The Forgotten Man

8

LAPD's Scientific Investigation Division shared its location with the Bomb Squad, where Carol Starkey had spent three years strapping into an armored suit to de-arm or destroy improvised explosive devices while everyone else hid under a tree. You've seen bomb techs in the news. They're the men and women dressed in what looks like a space suit, bent over a box or a backpack that's loaded with TNT, trying to render it safe before it explodes. Starkey was good at it, and loved it, until it finally went bad. Starkey and her supervisor were killed on the job, blown apart in a trailer park by a keg of black powder and nails. The medics brought her back and the surgeons stitched her together, but they wouldn't let her go back to the Squad. She worked in Criminal Conspiracy for a while, and now she worked on the Juvenile desk, but she still missed the bombs. Some woman, huh?

Starkey was leaning against a dark blue Bomb Squad Suburban when I pulled into the parking lot. She was in her early thirties, with a long face, limp hair, and a dark gray pin-striped suit that went with her attitude. She was smoking.

I said, "Those things will kill you."

"Been there, done that. Chen's inside, sulking 'cause I made him come in."

"Thanks for setting this up, but you didn't have to make the drive. I know you're busy."

"What, and miss the chance to flirt with you? How else am I gonna get you in the sack?"

Starkey is like that. She turned toward the building, and I followed, the two of us threading our way between parked cars.

She said, "So what's the deal on the vic? You don't think he's related?"

"No, I don't think he's related. He was just obsessed or confused. You know how people get, like stalkers when they fix on a movie star. That's all it is."

"Lemme see that picture."

I had told her about the morgue shots, but I was irritated she wanted to see. She looked at the pictures, then me, then back at the pictures. It left me feeling vulnerable in a way I didn't like. She finally shook her head and handed them back.

"You don't look anything like this guy."

"I told you."

"He looks like a praying mantis and you look like a rutabaga."

"This is what you call flirting?"

Starkey squeezed between a couple of cars that were parked too close together, then waited as I walked around. She seemed thoughtful as we continued on, and maybe embarrassed.

She said, "Listen, maybe I shouldn't've joked about it. I didn't know about you not knowing your father. I can see how this would be weird for you."

"It's not weird. I'm not doing this because I think he's my father."

"Whatever."

"Don't make more out of it than there is."

"Tell you what, let's change the subject while we're still speaking to each other. Have you heard from Ben? How's he doing down there?"

Starkey had helped in the search for Ben Chenier. We met on the night he disappeared.

"He's doing well. We don't talk as often as we used to."

"And the lawyer?"

The lawyer was Lucy Chenier.

"We don't talk as often as we used to."

"I guess I shouldn't have brought that up, either."

"No. I guess not."

Starkey badged our way past the receptionist, then led me along a hall toward a sign that read TECHNICAL LABORATORY. SID was divided into three parts: the Technical Laboratory, the Criminalistics Laboratory, and the Administrative Unit. Chen, like the other field criminalists, worked freely between the Tech Lab and the Criminalistics Lab, though he could and did refer to specialists when needed.

Chen scowled when he saw us. He was tall and thin, with ill-fitting glasses and the hunched posture of someone sporting chronic low self-esteem. Some of the criminalists wore lab smocks, but most of them wore street clothes. Only John Chen wore a pencil caddy. He glanced around, making sure no one else was nearby. Furtive.

"Today is my day off. I spent all morning waxing my car. I was gonna cruise Westwood for pussy."

Chen is like that. His sole motivation in all things is publicity, promotion, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

Starkey said, "That's more than we needed to know, John. Just work the card."

"I'm just saying, that's all. You guys owe me."

He held out his hand, making a little hand-it-over gesture.

"Let me see it."

I was carrying the key card in my handkerchief. I laid it on the bench, then folded back the handkerchief. Chen lifted his glasses, and leaned close to see.

"Did this belong to the vic or the shooter?"

"I don't know. It was in the alley, so I have to follow it. It might not belong to either one of them."

Chen peered closer, looking dubious, then glanced up at me.

"This guy really your father?"

I was getting a headache. I wanted whatever I could get from the key card and I wanted to get out of there.

"He was a deluded old man who thought he was my father. That's all."

"Starkey said he was your father."

Starkey said, "I got it wrong, goddamnit. Cole doesn't look anything like him. I saw the pictures."

I said, "Are you going to look at the card or not?"

I was sorry I called them.

Chen brought the card to a workstation that looked like a Napster geek's dream: A desktop computer was wired to what appeared to be VHS, VHS-C, BETA, 3/4", 8mm, and digital tape decks, along with DVD/CD players, mini-CD players, and several different swipe-card readers that might have come from your local supermarket. A sign on the wall read NO MAGNETS, NO INFO, NO JOB. Lab rat humor.

Chen went to work on the computer, bringing up different windows on the screen.

"Most of the work we do here is with counterfeit credit and ATM cards, but we can analyze commercial key cards, too. Most hotels in the U.S. buy their systems from one of three magnetic-lock companies, and they all use the same coding. We'll try the commercial codes first. Who's the detective in charge?"

"Kelly Diaz. She's Divisional Homicide at Central."

Chen typed in her name.

"I'll have to call her for the case number. Does she put out?"

Starkey punched him in the back, told us she had to get back to work, then stalked out of the lab.

I said, "Jesus, John, show a little class."

Chen seemed disappointed with my answer, but not embarrassed that he had asked. He glanced after Starkey and lowered his voice still more.

"You owe me for this, man. Tell your girlfriend she owes me, too."

"Starkey isn't my girlfriend."

Chen rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, sure."

Chen finished filling in the boxes, then picked up the key card with a pair of plastic forceps and swiped it through a card reader. The information embedded in its magnetic strip instantly appeared on the computer.

00087662///116/carversystems//

0009227//homeawaysuites047//

0012001208//00991//

Chen tapped at the screen.

"Here it is, dude. It's from the Home Away Suites chain. The oh-forty-seven is probably the location. The one-sixteen is probably the room number. All this junk on the left side is just coding sequences. You don't have to worry about that."

I copied the information into my notebook. Room 116 at Location 47.

"What's Carver Systems?"

"The company that made the lock. Remember I said only three or four companies make this stuff? That's them. Does Diaz know you have the card?"

"Not yet. I was going to give it to her later."

Chen looked worried.

"I can't do this off the books. This is a homicide."

"I'm not asking you to do it off the books. Diaz knows I'm working the case. She's good with it."

"Then I'd better keep the card. I can have the CI send over the vic's prints to see if we get a match."

"Can you make a duplicate for me?"

"You mean make you another key card?"

"Yeah. Now that you have the codes, can you put them on another card?"

"Make you a key for room one-sixteen?"

"Yeah."

Chen looked uneasy again, cocking his head like a nervous parrot.

"This isn't some kind of grudge thing, is it, you thinking someone murdered your old man? If you kill somebody, it'll be my ass."

"He isn't my father."

"I'm going to tell Diaz I made a dupe for you. I'll tell Starkey, too.

"Tell them. That's fine."

Chen dug around in a cabinet until he found a box of blank cards. He typed on the computer some more, swiped a new card through the reader, then handed it to me. He didn't look happy about it.

"Room one-sixteen."

"Thanks, John. I owe you."

"You better not kill anyone."

I pocketed the card and started back through the lab.

"Hey, Elvis."

I stopped. John Chen was staring at me with the wary parrot eyes, only now the eyes seemed sad.

"I don't look like my father, either."

I went out to my car, but Starkey had already gone.

9

Home Away Suites was a chain of cheap no-frills motels geared to drive-by salesmen and people on their way to somewhere else. They were big in the Midwest, but had only six locations in Southern California, with two in the L.A. area, one being in Jefferson Park just south of mid-city, the other in Toluca Lake. Jefferson Park was closer to downtown, so I got their number from information, and called from the SID parking lot. A chipper young woman answered.

"Home Away Suites, your home away from home, may I help you?"

"Is this location number forty-seven?"

"Pardon me?"

"You have several locations, and each location has a number. I'm trying to find number forty-seven."

"I don't know anything about that."

She didn't ask me to hold on, she didn't offer to find out, she simply stopped talking. Home Away probably didn't hire for initiative.

"Could you ask someone, please?"

"Okay. Hold on."

Okay.

A few minutes later she came back on the line.

"Sir?"

"I'm here."

"We're number forty-two. You want the Toluca Lake location."

"Could you give me their address?"

"I'll have to look it up."

"Never mind. I'll call information."

Welcome to the exciting world of Private Detection.

I got the address from the information operator, then headed around the north side of Griffith Park, across Burbank, and into Toluca Lake.

Toluca Lake is a small treesy community wedged between Universal Studios and Burbank where the Ventura and Hollywood freeways merge. Most residents have never seen the lake as it is surrounded by expensive homes, but the larger community is a comfortable mix of middle-class homes, well-kept apartment buildings, and sidewalk businesses.

I followed Riverside Drive across the back of Toluca Lake to Lankershim Boulevard, then slipped under a freeway overpass and into North Hollywood. The Home Away people had cheated the location, but I guess they figured close was good enough. So much for truth in advertising.

Home Away Suites #47 was a gray stucco box; no restaurant, no room service, no frills. Just the kind of place for a traveling salesman or a family on a limited budget. I parked on the street, and entered a lobby as plain and simple as the outside. A bored young man in a gray blazer sat behind the registration desk, reading. An older couple was standing at a rack of tourist brochures, probably trying to decide between standing in line for the Leno show or driving to Anaheim for Knott's Berry Farm. Beyond the registration desk was a set of stairs, and a long straight hall leading to the first-floor rooms.

I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I also intended to search the room even though the clerk probably wouldn't go for it. I knew I would enter the room when I had Chen make the duplicate key, and I knew I wasn't going to wait for the police to get it done. I crossed the lobby like any other registered guest, and went down the hall. Room one-sixteen was in plain view of the couple at the brochure rack, but not the desk clerk. I rapped lightly on the door, listened, then slipped the card into the lock. I pushed open the door, and went in.

The room was empty.

Like the motel, it was spare and plain, with an alcove for a closet and a small bath beyond the alcove. The lights were off, the drapes were pulled, and the air smelled of cigarettes. Everything was neat and tidy because the housekeeper had already made her rounds. Two pairs of men's slacks and two shirts hung in the alcove above a battered gray suitcase. I checked the suitcase for a name tag, but the suitcase was tagless. No telltale clues stood out on the bed or dresser to tie the room to the man in the alley, and the nightstand drawers were empty.

