"Hi, is this Gia?" a woman asks.
I hear a volley of dog barks in the background. She’s calling from a shelter. "Yes, yes it is." I jolt up to sitting up, ready to receive some news. Please let it be good news.
"Great. So this is Karen from Coastal Animal Shelter."
"Yes?"
"And we found Jack. Or at least we think it’s Jack . . . he fits the description anyway. And we—"
"I’m on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes." And I hang up.
Technically, it’s a half hour drive from here, but I was afraid she’d tell me to come over tomorrow if she has to wait for my arrival. I’ll make it in fifteen, even if it costs me my driver’s license. I can’t stand the thought of Jack spending one night at the pound.
She may not even have my baby Jack, but I take the chance anyway and blow through a few yellow lights, swerving around grandma behind the wheel, and it seems like grandma is behind every steering wheel.
I merge onto the freeway, glance over my shoulder, and cross three lanes at once. I swerve into the fast lane and put the pedal to the metal, leaning forward, senses on high alert.
Ninety miles an hour. One hundred. One ten . . . and here’s my exit. I eat up three lanes and before I know it, I careen onto the shelter premises, double park with a screech, and go in.
"I’m here for Jack," I tell the aging receptionist. "He’s a staffie-cross. Orange. Big head. Karen just called me?"
"Oh," she says, looking at her computer monitor, clicking her mouse randomly. "We did? We don’t usually call this time of night." She seems a little overwhelmed with modern technology.
I try not to cry. "Do you mind if I check the kennels?"
She looks at her wristwatch. "Well, it’s just that visiting hours are kind of over."
What is this a hospital? I can feel my fangs growing longer. I’ve had a rough day. If she doesn’t help me out, and quick, I’m about to draw blood. "Look—"
A side door bangs opens. A woman walks through, holding the handle of a thin plastic slip leash. Karen, I presume. She has buzzed sidewalls, piercings that run along the edges of both ears, and lots of tattoos. She’s wearing a black t-shirt that says: I heart animals more than people.
She rounds the reception desk, and at the end of the leash cowers Jack.
"Jack!" I cry, bundling him up in my arms. He’s whimpering and licking my face. And I’m crying too, with joy.
"Well he sure likes you," she says. "Looks like I won’t have to ask for proof of ownership."
"Thank you so much," I say to her.
"Well, thanks for picking up the phone. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I have reuniting pets with their owners. Sometimes I’m like, hello? Your frickin’ pet is here. You wanna come get him?"
"I would never do that. I’ve been such a wreck since he went missing."
"That’s because you’re a good person," she says, reaching behind the counter for a form. "Some people should be banned from owning pets."
While Karen fills out the paperwork, I check Jack’s collar because I’m damn sure he has an ID tag. It’s an expensive crystal embellished one that says ‘Jack’s Mommy’ followed by my phone number. But it’s missing.
Instead, I find a little metal tube, clipped onto the D-ring. Surprised, I unclip it. I can see that it’s a little screw-together barrel. Strange. I twist it open, and find a curled up piece of paper stuffed into one end.
With shaking fingers, I unroll the paper and read. Stop snooping and Jack lives.
23
GIA
I’m completely horrified that Erin finagled the theft of Jack. Did she plan it from the very moment we met. If so, why? Did she read my mind? Or does she lay a foundation for entrapment with every person she meets? Seems like a lot of organizational work. Does she keep spreadsheets? Whatever her motivation (and her accounting system), I find her prep work to be chilling.
I drive straight up to my mom’s house to drop off Jack. He needs to be safe and completely removed from Erin’s grasp. I’m trying to get one step ahead of Erin. In order to do that, I need to think like a paranoid criminal.
Is Mom’s house really the best place to take Jack? Will I be putting her at risk? The only way that I’d be putting my mom at risk is if Erin could track down her address somehow. So I threw away Jack’s collar just in case she planted a tracking device. And if she goes to one of those ‘mine for personal information’ websites, she won’t be able to find my mom through me because we have different last names.
