Discretion (27 page)

Silence.

It was Mike’s boat.

And Christel is back? Just like that? The realization of this news weighs heavy on my mind—like a gravity of its own that pulls me down. Is Christel returning now to steer me in this direction for her own purpose?

Mike and Mayra were at the lake that day. They helped search for Natalie when she went missing and for the subsequent seventy-two hours…they could be the boat she got on from my father’s. Jackson presumed it was Mike’s boat from the beginning, but Mike had no reason to lie—unless he was benefiting somehow, which no one could piece together. And Mayra was such a close friend to Natalie, I couldn’t believe that she’d be involved.

Mike took her.

But why does Christel reveal this information now, not years ago when it mattered most?

“Do you remember anything else?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “That’s it. If it was Mike and Mayra’s boat…what does that tell us? Where does that lead?”

“It’s a start to knowing what happened to you that day. If you got onboard with Mayra and Mike and went somewhere on the lake…anything could have happened.” I rub my head, though it hurts. “I’ve been chasing the truth for years, but I think now…I didn’t want to see it. It’s always been right in front of me.” I manage a short laugh. “It’s crazy because I’ve been hanging around with Mike for football games, parties, playing cards.”

“I’m not so sure I want to know what happened,” Natalie says.

“Wait now—if you remember, it’s for a reason. We should know the truth. And maybe the person who took you is still active, so what happened to you could be happening to others. Doesn’t that matter?”

“It does, but there’s more to this and I think we’re getting to the heart of it.”

“Which is?”

Natalie says, carefully, “What Christel is. And what role she played.”

C
hristel…How can Natalie presume to understand her? I’ve not considered this before, but Natalie could hear her, too, perhaps.

“What is your theory?”

“From what you’ve told me and what I know…Christel is evil. It’s not a dead lock, but I’m fairly sure.”

“What gave you this idea?”

“What you said about her. She’s deceptive. She’s manipulating you.”

“She saved your life, helped me…uh, well.” Natalie studies me, waiting for the words to follow. “She helped me get you back, when you were abducted.”

“Yes, and Riley Dasher, who got killed, was a pastor’s son.”

“I didn’t know that.” Is that a coincidence? Significant even? “She has me help people. If she’s evil, she wouldn’t do that.”

“What does she tell you to do?” she asks.

I ponder a moment. “Help people in need, in pain. She directs me. She…shows me things that no one else can see. Private suffering.” I tell her the story about Nadine and she listens with some surprise.

“Why do you think she does that?”

The muscles of my face contort on a will of their own. Natalie doesn’t move and shows no expression. I stare at her, contemplating. What does an angel want, exactly? “What are angels supposed to do, if not help people?”

“There’s not much in the Bible about them. They help or bring messages.”

“Isn’t that a little dogmatic to use only one reference?”

“What other source is there? The Bible was written over hundreds of years, yet it works—it agrees. For the writers’ work to gel rather than contradict over that period is…divine.”

“Okay, maybe. But how can something that’s evil do good?”

“The same way we can.”

“Huh?”

“We do good things, yet we are evil,” she says.

A demon? Can’t be. This being has done too much for others, for me, for good. How can an evil being do so much good? How can Christel, helping me all these years, be evil?

“This can’t be true. I’m not evil. Murderers are. Rapists are. I’m none of those.” Rage starts building in me. It’s a choice. We all have a choice. Christel is a spirit that chooses to help. Who cares what she is?

“I don’t want to fight about it. You told me about Christel, and I gave you my opinion. And you should know…that Mayra has some experience with what you’re describing.”

“What do you mean? Mayra has nothing to do with this.” I’m trying to keep calm, but I can feel welling frustration within, like steam in pipes.

“Colin,” she says in a soothing, almost motherly tone. “I’m on your side.”

“Yeah. I bet.” I regret the words, but I’m unwilling or unable to take them back. How can she tell me Christel is evil? “How’d you know about the needle?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What do you mean, you have no idea? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Colin, this fight is spiritual. So you might say, like Christel gives you ideas, knowledge, tells you what to do…God speaks in the same way if we’re listening.”