The bathroom was empty, too, except for a small black toiletries case. I was hoping for a prescription bottle showing a name, but it held only the usual anonymous travel articles available at any Rite Aid. I went back to the alcove, and checked the pants hanging on the rail. The pockets were empty. The suitcase was unlocked, so I opened it. A naked woman smiled up at me. She was on the cover of one of those freebie sex newspapers filled with ads for strippers, outcall services, and massage parlors. This one was the Hard-X Times. I lifted it aside, and stared down at myself.

In a way I didn't understand, my chest hurt, as if a pressure had built within me until some part of me cracked and the pressure escaped. The picture was part of an article about me published in a local magazine. The reproduction was poor and murky, like it might have been copied off a library microfiche; my eyes were dark smudges, my mouth was a black line, and my face was mottled, but I knew it was me. I found two more articles under the first, one I remembered from the Daily News and another from the L.A. Weekly.

This was his room.

John Doe #05-1642.

I put the articles aside and searched the rest of his suitcase. I felt through his underwear and three rumpled shirts, then felt along the inside lining of the suitcase for some kind of identification, but instead I found something hard and round inside a roll of socks. I unrolled the socks and counted out $6,240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

I counted the money twice, put it back in the socks, then finished searching the room. Nothing identified the occupant, almost as if he was purposefully trying to hide himself.

I put everything back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back to the lobby. The older couple was gone. A name tag on the clerk's blazer read James Kramer.

I gave him my best cop tone.

"My name is Cole. I'm investigating a homicide, and we believe a person or persons involved might be a guest at your motel. Do you recognize this man?"

I held out the morgue shot, and watched Kramer's mouth tighten.

"Is he dead?"

"Yes, sir, he is. Do you recognize him?"

"He looks kinda different, like that."

They always look different when they're dead. I put away the picture, and took out my notepad.

"We're trying to identify him. We believe he was staying in room one-sixteen. Can you tell me his name?"

Kramer moved to his computer and punched in the room number to bring up the invoice.

"That's Mr. Faustina-Herbert Faustina."

He spelled it for me.

"Could you give me his home address and phone?"

He read off an address on College Ridge Lane in Scottsdale, Arizona, then followed it with a phone number.

"Okay. How about his credit card number?"

"He paid cash. We do that if you put down a three-hundred-dollar cash deposit."

I tapped my pad, trying to figure out what to ask next while he stared at me. You should never give them a chance to think.

He said, "What did you say your name was?"

"Cole."

"Could I see your badge?"

"If he made calls from his room, those calls would show up on his bill, right?"

He was beginning to look nervous.

"Are you a policeman?"

"No, I'm a private investigator. It's okay, Mr. Kramer. We're all on the same side here."

Kramer stepped back from the desk to put more distance between us. He didn't look scared; he was worried he would get in trouble for answering my questions.

"I don't think I should say any more. I'm going to call the manager."

He turned to pick up his phone.

"You need to do something before you call. Someone else might have been involved, and they might be in his room. That person might be injured and need help."

He held the phone to his face, but he didn't dial. His eyebrows quivered, as if he was sorry he had ever taken a crappy job like this.

"What do you mean?"

"Check his room. Just peek inside to see if someone needs help, then you can call your manager. You don't want someone dying in that room."

He glanced back toward the hall.

"What do you mean, dying?"

"Faustina was murdered. I knocked on his door before I came to you, but no one answered. I don't know that anyone is inside, but I'm asking you to check. Make sure no one is bleeding to death, then call."

Kramer glanced toward the hall again, then opened the desk drawer for his passkey and came around the desk.

"You wait here."

"I'll wait."

When he disappeared down the hall, I went behind the desk. Herbert Faustina's account still showed on the computer. I found the button labeled CHECKOUT INVOICE, and pressed it. A speedy little laser printer pushed out Herbert Faustina's final room charges on three pages. I took them, and left before Kramer came back. I did not wait. The World's Greatest Detective had struck again.

10

Ten hours start to finish, and I had Faustina's name and address, and a list of every call made from his motel. I was thinking about calling Diaz and Pardy when I realized I was hungry, so I picked up a couple of soft tacos from Henry's Tacos in North Hollywood and ate them on the benches out front. I wolfed down the tacos like a starving dog, then bought two more, slathering them with Henry's amazing sauce. I would probably have Faustina's life story by dinner, and his killer by bedtime. LAPD would probably beg me to clear their other unsolved cases, and I thought I might go along. Largesse is everything.

When I finished eating, I worked my way up Laurel Canyon to the top of the mountain, then along Woodrow Wilson Drive toward my house. I was feeling pretty good until I saw the unmarked sedan parked in front of my house, and my front door wide open.

I parked off the road beyond my house, then walked back to check out the car. It was an LAPD detective ride with a radio in the open glove box and a man's sport coat tossed casually on the back seat. My friend Lou Poitras was a homicide lieutenant at Hollywood Station, but this wasn't his car. Also, Lou wouldn't leave my front door hanging open like an invitation to bugs and looters.

I went inside. Pardy was on my couch with his arms spread along its back and his feet up on the coffee table. He didn't get up or smile when he saw me. A black Sig hung free under his arm.

"You have a nice little place here, Cole. I guess it pays off, getting your name in the papers."

"What are you doing?"

"I was up here asking your neighbors about you. They say your car was here all night, so I guess you're in the clear unless something else comes up."

"I meant what are you doing here in my house."

"I saw your door open, but got no answer. I thought you might be dead or injured, you being a party to a homicide investigation, so I came in to render assistance."

I went back to my front door and examined the jamb. Neither it nor the lock showed signs of having been jimmied. I left the door open and went back to the living room. Two cabinets beneath my television were ajar and the stack of phone books on the pass-through between my dining room and the kitchen wasn't in its usual place. Pardy had searched my house.

"I can't believe you came into my house like this."

"I can't believe you went back to my crime scene this morning. I find it suspicious."

"Diaz knows I'm working the case. She gave me her blessing."

"Did she?"

"Ask her."

"O'Loughlin gave me the lead, and I don't need any help. Consider this a courtesy call."

Pardy suddenly stood. He was taller than me, with angular shoulders and large bony hands, and he stood close to intimidate me.

"Don't come around my case anymore. I don't want you talking to my witnesses, I don't want you at my crime scene, and I don't want you contaminating my evidence."

"I'll bet you don't want me finding evidence you missed, either."

He was here because of the key card. When I arrived at the alley that morning, Pardy had been shining a flashlight under the Dumpsters. It had been his evidence to find, only he hadn't found it. When Chen notified Central Homicide about the card, O'Loughlin must have asked about it, and now Pardy felt shown up.

"I'm sorry you got burned, but what was I supposed to do, pretend I didn't find it?"

"Funny how you found a card that wasn't there. I'm thinking maybe you planted it, looking to show us up."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're a publicity slut, Cole. You might have murdered that bum just for the ink-the dumb cops can't close the deal, so the superstar asshole rides to the rescue, page one above the fold?"

I was pissed off and tired, and the wonderful spicy soft tacos had grown sour and old.

I said, "Have you been to the Home Away Suites yet?"

Pardy's face tightened and his red skin looked like parchment pulled over a skull. I shook my head because I knew he hadn't.

"No, Pardy, you haven't. While you were dicking around up here, I went to the motel. The vic was listed on their register as Herbert Faustina. When the reporters interview you, you can tell them the superstar asshole had to give you his name because you were up here going through my house without a search warrant while I was working the case. They'll probably make me out to be Sherlock Holmes after that."

Pardy's face pinched even tighter.

"What did you do at the motel?"

"I talked to a clerk named Kramer. He's probably gone off duty by now, but you can catch him tomorrow. Tell O'Loughlin I covered that one for you, too."

I didn't tell him I had entered the room, and I wasn't going to give him Faustina's bill. I decided I would still call Diaz, but Pardy could swing it himself.

He said, "You think you know, but you don't, Cole. You don't have any idea. Stay out of my case. You're nowhere around this or I'll have your ass."

I should have let it go. I should have just nodded, and he would have walked out, but I didn't like that he had come into my house, and I liked it still less that he thought he knew me when he didn't know me at all.

"Wrong, Pardy, which is something you'd know if you had paid attention at the Academy. I can pursue any matter I choose so long as I don't interfere with or obstruct you in doing your job. You might not like it, but if you arrest me on those grounds, you'll have to make a case not only to the district attorney but also to Internal Affairs. You'll get to tell them how you entered my home without paper, and how you missed the key card and showed up late at the motel. You'll even get to tell them how you tried to front me off even though everything I've done today has been done with the full knowledge and permission of LAPD. You'll look sweet with all that, Pardy. O'Loughlin might even help you pack."

Pardy watched me with the hard eyes as if his body had gone rigid, and he didn't know what to do because nothing was playing out like he imagined. Then he made it worse.

"I don't think you understand, Cole. Where's your gun? Let me see the gun you killed all those people with."

Pardy raised his right hand and rested it on the Sig's grip. A film of sweat made his forehead shine.

"I want to make sure you understand."

The hammer cocking on the Colt.357 Python at my front door sounded like cracking knuckles. Pardy turned to the sound, and shouted his warning like when he was in uniform.

"LAPD!"

Joe Pike said, "So?"

Pike stood framed in the shadows of the open front door with his.357 down along his right thigh. Pike was six feet one, with short brown hair and ropy muscles that left him looking slender even though he weighed two hundred pounds. He was wearing a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, jeans, and the Marine Corps sunglasses he pretty much wore 24/7, inside and out, daytime or night. Light from the setting sun caught the glasses, and made his eyes glow.

Pardy kept shouting, but had the sense not to pull out his gun.

I said, "This is my partner, Joe Pike. You read about him in the newspaper, too."

"I'm a police officer, goddamnit. Police officer! Put down that weapon! Tell him to put down the goddamn gun."

I looked at Pike.

"He wants you to put down your gun."

"No."

"What do you want to do, Pardy? You want to have a shootout? You were finished. If you want to arrest me, I'll go with you and we can sort this out with O'Loughlin down at the station. Did you want to place me under arrest?"

Pardy glanced back at me, and the moment was done. He could press it, but his shit was weak and he knew it. He was so tight his voice squeaked like a bad hinge.

"Sit this one out."

Pardy lurched around like a sailing ship tacking into the wind. Pike stepped down out of the entry to let him pass. When Pardy reached the door, he looked back at me. He didn't seem scared; he seemed certain.

"Sit this one out."

"Good night, Pardy."

Pardy left, and after a minute his car pulled away. When it was gone, Pike holstered his.357.

"Was this about your father?"

Just like that.

"He isn't my father, for Christ's sake. How do you know about this?"

"Starkey."

"Are you two phone buddies now?"

"She was concerned."