I had legally changed mine in high school when "Ercolessi" somehow became Ergo Lezzie, followed by many guffaws about my sexual orientation. So, it’s not ideal, taking Jack to Mom’s house, but I think this will do for now.
As soon as I walk through the front door, Jack is gone, lucky me, darting around the front room with Mom’s dog, Midas. Then he sideswipes a small decorative table and sends a lamp with a beaded shade tumbling to the floor. "Jack!" I cry, but he’s not listening of course. So I pick up the lamp and offer the bog standard apology that every dog owner constantly mutters, "Sorry . . ."
"It’s okay." Mom tries to corral Midas, but he slips away. I try to nab Jack, but he’s zippy now, energized by looming entrapment. Then they both run, barking, into the back bedroom, dual flashes of orange and white. Well, at least Jack will be happy here.
"Do you think you could keep him for a little while?" I ask.
"Sure," Mom says, pulling his doggy dishes out from the pantry. "How long?"
"I’m really busy with work," I say, sitting down at the kitchen table. "My boss asked me to pick up a few more shifts." I’m trying to guesstimate how long it will take Erin to forget about abducting Jack again. "Maybe a few weeks?"
This is the first time I’ve ever lied to my mom. It feels strange and odious. I want to take a shower, but my overriding concern is for her and Jack’s safety.
"Sure, honey," she says, "Did you have dinner?"
"No, not yet."
"OK, let me see what I can rustle up."
While Mom warms up some Bolognese, I read my text messages. There are several from Sarah, the world’s worst dog walker—Did you find Jack? Is he ok?—and reply with news that I found him at the pound, followed by sharp words about job ethics. You never ever let someone take your client’s dog. Stupido! Okay, I left the last part off.
Then I head to the living room and sit down on Mom’s favorite reading chaise, thinking.
I decided that I didn’t want anything to do with Erin’s dastardly deeds. I decided to leave her dark secrets alone. But after Erin stole my dog and left those bogus reviews, threatening my livelihood and my dog’s life, I’m furious. And I’m scared. If she’s going to hold a gun to my temple, I’d better make sure I’m holding the bullets.
But there’s something else churning inside. The last time I had dismissed clues dangling right in front of my face Melissa had lost her life, and I had fractured apart as a person. I’d turned away from my psychic ability, the one that had caused me so much confusion and heartache.
Nonna had said once that receiving psychic impressions is like an obligation. Don’t break-ah the contract. After so many long years of healing and shoring myself back up again and, finally, hoping (albeit with trepidation) that my gift would return, I have been given a second contract.
But . . . should I try and stop her? Should I take the risk? I’ll be stepping in Erin’s way, a woman who has already taken a life. Would she have any qualms with taking another life? Possibly mine?
I don’t know, but my sense of conviction returns, thinking about stopping her. Thinking about honoring the gift.
I think of Mom’s words: maybe it’s come back for a reason, and Nonna’s prediction from long ago rises to the forefront of my mind. Gia will go on to help many people . . .
Maybe it’s my destiny to stop Erin. Maybe that’s why my ability came back. And when my decision solidifies—yes, I’m going to try and stop her—a sense of peace and determination w
ashes over me.
Erin has a dastardly plan that involves Dan. I need to get to him. Fast.
But how? All the snooper websites require full names. All I know is his nickname: Dan the Man. I thought about calling Nikki and asking her to try and hunt up something, but she was very clear about her ongoing disinterest in Erin. I don’t want to get involved in that.
Lucky for me, Google doesn’t have a choice. I pull up the browser on my phone and type in "Dan the Man."
Jack trots into the living room, hops up onto my lap, and sits down, snuffling around my phone. He likes to surf the internet. He even has his own preferences. He likes to watch funny puppy compilations, the sentimental sap.
But not today. Today, I need to find Dan the Man. I start scrolling through the images. There are old men lying on the beach, wearing scanty pieces of clothing. There’s a guy with big beard and a belly to match, followed by various images of half-naked and hair-free individuals.
I find pictures of seductive looking boy band groups, a hipster duo, and many Dapper Dans. Then I find a lot of other images that don’t seem to fit the bill (no offense, Hot Man Killer.)
