that promise.

  After that they began to see each other whenever they could. Bishop was soon smitten with her, and she with him. They were a good match in almost every department, not just the physical. He’d even started to think about his imminent discharge and how that might affect their relationship. Maybe he’d get serious with her. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. They were both still young. And when you were young, the possibilities were endless.

  Then, after a month, Laurette just disappeared. Vanished. Bishop couldn’t find her anywhere. If anybody in her apartment block knew where she was, they weren’t talking. It didn’t stop him. He searched every place he could think of. He tried all their haunts, questioned all her friends, and got absolutely nowhere. He was getting more desperate with each passing day, when a week later she turned up again. At first she wouldn’t let Bishop into the apartment, and then when she finally relented he saw why. Her face and body were covered in ugly cuts and bruises, and her entire left arm was in plaster.

  It took a while, but Laurette finally gave him the name of the man responsible. Jean-Robert Develaux. An old boyfriend and ex-gang member who still thought he had unrestricted access to her whenever he felt in the mood. She pleaded with Bishop to let it go, told him she was just grateful Develaux hadn’t used a knife on her. His specialty, apparently. Her pleas were wasted on Bishop. Every part of him wanted to pay this Develaux a personal visit, and soon. But Laurette had no idea where he lived any more.

  It took Bishop a few days of asking questions around town, that’s all. Money usually gets you the answers you want in most parts of the world. Port-au-Prince was no different. He finally tracked Develaux down to a tin-roofed shanty a few miles outside Cité Soleil, one of the worst slums in the western hemisphere. Once night came, Bishop, disguised in a ski mask, broke into the two-room house. Then he just waited.

  Develaux showed up at three in the morning, wasted to the gills, with a girl on his arm. Bishop immediately knocked him out, then pushed some money into the stunned girl’s hands and told her to leave. She didn’t need much persuading. Thirty minutes later, when Develaux regained consciousness, Bishop calmly and systematically beat him to a pulp. He used only his hands and made sure no part of Jean-Robert’s body was left untouched. Then he broke both of the man’s wrists for good measure. He told Develaux, in rough French, that if he ever went near Laurette again, he’d cut off his dick, or worse. Then he left.

  That was his biggest mistake. Leaving Develaux alive.

  Three weeks later, Laurette paid the price for that mistake.

  They’d reverted to seeing each other fairly regularly once more, but after several days without any contact, Bishop got a bad feeling and found his way into her apartment. The first thing he saw was all the dried blood everywhere. Then he saw what was left of her body and face. It was barely recognizable as human. He knew straight away that Develaux had made her last moments on earth as painful as humanly possible, no doubt relishing every second of her agony.

  Bishop closed off his emotions and felt himself turn cold. From then on, he devoted every off-duty moment to locating Develaux again. The old shanty was a washout, as he knew it would be. But there were other leads, and he followed all of them. Two months later, he finally found him alone in a run-down, fly-ridden third-storey apartment close to the harbour. He broke in silently, then used Develaux’s own knife to do what he should have done three months before, making sure the murderer experienced exactly what he’d put Laurette through. And then, once he felt he’d got the point across, he slit the ruined thing’s throat from ear to ear and calmly watched its remaining life seep into the floorboards. Bishop didn’t particularly feel proud of what he’d done, but he was satisfied with the end result. One less piece of shit in the world was no bad thing.

  But it didn’t bring Laurette back. Or rid Bishop of the guilt he felt over her murder. He wasn’t sure anything ever would, until Selina came along and unwittingly offered him a chance of absolution. In his own mind, at least.

  As he slowly came back to the present, he noticed Michelle frowning at him from across the table. She said, ‘Please tell me what you’re thinking, Bishop.’

  He said, ‘I’m thinking I need to go pay your daughter a visit.’

  NINE

  At 01.15 the next morning, Bishop stood at the rear entrance to the Heritage Apartments in Saracen, Arizona. The complex was located on a quiet, residential street about two miles from the centre of town. He saw only two other vehicles in the rear parking area. Probably due to the poor lighting on this side. But that was why he’d chosen it over the bay at the front. He didn’t want to advertise his presence if he could help it.

  He’d flown this time. No need for the cloak and dagger routine any more. He’d taken the 20.30 Delta flight from JFK and landed at Sky Harbour Airport in Phoenix at 23.25, Arizona time. After hiring a Ford Taurus he made the drive in less than ninety minutes.