Pike knew much of it from Starkey, but I filled in the rest. Joe Pike had been my closest friend and only partner for almost twenty years, but we had never much shared the facts of our childhoods to any great degree. I'm not sure why, only that it had never seemed necessary and maybe even felt beside the point. Maybe it was enough that we were who we were, and were good with that; or maybe we each felt our baggage was lighter without the weight of someone else's concern. When I reached the part about the Home Away Suites, I showed Pike the bill with Faustina's name and address. Pike glanced at it.

"This isn't the right area code for Scottsdale. His address and phone number don't go together."

The motel record showed 416 as the area code for Faustina's home number.

"What's Scottsdale?"

"Four-eighty."

I brought the invoice to the phone, and punched in the number. A computer chimed immediately to inform me that no such listing existed. Next, I booted up my iMac, signed on to Yahoo's map program, and entered Faustina's address. No such street existed in Scottsdale. I leaned back in my chair and glanced up at Pike; everything I thought I knew about Herbert Faustina was wrong.

"His phone number and address don't exist. He made them up."

Pike studied the invoice again, then handed it back.

"My guess is he made up more than that. Maria Faustina was the first saint of this millennium. She was canonized for her trust in God's Divine Mercy. Five gets you ten he was using an alias."

Pike knows the most surprising things.

I unfolded the morgue photos and showed him the picture of Herbert Faustina's tattoos.

"I guess he sought mercy."

"Maybe," Pike said. "But mercy for what?"

11

Yard Work

Frederick made three trips down to Payne's house that day, not that so much was left after all these years, but the bags were awkward. Each time he came down, he was terrified the police would be waiting. He crept through the trees, gut-sick with fear until he saw that the coast was clear.

Once everything was down, Frederick fired up Payne's gas grill. He used four full cans of propane, then mixed the ashes with gasoline and burned them in a fifty-five-gallon drum Payne used for burning trash. After the second burn, he bagged the residue, then scrubbed the drum with Clorox. He drove the ashes out along Highway 126 to Lake Piru, washed out the bags with lake water, then stopped at two nurseries in Canyon Country before heading back. Late that afternoon when the sun was beginning to weaken, he dusted Payne's property with a generous mix of warfarin, ant poison, cayenne pepper, and arsenic. The police might eventually bring dogs to search the property, but when their mutts hoovered up Frederick 's little surprise, they wouldn't last long. Frederick felt satisfied with a job well done.

With the evidence gone and the grounds laced with poison, Frederick let himself back into Payne's house to think. Payne had always told him they would be punished. Frederick thought he meant they would burn in Everlasting Hell-especially after Payne began tattooing himself and talking to Jesus-but maybe it wasn't that at all. Frederick woke every morning knowing that someone somewhere was hunting them; entire armies were probably trying to find them.

Maybe now they had.

Thoughts swirled through Frederick 's head like whispering voices, and he felt himself beginning to panic.

"Stop."

Frederick sat motionless at the table except for his right leg. His foot bounced with a will of its own, separate and apart from him, faster as the buzzing grew louder.

"Make it stop."

Frederick knew he was in trouble. They were trying to get him, and they might have already found Payne-mercenaries, masked assassins, maybe even criminals; hired killers paid to find and punish them. Maybe they had snatched Payne and his car, too; made their move so quickly that Payne simply vanished.

Frederick realized if they found Payne, then they might be watching him right now. He felt the weight of their eyes. He heard their covered whispers.

Frederick 's foot bounced until the table shook; a ceramic Jesus danced to the edge of the table and fell. When it shattered, Frederick clutched his leg, and pounded his thigh-

"Stop it! STOPITSTOPITSTOPIT!"

He lurched to his feet, stumbled into the kitchen, and saw a fresh message waiting on Payne's machine. Someone had called that day while Frederick worked in the yard.

Frederick played the message, and a voice he had heard only once-the time he let Payne talk him into going to the Catholic church that Sunday-came from the machine.

"Payne, this is Father Wills. I hope you're well, but I'm concerned I haven't heard from you. Please call or come by. It's important we continue our discussion."

Frederick 's stomach clenched, and he tasted sardines.

What discussion?

Father Wills was a priest, and priests took confession.

What had Payne told him?

What was the knowing suspicious tone in Father Wills's voice?

Payne had probably confessed his ass off to every priest and minister and rabbi in town. Frederick started shaking, and the buzzing returned-

Frederick deleted the message.

He breathed hard, drawing in ragged and hideous breaths until it occurred to him that Payne might have told his confessor where he was going and what he was going to do. Father Wills might know.

Frederick decided to ask.

12

During the nine days Herbert Faustina resided in the Home Away Suites, he made forty-six phone calls, but none were to any number I recognized. He had not phoned my office. The bill listed each number dialed and the duration of the call because the motel charged by the minute. Of the forty-six numbers dialed, Faustina had called 411 an even dozen times. Pike and I divided the remaining thirty-four numbers between us, then began dialing to see who answered, me on the house line and Pike on his cell.

The first two calls Faustina made were to the information operator. A woman with a steady voice answered on the third.

" Los Angeles Police, West L.A. Station. May I help you?"

I was surprised, and wasn't sure what to say.

"This is the police. May I help you?"

"Is there an Officer Faustina?"

"I don't see that name on the roll."

"Do you recognize that name, Faustina?"

"Who is this?"

I apologized and hung up. Faustina had spoken to the West L.A. Station for six minutes, which was long enough to be transferred through every unit in the building. He might have asked to speak with me, and, when I wasn't there, asked for J. Edgar Hoover. Anyone loopy enough to believe he was my father would want Hoover on the case.

I glanced over at Joe.

"He called West L.A. Station. How about that?"

Pike said, "Uh."

A man with a gruff voice answered the next number.

"Police, Southeast."

When I hung up, Pike was waiting.

"Another station?"

"Yeah. He called Southeast."

"He also called Newton."

Herbert Faustina had spoken with Southeast for eleven minutes, and Newton for eight. The next three numbers brought me to Pacific, the 77th, and Hollenbeck.

When I leaned back, Pike had still more.

"Devonshire, Foothill, and North Hollywood."

Three more of LAPD's eighteen patrol areas.

"Okay, this is strange. Why would he call all these police stations?"

"The newspapers described you as a detective. Maybe he thought you were a police detective, and called the stations trying to find you."

"Possible."

Pike shrugged and returned to his phone.

"Or not."

The next number connected me to a Rite Aid pharmacy, and the ninth with the Auto Club. The tenth number brought me to LAPD's Hollywood Station, but the eleventh was different. A man with the hushed voice of a late-night disk jockey answered on the first ring.

"Golden Escorts, discreet and professional."

Faustina had spent twenty-three minutes on the phone with Golden Escorts. I remembered the little throwaway newspaper in his suitcase, the one showing the naked woman with metallic blue hair-the Hard-X Times. I hung up.

"He had more on his mind than finding me. He called an escort service."

"Golden Escorts?"

"You got them, too?"

"Twice. He called them last Wednesday, then again on Friday. Maybe he thought call girls would know how to find you."

"Humor doesn't suit you."

Pike's face was flat and expressionless. Maybe he meant it.

We checked the call dates and saw that during Faustina's nine days at Home Away Suites, he had phoned Golden Escorts three times. He called them on his second night at the motel, then again on his fifth and ninth nights. The ninth night was yesterday-the night he was murdered. I felt a little pop of adrenaline when I tied the escort service to the date of his death. It felt like a clue.

I said, "Keep dialing, and let's see what else we get."

The remaining calls included two more police stations. All together, he had phoned twelve patrol areas out of the eighteen into which LAPD divides Los Angeles. The remaining calls also included three take-out restaurants, a Pep Boys auto parts, two churches in North Hollywood, and the Crystal Cathedral. No one at any of these places recognized his name or remembered his call. Excepting the information number, Golden Escorts was the only number he phoned more than once, and the only escort service.

When we finished identifying every number Faustina called, I phoned Golden Escorts again. The same man answered in exactly the same way.

"Golden Escorts, discreet and professional."

"I saw your ad in the Hard-X Times."

"Groovy. You need a date for tonight?"

"Can I get someone to come to my motel?"

"No problem. We take cash, Visa, and MasterCard, no AmEx, and we offer both male and female escorts for nonsexual outcall companionship. Prostitution is illegal and that's not what we sell. Anything that happens between you and the escort, well, that's between you and the escort. You understand?"

He gave me the boilerplate in case I was Vice.

"I understand."

"Groovy. Tell me where you are, how much you want to spend, and what kind of companion you're looking for."

"I'm at the Home Away Suites. You know where it is."

"Like the back of my teeth."

"Groovy. I'd like the same girl I had last time."

"You've used us before?"

"Oh, sure. Three times."

"Who is this?"

"Herbert Faustina."

The line went dead. After three conversations, he knew Faustina's voice well enough to know I wasn't him.

I called a friend of mine at the phone company and gave her the number. If it turned out to be a cell, we would have to backtrace through the billing address, and all of that could take a long time. If we got lucky, it would be a hard line. We were lucky. Ninety seconds later she gave me their address.

Groovy.

13

Golden Escorts occupied a tiny clapboard house in Venice north of the canals, six blocks from the ocean. The neighborhood was typical of Venice, where microscopic houses were set on lots so narrow they shouldered together like cards in a deck. To the untrained eye, many streets in Venice looked like tenements, sporting broken sidewalks, beach-bum decor, and rent-a-wreck parking, but the cheapest house on the block would go for six hundred thousand dollars. Location was everything.

The house itself was a Craftsman knockoff sporting a tiny front porch, yellow paint, and a weather vane shaped like a whale. The windows were lit, but women with heavy makeup weren't lingering on the sidewalk and a red light didn't burn over the door. Escort services weren't brothels with prostitutes lying around in negligees; they functioned more like dispatchers for independent contractors-they ran ads, fielded calls, and doled out assignments by phone. Sometimes they provided a driver for the girl, but most times not, and the smaller services were almost always located in a private home or apartment.

Pike and I parked on the cross street, then walked back to the house like two citizens out for a stroll. Pardy and Diaz would have to hope for cooperation, but Pike and I weren't Pardy and Diaz.

Pike said, "Give me a minute."

He waited for a car to pass, then slipped down along the east side of the house and vanished into the shadows. I continued on to the next corner. It was a nice night in Venice. The ocean smelled fresh. Six minutes later, Pike reappeared. I walked back and joined him in front of the house.

"One man, one woman. Kitchen's in the rear, living room in front, bed and a bath to the right of the kitchen. She's making dinner and he's in the living room with a headset and computer. Looks like they live here."

"Don't you hate it when people drop by at dinnertime?"

"They're going to hate it more."

We waited for two more cars to pass, then went to the front door. Pike stood to the side so he wouldn't be visible when the door opened. You see Joe Pike, you know you have trouble. I put on my best nonthreatening smile, and knocked.

