* * * *
"I'll help,” Ferg promised. “You know I will, Jake. But first, would you listen to some good advice?"
"Good advice,” I repeated.
He watched me.
And I watched back.
"You know how ninety percent of communication is tone?” He was laughing, and he wasn't. “Well, friend, I don't believe I like your tone."
"What's your advice?” I pushed.
"Get out and about,” he said. “Circulate, at least a little bit. Renew some of your old friendships. Make new ones. Be social, be polite, and if you can, act pleasant."
"Smart words,” I told him.
"You hear any of them?"
I nodded.
Ferg shook his head, believing none of it. He was a tall, scrawny fellow with thinning hair and delicate features. Years removed from the business of law enforcement, yet he retained that air of officious determination. He could be social, and according to circumstances, polite enough. But with Ferguson, there was always the sense that he was watching you, waiting for a mistake on your part, a piece of him always eager for the chance to fling another bad guy to the ground.
He had come to my house by way of water. His place was on the far side of the lake, lost among the cottages and A-frames. I went out to watch his boat coming, stopping him between my pool and the dock. The windows to my house were still open, and I wanted to keep our conversation private. Ferg stared at my house. But he didn't ask what he wanted to ask. He resisted that temptation. Instead he sighed and narrowed his eyes, almost whispering when he finally asked, “So what's this favor?"
I told him about the meth addict and his broken car.
That earned an instant response. “Either one outside your door now?"
"Not anymore."
"Problem solved,” he said.
"They vanished,” I admitted. The VIN and license number were recopied on good paper. Handing them over, I mentioned the girl. No details, but then again, I didn't need any.
Ferg wasn't entirely surprised.
"She reminds me of somebody,” I said.
"Anybody I know?"
I nodded.
"You should realize,” Ferg continued. “That car might not even belong to your guy. And those plates could be stolen. So none of these numbers are going to be much help."
"I also have fingerprints."
Now he was surprised. “Yeah? How's that?"
I handed him a small trash sack filled with burger boxes and the like.
"How did you come across these items, Jake?"
"They threw them in my yard."
His next warning was delivered entirely with a steady, fierce gaze.
Then I went to my next play, reminding him, “The girl looked underage."
"Which means what?"
"There are laws."
"We both know those laws. Don't we?"
Sighing, I said nothing.
"What do you really know?” Then he added, “Have you seen any crime committed by either person?"
"I could tell you that I did."
He opened and closed the trash sack, and then he carefully folded the paper with the useless numbers. “If I do this one enormous favor for you...."
"Yeah?"
"You'll agree to meet me, and I mean someplace other than here. I want you somewhere public, with the old gang invited. How long since you sat with all of us, enjoying yourself?"
"A year,” I ventured.
"It's more like four years.” The sack traded hands and the folded paper went into his hip pocket. Then Ferg gave my house a long careful study. The sun was nearly down, but except for a reading lamp in the living room, not one light showed. “It's Saturday,” he said, as if I might not realize that. “Give me till Monday to get the car checked out."
I said, “Thank you, Ferg."
Then he couldn't stop himself. “So how is she doing?"
"Well enough,” I lied.
"Any chance you'll bring her to our get-together?"
"Maybe."
"But probably not,” he added. He sighed, looking into my face, and just for that moment I could see the same old jealousy.
"Maybe the redhead isn't,” he said finally.
"Maybe not."
"Just a teenage girl with lousy taste in men,” he said.
"There's plenty of those,” I said hopefully.
* * * *
These days, my finest thinking occurs at three in the morning.
Sunday morning, I felt like the guy who just sleepwalked his way off a cliff, jarred alert by the sudden plunge. Some very important idea was lurking inside my head, but I was more exhausted than inspired. My first instinct was to slip into her room to check on her, and only after I was satisfied that the sheets and comforters had a living, breathing creature beneath them could I even consider any other possibilities.
Ferg was right, of course. The old car wouldn't lead to my addict. But what I'd realized was that very few people drove down my street, and most were either locals or looking for somebody nearby. It also seemed apparent that a machine in such miserable condition couldn't have gone far without being towed, which was much too expensive a chore for my boy to have managed.
By three-thirty, I was dressed and shaving in the bathroom, happily planning my hunt. Even if I was right, odds of success were miserable. But at least my day had fresh purpose. I felt sober, sane, and ready for almost anything. That's what I told myself, opening the medicine cabinet, preparing to brush my teeth. Up on the highest shelf stood a neat row of prescription bottles, collected over the past years and used sparingly—a mishmash of psychoactive wonders, powerful and well-proven in clinical trials, yet none proving even remotely helpful to the most singular of patients.
I looked at the bottles.
A wicked possibility offered itself to me—a gift from the mind's boundless, relentless ocean.
* * * *
Four o'clock, and there wasn't a hint of sunshine. Driving slowly as a paperboy, I combed the nearby streets. Several rental houses stood apart from the lake, each with a sordid history but none with the correct car parked in front. Then I rolled down Cottage Lane and out Sailor's Point to the cul-de-sac before coming back and around, searching three apartment complexes—each one a little city full of anonymous people living in sheetrock and pine shelters built ten years ago and already well on their way to collapse.