Facebook yielded way too many results to be helpful, so I close the browser and turn off my phone. What now?
My mind goes back to that day at Nail Palace, when I first intuited him. He seemed like a fit guy: nice build, strong, eyes like iron.
I got the impression that he’s a physical guy, not a desk jockey. That gets me thinking about active jobs. Not dirty jobs. Though, I’m fairly certain that his job does get dirty at times. Is he a foreman? A personal trainer? A policeman? A detective?
That would be the ultimate irony. He investigates murderers for a living, only to find one hot on his tail. I grab a pen and scrap paper from the small spindly side stable where Mom stashes her books, and write down as many active, possibly dirty jobs I can think of.
I finish my list and look it over, waiting for one to stand out, waiting for my superpower to tell me clearly: the guy’s full name is (fill in the blank); he’s a (fill in the occupation); you may find him at (enter precise address). Except it doesn’t work that way.
I sigh, feeling disappointed and a little panicky. I have no idea how to find this guy, or go about doing it, and this really is a matter of life or death. I run my hand along Jack’s velvety fur and scratch behind his ear stumps. He’s a clingy little guy. But of course, he would be, after what had happened to him.
I found him at the pound, while looking for a cat to adopt. Cats are independent and easy to care for, requiring only food, water, and plenty of neglect.
But there weren’t any cats available that day, so I visited the kennel out of curiosity. I wanted to give reassuring pats and cuddles to the poor homeless fur babies, even if I didn’t have the bandwidth to care for one.
A volunteer followed, pointing out some potentials. There were purebreds, I was surprised to find, including a Cocker Spaniel with dirty ears dragging on the floor. There were blind dogs, young dogs, some exuberant puppies rescued from off the street. I felt so bad for them.
Sharp, anxious barking battered against my ears. I wanted to take them all home, but I couldn’t. So I resolved to make a donation and continued down the aisle toward the exit. Out of curiosity, I stopped at the last kennel, silent within, and peered inside.
An orange dog with docked ears and tail lay curled up on the concrete floor, the ridge of his spine facing out. I could see his rib cage rising and falling, but just barely. He cuddled a dingy stuffed animal.
"His owner surrendered him a couple days ago," the volunteer said, fingers hooked into the chain-link fencing, looking into the cage. "Said she’d fallen on hard times and couldn’t take care of him anymore. Since he was originally a rescue from a dogfighting ring, we have to be extra careful. Not a lot of people are interested in that box of chocolates."
I bent down and made little kissy sounds. "Hey little fella . . ." But he didn’t move.
"If I’ve ever seen a dog die of a broken heart, this is it. We can’t get him to respond to anyone or anything. He won’t eat. He clutches his stuffed animal and just lays there, like he’s waiting to die."
I looked over at his bowl of food, untouched.
"He needs a foster home, but we reached out to everyone on our list and they’re all busy with other dogs." She sighed. "It’s a toughie because people don’t want to adopt a dog that won’t interact with them, especially with breeds that are high risk. I don’t know what to do. If we can’t get him to come out of his shell, management is going to put him on the kill list."
I sit up straight. Kill List.
Mom has a deck of divination cards that she nicknamed Kill List.
I think about that mean-spirited deck. I like cards that are chatty and give me the whole balanced picture, both good and bad. Kill List just gives the simple brutal truth.
This divination deck, created and passed down by Nonna, offers no flowery upsides. It’s based on a forty card playing deck with four suits—cups, coins, swords, and clubs—used for a popular card game in Italy called Scopa.
Nonna gave each card a meaning in latin based loosely on tarot. The cups signify thoughts, imagination and emotions. Messages in the coins suit have to do with the material plane. Swords represent movement and time, and the clubs allude to power, transition, and outcomes.
Mom retired the deck after it predicted the sudden death of a client, which later turned out to be a car accident. Mom had to make up a nice story about a dream coming true, while insisting that her client take care, be careful, and buckle up.
"Mom? Do you still have Kill List?"
"What?" she asks, pouring some pasta in to a pan of boiling water.