After I knocked the second time, the door opened, and a man in his early thirties peered out. He had dark hair combed back, a wide face, and a cordless telephone headset. The earpiece was pushed to the side because he had come to the door.

He said, "What's up?"

I smiled wider, then pushed him hard in the chest, catching him off guard and shoving him backward. Pike came in behind me. Not particularly discreet, but very professional.

"Hey, what is this? What are you doing?"

"You don't have a problem. We just want to talk to you."

The man backpedaled, pushing out both hands like he was trying to quell a riot.

"You're the guy who called."

Pike stepped past him into the living room. The guy with the headset tried to back up so he could see both of us at the same time, but he was already against the wall.

"Where are you going? Hey, I live here. This is my home. Get out of here."

"What's your name?"

"Fuck you. Get out of my house."

A wallet was in a bowl on a table inside the front door. I found his driver's license and compared him to the picture. Yep, it was him. Stephen Golden, the proud proprietor of Golden Escorts. Criminals amaze me. I dropped his wallet back into the bowl as a woman came out of the kitchen. She had a narrow face with a gap between her front teeth and soft eyes, but she didn't scream or make a scene, either. You don't make a scene when you're afraid of the police. I gave her the encouraging smile.

"It's okay. The police will be here in a little bit."

The man said, "That's bullshit. They have some kind of beef with a client."

"We don't have a beef. One of your clients is dead."

The woman said, "Oh, that's terrible."

He snapped at her, his voice harsher toward her than me even though I had invaded his home.

"Don't say anything. We don't know anything about that. They can't just come in here."

I gave more of my smile to the woman, like he wasn't in the room with us, just me and her.

"What's your name?"

"Marsha."

He said, "Don't say a goddamned thing."

Marsha's face had the translucence of murky water: pale skin, faded freckles, and lashless eyes that gave her an innocence she probably did not possess. She wore a Tenacious D T-shirt over shorts, with butterflies tattooed above her ankles. The shirt was cropped and the shorts were low, letting a tattoo peek out across her lower belly.

"It's going to be fine, Marsha. Do you know what Stephen does for a living?"

"Yeah, it's our business. We don't hurt anyone."

"You his wife, girlfriend, what?"

"Don't talk to him! It's none of his business!"

It was just me and Marsha.

"We live together."

"Okay, cool. You don't have to be afraid."

"I'm not."

A laptop computer was set up on a dinner tray by a club chair in the corner of his living room so Golden could watch TV while he worked. I went over and looked at it.

"Get away from there! Leave my stuff alone."

Pike said, "Shh."

A six-line phone base with an auto-forwarding repeater was on the floor next to the chair, slaved to the computer. A phone directory was set up on the laptop, showing what was probably the names and numbers of his prostitutes. A Telecredit window was open to run Visa and MasterCard charges, so the computer probably held his billing ledgers and records of who earned what. I went back to him.

"Okay, Stephen, here's what we want. A man named Herbert Faustina was staying at the Home Away Suites up in Toluca Lake- "

"I don't know anything about that."

"Three times during the past nine days, Mr. Faustina phoned you-"

"That's not true."

"We know because the phone records show he called your number."

"I run a legitimate business. What happens between-"

"Faustina called you last night for the third and final time. This morning, at approximately two forty-five, he was shot to death. You see where I'm going with this?"

Golden crossed his arms and chewed the inside of his lower lip. He shook his head.

"I'm going to call my lawyer."

"No. We're not the police, so we're not going to waste time with your lawyer. The police will probably roll by tomorrow. You can call your lawyer when you talk to them, but right now you're on your own. We're going to go see whoever you sent to Faustina."

"I don't file a W-2 for these people. I got pager numbers, and maybe a cell. I don't even know their real names, most of them, let alone where they live."

"So page them. Stephen, look, you're going to cooperate because you are now a link in a homicide investigation and so are the three people you sent to Faustina. If you don't cooperate with the police, they will stretch you. If you don't cooperate with me, I'm going to take your computer and all of that stuff over there to West L.A. Sex Crimes."

His computer probably showed the prostitutes he employed, a history of his credit card transactions that would include the identities of his johns, and possibly even banking and account information that would reveal how he hid his money from the IRS.

He looked incredulous.

"You can't steal my stuff."

"Stephen, please. How are you going to stop us?"

Golden glanced at Pike again, but now he seemed more thoughtful than afraid.

"What if I cooperate?"

"If you don't, I can give your records to the police. If you do, we can make them disappear. You see what I'm offering?"

I was offering him a way out of a major pimping and pandering bust.

Marsha said, "Dinner's ready, Stephen. Would you please tell them so they'll leave?"

Golden glared at her as if he suddenly hated her as deeply as he hated anything, but then he pushed away from the wall and went to his computer.

He said, "Come over here. I want you to see."

He dropped into the club chair and used a mouse to open what appeared to be a calendar on his computer. He went to each of the three dates and copied the names of the women he had sent to the Home Away Suites, then opened an address book to show me their entries: Janice L., Dana M., and Victoria.

"You see? I have the pagers and the phones, but I don't have their addresses. I can page them, but I can't say when they'll get back to me. We're not talking about the most stable people. Sometimes these girls disappear and I never hear back."

"Aren't they on call?"

Marsha said, "People have lives, you know? Stephen isn't the only person they work with."

With. Not for.

Now Golden looked impatient.

"Look, you want me to page them right now, I'll page them."

He stalked back to the phone and punched in a number. When he heard the pager's squeal, he held out the phone as if I could hear it from across the room.

"See? A tone. I'm paging."

He tapped in his phone number, then hung up and tossed his headset onto the club chair.

"She's paged. You guys wanna have dinner? We can page the other girls, then sit here all night waiting for them to call back while they're out sucking dick."

I looked at Pike, but Pike was immobile. Pike would sit with Golden for weeks if we had to; maybe even forever. Pike would also put a gun to Golden's head and pull the trigger if Golden didn't come through.

I didn't like not knowing where to find them, and I liked it less because any one of them might have been involved in Faustina's murder. If one of them was linked with the homicide, they weren't likely to call back, and certainly wouldn't cooperate, but Golden seemed like my only way to reach them.

"What about their last names?"

"If they gave me a last name, it would be bullshit. You think I file W-2s for these people?"

He spread his hands again, the universal sign of the man caught in the middle.

"Look, I'm trying to cooperate here, but all I can do is what I can do. When they call, I'll tell them to talk to you. If you want to page them yourself, go ahead, but all you're going to do is scare them."

Golden was right. I felt half-assed and caught short. I had blundered into his house exactly like the cowboy Pardy accused me of being, and now I didn't have anything to show for it. I tried to think of something smart to ask, and felt even more half-assed because thinking was hard.

"Did Faustina pay with a credit card?"

"No, he paid cash."

"Which girl saw him last night?"

"I wrote the names in the order they saw him. That was Victoria. She saw him last."

"Did Victoria or the other girls tell you about him, like something he said or did?"

"They don't tell me anything and I never ask. I don't want to know. You probably won't want to know, either."

"But you spoke with Faustina when he called?"

"Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"You wanna know what he wanted, like did he want a blow job or anal?"

Pike shoved Golden in the back of the head.

Marsha said, "Don't be smart, Stephen. You make it worse when you're smart."

"Did he say where he was from or what he was doing in L.A.?"

Golden was still rubbing his head.

"I don't make conversation with these people. I tried to feel him out about what he wanted from the girl-some things cost more than others, and some girls won't do certain things. All he said was she had to be a nice person. Understanding, he said. He just wanted someone he could talk to. That's all he said."

"Did the girls tell you what he talked about?"

"I don't give a shit. We agree on a price, and I get my cut. One hour for two hundred bucks. I don't care what they do."

I thought about Faustina wanting only to talk, and wondered if it was true. Six hundred dollars for three hours of talking was a lot of talking.

"The man called you three times in less than two weeks. I can see the first call being all business, but you must have developed a familiarity with him, maybe joked about what a good customer he was, something like that."

"Yeah, I joked around with him a little, but we didn't talk. He didn't have the gift of gab, you know? Me, I like to talk. Him, he just seemed kinda awkward and sad."

"Did he mention his family?"

Golden laughed.

"Some dude calling for a whore doesn't bring up his family. Look, I don't want to be best buddies with these people. I don't give a shit who they are or where they're from. I tie up my phone with one guy, no one else can get through-I'm losing money. Like now."

I tried to think of something else to ask, but it was clear Golden didn't have anything more to offer. I folded the list of names and put it away.

I said, "Okay, Stephen. Page them and set it up for tomorrow, then give me a call-"

I took out a business card and put it in the little bowl with his wallet.

"You can reach me at this number, and I know that you will."

Golden's face brightened, surprised that Joe and I were going for it and anxious to get us out of his house. You could almost see the wheels turning behind his bushy eyebrows. As soon as the girls called back, he would warn them, tell them to split town, and then be on the horn to his attorney. He might even leave town himself.

I said, "You know how I know, Stephen?"

"Hey, I said I would, didn't I? You're giving me a big break here."

"That's right. And I'm also taking your computer."

I closed his laptop, then jerked out the cables. Golden's eyes widened and he lurched forward, but Pike touched his arm.

Pike said, "Stay."

Golden froze in place between us. Marsha went back to the kitchen and called from the door.

"For Christ's sake, Stephen. Dinner's going to suck."

I tucked his computer under my arm and moved to the door.

He said, "That's fucking stealing! You can't just come into someone's house and steal their stuff!"

"I'm not stealing it-I'm holding it hostage. If your girls come across, you'll get it back. If they don't, it goes to the police."

Pike opened the door, then glanced back at Golden. Pike shook his head, and went out.

Golden said, "This is bullshit!"

"Call me tomorrow morning or it goes to the cops."

"Fuck you, you asshole! Fuck Faustina, too!"

I stopped, and turned hack to him when he said it. His face paled, and his rage became something soft.

I said, "What?"

He shook his head.

I let myself out, pulled the door shut, and stood on the porch. Pike was in the street, his sunglasses reflecting red like nighttime cat eyes. Inside, Marsha called Stephen Golden to dinner.

14

A gentle onshore breeze carried the smell and the taste from the sea, six blocks away. A thin maritime fog swirled overhead, bright with reflected light. The fog dampened neighborhood sounds, and left the world feeling empty. Pike watched me approach. When I reached him, we were in the street, two guys just waiting. We had no reason to wait, but something felt unfinished. I stared at Golden's house, wondering if I had forgotten an obvious question or an even more obvious conclusion. When I looked at Pike again, he was still watching me.

"I saw how you looked at him. A couple of times in there when he said things."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you all right with this?"

I glanced back at the house, but its face hadn't changed. It was a house. I didn't know if I was all right or not. I tried to explain.