The Focus proved ridiculously popular. And at least three neighbors had the red version. But none sported the bashed-in rear bumper, and by sunrise all of the likely apartments and back alleys had been searched.
I'd been gone too long already, but just to be thorough, I drove a different route home. That's when I remembered half a dozen duplexes not five blocks from my front door, and I knew—in my heart, I had no doubts—that's where I would find the car and him. And find her too. I was so certain that I stopped at the end of the street and backed up again, taking a second look. There was no other way to convince myself that intuition had cheated me, and in frustration, I drove too fast around the next bend, finding a residential road that I had never seen before.
If it were on fire, the red Focus wouldn't have been more obvious. Parked backwards on a steeply tilted driveway, it was still bleeding oil but ready to roll forward and out of the way if the big sedan above it should want to leave. Surprisingly nice, tall and roomy and well maintained, the house had a for sale by owner sign on the front lawn. It wouldn't be the first time a meth lab squatted inside a vacant property. I pulled in against the curb and stared at the wide porch and the homey swing hanging on chains. Every curtain was drawn. This was a sleepy household, I decided. But then, as if to prove me wrong, one light came on in front, in what I assumed to be the living room.
My home was calling. I sensed that she was awake and missing me. What I should have done was drive straight to her, giving myself time to coolly consider what to do next. But doing nothing didn't feel like a valid option. Wasting one minute would be a crime. So I too
k a huge breath and climbed out into the morning air, marching up the driveway, looking into the Focus's windows and then at the house's window shades, suddenly appreciating just how brave or how foolish a person had to be to ring a stranger's doorbell.
* * * *
But I didn't ring the bell. I was barely up the stairs, contemplating some of the potential hazards in dealing with a house full of meth users, and that's when the front door opened, a familiar face greeting me with a puzzled, frustrated stare.
"Who are you?” he asked.
He wasn't wearing shoes or a shirt. His black hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. That sense of being perpetually lost came to him naturally. He stared at my face, and he swallowed, recognition striking slowly. Grudgingly. Then, stomping his bare feet, he asked, “Do I know you?"
The lousy light and early hour hadn't improved his appearance. The addict was a skeleton covered with dead skin, wasted eyes scornfully glaring at me, emotions making him shiver.
"Oh,” he announced suddenly. “I remember you."
"Good,” I said.
The young man considered his next words, or least it took time for him to summon the breath to say, “You're the jerk."
"I am. I agree."
My response puzzled him. His mouth opened and then closed, no clever comeback to offer.
"I want to talk about your girlfriend,” I said.
"Huh?"
"I know what she is."
If I'd had any doubts, that's when they vanished. The man's eyes grew even larger, and he shivered, leaning weakly against the doorjamb, muttering some useless lie about not knowing what I was talking about.
"Let her go,” I warned.
"Go?"
I stepped closer and pointed my finger at his shriveled chest. “You cannot, cannot keep her."
"Who—?"
I cut him off, punching him in the ribs with my fingertip. He felt cool and insubstantial, bending over in response to my minimal blow. If I wanted, I could have broken him. Ribs and limbs would have cracked with one determined punch. But I don't like violence, even under important circumstances. What I did was to make a confession, at least to a point. I told him, “I know what she is, and I know what she isn't. And believe me, I have a pretty good guess about how you found each other."
The addict was close to tears. “No,” he managed. “You don't know—"
"I do,” I announced, and again, I drove my finger into his miserable body. “She doesn't belong here. She's not yours to keep. You're in no position to take care of her, and she will need care. Believe me. Not today, but soon. Soon that creature is going to require endless devotion and all of a sober man's conviction and resources, and I don't think you can manage that trick for five minutes."
Like yesterday, the man lifted his skeletal hands, staring hard at them.
Again, I started to explain that I knew everything, including that he couldn't give her what she deserved. But my speech had barely begun when there was motion, someone quietly descending the stairs behind him, and looking up, I saw the oversized bathrobe and the red hair and that sweet pretty endearing face that was twisting with pain, discovering her love bent over in pain, a mean old man inflicting this useless punishment.
I stepped back, and an instant later, I felt miserable too.
"What's going on?” she asked.
"Nothing,” the addict muttered.
The creature looked ready to cry.
Then I said, “Nothing, nothing,” and turned, retreating toward my car. My intervention was accomplishing nothing. But why did I think I had any chance? I heard the front door close behind me, and a lock was turned. Then I looked inside the Focus, the keys forgotten on the driver's seat and every door unsecured, and I slowed some more and took a moment, gathering up enough courage and enough stupidity to implement my backup plan.
* * * *
I first met Ferg when he came to my door and introduced himself. He was a cop who got into the job early and would retire long before he was an old man—a dream-life made possible by an inheritance and small aspirations. He was standing on my porch, smiling pleasantly even as he asked in that way cops ask, “Would you mind if I speak to you for a moment or two, sir?"
