Finding Claire Fletcher (25 page)

Finally, Stryker pulled the lollipop from his mouth and said, “Relax, Parks. It’s not like you’ve never been to one of these before.”

Connor looked at him and realized he had been too nervous to even make fun of Stryker and his red-stained mouth, glistening with the preservatives of a cherry lollipop. “Yeah, but I’ve never had to go in there and defend my own actions,” he pointed out.

Like Stryker, Boggs pulled a grape lollipop from his own mouth and waved it in the air in time with his words. “Stryke is right, Parks. Relax. You’re not gonna lose your badge. Now sit down cause you’re making us dizzy.”

With twin motions, the two of them popped their treats back into their mouths. Connor stood between them. With grunts and rolled eyes, they shifted so he could sit between them. Connor looked at his watch and drummed his fingers on his knees.

“Knock it off,” Stryker said.

Connor folded his arms in front of him and sighed.

“Try not to look so nervous,” Boggs offered. “They’ll think you meant to do it.”

“Now don’t tell him that,” Stryker said, leaning across Connor to look at Boggs. “He’s nervous enough as it is. He’s giving me motion sickness over here with the way he’s goddamn twitching.”

Boggs held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying he shouldn’t go in there wound up like a damn meth addict.”

“Well, you’re not helping,” Stryker said. “Just keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Boggs scowled. “Hey, you ever been to one of these?”

“I don’t need to have been to one to know not to freak the dude out fifteen minutes before he goes in there,” Stryker replied.

Connor was about to intercede and tell them both to shut the hell up when a booming voice said, “Well, just look at you kids. All lined up like you just got caught fighting on the playground.”

Connor looked up to see Farrell grinning and Jen Fletcher trailing behind him, dwarfed by Mitch’s heavy frame.

Boggs bolted up from his seat. “Jenny Fletcher!” he said, removing his lollipop.

Connor watched in disbelief as Boggs lifted Jen off the ground into a tight hug. He set her down and she smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling. “Danny Boggs,” she said. She looked at his lollipop. “You finally quit smoking?”

Boggs looked to the floor, suddenly bashful. “Nah,” he said. “I can’t smoke in here. Gotta do something.”

Connor stood and shook Mitch’s hand before Jen pulled him down into a quick hug.

“You two know each other?” Boggs asked.

Connor looked at him with arched eyebrows. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Boggs looked over the case for me a few times since Claire went missing,” Jen explained.

Boggs shrugged. “I remember when it happened. I did some work, but I wasn’t the lead investigator at the time. Couldn’t forget this little lady, though. She called almost every day for five years.”

Jen nodded. “Connor’s doing some work for us.” She winked at Connor. “Nothing much since he’s on the desk right now, just looking over the case file.”

Connor turned to Mitch. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, we thought you could use some moral support is all.”

Jen slid an arm around Connor’s waist. “You’ve been a big help,” she said. “We just wanted to do something to repay you.”

From his spot on the bench, Stryker spoke up for the first time. “Give him a sedative,” he said. “That’ll help.”

“Shut up, Stryke,” Boggs said. The two started arguing again but stopped abruptly when a uniformed officer poked his head out of the door and said, “They’re ready for you, Detective Parks.”

All eyes were on Connor. He looked down at Jen, who gave him a squeeze and then at Mitch. “You guys gonna stick around?” he asked.

Mitch nodded.

Boggs and Stryker stood up and flanked Connor, patting him heartily on the back. “Good luck in there, man,” Stryker said.

Connor nodded, took a deep breath and straightened his tie. He flashed a smile at his ragtag group of supporters and walked through the door.

The new house was one story, although it could hardly be called new. It looked as if someone had slapped together a few pieces of plywood and called it home. Paint on the walls peeled and chipped. The floors were not level so that most of the furniture tipped to one side or the other. The pipes running just beneath the floors groaned and banged whenever a faucet was turned on, and it took a full five minutes for hot water to work itself up to the spigot. There were old tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, white turned brown with age and chipped around the corners. There was a persistent smell as though some animal had crawled beneath the place to die.

Just outside the front door was a low porch with floorboards that were rotted on one side. Beyond that was a stretch of grass, where he parked his car and the old truck, which he’d spray-painted brown after he killed Rudy. Trees dotted the edge of the property and beyond that was a narrow road. Across from us was an old trailer, which sat unused and creaked when the wind was strong.

For many days I sat on the porch, a book open and unread in my lap and waited for cars to pass. The road was hardly traveled at all and when cars passed, they sped as if they were racing toward a finish line.

I did not bother to unpack my things. I lived from the boxes, rifling through them when I needed something. He left the house less often, but he did not speak or look at me. I needed new clothes. The ones I had did not fit well. When I asked him for new clothes, I did not say please and he did not acknowledge me, but a few days later, a pile of new clothes appeared on my bed.

I was able to roam the woods around the house and even across the street by the trailer. Tiffany kept a close eye on me and always reported to him when I had taken a walk. He said nothing. I walked as far as I dared through the trees in every direction and even along the road but did not see any neighbors. I didn’t know what I would do if I came upon someone else. It felt good to be outside, the quiet broken only by my feet over downed branches and fallen leaves.

Most of the time, I stayed on the porch, counting the cars that passed. Tiffany stayed inside, periodically appearing in the window to see if I was still there. Sometimes she came outside and sat on the opposite end of the porch, pointedly ignoring me.

One day, she left the porch and returned with a long branch, which she held in her hand as she got down on her belly and probed underneath the porch.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I hear something under here. I’m getting it out.”