"I work a case for other people. It's always about someone else. This time, too; Faustina is a stranger-but it ended up feeling like I was here about me. I wasn't sure what to ask. None of it seemed as clear."

I thought about it.

"I guess."

We stood in the street. Out on Main, a horn blew. A dog barked as if fighting for its life, and then the barking abruptly stopped. I smelled garlic.

After a while, Pike said, "You did fine."

We walked back up the street to his Jeep, then made the long drive back to my house, bumping along in traffic like a million other Angelenos, but the sense that my night's work was unfinished remained. We left the 405 at Mulholland and drove east along the spine of the mountains, neither of us speaking. The fields of light on either side of us that marked the city and the valley did not glitter that night. They were hidden behind lowering clouds. The stalled spring rain had thinned throughout the day, but now was returning.

When we reached my house, Pike let me out at the mouth of my carport. He spoke for the first time since we had left Venice.

He said, "It was the word, sad. Sad has an ugly weight."

I knew right away what he was saying, and knew he was right.

"Yes. It was when Golden said Faustina seemed sad. He wasn't just a stiff on a slab anymore. He was real, and what he felt was real. You're right about that word."

"You want to go grab a beer or something?"

"No, I'm good," I said.

"We could go back to Golden's. Put two in his head for using that word."

"Let's quit while we're ahead."

I got out, closed his door, but didn't watch Pike drive away.

My house was quiet, and empty. For the first time that day, I thought about Lucy. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to say something funny, and be rewarded with her laugh. I wanted to tell her about Herbert Faustina, and let her help me carry the weight of that word-sad. I wanted everything to be as it had been between us because if only I had her then maybe this business about Faustina wouldn't feel so important.

But Lucy and Ben weren't inside and they weren't down the hill in their apartment. They were two thousand miles away, building a new life.

I checked the phone, but no one had left a message. I washed my hands, took a Falstaff from the fridge, then put out fresh food for the cat. I called him.

"Hey, buddy. You here?"

I opened the French doors to the deck and called him again, but he did not appear.

I leaned against the kitchen counter. The phone was three feet away. I went into the living room and turned on the tube. Maybe the Red Light Assassin had racked up another score. I went back to the phone, dialed most of Lucy's number, then stopped, not because I was scared but because I didn't want her to hurt and that was the way she wanted it. It should have been easy; just stop pretending that she wanted to hear my voice as much as I wanted to hear hers.

After a while, I opened another Falstaff, then decided to take care of the unfinished business.

Carol Starkey

It was almost ten that night when Starkey idled past Elvis Cole's house, trying to work up the nerve to stop. His car was in its usual place, his house was lit, and her palms were as damp as the first time she faced down a bomb when she was a rookie tech with LAPD's Bomb Squad.

Starkey, pissed at herself, said, "Jesus Christ, moron, just stop for Christ's sake. He's home. You drove all the way up here."

The entire drive up from Mar Vista, Starkey had badgered herself as to what she would do and how she would do it: She would knock on his door, bring him over to the couch, and sit his ass down. She was gonna say, Hey, listen to me, I'm being serious-I like you and I think you think I'm cool, too, so let's stop pretending we're only friends and act like adults, okay?-and then she would kiss him and hope to hell he didn't toss her out on her ass.

Starkey said, "All you gotta do is stop, go to the door, and do if."

Starkey didn't stop. She crept past his house on the crappy little road, turned around in a gravel drive, then eased back with her lights off like some kind of lunatic stalker pervert, talking to herself the entire time because-her shrink said-hearing another human voice was better than hearing no voice at all, even if it was your own.

Touchy-feely bullshit.

Starkey parked up the street from Cole's house so she could keep an eye on things while she got herself together. If he came out he probably wouldn't recognize her car. Jesus, if Cole caught her sitting out here she would drive right off the cliff, no shit, just flat out punch the gas and pull a hard left straight down to the center of the earth and never come back.

"Cole," she said. "You must be the densest man in Los Angeles and I am certainly the most pathetic female, so why can't we just get on with this?"

Starkey felt around for her cigarettes and was disgusted to find she had only eight or nine left. They wouldn't last long. She lit one, sucked down half with one ferociously hot pull, then exhaled through her nose, feeling grumpy and frustrated. Here she was, a tough-ass bomb cop who had de-armed, defused, and defeated more than enough bombs to blow Cole's house right off the mountain, who had, herself, been blown apart in a goddamned trailer park, come back to tell about it, then gone on to beat and bury the most notorious serial bomber in U.S. history (that asshole, Mr. Red, who had blown up her house in the process, that prick!), and she couldn't work up the nut to bang on Cole's door. And then bang him.

It wasn't for lack of trying. Starkey had asked Cole out, flirted with him shamelessly, and pretty much done everything short of putting a gun to his head. But Cole, that idiot, had it bad for his lawyer, the Southern Belle.

Starkey scowled as if she had bitten a turd.

"Looo-ceee."

Every time she thought about Lucy Chenier, she pictured Lucille Ball, all that wild red hair, bulging eyes, and loony bullshit with Ethel Mertz. She could hear Ricky's voice.

"Looo-ceee, I hooaaannn!"

How could Cole say her name without laughing?

Starkey finished the cigarette, tossed it, then lit another. Starkey wasn't short on nerve, but her stupid shrink had suggested she wasn't so much afraid of Cole's rejection as she was of eventually losing him. Starkey hadn't had the best of luck when it came to men. Not so many years ago she was head over heels in solid with her sergeant-supervisor on the Bomb Squad, Sugar Boudreaux, who still left her shaking when she thought about him, but Sugar had been killed with her in the trailer park. Then there was Jack Pell, the ATF agent she met on the hunt for Mr. Red. Starkey had been hitting the booze pretty good back then, and she was coming off Sugar and the effed-up ripped-apart surgical nightmare that was her patched-together body. One third of her right breast-missing in action; one fourth of her stomach-gone; three feet of intestine-adios; her spleen-what spleen?; and the Big Casino-her uterus… and everything that went with it. Pell had been tender, and his passionate mercies had gone a long way toward helping her kick the booze, but after a while they both realized it wasn't The Love, Pell with his own uncertainties and Starkey with hers, both of them with so far yet to go.

"Love'm and lose'm."

And maybe that was her fear-if she had Cole then she would lose him, just as she lost Sugar and Pell-so it was safer to simply want him.

Psychobabble bullshit.

Starkey lit another cigarette, then slouched down in the seat, watching his house. She had liked Elvis Cole since they met on the night the little boy went missing. She liked his dopey sense of humor and the fierce way he tried to be normal even though he wasn't; she liked how he had given every part of himself to find that boy, and the loyalty she saw in his friends-

Starkey grinned.

– and it didn't hurt he had a hot ass, either.

Starkey's laughter faded, and the hole it left filled with sadness. Truth be told, she had a crush on him, she was fascinated by him, she dwelled on him, and she wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

Maybe he didn't like her.

Maybe she wasn't his type.

He was still in love with Lucy Chenier.

Starkey let smoke drift from her mouth, up and over her face like a cloud, hiding her. She hadn't taken a drink in ten months. She wouldn't start now.

All she had to do was go to his door and knock.

"Do it!"

Starkey pushed herself upright, flicked the cigarette away, then started her car as-

Thirty yards away in his carport, brake lights came on and the grungy yellow Corvette backed out.

Starkey said, "Shit!"

She ducked, praying to Christ he didn't see her as the Corvette's tail swung around. She wedged herself all the way down on the seat, damn near under the wheel, and when she finally looked up he was gone.

15

The Missing

"Father? Father, are you here?"

"I'm coming, dear."

Father Clarence Wills-called Father Willie by the patrons of Our Lady of Righteous Forgiveness Church-hoisted his creaky bones up from the floor of his closet and stepped into his office. Mrs. Hansen, who assisted him in his clerical duties, was waiting in the door with her purse and jacket.

He said, "I was just trying to get those papers away. Why is it all the empty file space is at the bottom of these old cabinets?"

"You're limping."

"I'm always limping. It comes with age and too much port wine."

Father Willie loved telling her things like that. Every time, she would cluck at him just as she did now, and, every time, he would smile, letting her know it was all just a naughty tease. Mrs. Hansen was short, overweight, and probably the only person in town shorter, fatter, and older than Father Willie.

"It's dark out, Father. I'd like to be getting home."

"That's fine, dear. We're finished for the day."

"I don't like leaving after dark. It's not safe out in the night."

"You could have gone two hours ago."

"You were still working."

"And I'll work after you leave. Just a few more things. Here, I'll see you out to your car."

She clucked again as he pulled on his jacket. The thin air was growing nippy.

"You big men think I'm silly, but something happened to all those people and it always happened at night. Javier is the same way, making fun of me like it's all in my head."

Javier Hansen was her husband. Between them, Mr. and Mrs. Hansen had five children, sixteen grandchildren, and two greatgrandchildren, every one of them "corn-fed and farm-raised" as her husband liked to say, and all of them currently living somewhere else.

"I'm not making fun, dear, but that was years ago and there was never any fact to go with the rumors. People get carried away with these things, and then start believing in werewolves."

"Six people don't just up and vanish."

"Six people spread over twenty years. Wives leave their husbands, husbands leave wives, children run away, people move on."

"People say something when they move, good-bye or good riddance. They pay their bills and close their accounts-they don't just disappear like they were snatched off the face of the earth. Those children didn't just leave."

Mrs. Hansen had worked herself up into a snit, though Father Willie had to agree about the children. Three of the six missing were minor children, the two little Ames girls and that Brentworth boy, gone missing in the span of eight months almost ten years ago. They hadn't just moved on like the adults might have, not those little girls and the boy. That was a clear-cut crime, no doubt about it, though the police had never been able to prove it or even name a suspect.

Father Willie felt glum at the memory, and suddenly got it in his head to tease Mrs. Hansen out of her snit.

"Well, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, dear, you can be sure of that!"

He pulled out a shiny black Kimber.45-caliber semiautomatic, and waved it overhead.

"Silver bullets! In case it's a werewolf!"

Mrs. Hansen, who well knew about the Father's gun, rolled her eyes and turned away, smiling in spite of herself.

"You put that thing away before you hurt yourself!"

"The Lord will keep me safe; it's the werewolves who better watch out."

Father Willie was no stranger to firearms, as Mrs. Hansen and everyone else who worked at the church knew. Father Willie was an avid sports marksman, and the gun had been a Christmas gift from his youngest brother. Having gotten Mrs. Hansen to smile, Father Willie slipped the pistol into his jacket, caught up to her in the hall, and saw her out to her car.

Set back from the main road and surrounded by pines, the small parking lot seemed deserted with only two cars remaining, one being his Le Baron, the other her four-wheel-drive Subaru. Father Willie had always thought the middle darkness of early spring lent his church a cloak of isolation, though now the parking lot seemed unusually dark.

