by J. D. Mason
“What are your plans when you get home?” he asked, changing the subject and hoping to lighten the mood.
“I don’t know,” she said disappointedly. “I went there hoping to find answers, hoping to be able to close this open loop in my life, and ended up no closer to doing that than before I left.”
“You could still go to the police, Lucy,” he suggested. “They could offer protection.”
“Why would they?” she said, looking at him. “Everyone thinks that my husband’s dead. And besides what do I really have except a bunch of erroneous numbers and hearsay from a dead man?”
“Did you change the locks on the doors?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Thought about getting a security system installed?”
“I did that.”
She needed reassurance, and Roman felt compelled to offer it to her. “If he’s out there, Lucy, I seriously doubt he’d risk coming back here to hurt you.”
Lucy almost smiled. “I hope you’re right. I just hate having that feeling of needing to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”
He wished he could offer more than a shallow attempt at reassurance. But Ed Price was likely never going to be heard from or seen again, and Lucy had nothing to worry about.
Roman drove Lucy home from the airport. He pulled up in front of her house, and the two of them sat there.
“It was nice meeting you,” she finally said, “and working with you.”
He shrugged it off. “I didn’t do anything, Lucy.”
“You were support, Roman,” she said sincerely. “It felt good to finally be able to open up to someone and to tell you things that I haven’t told anybody else.” She smiled for real this time, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.
Before she could pull completely away, he stopped her, pulled her close again, and kissed her softly on the lips. Roman had no fucking idea where that had come from. He expected her to laugh or to call him an asshole or to slap him, but Lucy surprised him and leaned in for a second kiss, a passionate kiss, until she finally pulled away, breathless and staring wide-eyed at him.
“This is weird,” she said.
He hadn’t kissed a woman in a very long time. “I’m so not complaining.”
Lucy sat back in her seat and stared at the front door of her house. “Do you want to come inside?” she asked after some time had passed.
Yes, he wanted to come inside. But should he? That was the question. Roman had been riding that damn wagon and had been able to stay on it for a year now, and he was convinced that it all had to do with discipline, not making any waves, not riding any, and absolutely no boat rocking. He was alive, but not living, because living offered temptation. Temptation led to impulses and impulses to desires that he couldn’t afford to entertain.
When he didn’t respond quickly enough, Lucy didn’t even bother to look at him before opening the door to get out of the car. “Take care, Roman,” she said, sounding offended but refusing to let him see it on her face. He waited outside until she was safely inside the house before driving away.
* * *
Osiris P. Wells. That name resonated for no other reason than the fact that it didn’t appear to be attached to a real person. Roman had been fixated on it ever since he’d done the search on those plates and drilled down until he’d found it. And that’s where his search ended. There was no record of a social security number, bank or credit records, addresses or phone numbers. He couldn’t even find an address. Instinct told him that if a man like him didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be, and any ex-cop, recovering addict, wannabe private investigator shouldn’t look too hard to try to find him.
He seemed to be attached to Marlowe Price like a tick, though. And Roman’s curiosity sank its teeth into his brain and held on tight. Where would Marlowe meet a man like that? He wasn’t a Blink resident. Roman had done a search and had come up empty. He’d searched the FBI’s most-wanted criminal and domestic terrorists lists and had come back with nothing. Roman even got cheeky and checked Interpol’s most-wanted list, and of course, nothing came up.
Roman sighed, leaned back in his chair at his desk in his bedroom, and sighed again. What did it matter anymore? He was off the case, and even if he’d found out who this guy was, what difference did it make? It was still early, but Roman decided to take a shower and then update his website.
As soon as he sat down at his computer, his phone rang. It was Lucy. “I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I just wanted to say that.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For … you know.”
He did know, but she had no reason to be sorry.
“I just thought it’d be nice.”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m sure it would’ve been very nice.”
The conversation got quiet, and all of a sudden, Roman thought he heard soft sobs coming from Lucy’s end.
“Lucy? You all right?”
“Oh, I’m good,” she said, rather unconvincingly. “Walking back into this house was harder than I thought it’d be. I actually liked being away from it.”
“Bad memories,” he concluded.
“I’m going to put it on the market. I can’t live here anymore. Bad memories, and I can’t afford to keep it.”
“That might be for the best, then,” he said, feeling dumb because he didn’t have anything more uplifting to offer her.
“I’ve tried reading and watching television, but I can’t relax,” she admitted.
“You needed somebody to talk to?” he said conclusively.
She laughed. “Yeah. So what did you think of Blink (And Miss It), Texas? I thought Boulder was small.”
“Boulder is small. But there were some real characters down there.”
“Remember that guy who tried to talk us into trying squirrel burgers?” She laughed.
“Hey, don’t laugh. I was tempted.”
“They scared the hell out of me with all the snake stories. I’m glad I didn’t see any. One lady said that when it rained a lot a few weeks ago, snakes would dry themselves off on the windowsills of people’s houses. Can you imagine waking up to that?”
She went on and on for another fifteen minutes, and he let her.
“Is it all right if I call from time to time?” she eventually asked.