That is not true.

“I don’t believe that. Seven billion people on the planet. He’s got better things to do.”

She is trying to deceive you. Leave.

“I’ve got to get going, Natalie.”

I grab the papers and begin signing off for my release, skimming the print instead of reading.

“Colin, where are you going?”

I ignore her while I finish the papers. Natalie remains in her seat, watching me with a calm posture.

If you love me, then why are you against me?

The papers are finished. I come to my feet and release the edge of the bed, testing my ability to stand without support. My head feels off, uneasy, but I can manage.

“I’ll take you home,” Natalie says.

“Not going home, thanks.”

“This isn’t you. It’s not the you that I know. This is stressful…”

“It’s more than that.”

She sighs. There’s nothing to say. I nod to her on my way out of the room, leave my papers at the front desk and get behind the wheel of my car. The silence inside is reassuring—calming. Just to be out of the noise.

Then the thought crosses my mind: what if Natalie is right? Christel is deceptive? I think not. Natalie mentioned Mayra, that she shares a similar experience to my own.

I know what I have to do. Jackson first. Then Mike and Mayra. If I find answers, I may not need Jackson’s source after all.

I
stop for a coffee on the way to visit Jackson. No update on Jamal, but I don’t expect one. No doubt Natalie will fill in Joanna on the argument at the hospital and draw her own conclusions, which I’ll have to defuse later on.

I dial Jackson and disregard the low-battery warning on my phone. No answer. It’s after eleven, so he might be home. The drive takes sixteen minutes.

Jackson’s neighborhood is quiet and secure, complete with a guarded gate and video surveillance. Most of the homes are formidable, and have security of their own. Tall, full trees and perfect lawns, in sizable lots. No cars parked in the street and all the yards are well-lit. Jackson’s place is a single story with a wavy path of sandstones leading to the front door, and a stained-glass image of Saint Mary beside the heavy wooden entrance.

I tap lightly on the front door, not wanting to create a disturbance, but when a calm tap doesn’t arouse anyone to the door, I ring the bell and wait. The chime is loud and bellows through the house, yet no one comes to the door. Oh no…are you dead in there?

I call his cell again, to no avail. It’s a clear, cool night. Maybe he’s relaxing outside and his cell is off. I take my time walking around the back, paying close attention to surroundings along the solar illuminated brick path. My primary goal is not to disrupt anything and draw attention from the neighbors. The eight-foot wooden gate leading to the back is not locked and I try to remember if Jackson has a dog.

Be brave, I tell myself, and unlatch it. The porch is bright and two fans run at high speed. Jackson is passed out on a hammock, a slow, short-range swing with straining ropes under his two hundred forty pounds. I stop a few feet away and debate about what to do. He works long days and has a load of casework and a failed marriage to prove it.

Jackson comes to and he sits up on the hammock, steadying himself on the wobbling ropes. He smacks his chops. Then he notices me standing a few feet away on the lawn.

“When did you get here?”

“It’s been a few minutes. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.”

He stumbles off the hammock onto the grass, face first. He clamors to his feet, like a drunk. “Fuck. What’s going on? I don’t remember…what time is it?”

“It’s still Tuesday. After eleven.”

He pants and heaves a few times. I watch, hoping he will be coherent enough to have a serious conversation.

“Jackson, I need to meet your source. Whoever this person is.”

“For a rich guy, you don’t listen well. I told you that I only have contact with him when he finds me. He tracked me down.”

“The hound that you are…there’s no way you don’t know where this guy is. You’re an expert at finding people who don’t want to be found. Say what you like, but I know that you know where the guy is.”

He wanders off toward the house, but seems to lack any direction or purpose. He mumbles to himself.

“Jackson, I need answers and your source can help me.”

He takes a seat on the sofa and I keep my distance. New pictures are on the walls: Jackson with his kids, late teens now and off to college. The awards for his work with the police still on the shelf above the fireplace. The big TV is new since my last visit. The place is neutral with bright colors, modern furnishings, and smells like the cleaning service worked hard today.