  Heritage was made up of a number of loosely arranged two-storey buildings, all interconnected by concrete footbridges and stairways. Each block overlooked a communal garden area. A few trees here and there gave a sense of enclosure to the place. Even in the darkness it looked tranquil. Just one of the reasons he’d picked it out for Selina.

  Bishop took the spare keys from his pocket, glad he’d decided to have copies made in case of emergencies. He figured this qualified. Of course, he could always pick the lock, but it was usually best to go the legit route whenever possible. He unlocked the gate, walked over to the second building on the left and climbed the steps at the side. Upon reaching the second floor, he kept walking until he re
ached No. 40 at the end.

  He used the other two keys to silently unlock the door. If he found Selina inside, he’d apologise for the intrusion. But he didn’t think he would. He slowly pushed the door open a few inches until he felt a slight obstruction on the other side. He listened for a few beats, but heard nothing. Inside, there was only darkness. He stepped through the gap and closed the door behind him. Then he felt along the wall and turned on the lights.

  He was in the short entrance hall that emptied out into the living room at the end. The bathroom and kitchen areas both opened off from the right. Directly to his left was the bedroom. His first impression was that the place was empty and had been for a while. The air smelt musty. The windows clearly hadn’t been opened in some time.

  Bishop began to get a bad feeling in his gut.

  And then there was the obstruction he’d felt behind the door. The accumulated mail still lay in a messy pile and Bishop crouched down and carefully went through it. Most of it was junk mail and flyers, but there were a couple of bills halfway down. One from the gas company, and an energy bill from APS. The post date on the gas bill was fifteen days old. Twenty-one days for the electric. Then more junk mail, more flyers. And that was it. So Selina hadn’t been here in at least three weeks. Probably longer.

  The feeling in his gut intensified.

  Bishop stood and checked the bedroom first. It was empty and the bed had been made. He gave the other rooms a cursory inspection and soon discovered they were also empty. All the drapes were drawn. There were no pictures on the walls. No books in the bookcase. The apartment had come furnished, but it still felt unused. Selina hadn’t yet imprinted her personality on the place. It was still waiting to be lived in.

  There could be a plausible explanation. She might have fallen hard for a guy and moved in with him straight away. Just let everything else go to hell and decided to live for the moment for once. Highly unlikely, of course. Especially with what Bishop knew of Selina. But he couldn’t entirely rule it out. Not yet.

  He sat down on the living-room couch. Resting on one of the arms was a fat Stephen King paperback open to its spine. Selina looked to be about halfway in. He flicked through the pages and found no hidden notes. On the coffee table were some fashion magazines, a three week-old copy of the Saracen Post, a bookmark advertising a local bookstore and some recent water ring stains. The room was free of other personal effects.

  Bishop got up and entered the bathroom again. The only noteworthy item in the medicine cabinet was a box containing 60 Xanax pills. Two of the six blister packs were empty already. Which meant Selina was still suffering from regular anxiety attacks. Not exactly surprising after what she’d been through.

  In the kitchen, the refrigerator held some TV dinners, some canned soft drinks, a half-full bottle of white wine and various vegetables, now rotten and discoloured. There was a second-hand portable TV on the counter. He found some new cutlery, crockery and glasses in the cupboards, some cleaning products under the sink, and that was pretty much it.

  In the bedroom closet Bishop found some Levis, a few skirts and a wide variety of shirts on hangers. All long-sleeved. Nothing in any of the pockets. He then checked the wooden dresser under the window. The first drawer contained underwear Selina bought in New York. The second contained pyjamas, some towels and a short chemise nightie.

  Bishop remembered Selina’s innocent delight upon seeing the nightie in the clothes store. Addison hadn’t approved of nightwear of any kind. Not even her necklace, which she said she always took off before going to bed. So that eliminated the boyfriend theory. If she was shacked up with somebody, she would have taken the nightie, too.

  Turning to the bed, he saw the night stand was a woodgrain thing with two deep drawers. A lamp, a digital clock and a pair of reading glasses fought for space on the top. He sat down on the bed, opened the first drawer and found a couple more paperbacks that looked new. The second drawer contained a small flashlight, some pens and a small, unused notepad.

  Bishop closed the drawer and stared at the wall, absently scratching at the day-old whiskers under his chin. He’d expected to find a few examples of Selina’s ID lying around, but there was nothing. No purse, either. Not a single thing that might have identified Selina Clements as the occupant. Even the rental contract was missing.

