Back to Lazarus (Sydney Brennan)

by Judy K. Walker

  “All right, but before you start calling the airlines, let me just say that I’m not going home to Tallahassee, and I’m not taking any impromptu vacations. If getting at me is Deacon’s primary objective, I’ll be safer and he’s more likely to be caught if I stay in Stetler County, where everyone knows him and is on the look-out for him. And if getting me isn’t top on his list, then it doesn’t matter where I am anyway.”

  It seemed like a sound argument to me, and Mike and Richard agreed. They probably wouldn’t have if I’d given my real reason for staying, that I still had things to take care of in Stetler County.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  We came up with a tentative plan. I wasn’t looking forward to another motel room, and it was too dangerous for me to stay with Richard’s family. I’d crash with Mike that night unless we came up with something else before then. Mike and I traded cars again, and he headed home in his jeep for some quick cleaning while I followed Richard to the PD’s office in Cecil. We left Cecil in the parking lot and Richard drove me to Mike’s.

  I talked Richard into stopping off at one of those big box drug stores that tend to face off on opposite corners now. Not the most auspicious place for retail therapy, but I still managed to give my debit card a jolt. I stocked up on the necessities first—toiletries, a package of pastel granny-esque underwear (selection was limited) and matching bra, a pair of flip flops with flowers on top, and a few Florida T-shirts, including a big manatee sporting sunglasses that was long enough to wear as a nightshirt.

  Having taken care of apparel, I went for comfort—a couple of magazines with more advertisements than copy, and lots of chocolate. I’d nearly made it to the check-out when I got distracted by the DVD display, as I always do. I was pleasantly surprised to see they had “The Philadelphia Story,” which also went in my cart, and meant I had to go back for popcorn and ice cream. Those are the rules—Cary Grant movie = popcorn or ice cream. Cary Grant + Katherine Hepburn = popcorn and ice cream. Okay, so they’re my own rules, but I’m sure I have them written down somewhere, so they are official.

  When we got to Mike’s apartment, Richard made no move to leave the car. I waited for his cue. He eventually gave one, but it wasn’t quite what I’d expected. We’d taken off our seat belts and he turned to face me, left elbow up on the steering wheel as if trying to look natural.

  “Sydney, I know lately I’ve been kind of—what’s the word?”

  “A hard-ass? I think that’s considered one word if it’s hyphenated.”

  He grinned. It’s the first time I’d seen him really smile in days, and I’d forgotten how it took my breath away. “I was thinking taciturn, but I guess hard-ass works. It’s just that I’m really worried. Sydney, I don’t want anything to happen to you. I—“

  His words stopped. He reached over to stroke my cheek, traced his fingers down my face and tilted my chin forward. Then he kissed me. His lips were warm and dry and felt impossibly hot as they pressed against my own, all four occupying the same space, defying the laws of physics for just a moment. When we slowly parted, I felt a quick moist flick from his tongue, followed by a corresponding electric jolt running from the roof of my mouth to between my legs.

  It had been too easy. I sighed as I turned away, face toward the window. When I shut my eyes and squeezed the lids together, I could feel a tear run down one cheek. It was so goddamned easy. I thought of his words the first time we had dinner together, “My wife knows I’ve always been faithful.” I wanted to throw them back in his face, but that would be too easy too. I turned back to face him, but I couldn’t yet. My gaze dropped to the drug store bags I had by my feet, in preparation for leaving. Finally I turned back to him.

  “Richard, I’m not going to lie to you. That’s the best kiss I’ve had in a long time. A very long time. And your smile makes my knees melt. But so does Cary Grant’s.”

  “Cary Grant’s dead.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s the same thing. It’s not real.” I didn’t want to say any more, and he didn’t make me. He twisted back around in his seat, put both hands on the steering wheel, and stared at them.

  “Okay then.” He smiled. “Let’s go. If your knees can make it. I’m not sure about my own.”

  If Mike noticed anything amiss when he let us in, he didn’t say anything. “It’s not much, but it’s home,” he said, standing aside to let us in.

  “Jesus, Mike, are you sure this is your apartment? I’ve never seen it so clean.”