“That’d be fine, Lucy.”
“As Tom Hilliard used to say, ‘Right on with the right on.’” She laughed.
Roman laughed, too. “Who the hell is Tom Hilliard?” he asked, thinking that the guy was a comedian or something.
“One of Ed’s coworkers. He used to come by the house sometimes, and that was sort of like his catchphrase, as if anybody needs a catchphrase. Right?”
“Right on.”
“Thank you, Roman,” she said, laughing sweetly. “I’ve really appreciated your time.”
“You’re welcome, Lucy.”
Maybe it was nothing. Couldn’t hurt to look. Roman got out of bed and did a search on the name Tom Hilliard, and then Thomas Hilliard. Hilliard was from Colorado Springs, and he’d been reported missing over a month ago.
Bad Moon
THEY HADN’T BEEN GONE LONG enough. Plato picked up the flash drive from the kid in that parking lot, got onto the highway, and headed back to Blink. She’d been doing a mental analysis of her body to determine if there was evidence that he had actually violated her in some way last night, but if he’d done it, there was no sign that he had—no teeth marks or scratches or snake or vampire bites. Marlowe used a great deal of energy trying to convince herself that he was just teasing her and that he hadn’t actually touched her at all. But deep down, she knew that she’d never be quite sure.
He had been absolutely kind to her, though. Shou Shou reminded her that the devil was his most effective when he was charming, and if that were really the case, then Plato was doing an excellent job of being captivating. Hell, Marlowe was already doomed. She’d done everything she wasn’t supposed to. Marlowe had let him into
her home, she’d kissed him, damn near fucked him. The only thing left for him to do would be to drag her soul kicking and screaming to hell, which was likely already a done deal seeing as how she’d pretty much handed herself to him on a silver platter.
“You want to tell me why you’re looking at me like that?” he said as he drove, glancing quickly at her.
Marlowe didn’t realize she was staring. She cleared her throat. “No.”
Plato drove past the exit to Blink and took the next exit instead. “Have you been to the crime scene?” he asked.
Marlowe shook her head. “Is that where we’re going?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive.
“Not exactly.”
They ended up in a town called Nelson. She’d heard of it, probably had even passed through it, but like most small towns in Texas, nothing about it stood out. He drove slowly down what appeared to be the main street, which was probably less than five miles long, before they were completely out of that town and back on an open, two-lane, two-way road.
“What’d we go there for?” she asked.
“Just looking,” he said indifferently.
He wasn’t just looking. He was searching, but for what, she didn’t know.
“I thought you said we were going to the crime scene,” she reminded him.
“We just passed it, Marlowe. On the other side of those trees.”
* * *
When they got to her house, without asking, Plato got out of the car and went in to search the place to give her peace of mind that no one was inside. He sat down on one of the counter seats at her breakfast bar to put himself at eye level, reached for her hand, and pulled her close. She didn’t resist or pull away because she didn’t want to.
“Do you need me to stay?” he asked, sincerely this time, like he was serious and not ready to come back with a bad joke. He wrapped one arm around her waist.
His hand was so warm. Marlowe stood between his thighs, and a word came to mind that caught her by surprise. Safe.
“I think I should be fine.” It’s not what she’d wanted to say because it meant that he would leave.
“It’s not a question of how fine you are, lovely Marlowe,” he said, grinning. “I’ve seen it for myself.”
On reflex, she punched him in the chest. “Stop it.”
He pretended that it hurt and grimaced. And then he stared into her eyes.
This … feeling lingering in the air between them was unexpected and welcoming for her. She wondered if he felt it.
Plato tugged on her just enough to coax her closer, pressed his lips to hers, and kissed her softly. Whatever this influence was that he had over her was intoxicating, and even if she could fight it, she probably wouldn’t.
“You call me if you need anything,” he said, looking into her eyes, into her soul.
Marlowe had to remember to breathe. “I will.”
Plato smiled, stood up, and left, and just like that—she wished he hadn’t. If he had stayed, no telling what would’ve happened between the two of them. Being in close proximity to that man was dangerous, and Marlowe’s already complicated life didn’t need any help getting any more complicated.
She sat down on the sofa and began the daunting process of checking her phone. Belle had texted her ten times since she and Plato had left for Dallas.
Call me! What are you doing? Are you all right? I’m praying for you. Send me a sign that you’re safe. Get to a phone if you can. In the name of Jesus … Marlowe???? I knew I shouldn’t have let you leave. Be blessed, cousin.
“Hey, Belle,” she said, smiling when her cousin answered.
“Girl!” Belle exclaimed.
Marlowe imagined Belle pressing her hand to her forehead and pacing back and forth in the kitchen.
“Where are you, Marlowe?” she asked frantically. “Are you safe? Did he hurt you?” Belle sounded like she was almost in tears.
“I’m fine, Belle,” she warmly assured her. “And I’m home.”
“What happened? What’d he do to you?”
