Thread of Fear (8 page)

SIXTEEN

“I've got two guys on me,” I said into my phone. “Are they yours?”

I left Ted's and stopped at a gas station to grab a hot dog and a Coke and to fill up my car. I left the pump in the tank and went into the mini-mart to get the food and drink. As I was paying, I glanced back outside and saw a green Chevy Blazer two pumps over. I'd seen the Blazer when I'd left Ted's, but hadn't thought anything of it. I was several miles away from the club but I knew seeing it now wasn't an impossible coincidence. We were close to the freeway onramp and it was a logical place to stop, especially if someone was gassing up and heading out of town. But the driver was out, fidgeting at the pump but not pumping gas. And he kept glancing inside the mart.

I handed the cashier a five and waited for my change, then walked outside. I didn't look at the Blazer or its driver, but went straight to my car, unhooked the pump and got in. I set the drink in the drink holder, put the hot dog on the passenger seat and dug my phone out of my pocket.

I pulled out of the station slowly. The guy was already back in the SUV but hadn't moved yet. I turned left, so I could keep the pumps in view. As soon as I pulled out, the SUV moved and made a left, too.

He stayed two cars behind me, trying to be subtle. I saw the outline of a second person in the car, sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver. I made another left at the next light, then a right three lights later. The SUV was still there. When I slowed down, they slowed, too, doing a decent job of keeping their distance. The average driver would have never noticed them. When I made the U-turn at the next light, careful not to glance over at them, I knew they were tailing me because they made the same U-turn.

So I picked up my phone, punched Anchor's number and asked him if he had anyone on me.

“No,” he answered. “Definitely not mine.”

“You sure?”

“I've no reason to tail you, Mr. Tyler,” Anchor said. “I trust that you're doing as asked.”

“Well, I'm in Vegas and I've got a tail,” I told him. “Just wanted to make sure they weren't yours before I ask them what they're doing.”

“Do you need assistance? I can have someone there momentarily.”

I flinched like he'd punched me in the stomach. There was no way in hell I was ever asking for his help again. Not with what I was being forced to do now to repay the favor.

“I'll let you know,” I said tersely. I punched off the phone and dropped it on the seat.

Four minutes later, I found a grocery store and pulled into the lot. I parked in the first spot and waited. The SUV turned in and drove to the opposite side of the lot and parked.

Perfect.

I got out of the car and ignored the SUV. The lot was decently full and the store was big, one of those oversized superstores. With two entrances.

I went in the entrance closest to where I'd parked, walked over to the produce section that was just off the door and waited for two minutes.

No one came in except for a mom carrying a toddler.

I walked to the other end of the store and out the other entrance. I could see the green SUV a row over from the entrance and made out two people inside. Watching the other entrance.

I hustled across the lot at an angle, trying to stay out of their rearview mirrors. I came up directly behind the SUV and smacked the back window with both of my hands. Both of them jumped and twisted in their seats.

I backed away from the car and waited.

The driver got out first, the same guy I'd seen messing around at the pump at the gas station. A little taller than me, thick through the middle and dark hair buzzed down into a flattop. He wore jeans and a Florida State football T-shirt and mirrored sunglasses. He stared at me, puzzled, like he wasn't sure what to do.

The passenger door opened. Another guy, also slightly taller than me in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He had a square-shaped head and a wispy beard that covered his cheeks and chin. He wasn't wearing sunglasses and he squinted at me.

“You need something from me?” I said to the driver.

He walked to the back of the car and stopped. “What?”

“Did you need something from me?” I repeated. “You've been following me for awhile now.”

The passenger joined him at the back bumper and they exchanged another confused look.

“You're not good at it,” I said. “If you get out at a gas pump, you should at least put gas in. Makes you less obvious.”

The driver frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Right,” I said. “Let me make this clear for you. I'm going to leave now and if you continue to follow me, I'll stop my car, get out and hurt you both.”

The passenger chuckled and rubbed at his weak beard. “Oh, you think so?”

I nodded.

“What were you doing at Ted's?” the driver asked.

So they'd been with me at least that long. “None of your business.”

“I'm asking,” the driver said. “I'm making it my business.”

“None of your business,” I repeated.

He glanced at his friend.

“We wanna know where Patrick Dennison is,” the other guy said, puffing out his chest, pulling his shoulders back.

“So?” I asked. “Go find him.”

“We'd prefer you tell us where he is,” the driver said.

“I'd prefer you fuck off,” I said.

The friend chuckled and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“Look, pal, you don't wanna do this,” the driver said.

“You're right,” I said. “I don't. Who sent you?”

“None of your business,” the friend said, an ugly grin on his face as he repeated my words.

He had the biggest mouth, so I moved to him first, closing the distance between us in two steps. He backed up, surprised, and bumped into the back of the car. I feinted a punch at his head and he covered up. I pivoted, lifted my leg and jammed my foot down on his knee. It bent backward and he screamed as he crumpled to the ground.

