My Soul to Keep

by Melanie Wells

“And it’s off Inwood behind the Home Depot?”

  “A few blocks in,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”

  37

  IT TOOK ME ABOUT twenty minutes to find the house. I was dialing Martinez frantically the whole time, but I got sent straight to voice mail every time. It was late. Maybe he’d turned his phone off. I left him a rambling message about Googie and his mother and the Little Blue School House. I failed to mention, of course, that I was going over there right this very second. No need to get myself into any more trouble than I was already in. Especially if this whole thing turned out to be another one of my harebrained debacles.

  The Little Blue School House was on a scrubby little lot in a crumbling residential neighborhood near Love Field. The turquoise paint was peeling, but the yard was neat. It was one of the “exception” houses—one of the few in the neighborhood whose owner seemed to be trying to maintain the property. A chain-link fence revealed a playground in the backyard. A wooden fort with swings and a slide dominated the yard space. Beside the fort sat a small sandbox and a seesaw with duck-shaped seats. I parked down the street and watched the house. It looked to me like no one was home—or maybe everyone was asleep. I couldn’t see any lights on.

  A streetlight in front of the house illuminated the front yard, which was brown but tidy. There were no cars parked in the driveway.

  I got out of my truck and walked quickly toward the house, staying in the shadows of trees, then sneaked up to the garage and peeked inside, fully expecting to find the white Ford Fairlane. The garage, though, had been converted for the day care. Inside were three cribs, an array of play equipment, and a small fleet of tricycles and strollers.

  I crouched down in the dark and made my way around the perimeter of the house. Under each window I stopped, listened, then poked my head up and peeked in the window. All the curtains on the front of the house were closed tight. I scaled the chain-link, careful not to rip my already-ripped jeans, and let myself down into the backyard, repeating the window procedure on the backside of the house. The only window that wasn’t curtained was the kitchen, which looked out onto the backyard. The kitchen was plain but seemed clean. Baby bottles were drying on a rack by the sink. Beside the dinette set sat a child-sized table with little-kid chairs.

  I crept from the house to the alley, still hoping for a glimpse of the white Fairlane. But the alley was empty. I began walking down the alley, looking for a carport, maybe. As I got to the next yard, I heard a low growl. I stopped in my tracks and shifted my eyes to the gate. Behind the chain-link fence, a mixed-breed pound dog bared its teeth at me. I held up my hands reflexively, then slowly moved my right hand down and reached into my purse. I fished around and found what I was looking for. I slipped my emergency supply of Nature Valley granola bars out of my bag, ripped open a wrapper, and held a piece out gingerly to the dog. He sniffed at it, wagged his tail happily, then began barking maniacally.

  I dropped the granola bar, bolted down the alley to the corner, hopped into my truck, and lit out for home.

  Another spectacularly bad idea. Still, I was batting five hundred today. My visit with Brigid had been fruitful. My bold trek to Caligula had yielded a name, Googie. But then I’d started smacking fly balls right at the center fielder.

  It was late now, and I’d about had it for the day. I’d been up forever—I’d been in Shreveport only this morning. That seemed days ago now.

  My house was dark and depressing when I got home, as usual. The answering machine light was blinking, as usual.

  The first call was from my dad, barking orders to call him back. Another call from my dad, angrier this time. And then a call—horror of horrors—from Kellee. I rolled my eyes. They were laying it on thick. Delete, delete, delete.

  The next call was from David. He was ready to talk. Could we meet tomorrow sometime? I felt tears pool in the corners of my eyes, the rush of emotion catching me by surprise. I’d forgotten to obsess about him in all the fuss. Now I fell headlong into a tar pit of loneliness and fear. I saved the message and moved on.

  The last call was from Liz. They were heading back to Chicago in the morning and wanted to know if they could bring Melissa back by tonight. I checked my cell phone—she’d left the same message there two hours ago. I must have missed the call while I was spiraling into a fit of neurotic, misguided behavior. I pushed Return and dialed her.