  Mike shook his fist at Richard in mock consternation, then smiled. “I figured Sydney’s been through enough this week. The sight of my filth just might push her over the edge.”

  Mike was about to give us the tour (I say us since Richard was obviously unfamiliar with this incarnation of Mike’s living space) when I interrupted him. “Wait—do you have a washer and dryer?”

  He led me to his laundry nook. I kissed his cheek and patted it. “Then nothing else matters.” After removing the tags, my recent purchases were dumped in the washing machine. When Mike saw what I was doing, he told me he’d found something I could wear if I wanted to wash the clothes I was wearing. He led me to his bedroom, where a garment was folded on his bed, then closed the door for privacy and retreated with Richard.

  Mike’s bedroom was small and contained only the bare necessities—bed and nightstand, both in faux distressed pine with dark metal hardware. There was no dresser, but his nightstand had drawers and the folding louvered doors on one wall concealed a closet. A photograph collage was now the only wall decoration, but a few lonely nails stood testament to previous company. I resisted the temptation to look at the collage, to open drawers, and instead I stared at the light comforter covering his full size bed, abstract earth tones with a southwestern feel. What was I expecting—the Superfriends? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

  My compulsion to snoop averted, I returned to my original purpose. Mike had folded the garment on his bed so its identity was hidden, probably so he could make a quick getaway before I started yelling. It was a Yankees jersey, something no self-respecting Red Sox fan would wear, but I was too tired to take offense. Beneath it was a pair of novelty boxers, Yosemite Sam on a galloping mule, if mules can gallop. The mule was apparently moving quickly enough to kick up clouds of dust. The boxers looked as if they’d never been worn, and they smelled of fabric softener. If I’d wanted to be daring, I could have gone without them—what is the female equivalent term for “going commando”? The jersey stretched nearly to my knees, but I did choose to modestly wear the boxers in place of underwear.

  When I emerged, Mike and Richard were leaning against the kitchen counter nursing bottles of beer. I took the opportunity to drop the rest of my clothes in the machine and get it going before joining them. Mike’s apartment was a two-bedroom, one-bath. The two bedrooms were in the back, with the bathroom and laundry nook next to one of the bedrooms. You entered the apartment through the main living/kitchen area, which had an open floor plan. The furniture was sparse and looked like a mix of Pier 1 and college dorm leftovers. Most of these walls were bare as well, eggshell white broken only by the silhouette of the entertainment center, except for one corner. There a black halogen lamp illuminated several maps of ancient geography and civilizations, trade routes, migration routes, etc., that looked like they’d been taken from magazines.

  My wandering had finally caught their attention, and the three of us moved to the seating area, Mike and Richard on the couch and me on the recliner. They both tried once again to convince me to leave, either for home or for parts unknown, but I refused.

  “We still don’t know what’s going on. What’s the connection between Isaac, or at least my investigation of him, and the corrupt prison guards? We can speculate that Isaac was an informant, but it’s still just speculation. We don’t have confirmation on the letter, and we’re not likely to get it soon. I don’t see the feds sharing that kind of information before it comes out in court.”

  “So what do you want to d
o?”

  “I told you that Sue Ellen is the key to this thing. I know it.”

  It was then that I recalled the clipping sent to Noel. I’d promptly tucked it away and forgotten about it in the drama of our second argument. At least that meant I’d had it on me when Deacon was going through my stuff. I retrieved it, then showed it to Mike and Richard and told them my suspicions.

  “Once I talk to Sue Ellen, I’ll be able to get my head around this, and I’ll have something to tell Noel. Then I’ll be happy to get the hell out of here. Believe me, I have no interest in being a martyr to the cause. The case. Whatever.”

  We seemed to have run out of things to say. Richard announced that it was past time for him to head home. Mike and I walked him to the door, then settled down in front of the TV. This time Mike had the recliner. It seemed to be his usual spot and had a vaguely Mike-shaped depression in its seat. Although we were both exhausted, neither of us was ready to sleep. One of the sports channels was running a “best of” video, and they flashed to an amazing catch in Fenway Park.

