“That’s a new tactic for you. I guess you don’t have to meddle once the damage is done.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t fucking play with me,” Rick said, leaning over the counter now. Pete saw Dave in the background, concern in his eyes. “This is what you wanted. And fine, I fucked up and made it easier for you. But she’s my wife.”
“If she wants to talk to you, she will.”
Rick grabbed Pete’s shirt and tugged him forward, his breath hot on Pete’s face. He smelled of cheap wine and dirt.
“You think I want to go through you first? I’ve tried to find her—at work, at your house,” Rick said. “I need to talk to her now.”
Pete pushed him away and tried to regain his composure. He took a soft fighting stance, ready for Rick—who, despite his disheveled appearance, was a good three inches taller and better built than the scrawny Pete—and hoped this wouldn’t turn into an actual, honest-to-God fight. Rick pulled him in close again, their faces almost touching. Pete could see the vein jutting from Rick’s forehead.
Was he on something?
Then Rick’s anger turned to surprise.
Dave.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, bro?”
Rick let Pete go, allowing him to back up a few paces and notice that Dave was holding a gun—a Sig Sauer P220, no less—to Rick’s head, his arm stretched up and his wrist tilted down, the casual stance of someone who’s held—and fired—guns before. Pete remembered why he liked Dave so much. Behind the hippie, who-gives-a-shit-let’s-just-smoke-a-bowl veneer was one mean dude. One who had seen his share of scraps and had been down some dangerous parts of Miami. Dave considered himself semiretired, in the sense that he no longer trafficked in the areas that used to be his livelihood—dealing heroin, crack, and lots of weed—and stuck to running the used bookstore his rich parents gave him. But the criminal was there. Always would be.
“That’s right, bitch,” Dave said, his hippie drawl coating the profanities in a way that made Pete almost crack a smile. “Step back like the stank pussy you are. I can smell it from here.”
Pete fought back a laugh and averted Rick’s frightened, wide eyes. He waved a hand at Dave. Dave nodded and slid his gun behind his back, holstered on his waistband. He gave Rick a slight shove and walked casually back toward the stack of paperbacks, his eyes still on Rick.
“You need to calm down,” Pete said. “I can let her know you came by. Maybe she’ll want to talk.”
“Are you guys fucking nuts? Pointing a gun in broad daylight?”
“Shut your mouth,” Dave yelled from across the store.
Pete shrugged in a what-can-I-do? way.
“Tell her it’s about Alice,” Rick said, dusting himself off, shaken. “Tell her Alice is missing. Maybe dead.”
“What?”
Who the fuck was Alice?
“She’ll know who I’m talking about,” Rick said.
Pete tried to form a response, but his thoughts were drowned out by the sound of the Book Bin’s door slamming shut.
“The hell was that about?” Dave asked as he walked toward the counter.
“Fuck if I know. You always carry a piece in the store?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I dunno,” Pete said. “Seems a little extreme, don’t you think? We’re in the suburbs.”
“You never know what’s gonna pop out at you,” Dave said, sliding his fingers through his beard. “Seemed like that dude was pretty pissed at you. Who was that?”
“Emily’s husband.”
Dave shook his head. He did not approve.
“What?” Pete said, sitting back down.
“That’s what you get for messing with someone’s lady, man,” Dave said. “Don’t dance with an MW.”
“MW?”
“Married woman.
Muy malo
.”
Pete laughed. “Get a grip, man.”
“I’m serious, dude,” Dave said, exasperated. “She’s living in your house. Can you blame him for being pissed?”
“I guess not,” Pete said. “But we’re not together, and she was with me before she was ever with him.”
“Ah, so that’s it.”
“What?”
“You feel like you had dibs.”
“Grow up.”
“’S cool, man,” Dave said, scratching his stomach. “You gotta do something with your time, now that you’re not drinking yourself stupid every night.”
Pete leaned back and opened up his book, but couldn’t bring himself to read. Why had Rick come to see him? Who was Alice? He slid his hand into his front pants pocket and pulled out a business card. It was worn and bent from being carried in whatever pair of jeans he was wearing on a given day. It was the only one he carried. His name was on it, with the words PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR in bold under it, a phone number—his cell—on the left side of the eggshell-white piece of paper. Emily had ordered a box over a year ago, after the Silent Death. He sighed and flicked the card toward the garbage can near the entrance. The card missed, bouncing off the edge and landing face down near a day-old edition of
The Miami Times
.
Julian let a s
oft yawn escape his mouth as he parked his van a few blocks from his place. He’d lived in the dingy Overtown apartment for close to a month; it was all he could find for the money he had and the privacy he needed. Overtown, in the northwest part of Miami, was a poor area. Despite repeated efforts over the years, it remained plagued by crime and struck him as the perfect spot to hide.
He proceeded to his first-floor one-bedroom apartment. Julian never spoke to the Voice directly—that was not possible. But his Messenger reached out to him when the Voice needed him, wanted him to act. Erica Morales had been good. A slight smile formed on his face as he turned on the living room light.
He sat down at the edge of his small used couch. She had awoken a few minutes before he arrived at the site, confused and mumbling, slipping in and out of consciousness. She was talking about her Spanish test. She wasn’t supposed to wake up yet. He slammed her face forward on the dashboard and heard a soft thud. She slid to the right, moving with the car as it turned into the site, and that was it for Erica.
The phone rang.
Julian got up with a start. He picked up the landline receiver. He waited.
“Hello?” It was the Messenger.
“You’re not supposed to call me here,” Julian said.
“I know, but—”
“Hang up. I will call you.”