“Jackson—”

“He provided me the files on condition of anonymity,” he says, cutting me off. “He knows unsightly people are searching for the victims he helps hide. Can’t change that.”

“Then why share information and risk being found?”

“He contacted me because I was searching for information on the tattoo, looking for meaning, origin, anything. He contacted me because he recognized it and wanted to help and he’s not about to volunteer a victim for the guillotine. I agree that we need a witness, which is why I’m looking for the culprit who got Natalie off your boat. If we find that out, we might have something, but I’m losing hope.”

I pause a moment, thinking of Mike and Mayra and how they could be involved, what they might know to help the investigation. “I know what happened that day at the lake. Where she went first.”

His face lights up. “Did some friend of hers finally confess?”

“Not yet. I’m going there next. Care to go for a drive?”

He mumbles to himself and stares at the floor. “I was right all along, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “It was Larison. But keep your cool. I want to get the whole story before you do anything crazy.”

T
he Larison home is a custom build sitting on two acres in an older area of town, built before the boom brought small lots and look-alike tract houses. High ceilings, four-car garages, and circular driveways dominate here with newly acquired German engineering. Lawns are well manicured with tall palm trees at the street, playing a shadow game on the pavement with the moon. Even in the darkness, the spring growth on the mountain is easy to see in the distance.

The front door is unlocked. The security system chirps three times on entry. Two deer, an elk, and a bison are mounted on the wall of the foyer, and an enormous bearskin rests on the open travertine floor of the living room, straight ahead. A full-size mountain lion is stalking a rock formation in the corner. Most of the furnishings are Mexican made, old pieces they found from an eccentric dealer out in Show Low—there’s an hour-long story for each piece. The furniture shows some signs of age with distress cracks and scuffs. Part of the charm.

Mike and Mayra are into natural foods, oils, and lean meats, if any. Mayra was vegetarian for years and couldn’t persuade Mike to join her. An allergy to soy broke her streak and she returned to being omnivorous.

Mike used to smoke, drink, and chew. He would also prepare what he shot on hunts with his father and either barbecue or braise the meat. He used to make some fine elk. His father had a fantastic recipe for bison. There was one deer that Mike killed a few years ago that made many fine meals. But that was the old Mike.

Mayra getting pregnant, the subsequent wedding and birth of their son Carter—who is now thirteen and committed to after-school sports—changed everything for Mike, mainly his perspective. He had to grow up and quickly. He sold most of his hobby items including guns, his boat, and a classic car he bought as a restoration project. He quit horsing around in his spare time and started working fulltime plus some with his father’s business. He took on sales and doing the books, too. He found opportunities and made substantial improvements, enough so that the company had to expand. All because Mike was smart at the helm.

Now, easily thirty pounds lighter than he was in high school, Mike is in good shape and good health, though he still works more than fifty hours a week and runs ragged between work and personal activities. He exercises a considerable amount, almost excessively, to cope with stress.

Mike is at ease in his great room, stretched out in a recliner as if he’s had a tequila shot or two, staring at the television mounted in a collage of desert rocks, nestled on the wall. He has a margarita glass filled with water resting on a small table. The combination of three ceiling fans and open windows facing the backyard make for a cool breeze and a great view.

A red plastic plate rests on the table with tortilla chips, melted cheese, shredded beef, jalapeños, salsa, guacamole, sour cream, and scallions. The aroma is wonderful. Mike nods at Jackson and me, as if this is an expected visit from friends to watch a game. He seems lethargic—he doesn’t much care about anything.
SportsCenter
is on the TV with highlights around Major League Baseball.

“Hey Mike. Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk.” It feels weird to apologize. He gestures for Jackson and me to take a seat on the sofa.

There was animosity between Jackson and Mike after Natalie was brought in, as Jackson was never satisfied with the answers Mike gave concerning his whereabouts during the abduction. Because Jackson knew the truth about how Natalie was recovered, he doubted Mike’s story all the more, figuring his involvement turned that day into a bloody mess. Jackson always felt that Mike was holding out and Jackson didn’t get the opportunity to pry a confession out of him. Mike was eighteen at the time, so he had much tougher questions, and so much more to lose.