She said, "Don't you work too late. You're not a young man. And don't get into that port wine until you're home. I don't want the police finding you on the side of the road."

"Drive safely, Mrs. H. I'll see you tomorrow."

Father Willie held the door for her, then watched her drive up the narrow road into blackness. He snuggled his hands into his pockets, his right hand just naturally finding the pistol's grip. As Mrs. Hansen's headlights disappeared, he saw his breath in the moonlight and suddenly realized why it was so dark-the two enormous security lamps that automatically came on when it got dark, hadn't. The lamps were perched on their poles like two dead owls.

Father Willie made a mental note to tell the custodian in the morning, then started back to his office.

"Father?"

The voice startled him, but then Father Willie saw the man's embarrassed smile. The smile put him at ease.

"Gosh, Father, I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you saw me."

The man was large and fleshy, with a receding hairline and soulful eyes. His hooded sweatshirt made him appear even larger, standing in the shadows like he was, with his smile floating in darkness. Father Willie smiled awkwardly, too, because he was so startled that he was sure he squirted a whiz. Age brought a weak bladder.

"I know we've met, but I don't recall your name. Sorry."

"Frederick-Frederick Conrad, not Freddie or Fred-I work for Payne Keller, myself and Elroy Lewis."

"That's right. Payne."

Father Willie remembered. Frederick had once come to Mass with Payne, and when they were introduced, Frederick had pointed out that his name was not Freddie or Fred, but Frederick. Now Frederick shuffled closer, and Father Willie thought his eyes seemed lonely and cold.

"I know Payne's been seeing you, Father, and I'm hoping you know what's going on."

"What do you mean, son?"

"Payne's missing. He hasn't been home and he didn't tell me or Elroy he was going, and we're left with his station to run. Tell you the truth, I'm worried. It's not like Payne to just up and go like this. I'm scared."

Father Willie stood thinking. He had no wish nor right to share the matters of counsel with a parishioner, but Payne had spoken often of Frederick Conrad, and Father Willie himself had grown concerned about Payne's absence. Payne was a troubled man, so deeply troubled that Father Willie often probed him for the possibility of suicide.

Father Willie saw the concern on Frederick 's face, and weighed what he could offer.

"Payne didn't tell you he was going away?"

"No, sir, and I'm getting scared. I'm thinking I should call the police."

Father Willie thought calling the police might not be such a bad idea. His conversation with Mrs. Hansen about folks gone missing had put the spook into him, though he also knew that Payne had made plans.

" Frederick, I don't think you need to call the police just yet. If you're truly worried, you should follow your heart, but Payne was planning a trip to Los Angeles. That much I can say. I didn't know he would go so soon or be gone so long, but he did tell me he was going."

Something like a ripple worked across Frederick 's face, and his eyes grew smaller.

"Why Los Angeles?"

"I can't really get into it, Frederick. Suffice it to say that Payne felt the need to make peace with himself. You ask him when he gets back."

Frederick wet his lips.

"Can you tell me how to reach him?"

"I'm sorry."

"Well, he just left us, Father. We have this station to run."

Father Willie wanted to go home, but Frederick didn't move. The priest already regretted the conversation, reminding himself this was why you could never tell people anything-they always wanted to know more, and seemed to feel it was their right.

"I really don't know what else to tell you. Maybe tomorrow you should call the police like you said."

Father Willie tried to turn, but Frederick caught his arm, and the force of it almost pulled Father Willie off his feet.

"He was planning this trip? It was Los Angeles, you said?"

"I think you'd better calm down."

"Why was he going to Los Angeles?"

Father Willie stared into Frederick 's eyes, and felt a fear he had not known since his days volunteering on death row at the penitentiary. He found the pistol in his pocket, and gripped it, then came to his senses. He let go of the gun. He drew his hand from his pocket and patted Frederick 's hand, the same hand that held tight to his arm.

"Let go, son."

The eerie wrongness faded from Frederick 's eyes, and he made an embarrassed smile.

"Jesus, I can't believe I did that, Father. I'm sorry. I'm just so worried about Payne, is all. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course I can. Let's talk about this tomorrow."

"I'm just worried, you know."

"I can see that."

"Listen, will you let me confess to you? I'm not a Catholic, but would that be okay?"

"We can talk, son. You can tell me anything you need to say. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

"I want to confess, is all. Just like Payne. I got a lot to get off my chest. Like Payne."

Father Willie wanted to comfort this man, but could not divulge that Payne's anguish had remained private. Payne had never confessed, not the things that most tortured him. Payne wanted to confess, knew he desperately needed to confess, but he had not yet found the strength. Father Willie had been seeing Payne as a counselor to help him find that strength, but-so far- had failed.

Frederick stepped away and slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Let's go inside, Father. I won't keep you. I know you want to go."

"We can talk tomorrow. Whatever it is, it will keep. You can come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

"That's right."

"You're sure it was Los Angeles, where he went? You won't tell me why, but you know it was Los Angeles?"

"Payne's reasons are between himself and God."

"I'll have to go find him. I got no other choice."

"We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Okay, tomorrow. I can find him tomorrow."

Father Willie turned away, but didn't have the chance to slip his own hands back into his pockets. Something powerful lifted him off his feet and carried him struggling to the side of the church. He glimpsed a truck hidden in the darkness.

He did not see the blade, but felt it.

16

When I first came to Los Angeles, I made the drive on Route 66, mostly because of an old television series I enjoyed as a child, two cool guys played by Martin Milner (the rich mama's boy trying to come into his own) and George Maharis (the rootless loner from the wrong side of town), off in search of themselves and adventure along America's pre-interstate coast-to-coast highway (Route 66). Route 66 began in Philadelphia and tracked its way through the center of the country to L.A. where it merged with Sunset Boulevard, then Santa Monica Boulevard, rolling inevitably west until it reached the amazing amusement park that bloomed along the length of the Santa Monica pier. I had followed the highway to its end, not running from but going to, like Milner and Maharis, searching until I reached the sea. It wasn't the first time I had sought out an amusement park, and now I sought one again.

I left my home that night amid the deepening sense that some important business I started a long time ago had remained unfinished. I drove back to the ocean and parked on a bluff overlooking the Santa Monica pier, not so far from Stephen Golden's home in Venice. I got out of my car, climbed over a low fence, and stood at the edge of the bluff. Below me, the lights of the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster spun across the black sea. The bluff was fragile from erosion and uncertain in its nature. Signs warned the unwary not to cross the fence because more than once the precipice had calved like ice from an iceberg, but the earth felt firm to me. Maybe I didn't recognize the danger.

I watched the swirling lights, and wondered if Herbert Faustina had also come to this pier.

Once upon a time I ran away to join the circus. I ran away because my mother told me my father was a human cannonball. Do you think that's silly? My mother never told me my father's name, or showed me a picture, or even described him. Maybe she didn't know these things. Neither my grandfather nor my aunt knew any more than me. After a while, it didn't matter whether he was a human cannonball or not; her description was my truth. If she said my father was a human cannonball, then he was a human cannonball.

I searched, but I did not find him. In my boyhood fantasies, he sometimes came to find me.

Learning a Trade

Wilson

The private detective was a short oval man named Ken Wilson. He wore a dark gray business suit and tan Hush Puppy loafers that didn't go with the suit. Creases cut his jacket and pants because of the long drive, but he smelled of Old Spice and he checked his hair before he got out of his car. Appearance was important in his line of work; people were suspicious of someone ill-kept.

Wilson was one hundred sixty-two miles from home, having made the long drive to collect a fourteen-year-old runaway named Elvis Cole. This was the third time Wilson had tracked down the kid, and at least one other dick had worked for the family before him. Wilson had to hand it to the kid, he had perseverance. He kept trying to find his father.

The carnival was set up at the edge of a small town in a field used mostly for crop dusters. Wilson left his car in the parking area and walked through an arched gateway beneath a shabby banner that proclaimed: Ralph Todd's 21st Century Shows Diversions!!! Twin rows of tents swallowed anyone who walked through the gate, but not before running them past roach-coach food stands and game arcades that Wilson suspected were magnets for pedophiles. Everything looked patched together and poorly maintained. Wilson thought that if this was the twenty-first century they could keep it.

The manager's trailer was at the opposite end of the midway behind the tents that housed the featured attractions: Whores billed as "exotic dancers," a freak show featuring a three-eyed cow, and, behind a final banner, the midway's star attraction, the Human Fireball… See him flash thru the sky like a blazing meteor!!! Wilson cynically noted that every banner ended with three exclamation points. The future was hyperbole.

A dwarf who smelled of vegetable soup pointed Wilson between the tents to a silver Airstream trailer. It was dull and spotted with grime. A small sign on the door read MANAGER. The manager would be a Mr. Jacob Lenz, with whom Wilson had spoken. Mr. Lenz would be expecting him.

Wilson rapped at the door and let himself in without waiting to be asked. Time was money.

"Mr. Lenz? Ken Wilson. I appreciate your cooperation."

Wilson offered his hand.

Lenz was a broad, heavy man with lined skin and small eyes. He stood to take Wilson 's hand, but he didn't look happy about it.

"I just wanna get this straight, you know? I don't want any trouble with the family."

"There's no trouble. He's done this before."

"I can't keep track of all the people around here. Kids come, they go, I don't know who belongs to who. I just wanna do the right thing."

"I understand."

Wilson took out a picture and held it up. It was a black-and-white school photograph taken two years earlier.

"Now let's be sure we're talking about the same boy. Is this Elvis Cole?"

"Yeah, that's him, but he tells everyone his name is Jimmie."

"His name was Philip James Cole until his mother changed it. He used to go by Jimmie."

"She changed his name to Elvis?"

Wilson ignored the question because the answer left a sour ache in his stomach. Wilson felt bad for the kid. Here was this little boy, one day out of the blue, his mother changed his name to Elvis; not Don or Joey-Elvis. Here's this poor kid with no idea who his father is because the crazy bitch won't tell anyone, and bammo-she feeds him a bullshit story that his father was a human cannonball. Wilson believed that parents should be licensed.

"Does the boy know I've come for him?"

"You didn't want me to say, so I didn't say. You want me to get him?"

"It's best if you take me to him. That way he won't run."

"Whatever you want. I jus' don't want no trouble with the family."

"There's no trouble."

"I'm glad to get rid of him, all the trouble he made. He was a pain in the ass."

Wilson followed the manager out past a giant tarpaulin showing a stripper crooking her finger. The paint was faded and her hairstyle was ten years out of date. A voice balloon over her head read: C'mere, big boy!!!

Wilson clucked to himself.

Three exclamation points.

These people were something.