  Bishop frowned. The details here just didn’t add up. Firstly, nobody carried around all their documents with them. It just wasn’t done. And second, the open book on the couch indicated Selina had been doing some reading before going to bed. Yet the open bottle in the refrigerator and the water rings on the table suggested she’d also been sipping from a glass of wine while she read. Which meant she’d had enough time to tidy up after herself, but not to insert the bookmark and keep her place.

  Then there were the drapes and the made bed. At this time of year, the sun came up at around 05.00. And he knew there weren’t any all-night diners round here, which meant her shift must have started at a fairly reasonable hour. Some time later than 05.00, he figured. So if she’d made the bed prior to leaving the apartment the next morning, why keep the drapes drawn when it was light outside? And she’d left her supply of Xanax behind, too.

  Details. That’s all he had. He needed more.

  Bishop closed his eyes for a few moments, and when he opened them again he got off the bed and pulled the night stand away from the wall. And there it was, on the carpet. What he’d been searching for all this time without knowing it.

  Selina’s silver pentagram necklace.

  The one she wore everywhere, except to bed. She must have left it on the night stand and it had fallen off somehow. As soon as she woke up, she would have found it and put it on. Ready for the day ahead. But she hadn’t.

  Now everything fitted together in Bishop’s mind. All the pieces made sense. Whoever snatched Selina had done it in the early hours. Probably more than one person. They’d also taken along her important personal effects and made an attempt to tidy the place up, to make it look as though she’d left of her own accord. They’d washed the wine glass and replaced the bottle, but they’d forgotten about the open book on the sofa. And the Xanax. Nor had they thought to open the drapes. The necklace was the wild card. Selina might well have knocked the night stand in her sleep so that it simply slid off, remaining hidden and undisturbed until this moment. Waiting for Bishop to find it.

  Bishop crouched down and picked the necklace up. Looked at it for a moment before putting it in his pocket. Everything else in here was replaceable, but Selina would want the necklace back for sure. If she was still alive. And if she wasn’t, the people who took her would soon join her. That much he could guarantee. First, though, he needed to find them.

  And he had a good idea of where to start.

  TEN

  At the offices of Addison & Fraser, Attorneys-at-Law, Carl Addison made sure all the lights were turned off before picking up his briefcase and making for the front desk. It was past nine and he was the only one left. The others had gone home hours ago. Addison locked up, then walked to the third floor elevator and pressed the button. The doors opened immediately. He got in and sighed as he pressed for the basement car park. It had been a long day, most of it spent trying to get to the bottom of a particularly complicated tax case on behalf of Len Chappell, millionaire owner of Chappell Construction. He felt tired and irritable.

  When the doors opened again he walked towards his Lexus, the only vehicle left in the car park, and thought about what to do for dinner now he was a single man again. No more meals waiting for him when he got home. But then Sonja had never been much of a cook anyway. That was something he’d only found out after they’d gotten married, of course. Dumb bitch. Although he had to admit that was partly his fault. He’d always been more interested in the chase than the catch. Still, at least she was finally out of his hair. Maybe he’d simply skip dinner tonight. He wasn’t really hungry anyway.

  Addison unlocked the Lexus, got in and started her up. He drove ov
er to the entry gate, swiped his card at the machine to raise the barrier, then pulled out onto Vercer and drove west.

  Pity about the Mustang, though. It hadn’t been the prettiest thing on four wheels, but it could sure move. On the other hand, as soon as that hefty life insurance payout of Sonja’s came through, he could easily buy another Mustang to replace it. But a Mach 1, this time. The genuine article. Up till now, he’d had to be careful how he spent the money he got from his extracurricular work, but now he’d have a legit source to explain it away things would be different. He still found it hard to believe how well life was working out for him these days, but then it wasn’t like he hadn’t worked hard for it.

  All good things come to those who wait, he thought.

  And that was another thing. Now the Sonja situation was finally resolved, he was back in Gaspard’s good books again. Not the same as before, of course. Not yet. But he would be. The drug boss didn’t have many bagmen he could trust and he knew it. Not with Addison’s respectable credentials. With a little patience, he’d be Gaspard’s number one choice again soon enough.

  Yes sir, after a brief bad spell there, everything now seems to be working out just fine.

  He turned on the radio and for a change tuned into a country and western station as he drove, hoping they’d play a ditty about a dead wife. Something to give him a chuckle.