The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (18 page)

A few minutes later, Baker and his deputy came out again. “Not much chance we’ll get any prints off the safe, other than Newsome’s,” Baker said as they breezed past us, “but on the slight chance, make sure we try anyway.”

I thought about the boot print that disappeared during the trial and that Newsome was the one who had lost it. Could he have been involved in Nathan Kingsley’s murder? The guy was as seedy as they came—it wasn’t that much of a stretch.

I motioned for CJ to follow me to my car. When we got there, I said, “What’s the story on Newsome?”

She smiled. “Big time loser.”

“Yeah, I get that. Any idea why someone would want him dead?”

She leaned against the hood, crossed her arms. “Not sure. But the empty safe is sure keeping things interesting.”

“I’ll say.”

She looked down at the ground, then back up at me. “Think someone was trying to keep him from talking to you? Then robbed him?”

I shook my head. “Nobody knew I was coming, and Baker said Newsome was dead for a few days. Sure smelled like it.”

She nodded very slowly, staring off into the distance. “Guy like Newsome, there’s no telling what he had his hands in. Could’ve been any number of people who liked him better dead than alive.”

I looked at the trailer. “Man, I’d give anything to find out what he had in the safe.”

“You and me …” Suddenly she stopped, her attention fixed on something in the distance.

I looked in that direction. “What’s wrong?”

She moved forward a few steps, then stopped, eyes narrowed. “Is that dog still breathing?”

I looked, then took off running, with CJ following behind. When we got there, I rested my hand on his back and realized he was trembling ever so slightly.

“We have to get him somewhere. Fast.” I said. “Is there a vet nearby?”

CJ had the dog’s head in her lap and was stroking it; he let out a soft, helpless moan. “Up the road about six miles. Doctor Shively.”

“You stay here with him. I’ll bring my car around, and we can load him in the back seat.”

In less than a minute, we were speeding off toward the vet’s office.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I never much understood holidays. We didn’t celebrate them, and to me they seemed like a big party I was never invited to, a time when everyone else got to have fun. The decorations, the music—all of it—seemed so foreign to me, accentuating my feelings of inadequacy and loneliness.

“I hate the holidays,” my mother would grumble as we navigated the crowds. “Just a bunch of people getting in my way. Carnal pigs feeding at the trough of material wealth.”

But I wanted to feed there too. I wanted to experience what everyone else did.

It was Christmas Eve. In one of her manic moods, mother suddenly decided she wanted to paint the bathrooms. As in: it couldn’t wait until morning. As in: we needed to go to Wallace’s Discount Mart right that moment.

“And don’t go wandering off to the toy department, either,” she said as we walked through the parking lot. “If you’re not with me when I’m ready to go, I’ll leave you here.”

Inside, colorful blinking lights reflected off silvery tinsel. A fresh piney scent mixed with the smell of hot buttery popcorn, filling the air. Christmas carols played softly in the background while jolly Saint Nick sat front and center, a little girl perched on his lap. Beyond that, even more kids stood along with their parents behind a red velvet rope, waiting for their visit with the white-bearded man in red.

I felt as if I’d landed on Mars.

A sharp jolt snapped me out of it, my mother pulling me by my jacket collar toward the hardware section. I’m pretty sure I was the only kid in the world spending Christmas Eve in the paint department.

“Drop cloth,” she ordered, reading the side of a paint can. I walked down the aisle, then turned the corner in search of one, but something else caught my attention about fifty feet away in the gardening section. A life-sized Santa sat on a big, green tractor, its front end lifting as if taking off in flight. Colorful lights flashed in succession alongside him to give the illusion of forward motion. He had one hand on the wheel, the other waving at me.

I’d never seen anything like it.

As I drew closer, I heard Christmas music, sleigh bells, and Santa’s voice saying, “Ho, ho, ho!” The flashing neon sign below him suddenly came into focus. It read: “The only Deere Santa will need this year!”

I was in awe, couldn’t stop looking at it.

On the other side of the display, I saw a boy about my age who appeared just as thrilled—and for a moment, it was like looking into a mirror. Then I saw his smiling parents beside him, their hands on his shoulder.

And the mirror cracked.

He had them, and I had my mother. I think it was the first time I actually understood how different my world was from that of other children, and how much I was missing out on. I felt an emptiness building inside me, deep and dark. In my child’s mind, I wondered what I had done to deserve such a horrible life.