I heard the other guy's feet shuffle against the pavement. I brought my elbow up and turned back. I was aiming for his jaw, but didn't get high enough, catching him in the throat instead. He gagged and immediately grabbed for his neck. I brought my leg up and smashed my foot into the side of his knee. It collapsed inward and he tumbled to the ground.

The entire thing had taken five seconds. I took a couple of deep breaths, steadying the adrenaline that surged in my veins. Both of them were still on the ground, clutching at their knees. The keys to the SUV were on the ground next to the driver and I picked them up. I rolled the passenger over first and checked for a wallet. Nothing. I checked the driver but his pockets were empty, too. I did a quick search of the car but aside from empty drink cups and snack food wrappers, didn't come up with anything. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the plates on the SUV and then one of each of them on the ground.

I didn't know who they were or what they wanted. At best, they were low-level grunts, given how easily I'd spotted them and how easily I'd put them down. Who they were working for was another question. I couldn't figure out why Anchor would lie to me about them, so I was taking him at his word. They weren't his.

I just wasn't sure who they belonged to.

Or who else was looking for Patrick Dennison.

SEVENTEEN

I drove out of the parking lot, away from the grocery store and back toward the Strip. I found another gas station at the south end of Las Vegas Boulevard and dumped the keys to the SUV in a trash can. I hesitated for just a moment before texting all three photos to Anchor. I didn't ask for anything, didn't add a single word of text. He responded immediately, telling me he'd see what he could find out. My smile was grim. He was volunteering to help because I hadn't asked him for a thing.

I ate my now-cold hot dog, downed the soda and watched the traffic as my car idled in the lot of the station. It wasn't so crowded yet that traffic had slowed to a crawl. It was still daylight. Once the sun set and the neon lights lit up the road, the cars would be bumper to bumper and the sidewalks jammed with people from all walks of life. The rising of the moon in Las Vegas was like some signal that it was okay to come out and play. People would filter out of the hotels and casinos and onto the streets, like someone chasing ants out of anthill.

I picked up my phone and called Kathleen Dennison. I was vague, told her that I was following up on some leads and that I hoped to have more information soon. She didn't press, didn't ask questions, just thanked me and told me she'd wait to hear from me. We hung up and I stared at the screen for a minute.

And then I dialed Lauren.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

“I'm already home.”

A spike of worry stabbed my gut. “Why? You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she said. She yawned. “Just got super tired around lunch time and wasn't feeling great. So I packed up my stuff at the office and came home. Elizabeth and I just got home from school.”

“What's wrong? Why are you so tired?”

“I think because there's a baby growing inside of me...”

“Lauren, I'm serious.”

She chuckled. “So am I. Just one of those pregnancy things, Joe. I just get worn down easier. And I'm a lot older than the last time my body went through this.”

I remembered when she was pregnant with Elizabeth. She'd started passing out at seven every night and it had freaked me out because she was the kind of person who could stay up all night if she had to. The doctor assured me that it was just temporary, but it had still caused me anxiety, worrying that something was wrong with her. Hearing it again brought back those same worries.

“I'm sitting on the couch,” Lauren said. “Going through paperwork. Taking it easy. I'm fine.”

“Alright,” I said but I wasn't convinced.

“How are you?” she asked.

I gave her the uneventful version of my day, leaving out any mention of Anchor and the would-be thugs in the parking lot. I knew I'd have to tell her eventually, lay all the cards on the table and tell her exactly what was going on in my search for Patrick Dennison and what I was being asked to do. But, at that moment, sitting in a gas station parking lot a few hundred miles from home, a cold hot dog sitting heavily in my stomach, I wasn't ready to. I didn't know if I would ever be ready.

“So you won't be home tonight.”

Guilt gnawed at me. “No. I'm going to stay here tonight and then come back tomorrow.”

The line buzzed.

“You're not okay with that?” I said. “I told you I'd probably stay the night.”

“I know. I'd just prefer you here.”

I shifted in the car seat. “So you want me to come back, then? I can leave now.”

“No, you can't,” she answered. “And we both know it because if you could, you already would've.”

“I said I'd come back if you asked me to.”

“And I don't want you to come back just because I asked you to,” she said. “That isn't going to be good for either one of us.” She was right. She'd feel guilty, I'd be irritated, then feel guilty about feeling irritated.  “I just meant I'm tired and I don't like that you're gone. But I can hack it. And you'll be back tomorrow, right?”

“I should be.”

The line buzzed again.

“You said you would be,” she said. The tone in her voice had changed.

“I will be.”

“You said you should be,” she said. “That's different than you will be.”

She was using her lawyer voice on me, as if I was under cross-examination. And I didn't like it. “Lauren. I'll be back tomorrow.”

“For how long?”

I refused to play the game. The last thing we needed to be doing was arguing. “I'll be back tomorrow,” I said instead.

She must have heard the finality in my voice, knew that I wasn't going to engage. “Okay,” she said. “I'm gonna let you talk to Elizabeth.”

