Claire DeWitt and the Bohemian Highway (33 page)

She trailed off and started to cry harder.

“I’m so scared,” Lydia said. “I’m going crazy.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I keep thinking he’s here,” she said. “I keep thinking,
Well, I’ll call Paul and
. . . Or I keep thinking he’s really with me, in the room, and he knows what I did and—”

“Maybe you’re not crazy,” I said. “Maybe he is with you.”

That made her cry harder.

“I want to die,” she howled. “Please, just kill me, Claire. I know you want to.”

I thought about it. It wouldn’t be hard. I figured she meant it, and she wouldn’t fight back.

I could take her neck and just
snap
it.

I did want to kill her, kind of.

I reached across and put my hand on her arm, right above the elbow.

“Oh, Claire,” Lydia said. “I’m so scared. Please don’t forget about me,” she said. “Please don’t forget about me in here. I’m so scared.”

“I won’t,” I said. I squeezed her arm.

“I want to die,” she sobbed. “Oh God. I don’t want to live. Please. Please help me.”

There are no coincidences. Only doors you didn’t have the courage to walk through. Only blind spots you weren’t brave enough to see. Only tones you refused to admit you could hear.

“I’ll visit you,” I said. “I won’t leave you alone. I promise. I won’t forget about you. We’re going to be okay,” I said. I reached over and put both my hands on her arms and kissed her on the forehead. “We’re going to be fine.”

I didn’t know if I believed it. Maybe not this time around. But someday.

I stayed with her until the guards made me leave.

The Case of the Kali Yuga was closed.

T
HAT NIGHT, AT HOME
, I found the Cynthia Silverton comic I’d taken from Bix. I flipped through until I found the ad I was looking for on page 108.

BE A DETECTIVE
, the ad read,
MONEY! EXCITEMENT!
Women and men admire detectives. Everyone looks up to someone with knowledge and education. Our
HOME STUDY
course offers the chance to earn your
DETECTIVE’S BADGE
from
THE COMFORT OF YOUR OWN HOME
.

I took out a piece of paper and a pen and wrote:

To Whom It May Concern:

I am already a professional detective, but I would like to improve my skills. Do you offer a continuing education course? Or may I enroll in the standard home study course despite my age and experience? Please reply at this address . . .

I wrote in my address, signed it, and mailed it to the address in the ad.

A
FEW DAYS LATER
I called the lama. Still no word from Andray. He’d called Trey, who’d likewise heard no news.

I was on Stockton Street, in front of the vegan Chinese place. Through the plate-glass window I saw the TV inside.

Enlightened Mistress is one and all
, the TV streamed.
Everyone is an Enlightened Mistress. Service is happiness, happiness is your birthright, and nirvana is a bird in your hand. Even in the darkest night, one star will always shine.

When I hung up with the lama I called Claude.

“Start a file,” I said. “We’re starting a new case.”

“What should I call it?” Claude asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m going to find Andray. That’s our next case. We’re finding Andray.”

A
FEW DAYS LATER
I set out early to Las Vegas in my rented Kia. I’d agreed to keep it for the month. No sign so far of my Mercedes, which I figured was for the best. At least it wasn’t a homicide scene.

I was in Oakland before I was sure I was being followed. It was a 1982 Lincoln Continental, one of my favorite cars. White exterior, blood-red interior.

I began to think he was following me on the Bay Bridge. Since just about the spot where Paul’s car died. He’d been with me since Chinatown but I thought I was being paranoid—it wasn’t so strange that someone else would be driving from Chinatown to the East Bay on this oddly sunny day. Then halfway across the bridge he didn’t pass me when I braked a little, taken strangely by surprise to be reminded of Paul again, Paul again and again. I decided to find out for sure: I hopped off the highway in Oakland and drove to an obscure spot I knew, a little marina and landing where a few Victorian buildings had somehow lasted through Oakland’s many renovations.

The Lincoln kept pace. I wasn’t being paranoid.

The Lincoln lagged a little behind but then when I stopped at a red light it put on speed to keep up with me. Not many people were around. A few women who were maybe prostitutes, a few workers from the factories nearby, looking for lunch.

And didn’t stop.

The first time the Lincoln hit me from behind I didn’t think; I just ran through the red light I’d been stopped at—there was no cross traffic—and put on speed as fast as I could. But the Lincoln was faster than I would have guessed and soon it cracked my rear bumper again, sending a sickening, shuddering thump through the car.

I got my ass in gear and tried to outrun it. I didn’t. The third time, the Lincoln hit me from the side, ramming its massive front bumper nearly through my passenger door.

The Lincoln sent me sideways into a parked van and I was going to die.

It backed up. I realized I wasn’t dead. My door was crammed shut against the van. I undid my seatbelt and made a dash for the passenger-side door.

It was stuck.

I dropped to my back and pulled my legs into my chest, planning to kick out the window. But before I could I heard screaming and a screech and a terrible, grating metallic crash. I felt like I’d been tossed about by waves at the beach and lost my footing; underwater, kind of fun, and then you remember: Oh, wait, I’m drowning.

“Holy shit!” I heard someone scream. “You killed her! You fucking crazy? You killed her!”

My head cleared and the sound of metal on metal stopped and I resurfaced.

I think maybe he has
, I thought. I looked and saw a flash of red and white where I thought my legs should have been.
I really think maybe he has.

“Motherfucker!” I heard someone else scream. “That lady’s gonna die!”

The irony that I may now be dying in a car crash was not lost on me.

I felt my eyes close. The waves pulled me back under. When I swam up Tracy was waiting for me at the shore. Tracy was an adult, my age, and she wore a black dress and a big, ratty black fur coat, her white hair in a ponytail. Behind her I saw the Cyclone cycle and the Wonder Wheel spin.

When I came out of the water, soaking wet, she laughed, a little smirk playing around the corners of her mouth.

“You’re in for it this time,” she said. “And I am
really
going to enjoy watching you get out of this one.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What did I do?”

“You started looking for the truth,” she said. “And now, you’re gonna finish.”

Seagulls squawked overhead, circling us, hoping for food. It was winter. The beach was empty except for a few Polar Bears in the ocean, the old men who come and swim in the icy water every winter.

“Is this it?” I asked. “Are we at the end?”

“Not yet,” Tracy said. “But don’t worry. We’ll get there soon enough, Claire DeWitt.”

Visit
www.hmhbooks.com
to find all of the books in the Claire DeWitt series.

S
ARA
G
RAN
is the author of five critically acclaimed novels, including
Come Closer
and
Dope
as well as the Claire DeWitt series. She also writes for film and TV (including TNT’s
“Southland”
) and has published in the
New York Times
, the
New Orleans Times Picayune
, and
USA Today.
She is a former bookseller and a native of Brooklyn.