Authors: Michelle Zink
I stood in the hallway later that night, listening to Scotty and Marcus talk about Seattle through their partially open bedroom door. At first they hadn't been sure it was Cormac, especially Marcus, who thought he would recognize Cormac even with an elaborate disguise. But Scotty had imported the picture to Photoshop, refined it, made it clearer. Then he'd sent it to a friend of his who did digital profiles for the LAPD. Scotty told the computer guy to make the nose smaller, give him hair like Cormac's, take off the glasses, dress him in a suit. When the picture came back a couple of hours later, there was no doubt in any of our minds that the guy who'd bought cigarettes at the crappy little minimart in Tacoma, Washington, was Cormac. He hadn't smoked when I'd lived with him, but I knew from experience that being on the run was its own special kind of hell. If anything would
push someone back to a bad habit, that would be it.
“I wish I could stay,” Scotty was saying, “but Wilson won't work with you. It's irregular even for him to work with me, but at least I was on the force here in LA. They'll let me stand on the sidelines as a courtesy. Besides, someone needs to stay with Grace.”
“I don't have a problem staying with the kid. But I want to be there when they get him.” Marcus sounded unusually agitated, but from the hallway I couldn't tell if it was annoyance or excitement in his voice. “I've waited a long time for this, Scott.”
“I thought it wasn't about revenge? That it was about justice?” Scotty said. “If that's true, what does it matter if you're there?”
I heard Marcus's frustrated sigh. “Hell, I don't know. It just does.”
There was a shuffling sound, a low murmur, and then Scotty's voice again. “They won't let you in on the bust anyway. You'd be stuck in some hotel around the corner, waiting for word from me. You'd hate it. Besides, there's no guarantee we'll even find him.”
“Exactly.” Marcus sounded a little desperate, even to me. “Which is why I should do the legwork while you team up with your pal Wilson.”
“What about Grace?” Scotty asked.
I pushed their door open the rest of the way and stood in the doorway. “I'm coming too.”
They turned to look at me. An open duffel bag, half filled
with neatly folded clothes, sat on the bed. Scotty had a bundle of socks in one hand.
He dropped the socks in the duffel and came toward me. “I understand why you'd want to be there, Grace, but you wouldn't be able to get close enough to see it go down anyway.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I don't care. I helped find him, and I want to be close by when you bring him in.”
“Look, I get it,” Marcus began, “believe me, I do. But if they don't want an old fogey like me there, you can bet your ass they're not signing off on a seventeen-year-old girl.”
“They can't stop me from staying in a hotel around the corner.” I looked at Marcus, sensing an opportunity to gain an ally. “And they can't stop you, either. Right, Scotty?”
Scotty sighed. “Not technically, no. But I think it would be better for both of you if you stayed here. I'll call you the minute something happens.”
“But it's already been twelve days since he was at the used-car lot, and nine since he was in the minimart.” The time-and-date stamps on the footage were burned in my memory. “We have to move fast, and you know the police aren't going to devote a lot of people to it. I mean, we don't know where he's staying or if he has a car. We don't even know which name he's using. Marcus and I can work on that stuff. We can go to the used-car lot and see if someone remembers him, can't we, Marcus?”
Marcus grinned a little. “You know it, kid.”
Scotty folded his arms across his chest in an exact
imitation of my posture. “You're not going to give up, are you?”
I shook my head. “I can't. I need to do everything I can to get him. For Parker.”
Scotty closed his eyes for a split second as his shoulders dropped. When he opened them again, I knew I'd won.
“You do everything I say,” Scotty said. I knew it was no accident that he was looking at Marcus when he said it. “And I do mean everything. You might be Lord of the Grift, but I'm Prince of Police, and when we're on my turf, we play by my rules.”
Marcus nodded a little too eagerly. “You got it.”
Scotty turned his eyes on me. “And that goes double for you.”
I held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “You're the boss.”
He walked to the closet and pulled down a tiny suitcase with wheels. “Be ready to leave in an hour.”
It was dark by the time Marcus backed out of the driveway. I'd packed everything in the little suitcase Scotty had given me, including the new clothes, my books, and the pictures I'd taken with Scotty at the arcade. I didn't want to say anything to Scotty and Marcus, but I had no idea if I'd ever be back at the house on Colina Verde. Would the police take me into custody right after they got Cormac? Would I surrender in Seattle? Or come back to LA? I didn't know how any of it worked, and I'd closed the door on the guest room with a sharp pang of loss, wondering if I'd ever be safe inside its walls again.
The streets were dark as we headed for the freeway. We could have taken PCH to San Francisco, but that was the scenic route. We needed to get to Seattle and go to work as quickly as possible. I was already worried that Cormac might
have moved on. If that was the case, we were really screwed, because I had no idea where he'd go next. I comforted myself with the knowledge that whatever happened, I was putting some distance between me and Detective Fletcher.