I heard the phone shuffling in the background. I knew she was mad – it was hard to ignore. And it was  also hard to miss the fact that she hadn't said goodbye or that she loved me. I took a deep breath, telling myself it didn't matter. Lauren was tired. She missed me. None of those things added up to her not loving me.

“Hey, Dad,” Elizabeth said.

Her voice was sweet and cheerful and instantly improved my mood. “Hey, kid. What's going on?”

“Putting my shoes on to go run.”

“Yeah?” I couldn't hide my surprise. “You're going?”

“Duh.”

The muscles in my gut clenched again. It was the residual fallout from having lost her once before. Any time she walked out the door without me, I found myself wanting to go with her, to protect her, to not let her out of my sight. It was irrational and completely unfair to Elizabeth, but I'd lost her for nearly a decade and I didn't think that worry was ever going to go away.

“I'm going before it gets dark,” she told me, knowing what was going through my head. “And I'm not going for long.”

“Text me your time when you get back?”

“Yeah, okay.”

She knew why I wanted her to do it. I wanted to know how fast she went, of course, but I wanted to know she was back in the house. I appreciated the fact that she didn't call me on it or resist.

“Your mom doing okay?” I asked.

“Hang on,” she said.

I could hear her breathing in the line, so I knew she was still there.

“Okay,” she said. “I'm upstairs. Yeah, I think she's okay. She came home early because she said she didn't feel good.”

“Yeah, that's what she told me, too.”

“She looks like she's gonna pass out. Like, way tired.”

“She's lying down?”

“Sort of. She's on the couch.”

“Keep an eye on her, okay?”

“I will.”

“And I think she's mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm staying here until tomorrow.”

“You're not coming home tonight?”

I watched the traffic on the boulevard. “No, I'm gonna stay until tomorrow. I want to try to get a few things done.”

“Will you have to go back?”

“I don't know yet, kid. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” she said. “You said you might have to stay.”

“I promise I'll be back as quick as I can.”

“I know,” she said. “I believe you. I'll tell Mom not to be mad at you.”

I laughed. “You think you can convince her?”

“Probably not,” she said. “But I'll try.”

“Fair enough. But you don't have to do that.”

“I know.” She paused. “The track coach talked to me today. At school.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Did you tell him about me?” I could hear the frown in her voice.

“No. I don't even know who it is.”

“It's Coach Beltran,” she said. “He's a P.E. teacher, too. He said he heard I was a runner.”

“I didn't say anything. I told you. It was up to you.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I think it was probably one of the other P.E. teachers. We ran last week in class and they had to time us for a grade.”

“How'd you do?”

She made some noise that sounded like a snort. “It's P.E. – no one tries and no one cares. I finished first.” She hesitated, then added, “I was just under seven. It was a mile.”

I let out a low whistle. “You went under seven?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn't tell me?”

“It was P.E,” she repeated. “And I don't know the coach was right. He was just using his watch.”

“Still. Even if it was that close, that's fast.”

“I guess.”

I guess.
She was being more than modest. Running under seven on a high school track with no coaching was impressive.

“What did the coach say?” I asked.

“Just that he heard I was a runner and that he was looking for girls for the 400 and the mile,” she said. “He's nice. He smells like Doritos, though.”

“You like Doritos,” I pointed out, smiling. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I run with my dad and that I've never been on a team or anything like that,” she said. “And I told him I'd think about it.”

I had to bite back everything I wanted to say to her. I'd been giving her the soft sell because I wanted her to be the one who decided to try it. I was secretly happy that someone else was suggesting that she give it a shot.

“Cool,” I said. “You should.”

“I know, I know. I will.” She sighed. “Okay. I just tied my shoes. I need to go.”

“Alright. Be careful. And text me when you're back.”

“I will,” she said. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, kid.”

We hung up and I sat there in the car for a minute, the engine idling, the traffic starting to pick up on the Strip. I hated that I was missing a run with her. Not just because I worried when she was out by herself, but because I missed that time with her. And even though I complained, I liked having her kick my ass on our runs. Not because I was a sucker for punishment or because I liked being reminded of my middle-aged-ness but because I'd already missed out on such a huge chunk of her life. Missing even one more small thing felt magnified because of that.

My thoughts turned to Anchor. Like some genie in a bottle, he'd granted the only wish I'd ever had. He'd given me back my daughter. But he also held the power to take it all away. If I screwed up and didn't deliver what he wanted, my life as I knew it had the potential to be over. Elizabeth wouldn't be taken away from me – I'd be taken from her. Hearing her voice on the phone, the hint of excitement mixed with self-consciousness as she relayed the track story, her assurances that she'd talk me up to her mother, her 'I love you' as we said goodbye... it all crystallized for me what I wanted and what I needed.

I wanted to go back to Coronado and get back to our life. My life with her and Lauren and the baby we were expecting.

Which meant I needed to figure out where the hell Patrick Dennison was.