  “Did you ever go see games there?” Mike asked.

  “Once or twice.” Something about his tone of voice or syntax had perked my ears up. “How did you know I lived in Boston?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Maybe he was trying to figure out his answer, or how to answer, defensive or nonchalant. Maybe he was just watching TV.

  “It was on your Autofind—apartment, utilities. But you didn’t register your car while you were there, naughty girl. Most states allow 90 days or less grace period, and you were there for at least a year.”

  “You ran an Autofind without telling me?”

  Mike clicked off the TV and set the remote on the floor before twisting in his recliner to face me. “Yes, I did. You acted funny when I brought it up, and my investigator’s instincts kicked in. I’d known you all of five minutes, and I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry.”

  I should have been pissed at him. No, that’s not quite true. It was in my nature to be pissed at him, at anyone, for such an intrusion into my hard-won privacy. But I wasn’t. “So you know?”

  “That you changed your name, or that you’re almost as old as I am? Which is the bigger secret?”

  I barely suppressed a smile. “Does Richard know?”

  “About the name change? No, or at least I assume he doesn’t. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell anyone. I skimmed through the report once, and a couple of days later I put it through the shredder. If you want to have a secret identity, it’s no one’s business but your own.”

  “Secret identity sounds much more exotic and exciting. All I did was change my name. But thanks anyway, for your…discretion.”

  “I’m a discrete kind of guy.” We sat in silence for a while, and I thought that was the end of it. Until he went on. “Still, it takes something pretty intense for a 19-year-old to go to the trouble of changing her name. You want to talk about it?”

  This is when I should have told him to mind his own business, insulted him with impressive conjugations of profanity and walked out the door. That is, if I’d been myself I should have. If he’d been someone else, I should have. Would have. But I didn’t. I surprised myself. Or maybe I became someone else.

  “It’s a long, boring story of familial dysfunction.”

  “I’m looking forward to a long, boring night.”

  I sighed and snuggled back into the corner crease of the cushions. “Well, our family wasn’t exactly the Cleavers, but our dysfunction wasn’t obvious either. My parents stayed married, and they never raised their voices. No one in our house ever yelled. My sister and I hated each other, and my parents were indifferent at best, with me and with each other. If it hadn’t been for Allan, I would’ve felt like a freak.”

  I smiled at the thought of him. He always made me smile, or cry. “Allan was five years older than me—my sister was in the middle—and all the girls were hot for him. I remember the summer he turned 16, he used to pick me up every afternoon at the public pool. He’d beep and wave from the parking lot, and every bikini-clad female—not just the teenagers, grown women—would pick that precise moment to stretch and turn over, to walk to the diving board on tip-toes and dive in gracefully.”

  Mike chuckled, and I nodded. “It used to crack me up. Then we’d go out for ice cream, and I’d tell him all my gossip, and he’d actually listen. Sometimes he’d tell me stories about his friends. Of course I was just a kid, but I just, I can’t even begin to explain what that meant to me, that this amazing person, the coolest guy around, chose to spend time with me instead of his friends. When he went away to college, I didn’t see him as much, but every once in a while he’d just show up at my school. ‘Hey Mongoose, let’s go play hooky!’ I’d hop in his car and we’d take off, go hang out in the park on the grass and stare at the sky.”

  “Mongoose?”

  I blushed. “Yeah, that was his nickname for me. Something about how I was always picking fights with cobras. He said I didn’t know when to back down.”

  “Imagine that,” Mike said.

  I tried to smile at him, but I was suddenly tired, and I didn’t want to talk anymore. Then the buzzer on the washing machine went off. Saved by the bell. When I rose, my bare leg brushed Mike’s jeans. When had he moved to sit next to me? I hadn’t a clue, but I was glad he was there. Focusing on the weave of faded denim around his knees, I took a deep breath and willed the past away for the rest of the evening. It never went far.

  “Are you really older than me?”

  Non sequitur much? Mike didn’t seem to notice. He let his glasses slide down his nose a bit and slipped into a professorial character. “Don’t let the kid face fool you. I’ve got at least a few weeks of life experience edge over you.”