Scotty and Marcus argued over the radio. Scotty wanted an indie-rock station while Marcus fought for golden oldies that he pronounced “not so golden, but better than the junk that's on the rest of the radio.” They settled on NPR, and we made our way north on the 405 to the sound of a British broadcaster interviewing a convict-turned-activist who was fighting to improve educational opportunities for inmates. I was comforted by the backseat of the Range Rover: the darkness, the buttery leather seats, the soft murmur of Scotty and Marcus talking about everything from the plantings in the front flower beds to a possible remodel on the upstairs bathroom. I looked out the window, taking in the streetlamps that threw orbs of light onto the asphalt, the homes and businesses of LA's suburbs twinkling like a galaxy all its own. I was glad to be leaving. I hoped everyone in Playa Hermosa was happy, that graduation would be all they dreamed it would be and that at least some of them would spend their last summer before college surfing and hanging at the Cove and going to Mike's together. But I didn't want to be there. It was too sharp a reminder of all I'd lost.
We left the city behind and everything went dark beyond the lights on the freeway. I thought of Parker, tried to imagine what he was doing, if he was safe and comfortable, if he missed me as much as I missed him. I thought about
Renee and her offer to start over. Was it that easy? Could I free Parker and simply join Renee, enroll in school, pretend that the last few months hadn't happened? I didn't know. I thought about Logan, too, getting ready for college and trying to take care of his mom. I didn't really believe in God, but I sent a little prayer out into the universe that they would be okay, that Warren would be home soon and Logan would go to college and they would be able to pretend the last few months hadn't happened too. Scotty would call it “sending light and love” to them. So I guess that's what I did: sent them light and love. Sometimes, I guess that's all you can do.
Somewhere along the way I must have dozed off, because I woke to a harsh blue light and the sound of something banging against the rear of the Range Rover. I sat up, my heart racing, and looked around.
We were at a gas station, and I was alone in the car. I turned in my seat and saw that Scotty was filling the SUV with gas. A couple of seconds later, Marcus emerged from the station's minimart with two bags in his hand. He opened the passenger side door and peered between the two front seats.
“Good, you're awake.” He glanced at Scotty through the rearview window and passed me one of the bags. “The nutrition police have given us a road trip reprieve. Enjoy.”
I looked inside the bag and found a Coke, a Snapple, two small bags of chips, a sad-looking apple (a gesture of appreciation for Scotty's leniency?), and a candy bar.
“Thanks,” I said.
Marcus grinned. His thinning hair was messed up, and he almost looked a little crazy in the fluorescent light of the gas station. “No problem, kid. I bet we'll be able to get a diner breakfast out of him, too.”
I laughed. “We can try.” I opened the passenger side door. “I'm going to the bathroom while we're here.”
When I returned, Scotty had finished getting gas and was in the driver's seat.
“Ready to go?” Scotty asked as I slid into the backseat.
“Yep.”
We got back on the freeway and continued north. Scotty and Marcus entertained me with tales of their previous road trips, and I worked my way through the bag of snacks Marcus had given me. We switched off NPR and Scotty plugged his iPod into the car's dock. He agreed to let Marcus DJ if he promised to compromise, although Marcus's idea of “compromise” was different from everyone else's, so we ended up listening to an odd assortment of Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin, seventies folk music, and the occasional alternative hit insisted upon by Scotty. They sang along to some of it, and I pitched in when I knew the words. We were all singing “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley, the sun just beginning to paint the sky a pale orange, when Scotty took the exit for Yreka, California.
“Let's grab breakfast and a room for a few hours,” Scotty said, following the sign that indicated gas, food, and hotels to the left. “I'm beat.”
I leaned forward in the backseat. “Are you sure we
shouldn't drive straight through?” I asked. “Marcus and I can help. That way we'll get there faster.”
“But then we'll all be tired and out of sorts when we get there. No one sleeps well in a car.” He turned into the parking lot for a Holiday Inn. “I know you're worried, but we'll get some food, sleep for a bit, and be back on the road before you know it.”
I knew he was right, but I was itching to get to Seattle, terrified that Cormac would be gone when we got there. Where would Parker be then? I thought about Renee. Would I be willing to entrap her if we couldn't find Cormac? Pretend to take her up on her offer and then hand her over to the police? I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to think too hard about why I hadn't considered it already. Could I really still care about her? Feel connected to her in spite of all she'd done? If so, I was more screwed up than I thought.
The hotel lobby was like that of any other midlevel hotel: the smell of coffee and carpet, generic artwork, and potted plants strategically placed in the corners. Marcus reserved adjoining rooms from a sleepy-looking girl who probably wasn't much older than me, and we went upstairs to drop our bags before heading to the attached café for breakfast.