Then it hit me: the drop cloth. I’d forgotten all about it.

I grabbed the first one I found on the shelf, then raced to the next aisle to find my mother.

But she was gone.

I checked several more aisles, frantically searching for her but with no luck. Rushed to the front of the store as well; again, no sign of her anywhere. Then I ran out into the parking lot.

And found my worst fears confirmed. Our parking spot was empty. She was gone, and it was getting dark.

I sat on the curb, buried my face in my hands, and cried.

Christmas Eve: a small boy, abandoned in a parking lot, far from home.

Alone.

Chapter Thirty

The dog was going to live. I gave the receptionist my credit card, told her to do whatever it took to make sure he was well taken care of.

As for CJ and me, we were both tired, and the events of the past few hours were starting to weigh heavily on me emotionally and physically. We were hungry, and I needed a place to rest my leg and settle my nerves. The Italian restaurant on Second and Fenwick seemed to be a safe bet: small, quaint, and nearly empty.

We ordered our food, then sat silently for a while. I was busy processing my afternoon misadventure and watching CJ rearrange her silverware again and again.

Finally, I said, “So what’s Baker’s problem?”

“You mean besides the obvious?” She moved her fork to the other side of her plate again, didn’t bother looking up.

“The guy doesn’t like me.”

She laughed a little. “I don’t think he likes anyone, except maybe himself. Not even sure about that.”

“He acted awful suspicious, like he thought I might be involved or something.”

“I think he probably just didn’t appreciate you walking in on his murder scene. They don’t much like that, especially a reporter, and especially one who’s not from around here…you get extra piss-off points for that.”

I raised my brows, nodded.

She pointed her spoon at me. “But I did warn you about the locals.”

“Noted.”

The waiter came with our food. Lasagna for me, angel hair pasta with stewed tomatoes and olive oil for CJ. I watched our server leave, then said, “And while we’re on the subject of narcissistic cops… what’s Jerry Lindsay’s story?”

She laughed. “Jerry’s okay. You just have to know how to work him.”

“Apparently, I don’t.”

She sipped her wine, wiped her lips with a finger. “Why? What happened?”

“He was an ass. Wouldn’t tell me anything.”

A needling grin. “Like I told you...”

“Yeah, yeah… I don’t know the secret handshake.” I gave my lasagna a stab. When I looked back up, she was swirling her wine in the glass, apparently amused by her own thoughts.

“What?”

She leaned back and stared at me for a moment, and then, “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but for someone who’s supposed to be doing a story about missing and exploited children, you sure seem awful interested in this one.”

“I’m fascinated by it.”

“Yeah?”

I took a bite, chewed, nodded.

“And why’s that?”

“The death penalty, the lack of a body, the mother killing herself …in a mental hospital, no less. You have to admit it’s a sexy story.”

She stuck her fork in the pasta and watched as she carefully twirled it. “Yeah, I’m just not buying it.”

“Not buying what?”

“The story you’re trying to sell me here. About how fascinating you find it all. There are lots of fascinating stories about missing kids everywhere. And like I said before, I’m sure California’s got plenty of them. So how ‘bout it, Pat, wanna tell me what really
gives?”

“What do you mean?”

“All this interest in the Kingsley case. What it’s all really about?”

“It’s not
about
anything. Just looking at some things.”

“Things,” she said, gazing toward the ceiling as if contemplating the word, then right back at me, “and you won’t tell me what those
things
are?”

“Nothing special.” I turned my attention to the lasagna, pushed at it with my fork, fully aware she had her eyes trained right on me.

She said, “Keeping secrets, are we, Patrick?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Uh-uh.” I looked up and made an attempt at sincere eye contact; she wasn’t buying that either.

“Pat….” she said, her tone slowly climbing an octave.

“What?”

“Wanna tell me how come you don’t want to play? How come all of a sudden you’re taking all your toys out of the sandbox?”

“I never had them
in
the sandbox. And how come you’re cornering me?”

“I’m a reporter. It’s what I do. And do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Only when I feel like someone’s trying to force my hand.”

“Force your hand…” She pushed her mouth to one side, looked away, nodding. “Okay. Now I get it. I didn’t realize we were on opposing teams. Good to know.”

“CJ, it’s not like that. I didn’t mean it that way—”