“Wait, I have—”
Julian slammed the receiver down, the force of the motion shaking the small, flimsy table the phone rested on. He made a mental note to cancel the phone line and to begin preliminary searches for a new place to live. A connection now existed.
He walked over to his tiny computer desk and grabbed a small plastic bag from under it. He pulled out a disposable cell phone—one of about twenty that were in the bag—and began to dial a number he knew from memory. He’d just finished the latest quick-drop on his way back—leaving a series of phone numbers for the Messenger so he’d know where to call. Yet he calls his home line? Foolish.
“Hello?”
“Speak.”
“Oh, OK,” the Messenger said. It was awkward-sounding and hesitant. “Um, I spoke to, uh, to our friend. He’s happy with, uh, um…with your work. He likes what you did. He hopes you’re staying careful and busy.”
“I am. I am very careful. He should know that.”
“He sees all and knows you’re serving him well. He is happy.”
Julian cleared his throat. “Good. I’m waiting for word from him. About what to do next.”
“No need to wait,” the Messenger muttered. “You must refine the method. Channel your focus back to where you started and move on that quickly. Think of the Voice. Let him fuel your behavior. Spread his message with whatever you do.”
Julian closed the cheap disposable cell and let it fall to the floor. He dropped his heavy boot on the phone and watched as it splintered and chipped.
Julian felt content. Not only had Erica accepted him inside her, and become another piece of his tapestry, but the Voice had reached out. It had been months. It was a time for good news and celebration.
He let his shirt and pants drop to the floor and sat down in front of his computer, a cheap, rudimentary mini-laptop that he replaced often. A shiver trickled down his spine as he began his search. He hunted.
He would find the next one and continue the mission he had been tasked with. And with each step—with each check marked in blood on the wall—he would build a chorus of voices so loud that the future would be as clear as the present, open for him to see and feel.
Who the he
ll is Alice?
The words screamed in Pete’s head as he walked through the door. It still felt like his father’s house, Pete thought as he slid his keys into his front pocket. He heard a rustling sound. His cat, Costello—named for Elvis, not Lou—appeared from under the large dining table in the middle of the main room. The table stood next to an old couch, a dark red recliner, and a beat-up coffee table. The cat started rubbing his face against Pete’s leg. He put his bag down on one of the dining chairs and picked up the cat, rubbing his chin as he walked toward the kitchen.
“Hello?”
Where was she? he wondered. The house looked the same—she hadn’t left many signs that she’d just moved in, Pete thought.
He let Costello drop to the floor and walked to the kitchen counter. That’s when he heard a drawer closing in her room. She was getting dressed.
He picked up the stack of envelopes on the counter and scanned them. Two pieces of junk mail. A telephone bill that was already a week overdue and a letter addressed to him. He looked at the return address: The Carver Family. Pete felt a tightening in his chest. He looked across the kitchen to the opposite wall; near the landline phone—which existed for no other reason than Pete’s desire to keep the house as close to what it looked like when his father lived there—was a calendar for the month of October. Circled was the twelfth, a week from tomorrow. A year since his best friend Mike had died, overcome by flame and metal as his car exploded around him. An explosion Pete should have seen coming. An explosion that was Pete’s fault. He knew what the card was: a memorial of some kind. He let it drop back on the counter as he turned to the hallway.
Emily stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her head turned to Pete, having just noticed him on her way out. She was wearing a black skirt, black heels, and a short-sleeved white blouse. He could smell her perfume. He hated himself for still being able to name it. He hated her for not changing it. She was going out.
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey,” Pete said.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Heading out?”
“Yeah, actually,” she said. “I’m going to meet Susan for a drink. She got off work early.”
Pete tried to smile, but produced an awkward half-smirk instead.
“Rick came by the store today.”
“What? Really?”
“Yup. He wants to talk to you.”
“Well, no. That’s not going to happen,” she said, her arms crossing. “I have nothing to say to him.”
“He seemed pretty desperate to talk to you.”
“Was Dave there?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Did he stay calm?” Emily asked. She’d known Dave as long as Pete had, which was to say, not very long, but long enough to know he had a short fuse and wasn’t afraid to let people know about it.
“Who’s Alice?” Pete asked.
Pete noticed Emily’s face flush at the mention. He didn’t need her to answer to know who Alice was.
“He mentioned
her
?” She stretched out the last word a split second too long.
“Briefly,” Pete said. “He didn’t look good. Seemed shaken up. We didn’t talk long.”
“What did he say?”
“What I said,” Pete said. “He wants to talk to you—about Alice.”
Emily stood in the doorway, her stare blank, brow furrowed. She wasn’t going to respond.
“So Alice is the girl he fucked around with? That’s why you needed to stay here?”
Emily’s distant gaze found focus on Pete’s face. Her eyes narrowed and he noticed her fists clench. He’d seen her dance close to this line before, but that was in another life. He didn’t have to take it in this one. He raised his hand.
“Don’t go postal on me,” Pete said. “I’m just telling you what happened and making a reasonable assumption.”
“Why do you have to be so fucking logical about everything?”
“Would you be getting like this if Alice was his cousin from West Palm, Em?”
She let out a sigh and entered the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and sidestepping Pete to get to the fridge. As she poured herself some water, she spoke.
“Yes, Alice was the girl he ‘fucked around’ with. Jesus. You’re so crude.”
“OK,” Pete said. “So, why would he mention her? Why would he want me to ask you about her? He seems worried about this person.”
He thought about mentioning that Alice was missing, but hesitated.
“I don’t know what’s going on in his head. I’ve hardly responded to any of his e-mails or texts or calls,” Emily said. “I just moved out of our home. So he’s trying to get to me through you. He must have found out I’m staying with you.”