Marcus took full advantage of the opportunity to order all the greasy food he could find on the menu. He dug into a sausage and cheese omelet with gusto while Scotty, a bowl of oatmeal and fresh fruit in front of him, looked on with a mixture of shock and disapproval. When we were done,
we went back to the hotel. I closed the door that connected our rooms and took a hot shower, got into my pajamas, and climbed into bed. Scotty had been right: it was a lot nicer than curling up in the backseat, and I was more tired than I'd realized.
Still, I couldn't sleep. I thought about Parker and Logan, wondering what they were doing, if they were okay out there, battling their respective demons, both in some way because of me.
The room suddenly seemed smaller, like the walls were gradually closing in on me. Maybe it was the taupe paint, the framed desert scenes on the walls, the wheeze of the air conditioner near the window, but I was suddenly back at the Motel 6, scared and alone when I first came back to California.
I sat up and slid out of bed, padding across the room on bare feet. I hesitated at the door that connected my room to Marcus and Scotty's room, then knocked.
“Come in.” Scotty's voice came from the other side of the door. I opened it hesitantly and peered into the room. He was propped up on one arm, the bedside lamp on, Marcus snoring softly beside him. “Is everything all right?”
“I . . . I'm not sure,” I said, feeling stupid. “I felt . . . I was a little scared. I don't know why.”
“Are you okay now?” he asked. “Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head. “I think I'm better now.”
“Do you want to leave the door open?”
“Are you sure it's okay?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Marcus is out anyway, and I can barely keep my eyes open.”
I nodded. “Maybe I will. Thanks.”
I walked quietly back to my room and got into bed, keeping my eyes on the faint wash of light coming from the open door between our rooms. A few minutes later, I heard Scotty's voice.
“Sweet dreams, Grace.”
“Sweet dreams,” I said.
I turned out the light and was asleep almost instantly.
We got to Tacoma about six that night. It was nothing like Bellevue. Bellevue was urban chic: organic food markets, expensive bistros, and high-end retailers, all of it frequented by rich people who liked to pretend they were just like everyone else. A little seedy and run down, Tacoma was Bellevue's ugly older sister. It was easy to picture the little gas station where I'd spotted Cormac on one of the pitted streets lined with sad minimalls and fast-food places.
Scotty checked us in to a Best Western near the stadium and immediately left to meet his contact at the Tacoma PD. While he was gone, Marcus and I unpacked and went to a nearby diner for food. We were back in Marcus and Scotty's room watching an old episode of
24
when Scotty finally returned. He didn't have much to tell us. He was going to meet Detective Wilson Ling, an old colleague from the
LAPD, at the station the next day and see what kind of resources they could drum up from inside the department. In the meantime, Marcus and I would visit the used-car lot and look into the surrounding area. We'd brought pictures of Cormacâboth the one in disguise and the one that had been Photoshopped by Scotty's friendâto show hotels and restaurants in the area. It was the only thing we could do with the information we had, and I was all too aware of how little it was, how thin the string on which Parker's freedom hung.
I took a shower and got into bed. I was reading when a knock sounded from the door between our rooms.
“Come in.”
Scotty poked his head into my room. “Mind if I leave this open a crack tonight? I'm probably just being paranoid, but I'd feel better.”
I smiled. He was trying to make it seem like he wanted the door open for his own peace of mind, when really, he was trying to make me feel less alone. “Sure.”
“Great. Sleep well, honey.”
“You too.”
I read a little bit longer, the sound of Scotty and Marcus's softly spoken conversation in the other room a soothing backdrop to the hum of the room's air conditioner. When I turned out the light, I had no trouble falling asleep.
Detective Ling picked up Scotty early the next morning, and Marcus and I took the Range Rover to the used-car lot. I was more than a little surprised by the tiny, run-down lot lined with cars. Without the context of everything around it,
the security camera had made the place look big, but really it was no bigger than the small parking lot above the Cove.
Marcus parked the car in one of two open spots near a stucco building with dirty windows. He leaned forward, gazing at the office through the windshield of the Range Rover. “Tough times, eh, Cormac?” he said under his breath.
There was no malice in it, just a kind of casual resignation, like Cormac was right there beside him. I was suddenly nervous. I'd gotten comfortable with Marcus and Scotty, but I was on the run, too.
“Can't we just break in later tonight and look at the sales records?” I asked. “It doesn't look like there's any security, and we already know where the camera is.”
Marcus shook his head. “Won't work. If Cormac did buy a car here, he did it under the table. I doubt he's had the money for a good ID, and certainly not one that will pass muster with the government. He can't exactly waltz into the DMV and register a new vehicle.”
I sighed. “Okay, then.”
Marcus turned to me. “You okay?” I nodded, and he opened his car door. “Let's go, kid.”