"Kill List. Do you still have it?"
She looks over her shoulder at me. "Why do you want that deck? I put it away a long time ago."
"I know, I know. But I have a question that I want to ask Kill List."
She arches her finely shaped eyebrows, all the way up to the blunt line of her newly trimmed bangs. "Use the art deco deck if you have a question, honey. It’s such a lovely deck. I’m really enjoying it."
"Okay, but I want to ask Kill List first."
She shakes her head as if she can’t be bothered arguing and turns back to the stovetop. "I keep everything in my chest of drawers. Third drawer down. Come down for dinner when you’re done."
I hurry up the stairs to the tall chest of drawers in her bedroom where she stashes her non-valuable valuables, while Jackie-boy trots along behind me. I should have named him Shadow, as in My Personal Shadow, but I’d already done up the paperwork.
I open up the third drawer and pat around the edges, scraping around the back of the deep drawer, kind of hoping I won’t find it, but then I feel something hard and very deck-like.
Out comes Kill List. I remember the thrill of excitement and fear when I worked with this deck. It was like climbing on the back of a powerful, smart, and barely broke horse. Whatever message pours out of these cards will be clear, concise, and terribly accurate.
I sit down and slip the deck out of the sleeve, while Jack curls up between my folded legs and lays his oversized head on my thigh. It’s been many years since I’ve read tarot cards. Hopefully, this is like riding a bicycle.
First things first. Reset the deck. I have to inject good energy into these long dormant cards and get them to behave.
I shuffle a few times and press Jack’s paw against the deck. His energy is pure devotion and selflessness, mixed with bundles of gratitude. Then I clear my mind.
OK, done.
I continue to shuffle as I formulate my question. I don’t need a long exposition, I remind the cards. I just need an answer.
I hope this tricky deck will spill the proverbial beans. Short and sweet. Done and dusted. I speak my question, loud and clear. "Where do I find Dan the Man?"
I keep shuffling, pushing down a growing sense of unease as I feel the cards awaken.
Jacky starts snoring.
Well, if he’s not alarmed, why should I be?
A card flops out, face up.
OCCIDO.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I feel something akin to a dark cloud gathering around me. This is not like the Death card in tarot, which can mean the death of one thing in order for there to be the birth of another. Kill List doesn’t put a happy spin on things. And this card isn’t showing any ole death. Occido means ‘slaughter or slay.’ I feel a little queasy. Kill List wants to show me a death, and a very violent one at that.
"Where can I find Dan the Man?" I ask the cards, shuffling.
Out falls another card face down this time. I flip it over, hoping that it will answer my question, instead of more description of the future horrendous deed.
MOX. Soon, presently, shortly. My stomach drops. This guy doesn’t have much time. Nonna built a time element in this deck. She was a very impatient person. So am I.
"Okay, okay," I say to the deck, shuffling faster. "I need to find this guy. I need to find Dan the Man. Dan the Man. Dan the Man." You have to repeat yourself. Sometimes the cards can be a little hard of hearing.
One last card falls out, and I hold my breath.
BELLUM.
And now, I know where to look.
24
GIA
The very next day, I arrange for my co-worker to cover my shift. Then I collect all the names of the bases and related outposts in San Diego, the epicenter of all things military. There’s way more places than I expected. It seems like every time I zoom in to the map, more locations materialize. In addition to the Navy and Marines, there are the quasi-military branches of Homeland Security, Border Patrol, and the Coast Guard.
It looks like my new mission will take a long time. Time I don’t have. So I decide to start at the northern-most base in San Diego—the Marine Corps base in Camp Pendleton—and make my way south.
I exit the freeway and follow the signs toward the San Onofre Gate of Camp Pendleton, a narrow road leading to a two-lane entrance flanked by cinder block security huts and a small metal-roofed admin office building sitting off to the side. One lane is blocked off, directing all traffic to the lane furthest to the right. I slow down and lower my window. I haven’t planned out a script, but looking up at the scowling cadet, wearing his sharp uniform and sharper haircut, I realize that I may have screwed up.
Keep Me In Sight Page 11