  “You’re up late,” she said when she picked up the phone.

  “So are you. I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you.”

  “I’ve given up sleep entirely. It’s bad for you, I’ve decided.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Every time I go to sleep, something terrible happens. So I’m just going to stay up.”

  “For the rest of your life?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Great plan, Liz. Let me know how that works out.”

  “Where have you been?”

  I told her about Caligula and the Circle Inn and the Little Blue School House.

  “No Ford Fairlane, huh?”

  “Nope. I wish Martinez would call me back.”

  “He’s in Phoenix. Or probably still in the air. That must be why he isn’t picking up.”

  “What’s going on? Did they get a lead?”

  “They found a white Fairlane whose owner has a criminal record and who disappeared last week. Last time anyone saw him, he was headed east. The wife reported him missing and says she thinks he’s in Mexico now. Martinez flew out with another detective to talk to her.”

  “What day was he driving east?”

  “I don’t think it’s him, Dylan.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Christine said it wasn’t him and that Nicholas wants his mommy.”

  I let the air out of my lungs. “I’m exhausted. Can we make the bunny exchange in the morning?”

  “Sure.”

  “What time does your flight leave?”

  “Whenever we want.”

  “Oh. I forgot. George.”

  “Don’t start,” Liz said. “What time do you want us to come by?”

  “Not too early. Maybe tenish? I’m going to try to sleep in.”

  “What if we all go to brunch before Christine and I head out?” A tired sigh. “I can’t get her excited about going back. She keeps crying that she needs to find Nicholas first.”

  “We all need to find Nicholas first.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep, Dylan.”

  “You too. See you in the morning.”

  It stormed again that night, thunderclaps almost knocking me out of bed half a dozen times before I nodded off. I slept hard, though, until 3:30 a.m., when I heard the rattlesnake again. I didn’t know whether I’d heard it in my dreams or in reality, so I did a cursory check of the house, shot up a quick prayer, had a brief, hypothetical conversation with Joe Riley, then opened my bedroom windows and smelled the rain.

  The snake wasn’t real. I was convinced of that. What I wasn’t sure of was how much of the rest of it was. Was I chasing phantoms? The white car. The sallow-faced man in the sketch. Googie and his mother and the Little Blue School House. And Gordon Pryne.

  I crawled back into bed, my head full of disturbing images. I tossed in bed for the next few hours, worrying them all until I’d beaten them half to death and worn myself out completely. I must have fallen into an exhausted sleep, because when I woke with a start, the sun was up. I looked at the clock: 7:33 a.m.

  I wrapped my robe around myself and padded into the kitchen, feeling surprisingly rested after such a short sleep. Maybe it was the rain. Or maybe I was entering some sort of manic episode. I peered out the kitchen window. The rain had stopped for now, but the skies looked heavy and wet. I put the teakettle on and woke my computer up. I found myself staring at Gordon Pryne’s mug shot again. I was still logged in to his blog. I put my chin in my hands and studied the picture. He had the animal energy of a wild dog—wiry, aggressive, vicious, predatory. His eyes were empty of everyt
hing but rage. Why would anyone want this man released—even his mother? He was so obviously a threat to society. I clicked on the message board, scrolling down through the messages.

  Gordon’s brother’s screen name was Piper. I knew a kid once whose nickname was Piper. He was a pot dealer. Pryne’s mother’s name wasn’t mentioned, and since she hadn’t logged in, she didn’t have a screen name. In the messages, everyone referred to her as MA. Capital M, capital A.

  I started in on the messages.

  “MA keeps asking about Gordie. Meeting with ATTY on Mon.”

  “Good luck man. Spring him.”

  All the exchanges were like that—brief and cryptic. Many of them mentioned MA or the “ATTY”—presumably, Gordon’s lawyer. MA’s cancer was bad, Piper said. “Eating her insides out.”