“It’s a skunk. Leave it alone.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen it. It’s not hurting anyone. Just leave it.”

Her head popped up, eyes narrowed at me. “What if I don’t want a skunk living under the porch? They’re gross.” She resumed poking beneath the floorboards, her stick scraping against them.

“It’s going to spray you,” I said.

“No it won’t. Skunks only spray at night.”

I laughed. “Who told you that?”

“I just know it. Besides, it’s probably not a skunk at all. You probably just said that to scare me. It’s probably some weird animal you keep under there as a pet, and you just don’t want me to scare it off.”

I said nothing. The skunk, who apparently found Tiffany no less annoying than I did, promptly sprayed her. The pungent smell wafted up over her shrieks. She ran from the porch but the skunk did not emerge. She ran in circles, arms waving, face pale and scrunched up. I stood and walked slowly into the house. I went into my room and pushed a box up against the door.

I went to sleep and woke to the sound of their raised voices. Apparently she had showered and taken up residence on the couch, but the smell lingered and now it was strong and heavy in the house.

“What were you thinking?” I heard him say.

“Well, that bitch in there told me there was something under the porch and I should get it out or you would be pissed,” came her high-pitched reply. Then there was an audible pout. “I didn’t know it was a skunk.”

A sigh.

A moment later, he knocked on my door but did not enter. I heard him through the door, the first words he had spoken to me in three months. “Lynn, I’m getting tired of these little games.” I heard footsteps: Tiffany’s. “I can’t leave the house for even a few hours without you two getting into trouble.” A sound of disgust. “Get into the bathtub and don’t get out until I come back,” he said.

Whining. “Where are you going?”

“To get something to rid you of that awful smell. Now go.”

I heard no more after that, though when I emerged the next day the smell was fainter. The couch had been tossed out into the front yard, and Tiffany was holed up in one of the empty rooms.

That evening he called us both to the dinner table. Tiffany and I sat on either side of him. She glared at me, eyes narrowed to dark slits. He looked tired. His eyes were rimmed with black circles, his expression weary.

Finally he spoke. “This has got to stop,” he said.

Immediately, Tiffany piped up. “Well, if she would just leave me alone. I don’t do anything to her. She hates me.”

He raised a hand to silence her. “Lynn,” he said. “You have to stop fighting with your sister.”

“She picks on me all the time,” Tiffany blurted.

“Lynn?” he said, waiting for my response.

I raised my chin. “Go to hell,” I said.

Tiffany gasped. He lowered his eyes and shook his head with disappointment. “We’ve talked about this,” he said.

“About what?” I shot back.

“About you being a good girl. If you’re not going to be a good girl, I’m afraid—”

“What? You’ll kill me? You’ve tried enough times, why don’t you just finish the job this time?”

Tiffany’s eyes widened. He looked up at me sharply.

I smiled without humor. “What? You think I care what you do to me anymore? Do you honestly think that death could be worse than this?” I waved a hand around the room. “Just do what you have to do,” I added.

“You said you would be good,” Tiffany said.

“Oh shut up,” I told her. I turned back to him. “And stop talking to me like I’m five years old. I’m nearly twenty. I’m not a girl anymore.”

“You ungrateful bitch,” he said. He threw his fork down, and it clattered on his plate. He stormed off to his bedroom and did not come out the rest of the night.

Two weeks later, I found a newspaper article taped to the inside of my door. It was a small piece, cut from the metro section of the city paper.

LOCAL RESIDENT CRASHES INTO STOREFRONT.

Thomas Fletcher, a local businessman, crashed his car into the large storefront window of Starbucks at four p.m. yesterday. Fletcher was driving down 9
^th
Street when the brakes on his Chevrolet Lumina failed. Fletcher was taken to Memorial Hospital and released later. Police say Fletcher’s brake lines had been cut, and they are investigating the incident.

“We fully intend to prosecute,” said D.A. Pamela Williams. Fletcher, though shaken by the incident, is glad no one was injured. “It was terrifying,” he said yesterday afternoon from his Bell street home. “I’m just glad no one was killed. I have no idea who would want to do something like this.”

Police, too, are baffled by the incident but will continue to investigate. “This was attempted murder,” said Detective Daniel Boggs. “We can’t have citizens afraid to drive their own vehicles. This is very serious, and we’re looking into it with all of our resources.”

There was no photo. Hands trembling, I pulled the clipping from the door and held it to my chest. Had he really tried to kill my brother? My throat felt thick. I tried not to think of my family often. It was too painful. I liked to imagine them living their lives, happy and fulfilled, doing all the things I could never do. He may have held me captive and ripped me away from them, but in my mind my family was untainted, unspoiled by his evil hands. Now he was a threat to them.

I slid to the floor, holding the article to me as if it were Tom himself.

Two hours later, Connor emerged from his meeting with the review board smiling, his body slick with sweat under his suit jacket. Boggs, Stryker, Mitch and Jen stood in a half-circle in the hallway and looked expectantly at him.

“Well?” Mitch said.

“Six months on the desk, no active investigating, no time on the street,” Connor said, sighing with relief, as if he’d held his breath the entire time he’d been in there.

Boggs and Stryker high-fived him and hooted. “See,” Stryker said. “It’s all good, man.”

Boggs gave Connor a sideways hug over the shoulder, jostling him roughly. “You’ll be back on the street in no time,” he said.

“Yeah, and in the meantime, you can type up all our reports,” Stryker added.

Jen rose on the tips of her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m glad,” she said.

“You wanna get lunch?” Mitch asked. “You can buy since you still have your job.”