"Not at all,” I lied.
"We've had a call about you, sir."
"About me?"
"And the girl."
I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. Playing calm, I asked, “Is there a problem, officer?"
Ferg said, “I don't know,” and watched me.
I didn't want to squirm, and I mostly managed not to.
"She looks young, I hear."
"I guess."
"What is the girl's age?"
"Old enough,” I claimed.
"And what's the relationship between you and her, sir?"
I hesitated.
"She isn't your daughter, is she?"
"No."
"No,” he repeated. “And she does live here, doesn't she?"
"Yes."
"How old is she?"
That was a question well worth asking. I laughed quietly, the situation lousy. But I managed to assure him, “I'm not breaking any laws."
"That's very good to hear, sir."
Then with a firmer, more insistent voice, he asked, “May I speak with the young lady?"
"She's napping."
Knowing Ferg as I do now, he almost said, “Little girls need their naps,” or some other smart-ass comment. But being a professional, he said simply, “This is important. I want to meet the girl, and if you don't allow this to happen now, I'll return with more authority and more officers, too."
Stepping back from the door, I said, “She's on the sofa. Wake her gently, please."
"I will,” he promised. And that's what he did. She looked at me. I nodded and told her to tell the truth. Ferg was staring at her face, but he spoke to me, firmly insisting that I stay out of earshot. Which I did. Time crept along, and after maybe twenty minutes, the police officer invited me back into the living room and asked her to repeat her story again, in full.
Ferg was nothing but patient. He nodded and smiled at her, pretending to accept every word. Then he took me outside, quietly but furiously telling me, “You have a mentally ill girl in there. And you know it."
I looked at him. I looked at my house. Then because I didn't have any other choice, I said, “She isn't crazy."
"That story."
"Check it out,” I told him.
That made him laugh. For the first time, I heard that big, wise, appalled laugh, and when he was finished, he said, “All right. How am I supposed to see if any of this is true?"
"I guess you can't,” I agreed. “But you could go back in there and take her hair. Take blood and skin, if you want. Then test everything."
Ferg assumed that the police lab would confirm what a rational mind would expect to find, and he would return before dark to arrest my sorry soul. But he didn't return. And the next morning, he called before arriving, standing at my front door again, explaining that more tests were being done and there was some trouble with yesterday's samples and he would like more, if he could, please.
"She's awake,” I said. “Tell her what you want."
"I want to know what's happening,” he said.
So I said, “You do. But you just don't know it yet."
Two weeks later, my new friend returned once again, holding reports from an out-of-state lab. He made a show of telling me that every result was confidential and part of an ongoing investigation, but he wasn't sure what he was investigating. He reread several pages and showed me samples of the work, and then he asked what I thought, and I told him that I wasn't surprised. And I wasn't. But I admitted that I was scared of what would happen if this story got loose. “I'm awfully protective of that girl,” I explained. “And her nature being what it is, she doesn't like too many breaks in her routine."
"She seems strong enough,” Ferg told me.
"She pretends,” I maintained.
He nodded, placing the papers into a folder, and with a sigh, he said, “I don't know what I'd chase, if I was chasing. So I guess we're done."
"Good,” I said.
"So,” he said. “How exactly did you find her?"
"She found me,” I explained.
"You two are what? A couple?"
"Yes."
"You and her ever go out? You know, socially?"
"If we want to."
"I'm having a party next week,” he allowed. “Good friends, and I'd like to have the two of you stop by."
I motioned at the folder. “This stays confidential?"
"Between you and me."
"Then maybe."
"Does she play cards?"
"She can learn,” I said. “Really, she's very smart."
"That too, huh?” Then he shook his head, asking, “Why can't this kind of luck find me?"
* * * *
These days, pay phones are almost extinct. But there was still one working phone down by the public marina, and nobody saw me make the call, just like nobody noticed me shoving a sack of pills into the glove compartment of the Focus. Then I drove straight home. I wanted to linger, but I'd already been gone too long. In my head, she was scared and alone, and maybe, hopefully, hungry enough to eat her fill. Experience made me ready for different contingencies, my plans ready before I stepped inside. But I was wrong. I found her in bed, sitting upright with the pillows carefully stacked behind her, and instead of anguish or despair or simple unending tears, I found one enormous smile that filled the room and filled me with her unmistakable delight.
"Hungry?” I asked.
"Famished,” she said.
"For what?"
"Would waffles be too much trouble?"
"Never,” I promised. Then I went into the kitchen and made the batter from scratch. When it was working, her appetite was enormous—linebackers could be put to shame by her caloric needs—and so I made a double batch and started bringing them into the bedroom while they were hot, one plate after another, and she finished a bottle of syrup and a stick of butter before I could slip away for a few minutes, telling her that I had one quick chore to run.
Two cruisers were parked in front of the for sale by owner house. Watching from the end of the block, I heard someone crying out, and one officer led a man out onto the porch, slight as a willow, his wrists joined together by bright steel cuffs.
FSF, October-November 2009 Page 24