We got out of the car and went inside. Immediately a potbellied man with skinny legs approached us with a smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hair was thick and a little too brown. After all my running, I knew hair dye, and I pegged the guy for someone who was covering his gray with cheap bottles of drugstore color.
“Morning!” he said. “Nice day to buy a new car!”
“Morning,” Marcus said. “I suppose so.”
He sounded different, minus the ever-present sarcasm and at-everyone-else's-expense humor that I'd come to love. He was in work mode, his expression earnest as he looked out the window, surveying the lineup of old cars.
The man extended his hand and Marcus shook it. “I'm Ron Lysinsky,” the guy said. “What can I do you for?” He laughed a little at his joke.
Marcus clasped the man on his back. I almost felt sorry for him. He looked so happy that Marcus was friendly, like Marcus was a guaranteed sale, but I knew it was a gesture meant to establish subtle dominance.
“I'm hoping you can help me out,” Marcus said conspiratorially. “You see, I'm looking for a friend of mine. Thought he said he'd meet us at the Travelodge, but he never showed. Now I'm thinking I got it wrong, but I lost my damn cell phone on the ferry. You know how it is. Goddamn technology. Can't live with it, can't live without it.”
Ron shrank a little under Marcus's hand, his demeanor becoming more guarded, even a little pissed off with the news that we weren't there to buy a car after all.
“I don't know how I can help you,” he said, stepping away from Marcus's hand. It was an evolutionary reflex, survival instinct: try to get out from under the handâfigurative or literalâthat held you in submission.
“Thing is,” Marcus said, “he mentioned buying a car here. I'm hoping you can point me in the right direction with an address or something.”
Ron shook his head. “Can't do that. It would be a violation of our customers' privacy.”
Marcus nodded, like he was considering the argument. After a few seconds he took ahold of Ron's arm. “Ronâcan I call you Ron?” The guy barely had time to nod. Marcus cast a quick glance at me and continued talking. “Can I talk to you in private for a second?”
But Marcus was already leading him to the wall that separated a glass-fronted office from the rest of the space. I watched as he lowered his head toward Ron's very brown hair, murmuring in low, soothing tones. I didn't mind that I was left out of the negotiation. I just wanted to find Cormac. I didn't care how we did it.
The two went back and forth for a couple of minutes. At one point, Ron glanced up at me before turning his gaze to the concrete floor under his loafers. Marcus said something else, and then Ron was talking, speaking in an anguished almost whisper that told me he wasn't happy about the information he was giving up. Marcus shook his hand, and less than ten minutes after we walked into the place, we were on our way back out to the Range Rover, Marcus's hand draped protectively around my shoulder.
“Did you get anything?” I asked when we were back inside the car.
Marcus glanced over, a look of surprise on his face. “Did you think I wouldn't?”
“I don't know,” I said. “I wasn't sure. What did you tell him?”
Marcus started the car and reversed out of the parking space. “I told him your dad had run out on you, that I was your uncle and was trying to catch up with my bastard of a brother to make him do right by his kid.”
“Wow . . . good one,” I said, thinking it wasn't far from the truth. “So what did he say?”
Marcus turned onto the main road and headed back for the hotel. “He said the guy in the picture came in about two weeks ago, wanted to buy a car under the table, no records.”
“And?”
“And Ron said no, which proves that he's smarter than he looks. Selling a car without officially transferring title and registration is a good way to get yourself locked up.”
“So we didn't get anything.” I heard the defeat in my voice.
Marcus grinned. “I didn't say that.”
“Then what? You're killing me,” I said.
“Ron said the guy was nervous, tried to make small talk before he approached the idea of a car, mentioned that he was staying in a motel in the area.”
I waited for him to say more. He didn't. “That's it? That's our lead? âA motel in the area'?” I took a deep breath, realizing that I sounded a little hysterical.
“It's not much,” Marcus admitted, “but look on the plus side: Cormac probably hasn't been able to get out of town without a car. And he walked into that gas station to buy cigarettes, so I'm betting he's somewhere in close proximity to it.”
“Did the used-car guyâ”
“Ron,” Marcus corrected.
I sighed. “Did Ron know Cormac's nameâthe name he's using right now?”
“No, but that's okay. If everything else is any indication, Cormac's staying in some shithole near that gas station. Shitholes don't have a lot of rooms. We'll work outward from the station, start watching them for people coming and going.”
I thought about it. “What about the gas station itself?”
“What about it?” Marcus asked.
“Maybe one of us should watch it, just in case it's his regular cigarette-buying place, while the other one checks out the motels.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “His regular cigarette-buying place? Is that a technical term?”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He nodded. “It's a good idea.” We stopped at a red light and he looked over at me. “You know, kid, you're not half bad at this. Not that I recommend it for you going forward.”