  A few of the messages mentioned a pending court date at the Dallas County courthouse. I couldn’t figure out why he’d be in court. Maybe it was related to the offenses he’d committed last winter while he was on the run.

  I paged through the rest of the messages halfheartedly, then picked up the phone and called the courthouse. It took a few transfers, but I found out Gordon Pryne’s case was due for a hearing in the Dallas County court on Tuesday. I wondered if prisoners got bused in from Huntsville to appear at their court dates. Maybe Gordon Pryne was at Lew Sterrett.

  His attorney of record was someone named G. Perry Eschenbrenner. I got his number from the state bar Web site and called it, expecting to leave a voice-mail message. To my surprise, a live voice answered.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Eschenbrenner, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Dr. Dylan Foster.” It helps to whip out the credentials when attempting to intimidate the hourly help.

  “Ms. Eschenbrenner is unavailable,” the woman said. “May I take a message?”

  “Oh. She’s a woman. Sorry. Perry?”

  “Gail Perry Eschenbrenner,” the woman said. “May I take a message?”

  “I’m calling about Gordon Pryne. Do you happen to know if he’s been transferred up here for the hearing?”

  “This is an answering service. We don’t have access to that kind of information. I can have Ms. Eschenbrenner call you if you’d like to leave a number.”

  “When would that be?”

  “Monday’s a holiday. Tuesday she’s in court all day. I’d say Wednesday. Would you like to leave a message?”

  I hesitated, my mind stumbling over holiday. What holiday? Then the fog cleared. I’d forgotten Monday was Memorial Day.

  “Is there any way you could page her or something?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Foster. Would you like to leave a message?”

  I sighed and left my number. “Just tell her it’s about Gordon Pryne.”

  “I’ll give her the message,” she said curtly, and she hung up.

  I saw a flash of lightning outside the window and heard an immediate crack of thunder. The lights in my house flickered, then buzzed out. My computer screen went black as the sky opened up again, dumping buckets of gray rain onto the already soggy ground.

  I fixed my tea and returned to the kitchen table, sipping and staring into space, the gloom of the day descending on me. It occurred to me to pray, but the swamp of hopelessness I was wallowing in made that an impossibility. Begging seemed possible, so I tried that for a while, eventually shuffling into my bedroom and cracking my Bible open in another attempt to find the scene where God shows someone the angels. I finally found it in Second Kings—not a book I spend a lot of time in. God shows Elisha the angels surrounding the battleground in chariots of fire.

  “Where are my chariots?” I shouted.

  A flash of light, and the sky cracked again. My lights flickered back on. The computer buzzed to life.

  “Wow,” I said, amazed. “Thanks.”

  My energy renewed, literally, I sat back down and logged in, searching Google for MA Pryne, Piper Pryne, Gordon Pryne, Googie. I found a few newspaper articles about Gordon Pryne—the most recent was a year old. There was nothing in it of note. Nothing at all on the other searches.

  Back to the blog. I checked every screen name on the message page, hoping for a break. Anything. But they were all nonsense to me. Nothing rang a bell.

  I was studying the list of threads again when my phone rang. It was Martinez.

  “Are you insane, Dylan? Is that the problem here? Should I take you down to Parkland for involuntary commitment?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you doing poking around at Caligula?”

  “I got a name, Martinez. Did you notice that? Have you started looking for Googie yet? Because I found his mother’s house. She owns a day care over by Love Field.”

  “What? Slow down.”

  I told him about the events of the night before.

  “You paid a hooker two hundred dollars and you believe what she told you? Go back to your day job, Dylan. You’re not cut out to be a detective.”

  “You think she’d lie to me?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding. How could anyone in your line of work be so naive?”

  “It’s a gift,” I said defiantly. “From the Lord.”

  “Well, keep it stowed. It’s not helpful.”

  “So you’re not going to send anybody over there?”

  “Of course I’m going to send someone over there. I have to. We’re going to have to waste man-hours on this now.”