  In that extra few weeks and the intervening years, he’d never gotten around to watching “The Philadelphia Story,” so we did that night. We shared a pint of ice cream on the couch while admiring the droll wit of Mr. C.K. Dexter-Haven.

  “It was good,” Mike admitted. “Not what I expected. The humor was edgier, funnier. Not quite as wholesome as I assumed anything in black and white would be. But it was a little too close to reality for me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I didn’t get the girl.” I blinked in confusion at his wry smile. “Jimmy Stewart’s character Mike didn’t get the girl.”

  “Yes he did,” I corrected. “He didn’t get Katherine Hepburn, but he got the girl he was meant to be with.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  When I woke on the couch the next morning, Mike was still asleep in the recliner. He had offered me the bed, but I’d declined, and apparently neither of us made it there. Mike had retreated to the recliner after the movie, and we got sucked into late night TV. Of course, to my trained, suspicious eye the apparently accidental, casual sleeping arrangement was anything but accidental. The TV had been turned off, and I was covered with a safari print blanket I hadn’t been wearing last night. I didn’t confront him about watching over me, in part because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable about something so sweet, and in part because after I’d dropped it he hadn’t brought up my past again.

  It was nearly 9 a.m. I got the shower before Mike did and dressed in a hurry, pulling on my new “Life’s a Beach” T-shirt. We feasted on peanut butter and honey toast before running out the door. The plan was that I’d drop Mike off at the PD’s office, then go by WFC to see if there was any word on Sue Ellen’s whereabouts. If I couldn’t find her, there wasn’t much point in staying in this neck of the Panhandle.

  We made it to the PD’s office by 9:45. I thought Richard looked at us askance when we came in together so late, but maybe I was being paranoid. Either way, he recovered his equanimity quickly. Both men offered to accompany me to WFC, but I declined. I did agree to keep my cell phone on me at all times, to check in every hour and to notify them every time I left a location. Hopefully I’d remembered to charge it.

  Sue Ellen had
n’t shown for work at WFC. No one in the administrative office would tell me more. I’m sure all of the guards knew what was going on, but I wasn’t looking forward to talking to any of them. There’d been nothing on the radio this morning about the investigation or arrests, but that didn’t mean anything, and I felt as if everyone were staring at me. Fortunately I ran into Charley on his break. He hadn’t seen or heard from Sue Ellen, so he’d checked with one of the supervisors. Sue Ellen had called in with an unspecified family emergency. She’d said she’d be out until the situation was resolved and hoped it wouldn’t cost her job, but if so it couldn’t be helped.

  “That’s not like Sue Ellen at all, so I called her mother. I didn’t want to worry Miss Mavis, so I made out like it was some kind of scheduling thing. She hadn’t spoken to Sue Ellen, and there wasn’t any family emergency. Miss Mavis would have told me.”

  Charley’s eyes locked on mine, and any trace of the unsure young man was gone. “I don’t like it. She’s not been answering her phone, but I’m going over by her house after work to see if she’s there.”

  “Look, Charley, I don’t have to be anywhere. Why don’t you give me her address and I’ll go check on her right now? There’s no point in waiting until the end of the day.”

  Relief made his features soften, but not relax. His left cheek and eye were twitchy, unable to decide on an appropriate expression, afraid to hope but more afraid to mock hope. “That sounds good. That sounds real good. But you be careful, Sydney. I’d hate to think of you getting in another fix with nobody around.”

  I smiled, more because he’d remembered to call me Sydney than because of the sentiment. “Don’t worry, Charley. I’ll be careful. And I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  True to my word, I checked in with Mike and Richard before leaving WFC, but I needn’t have bothered. I didn’t find any trouble at Sue Ellen’s house, or anything else. She lived in a duplex, but there were no vehicles parked in front and no one answered my repeated knocks on either side. I tried to peek around her curtains and walked around the property, but I didn’t see anything suspicious. Certainly nothing more suspicious than me casing the joint, but there were no neighbors to report me. No curtains rustled. No dogs barked. No one answered my knocks.