Elvis Cole

Elvis Cole, fourteen years old, heard about Ralph Todd's 21st Century Shows Diversions from a kid named Brucie Chenski who lived in the trailer park where Elvis and his mother stayed when his Aunt Lynn threw them out. Brucie was sixteen years old, the only other teenage boy in the park, and a sociopathic liar.

First day they met, Brucie told Elvis his older brother was a dealer and the two of them were going to San Francisco to get Free Love. Everything Brucie said was like that: large dramatic adventures involving his brother, dope, and Female Conquest. Elvis never believed him. Then one day Brucie said, hey, bro, my brother and I fucked these whores at the carnival. The part about the carnival nailed Elvis's attention like an iron spike through his feet.

What carnival?

The carnival out past the water tower, Brucie says, Jesus, they got this one girl was in Playboy, I saw her picture right out of the magazine, tits out to here, they got rides, a retarded midget that eats worms, these strippers who are total slut whores, my brother sold this girl some acid and she sucked our dicks while -

Elvis interrupted.

They got a human cannonball?

Yeah…

Elvis walked away, just like that, not even caring when Brucie called out the carnival was already gone.

Elvis hitched a ride to the water tower, which sat on a great wide pasture at the edge of town. As Brucie warned, the carnival was gone and the pasture was empty. Elvis kicked through litter for almost two hours until he found a poster that showed the dates and locations for the carnival's next four stops. That was enough.

Elvis hitchhiked to the highway, where, twenty minutes later, two college girls gave him a ride. He caught up with Ralph Todd's midway two days later, one hundred forty-six miles from home.

He had gone to find his father.

That first night, when Elvis finally reached the carnival, he saw a huge banner spread across the gates to the midway that showed a blazing man flying through the air-

See Him EXPLODE from a Cannon!!!

See Him BURST into Flames!!!

See Him DEFY Death!!!

The AMAZING Human FIREBALL!!!

every night at 9pm!!!

It was five minutes before nine when Elvis went through the gates.

A crowd was gathered at the end of the midway. Elvis could see the cannon over the heads of the people in front of him: a long red, white, and blue tube as big around as a manhole, lying atop a flatbed trailer. The strip show was on one side (SEE exotic GO-GO DANCERS from the FAR EAST!!!) and the freak show on the other (SEE the LSD BABY!!! DEFORMED by MOD science!!!).

Elvis shoved his way to the front of the crowd only to find the crowd had gathered for the freak show. A sign hanging from the cannon read: NO SHOW TONIGHT.

Elvis felt a frantic despair, like he had lost his last good chance of finding his father, then pushed back through the mob. He found a ticket kiosk where he asked when the Fireball was going to perform.

A woman with two missing front teeth said, "Might not be for three or four days. Eddie hadda fly to Chicago."

"He's coming back?"

"Sure, kid, but he won't catch up to us until the next town. You're gonna miss his show."

Three or four days. That wasn't so bad. Elvis decided he would wait for three or four weeks, if that's what it took. All he had to do was wait. All he had to do was be around when Eddie got back.

Eddie.

Elvis.

Same first letter.

Maybe that's why his mother had changed his name.

Elvis drifted along the midway until the carnival closed. He was hungry and cold, but he hid in the tall grass behind the tents until the grounds were empty and the thrill rides were dark, and then he slipped back into the midway. He slept beneath the cannon. Saying the name out loud.

Eddie.

The next morning, Elvis watched as the roustabouts and carnies emerged from trucks and trailers to begin their day. They streamed across the midway into a large kitchen tent set up behind the trucks. Elvis fell in with the crowd. He joined a line and was given a tray filled with eggs and French toast, pretending to be just another teenager in the crowd.

That afternoon he met Tina Sanchez.

He was walking along the midway past a ball-toss concession when a woman cursed angrily in Spanish. She stood on a bucket, straining on her tiptoes to reach a row of stuffed cats on a very high shelf.

Elvis said, "Can I get that for you?"

She twisted around to see him, then stepped down from the bucket. She was short and sturdy, and almost as old as his grandfather.

"Unless I grow another six inches, I guess you'll have to. Climb over the counter there, young mister."

Elvis hoisted himself over the low counter into the booth. Wire baskets filled with worn softballs were lined beneath the counter, and the side walls of the booth hung with rainbow-colored animals. Rows of fluffy silhouette cats lined shelves at the far end of the booth. You got three balls for a quarter; if you knocked down three cats, you got a prize.

She said, "I gotta take down the top row. Just drop'm into this bucket here, okay?"

"How did you put them up there?"

"I had a young fella working for me, but he left last night. They do that, you know. Probably after a woman. Now I gotta find a ladder."

Elvis pulled down the top row of targets, putting them into the bucket like she asked. Each cat was eight inches tall, and wedged into a little groove built into the shelves. Fluffy hair stuck out around the cats so they looked bigger than they were. Elvis figured that with all the hair and the tight bases, it would be almost impossible to knock off a cat unless you hit it dead center.

"That's a big help, young mister. You want a prize or a dollar?"

"I guess the dollar, but I'll take that guy's job instead. I'm looking for work."

She frowned at him.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

She frowned harder.

"I'd say more like thirteen or fourteen, you ask me. You a runaway?"

"I'm trying to find my father."

She pulled a dollar from her pocket and pushed it toward him. She added a second dollar.

"Take this and go back to your mama. She's gonna be worried sick. You're too young to be off by yourself like this. You could be murdered."

Elvis's mother had been leaving him alone since he was a baby, but he didn't tell her that. His mother vanished three or four times every year for as long as he could remember. He woke on those mornings to find her gone-no word, no note, just gone. He never knew when or if she would return, and when she did, she never told him (or his grandfather or his aunt) where she had been or what she had done. She was like that. But every time she left, he-secretly in his secret heart- prayed that she was going to find his father, and this time-this time-would bring him home. Which is why he loved her still; for the hope that one day she would bring his father home.

Elvis glanced at the cats filling the bucket.

"How are you going to get them back on the shelf?"

"I'll get a ladder."

"Tell me where it is and I'll get it for you."

She looked up at the shelf that was beyond her reach, and a little smile played at her lips.

"What's your name?"

"Jimmie."

The woman abruptly put out her hand, and Elvis knew he was in. She had one of the strongest grips he had ever felt.

"You can stay long enough to help me fix up these cats and put them back, but after that you gotta go home."

An hour later she offered him the job, and that night she let him sleep on the floor in her tiny Airstream trailer.

Elvis Cole ran for coffee when Tina needed a refill, wiped each of the one hundred eighteen softballs (he counted) with an oiled cloth, and touched up the shelves where the nightly onslaught chipped, splintered, and bruised the paint; he retrieved thrown balls, replaced targets that had been knocked down, helped work the counter, and in between he tried to find out more about Eddie Pulaski.

Three days later, the midway was struck, packed, and trucked seventy-four miles where they set up in a new town. The following day, Elvis was eating lunch when several roughnecks took seats around him, their trays laden with food. They were young guys, with weathered skin and callused, banged-up hands.

A man with an anchor tattooed on his left forearm lit a Marlboro, then abruptly looked at Elvis.

"Seen you around. Who you with?"

"Tina Sanchez."

The man blew a cloud of Marlboro and sucked food from his teeth.

"Nice lady, that Tina. She's been with this midway a long time."

The man beside Elvis belched. He was the oldest.

"Hell, she's been here longer than me. They used to be with the Big Top, y'know, that whole family. You ever seen her bend a nail? She can bend a twelve-penny with her thumb, just push it right over, a little woman like that. They were tumblers."

Elvis said, "Do you guys know when the Human Fireball is coming back?"

"He's the big ticket, kid; the boss ain't gonna let that cannon sit. We're pullin' out the cannon for tonight's show."

Elvis's heart pounded so hard he thought he would jump out of the chair. He made excuses all afternoon to leave Tina's booth, each time running to watch the roustabouts position the cannon and string a tall skinny net to catch Eddie Pulaski at the end of his flight.

By eight-thirty that night, the business at Tina's booth was furious. A crowd of high-school baseball players crowded the counter, firing balls in a competition to see who could peg the most cats. Five minutes before nine, an announcer's voice cut through the din of the crowd; the Human Fireball was only moments away from exploding into the air, Come one, come all, SEE if he survives!!!

Tina rolled her eyes, and waved him away.

"Oh, go on, go! You wanna see him so bad you gonna pee yourself."

Elvis sprinted down the midway and pushed through the crowd. More than a thousand people had already gathered and the show had begun. The Human Fireball stood atop the upraised cannon with a microphone in his hand.

Eddie Pulaski looked nine feet tall in a white leather jumpsuit festooned with red and blue stars. He had shadowed eyes, flowing black hair combed back over his skull, and shoulders at least three feet wide! He gestured broadly to the crowd with wide sweeps of his arm, explaining that the cannon was charged with high explosives, enough to bring down a small skyscraper, enough to hurl him high over the midway into the far net.

The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed.

And if that wasn't enough, Eddie exclaimed, he would be doused with gasoline and burst into flame, hurling through the sky like a blazing fireball!

The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed again, but then Eddie raised his hands for silence. Only questions remained:

Would he land safely in the net, or would a stray breeze blow him off course?

Would the explosive charge be too much or too little?

Would he fly fast enough to snuff the blazing flames or would he burn alive in the far net?

There was only one way to find out!!!

Elvis pushed forward to get closer, shoving past men who cursed and boys who hit him.

Eddie tossed the microphone to an assistant, another assistant splashed him with a bucket of liquid, and Eddie hoisted himself into the cannon without another word.

The crowd fell silent.

Elvis Cole's heart pounded.

The assistant counted down through the microphone: ten!… nine!… eight!…

The crowd counted with him, their voices a thundering chant.

The second assistant lit a ring of flames around the mouth of the cannon.

… three!… two!… one!…

The Human Fireball thundered from the cannon in a whoosh of white smoke. He burst into flames as he passed through the ring of fire and arced into the night. Long flames trailed behind him, blowing out as he reached the peak of his flight, and then he landed safely in the net. Eddie Pulaski bounced to his feet as the crowd cheered. He raised his hands to the applause as if he were the King of the Universe, asked the crowd to tell their friends-Last show tomorrow night, friends!- then he gripped the edge of the net, swung down, and was gone.

His father was gone.

Elvis shouldered between milling bodies and slipped between the canvas banners into the darkness behind the midway, desperate to catch the man. His heart thundered and his ears hummed. He ran as hard as he could to catch up, and rounded a truck just as Eddie Pulaski climbed into a long blue trailer. The trailer door shut. Elvis told himself to keep moving, to pound on that door, to show Eddie Pulaski the picture of his mother, you remember her don't you, fourteen years ago? He had come so far and wanted it so much, but his feet did not move. Elvis ached deep in his center, an ache so sharp and terrible that he knew he could not stand to ache more.