“Well, we went to dinner at this nice restaurant overlooking the city. Food was really good, and then we went to this club called A Little Slice of Heaven.” She laughed. “Belle, I had a ball. Danced until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore and got drunk off my—”
“Really, Marlowe!” Belle angrily interrupted. “Really? I’m out here worried to death that he might’ve cut your head off, shrunk it, and hung it on a stick, and you’re out in Dallas partying? Really? You know what? Do what you want, Marlowe, just like you always do. Never mind about worrying the rest of us. Just do what you want.” Belle abruptly hung up on her.
Marlowe unpacked her bag, showered, and got ready for bed. He wasn’t far enough away from her thoughts, though. Damn, that man was fine. Marlowe had been drunk, but she hadn’t been so drunk that she couldn’t remember how he’d danced with her and held her close to him and doted on her. She sighed at the memory of the sensation of the warmth of his touch and brush of his lips as he leaned in close at that club to talk to her. She smiled thinking about how he’d stroked his thumb across the back of her hand when he laced his fingers with hers. Plato might’ve been a monster, but he was a sexy one.
Hours later her phone rang just as she had climbed into bed.
“Hey.” It was him.
Marlowe couldn’t help smiling. “Hey,” she said sleepily.
“You in bed already?”
“I am.”
“Everything all right?”
“It’s fine, Plato.” Marlowe unexpectedly smiled. “Did I say thank you?” she asked.
“For what?”
“For this weekend. I really needed it, and I appreciate it. I had a good time.”
“Good. I wish we could’ve stayed longer.”
She sighed. “Me, too.”
“Next time, it will be,” he assured her. “You get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
Marlowe gradually dozed off, wondering if he was as warm all over as his hand had felt. She drifted off thinking that maybe dancing with the devil wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Marlowe fell asleep meditating on the lovely memories of the time she’d spent with Plato in Dallas, unaware of the front door opening. She was sound asleep as he wound his way past the furniture in the living room, and she didn’t even hear the wooden floorboard creak when he took his first step up the stairs. She never heard him creep down the hallway, slowly push open her door, and quietly enter her bedroom. She slept soundly as he stood over her, staring, lowering his face to hers, and inhaling deeply as she exhaled.
Tell You My Sins
WHAT WAS THIS CREEPING UP on him? A dark, shadowed, wheezing, and pitiful thing slithering up next to him in the passenger seat of his car as he made his way back to his hotel room from a late dinner at a greasy burges joint. Was that regret? He’d only ever laid eyes on it once or twice in his life, and it had been so long since he’d last seen it that he almost didn’t recognize it. It showed up to remind him of some things he could never have or that he chose not to have because life was easier without them, less complicated and convoluted and messy.
Beautiful women were a dime a dozen, and he’d enjoyed more than his fair share of them. Plato was fortunate in that sense. Women lavished him with affection and sex, and he’d wallowed in all their lavishness like a pig in slop. He never bothered with promises he couldn’t or wouldn’t keep or elaborate diatribes about why he couldn’t or wouldn’t see them again. He admired their beauty and made it clear to them that he did. And that was usually enough. Wine and dine them, smother them with entirely too much attention that could easily be mistaken for love, touch, kiss, and one thing would lead to another, which meant all the fucking that he could handle in the course of a night, maybe a night and a day, and then he’d move on.
But regret was sitting next to him, shaking its ugly little head, pursing its thick and slimy lips. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.
Plato had been marr
ied so long ago and at such a young age that most of the time he felt as if some other dude had said “I do” to his ex-wife. They’d lived together, made a kid together, probably made some promises to each other, but it was all ancient history and fleeting—well, except for the kid part. Home was whatever hotel he was staying in at the time. It was his car, airplanes, hostels. He had more money than he could spend in his lifetime, and yet he was homeless.
Women like Marlowe were the physical interpretation of the word home to Plato. A lovely, comfortable, inviting woman that welcomed a man with open arms and good food and good love. The misogynist in him gloated. It almost shamed him to admit, even to his slimy little friend next to him, that he could want her if it wasn’t for the kind of life he led. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way about a woman. Of course, in all fairness, he had seen her beautiful self all shiny and naked the night before, spread out before him like treasure. So maybe that’s where all this melancholy was coming from. He was horny. Plato sighed, relieved. If that’s all it was, and he convinced himself that it was, then regret had wasted a trip visiting him, and it needed to get its dirty little ass out of his car.
* * *
The first thing he did when he got back to his room was fire up his laptop and plug in that thumb drive he’d found in Marlowe’s bedroom on the floor by the nightstand. He’d paid that kid two g’s to unlock this thing. Highway robbery, to be sure. Criminals charged too damn much. There was one file on this thing. Nothing more than a simple spreadsheet with three labels at the top of three columns: Code and Name and Date.
There were a total of fifty rows of data filled in on this thing. Underneath the Code column was a list of four- to six-digit combinations of numbers, letters, and keyboard symbols. The Name column appeared to contain what looked like stock market symbols of corporate or business names. The Date field data went back as far as two years and ended as recently as two months ago, a month before Price went missing from Marlowe’s. By itself, all he had was a bunch of extraneous information that didn’t appear to mean a damn thing. Appearances, though, were usually deceiving. It meant something. He just didn’t know what yet.
