“Like overturning stones that are better left alone. He won’t like what he finds underneath.”
“If he thinks you know where Amelia is, he’ll want to talk to you.”
“Then redirect, Agent Bright.”
“Doyou know where Amelia is?” Bright pressed, ever the dutiful law enforcement officer, gathering leads wherever he could.
Emory smiled. “No, but I wish him the best of luck getting her back.”
Cal Havick wanted Amelia to be another man’s problem, so he spoke it into existence but couldn’t dictate how it manifested. Heart, body, mind, and soul, Emory would gladly claim Amelia as his own and watch with delight as Cal choked on his words.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bright muttered. “Do you want to protect him or antagonize him? Because you can’t do both. Not when we both know the Velascos are trailing him.”
Emory glanced at his laptop screen and Amelia standing next to her father. The girl was built for love, so eager to pour it into someone else. He thought of the man she deserved and wondered if he was worthy. He could be, but it had to start somewhere.
“I’ve always liked you, Kingsley,” Emory said, “but can I trust you?”
“My word is good.”
“Keep Cal close. I’ll reach out to him when the time is right.” Emory drew a long breath and closed his laptop. “Don’t make me regret this.”
TWENTY-FOUR
CAL
Cal landed in an old gold-mining town in southern Oregon. He checked into a bed-and-breakfast where the innkeeper showed him to the only available room and commented on Cal’s luck. It was tourist season. Give it a week and they’d be booked solid through autumn. Cal had faked a smile. The old man hadn’t known the half of it.
The next day, he made a trip to the local Walmart and stocked up on essentials. He could be anyone he wanted. That was a freeing thought in front of a display where t-shirts with stupid sayings exploded from cubby holes and amassed on the carpet tile floor.
He’d never be a man who wore graphic t-shirts, though, so Cal opted for a pack of solid colors and picked up a burner phone too. What it lacked in bells and whistles, it made up for with big buttons for clumsy fingers. Like a phantom limb, he still sometimes reached for his belt clip, though his phone was on the nightstand at home and surely drained of life.
On his fifth day there, no one bothered him much. At breakfast, he kept to himself as couples came and went. They’d survey him with pitiful smiles, and Cal released them from the burden of conversation with his nose in a newspaper.
The fifth day bled into a fifth night as the sun moseyed towardthe horizon. The town’s main drag boasted a few restaurants and shops that sold tchotchkes already covered in dust. The tavern was the place to be, though it didn’t have a sign out front. Someone told him a storm carried it away and the owner didn’t bother with a new one. “Signs say what’s ahead. No use if you already know.” Tough to argue that logic.
A bell hanging over the tavern door announced Cal’s presence. One of the bar backs—a pimply teenage kid—ran a ratty mop over sticky floors and greeted him with a nod. Giant tube TVs hung in each corner and hummed the baseball game on mute. A mold-speckled drop ceiling rounded out the cavernous space.
At the bar, a few locals bullshitted with the owner, Rudy, who’d lived in the town his whole life. He’d relayed that fact with exuberant pride the first night Cal drifted in. Rudy and the regulars never asked questions, but instead would chat with Cal about nothing of consequence as he gnawed on onion rings and sipped pale ale.
Rudy pointed to the back where pock-marked dart boards clung to the wall and an ancient jukebox glowed in the corner.
“Your friend’s back there,” he said over the buzz of a mostly empty bar. “I’ll bring your usual.”
Cal thanked him and wove past the high-top tables to where Kingsley Bright watched the ball game in a red t-shirt and faded jeans. A tall, Black man, he greeted Cal with a firm handshake and a warm smile. Cal had never met him before, but over the course of his career, encountered plenty of FBI agents who left a sour taste in his mouth. Most liked to talk in circles around him. Some were difficult to read. Others had an agenda. From the jump, Kingsley seemed cut from a different cloth.
After Rudy dropped off a round of beers, Cal raised his bottle to Kingsley. “Here’s to working together,” he said.
“To working together.” The bottle necks clanked in salute, and Kingsley asked, “You settling in okay?”
Cal took a long pull from his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “More or less.”
It was the polite thing to say. Turmoil had ripped through his life, and settling in suggested Cal had landed on his feet. In reality, he drifted on the wind, lost and unable to catch his breath.
He expected Kingsley to delve straight into business, but casual conversation flowed with little awkwardness. Over beers and hot wings, they chatted about their family lives. Kingsley showed Cal pictures of his wife and two sons. Over a second round of beers, Cal unearthed memories of Helen and Amelia, the ones where humor triumphed over sorrow and he could talk past the lump in his throat. Kingsley roared with laughter, and for the first time in so very long, Cal laughed too.
The regulars paid them curious stares with small-town bullshit easy to read. Two other men sat at the bar but kept to themselves. They weren’t regulars or townies, so Rudy served their drinks with a sideways glance he reserved for strangers.
“As much as I’ve enjoyed this, I think we outta talk business,” Kingsley said. “I’ve pieced together what I can from Agent Kranski’s notes but was hoping you could fill in some blanks. First and foremost, I’m wondering about Rich Dauer’s friendship with Philippe Velasco. It seems they were close.”