Elvis stared at the closed door of the trailer, then turned and walked away.

Now that Elvis knew where Pulaski lived, he soaked up bits of the man's life: the white Ford pickup parked near the trailer; a small charcoal grill standing cold outside the trailer door; two empty beer cans standing upright in the grass. Elvis slipped past the truck to peek inside, seeing the ashtray overflowing with butts, a roll of duct tape on the bench seat, and a shrunken head dangling from the mirror. Elvis drank the details as if each was a missing piece to the puzzle of his life. He took out his mother's picture and held it up, showing her face to the truck and trailer and grill.

"This is where he lives. This is him."

Elvis paced the midway most of the night, anxious and sick. He returned to Eddie's trailer again and again, circling it like a dog afraid to go home. When he finally tried to sleep, he couldn't, and he let himself out of Tina's mobile home while she slept.

The midway was quiet that morning except for the kitchen crew and the carny who walked the three-eyed cow. Elvis returned to Pulaski's mobile home, but it was still quiet. He slipped between the tents and went to the cannon. It had been lowered and pushed beneath the banners. Elvis climbed onto the flatbed and ran his hand along the barrel. He peered into the muzzle.

"Get the hell down from there!"

The Human Fireball was glaring up at him, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lip. He was wearing a thin cloth robe over shorts, an undershirt, and unlaced shoes.

"C'mon, kid, get down or I'll have Security on your ass."

Elvis jumped to the ground.

Eddie Pulaski was shorter than he seemed last night. His hair was thin and pockmarks cut his jaw.

"I was just looking. I work for Tina Sanchez. Wiping the balls, you know? And stacking the targets."

The Fireball squinted, then nodded.

"I guess I seen you."

Elvis shivered, but not with the morning cold. He was certain that Eddie Pulaski recognized him, maybe not clearly, and maybe not well, but with some deep part of himself that remembered one of his own.

The Fireball sucked off his cigarette, then hacked up phlegm and swallowed it.

"Either way, you bein' new, lemme set you straight about somethin'. Don't mess with my stuff. Everyone on the 'way knows not to mess with my stuff. My ass depends on this gear, so I can't have anyone fuckin' around with it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't touch anything."

"Forget it, just so you mind. You see the show last night?"

"You were amazing."

The Fireball placed his coffee on the flatbed, then hoisted himself up. He didn't look happy.

"I just fixed the fucker, but I didn't like the way it sounded last night, made this funny poppin' noise when it let go. You don't wanna hear shit pop when you do what I do for a livin'. C'mon up, you want. I'm gonna open her."

Elvis pushed himself onto the flatbed as if he were weightless. He felt electric with energy as he followed after Pulaski. He wanted to hear every word the man spoke; he wanted to drink in everything he was willing to teach, just as a son learns from his father.

Pulaski twisted a row of catches along the cannon's housing and let down its side. Elvis was surprised by what he saw: The cannon barrel didn't fill the housing; a heavy steel spring with coils as thick as his wrists ran on steel rails where the barrel should be. Chains stretched along the springs down into gears and pulleys and what looked like heavy electric motors.

Elvis said, "I thought it was a cannon."

Eddie took a deep drag on his cigarette, flicked the butt away, then went to work tinkering in the motor.

"Use your fuckin' head. A man can't shoot himself out a real cannon; the g-force would bust your spine, and the barrel pressure would scramble your brain. It's a catapult. The smoke and other stuff is shit for the marks."

Elvis felt disappointed, but somehow thrilled, too, and the mix left him confused. He didn't like it that Eddie Pulaski was a liar, but Eddie was also sharing secrets exactly the way a father would share with his son. Elvis suddenly pulled out the photograph of his mother, and held it up.

"You're my father."

The Fireball twisted around. His eyes went to the picture.

"This is my mother."

"Did you say what I think you did?"

"My father was a human cannonball. My name used to be Jimmie, but she changed it to Elvis so it would be like your name, just like your name but not, you see how they both begin with an E? You see how they have five letters?"

The Fireball stepped back from the cannon and shook his head once.

The words spilled out. They had been building for fourteen years.

Elvis said, "I look just like you, don't I? She didn't name me Eddie because she still keeps the secret. She never told anyone about you, and she never will. Look at the picture. You see my mom?"

Pulaski's eyes softened in a way more frightening than if they had blazed with hatred.

"I've been looking for you all of my life. I had to find you. I found you."

Pulaski stared across the midway, then glanced back. Elvis was desperate to hear how Pulaski and his mother met and how much they meant to each other and that Pulaski missed her and had always wanted a son, but Pulaski didn't say those things. His voice was gentle.

"Kid, listen, I never met your mother. Look at me. We don't look anything alike. I'm not the guy you've been looking for. I'm not your father."

The Fireball's face filled with pity, which hurt more than a slap.

"My father is a human cannonball."

Pulaski shook his head.

"I worked shrimp boats out of Corpus Christi fifteen years ago. I've only done this eight years."

"You're him."

"I'm not."

Elvis felt as if he was floating in soft gray fuzz. He looked at the cannon that wasn't a cannon. He looked at Pulaski, with his thin upper body and thick legs, his thin wiry hair and stubby fingers. They looked nothing alike. Nothing.

"You're a fake. Everything about you is fake."

Elvis felt the tears run down his face. He wanted to run, but his feet didn't move. He shouted as loudly as he could, shouted because he wanted everyone on the midway to hear.

"FAKE! THAT'S NOT A CANNON! IT'S A SPRING!"

Pulaski didn't grow angry. He only looked sad.

"C'mon, kid."

"HE'S A LIAR! NOTHING HERE IS REAL!"

Pulaski hugged him close, wrapping his arms around him tight, but never once raising his voice.

"Stop it, boy. I'm not your old man. I'm nobody's old man."

"YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A LIE!"

Pulaski held tight, and Elvis wanted to be held; he wanted to hold on forever, but then it all seemed wrong and he pushed Pulaski away, and ran without thinking. He jumped from the flatbed and ran as hard as he could, seeing nothing through the diamonds in his eyes, just colored light that shimmered and moved like the made-up fantasy of a rainbow; he ran past Tina Sanchez's trailer and the still-sleeping skeletons of the thrill rides; he ran until he fell to the ground, hating everything and everyone in the world, and himself most of all.

Father Knows Best

Wilson followed Jacob Lenz to a small Airstream set up behind the midway. It was polished and bright, speaking well of the owner. The door was propped open for the air.

Lenz rapped at the door, then went inside. Wilson stepped up behind him, blocking the door with his body so the boy couldn't get out.

Lenz said, "Tina? A man is here for the boy."

The kid was sitting on a couch with a short, dark woman who had probably been good-looking in her day. The kid recognized Wilson right away, and didn't seem surprised.

"Hi, Mr. Wilson."

"Hiya, bud. You're a lot taller now."

Lenz seemed surprised.

"You know each other?"

Wilson said, "Oh, yeah, we've done this a few times."

Wilson thanked Mrs. Sanchez for giving the boy a roof then assured Lenz for the tenth time that the family did not want trouble and would not call the police. The old lady hugged the boy, and wiped at her tears. She seemed like a nice old gal. When Wilson shook her hand she damned near crushed his bones.

The boy didn't try to run. He had bolted the first couple of times Wilson bagged him, but now he seemed resigned. In a way that Wilson didn't expect, this left him feeling sad. They walked back to Wilson 's car without incident, then began the long drive home.

"You hungry?"

"Uh-uh."

"It's a long drive, five hours maybe."

"I'm good."

They drove in silence for more than an hour, and Wilson was fine with that. The boy was exhausted. He sat slumped against the door, staring out the window with an empty expression.

Having collected the kid three times, Wilson had gotten to know him a little bit. Wilson felt sorry for him, sure, but he also found himself liking the boy. His absentee mother was nuts, his grandfather was a stiff who clearly didn't want the boy, and they rarely lived in one place more than a couple of months, yet here he was shagging ass all over creation, chasing after shadows. He just wouldn't quit, which was both terrible and admirable at the same time. Wilson-he finally admitted to himself-was getting attached.

"How many times is this, four, five?"

The boy didn't answer.

"This is the third time I snagged you, and before me was that other guy. How many times have you gone chasing after a carnival?"

"I don't know. Six. I guess this makes six. No, seven."

"Seven different human cannonballs."

The boy didn't answer.

"You have a knack for this, I gotta give you that. Here you are, a kid, and you track these bastards down like a professional. You'd make a helluva detective."

The kid's eyes glazed and he returned to staring out the window. Wilson drove another few miles in silence, trying to figure out what to say. He didn't like interfering in people's lives beyond what he was hired for, but someone needed to straighten out this kid, and no one seemed willing to do it.

Finally Wilson dove in.

"I want to tell you something maybe I shouldn't tell you. I shouldn't interfere with what goes on in your house, but, Jesus, seven times. Somebody's gotta set you straight."

The boy glanced at him, then turned back to the window. Now came the hard part, but Wilson had started it so he would finish it.

"Everything your mother told you about your father being a human cannonball is bullshit. She made it up."

The boy's face turned dark and hard, but he didn't say anything. He was a sharp kid. Down deep, he probably knew it was bullshit.

"Do you know where your mom goes when she disappears?"

The hardness dropped from the boy's face like fog hiding from the sun. He stared at Wilson with wide, expectant eyes.

"How do you know she goes away?"

Wilson let his voice soften.

"Here your grandfather hires me to find you, you think he never hired me to find your mother?"

Wilson felt a last reluctant pang, but this boy needed to know; the kid needed to know what was real and what wasn't because no one else in his life did or cared.

"She's got what's called a delusional disorder. Whenever she feels, I don't know, 'overwhelmed' is what they call it, she can't tell what's real and what isn't, so she runs away. Your father isn't a human cannonball. She might think he is, but she believes it because she imagined it, and she can't tell the difference. She's not lying to you. She just doesn't know what's real."

Wilson glanced over. The boy was facing forward, staring at the coming highway, as stiff as a fence post in the wind. Wilson felt bad, but he was just trying to help.

"Look, this isn't my business. I just thought someone should tell you, is all."

"I don't care. I'm going to find him."

"Kid, I don't have any doubt you'll find him, but be careful what you wish for. Whoever he is, he won't be anything like you imagine."

"I don't care."

"I know you think that now, but once you find him, you can't unfind him. He'll be part of you forever."

The boy's jaw worked, but his eyes never left the highway ahead.

"That's what I want."

Wilson glanced over again.

Elvis Cole sat quiet as a clam, but now a great sloppy tear spilled down his face. Wilson felt like a heel and was sorry he brought it up. He gripped the wheel and went back to driving. Time was money. He wanted to get rid of the kid and get on with his life.