  “It’s not a waste. It’s a lead.”

  “We’re already looking for Googie. But he’s probably long gone by now.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Dylan, listen very carefully. When a reasonably well-off white woman starts walking around a neighborhood like that one asking questions about someone, the person in question usually assumes that is not good news.”

  “But you guys do it. Detectives go down to places like that all the time and ask people questions.”

  “We take them down to the station, Dylan. So they won’t be seen talking to cops. That way,” he said in a sing-songy voice you’d reserve for a five-year-old, “they don’t get their throats cut, and our suspect doesn’t get tipped off by someone who overhears the conversation.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Do you get that these people are not on our side? Do you understand you can’t trust anything they say? Are you grasping this basic fact of law enforcement?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Martinez.”

  “Then keep your mouth shut, for once. For crying out loud, Dylan.”

  “Where are you?” I asked, more to change the subject than anything.

  “Getting on the plane in Phoenix.”

  “You’re coming back? Already? Did you find the guy?”

  “He was at his girlfriend’s in Juárez. Passed out after a bender. We’ve got half a dozen witnesses who put him with her all week. The car never left the driveway.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you when you get back, then. Have a safe trip.”

  We hung up, and I sat there making phone calls for a while. I checked in with Maria, who seemed to be on her last leg. I returned my dad’s calls, knowing he’d be on the golf course, and there was no way he would pick up the phone. I did not call Kellee, of course. I had not taken complete leave of my senses. My last call was to David.

  “Hey, you,” he said.

  “Very funny.” I stood and began pacing as I talked. “I hear the jury’s in.”

  “You got my message.”

  “Hence the return phone call.”

  “Are we feeling a little oppositional today?”

  “You have no idea.” I stopped and braced myself against the breakfast bar, my heart suddenly racing. “So. What’s the good word?”

  “The word is, I’d like to meet and talk.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow? I’m free in the evening if you are.”

  “Wow. A nighttime m
eeting. I must be out of the basement.”

  “Not yet, sugar pea.”

  “Ooh. A nickname. Working my way up.”

  “I’d better get off the phone before you make up my mind for me.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “Great. See you at eight thirty.”

  “Right.”

  I got off the phone determined to think positive, happy thoughts. David had called. He wanted to talk. Surely he wouldn’t banter with me like that if he’d decided to cut me loose. To celebrate my anticipated good fortune, I got up from the table and made myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, savoring it with a second cup of tea. It was the first encouragement I’d had in a while, and I intended to enjoy it.

  I went back to my computer and stared again at the list of threads on Gordon Pryne’s blog, the words blurring together. I was reaching for the phone to dial G. Perry Eschenbrenner’s service again when my hand froze in midair, my eyes locked on a message from Piper posted a week ago today.

  “Gordie says to pick up the package ASAP!”

  I scrolled down, looking for the response. There wasn’t one. I combed backward through the messages again until I found what I was looking for.

  There it was, in black and white.

  “Gordie says the package isn’t safe.”

  38

  I MADE MORE FRANTIC phone calls to Ybarra, who was clearly determined to ignore me, and to Martinez, who was on an airplane with no access to his cell phone. I couldn’t think what else to do, so I threw on some clothes, got in my truck, and pointed it toward Lew Sterrett.

  I’d been there once before—to visit Gordon Pryne, as a matter of fact. But I’d been escorted by a detective that time, so I’d been whisked through security without any problems. This time, I’d brought along some props. I would have to con my way in. With a little luck, some help from the Almighty, and the assistance of my recently polished lying skills, I just might cross the Rubicon and gain an audience with the devil.

  I knew the drill. I handed my bag to the guard, walked through the metal detectors, and allowed myself to be wanded by a young guard who looked as though he had orders to shoot on sight. I did as I was told, for once, and passed through step one without incident. Step two is to show your ID to the guard at the desk, who then checks your name against the prisoner’s allowed-visitors list.