part0015

Blake snapped the laptop shut, unplugged the phone, and hurried off to find Christa. Out of pure conditioning, he tried the front porch first.

Before opening the glass storm door, he could see that Gwyn had returned. She sat with her elbows on her knees and her face was rimmed by flickering orange light. A candle inside a tin bucket sat on the ledge behind her. Black smoke poured from the wild flame.

Although he couldn’t see Christa, he sensed she was there too. By the looks of it, the two were engaged in an intense conversation. While he didn’t want to interrupt, he had important information to deliver. After all, his whole purpose of being in Rhode Island was to examine this phone, and it had been delayed long enough. He pressed the latch lever.

“Finished.” The door squeaked against the hydraulic closer.

Gwyn straightened up and cleared her throat.

“Did you find anything?” Christa implored. Even by candlelight, Blake could see that her eyes were red and puffy. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in a week. That morning, he couldn’t look at her without seeing Anja. Now, he could hardly see a resemblance.

“I did.” Blake took a seat next to Christa on the settee and placed Lucy’s phone on the wicker coffee table. “And there’s something you should know.”

“Good or bad?” Gwyn asked. She sucked in air through her teeth and squeezed the arms of her chair as if physically bracing herself for the answer.

“A bit of both. I read the text threads between Lucy and Owen. It seems that the two had a falling out.”

“A falling out?” Gwyn questioned. “What does that mean? Are you saying they broke up?”

“I don’t know,” Blake said. “Maybe. Temporarily? It was clear Lucy was upset with him.”

“Over what?” Christa said.

“For one thing, Owen tried to get Lucy to try heroin.”

“Heroin?” Gwyn blurted. “Oh, my god. She’s run away with a goddamn drug dealer.”

“Shhhh.” Christa took a paranoid glance to her left, as if the darkness harbored a crowd of eavesdroppers with delicate sensibilities. Even if it had, she couldn’t have seen anyone from inside their candlelit cocoon anyway. “Why don’t you tell the whole neighborhood?”

Gwyn lowered her voice. “I can’t believe it. A drug dealer.”

“Now you’re surprised?” Christa snipped. “I told you he was trouble. I knew it, I just knew it.”

“Hold on, we don’t know that he’s a dealer,” Blake said. “But he’s definitely a user. He mentions it several times. In one text, he says something like ‘scored some H, wanna party?’ He uses the word smack , as well. But the good news is, Lucy isn’t using.”

“How do you know?” Gwyn asked.

“In the last few texts—I assume right before the phone was taken away—Owen was asking her to come see him. She wrote something along the lines of ‘leave me alone.’ Owen calls her a prude and says he doesn’t want to be with anyone who’s afraid to get high.”

“Thank God,” Christa said. “I knew she would be smarter than that.”

“There’s more.” Blake paused. “It seems that Lucy was angry at him because she believed he cheated on her with another girl. She was upset because…”

Blake considered how he would phrase it. He wished he had printed out the conversation so that Gwyn and Christa could read it verbatim. Somehow, paraphrasing made him feel complicit.

“Because?” Gwyn prodded.

“Because he took her virginity,” Blake said.

“No, he didn’t.” Gwyn said, more in disapproval than denial.

“Aw. Poor baby,” Christa said. “I wish I could give her a big hug. I don’t understand why she’d go back to him after he treated her like that.”

“Because she’s fifteen and she thinks she’s in love.” Gwyn said.

Blake was surprised at how well they were taking the revelation. He figured it must have been a woman thing. If Lucy were his daughter, he’d be looking to crack some skulls.

What worried him more was their reluctance to see the whole picture. If he were thinking out loud, he’d have asked the obvious questions. What if she hadn’t gone back to him? What if he took her against her will? Or worse, what if he had nothing to do with it? How much time would they have wasted, looking in the wrong direction? It was going to be on him to find out. And fast.

“I compiled a list of phone numbers and social media accounts,” Blake said. “People that Lucy has talked to in the last month. I promise, I will find someone who knows something.” Blake stood up. “Right now, I have to go for a ride to do some digging.”

“Now?” Gwyn said. “It’s late.”

“That’s exactly why I need to go now. I don’t know if you’re aware, but iPhones, like Lucy’s, have a feature called Significant Locations. Basically, the phone keeps track of the locations you visit most often and, if you drill down into the data, the times at which you visit them. Have either of you ever gotten a notification in the morning telling you that there’s a traffic delay and that you should leave for work earlier than normal?”

“Yes. I have. And it’s creepy,” Christa said.

“No. But I assume my phone tracks everything I do, all the time.” Gwyn said.

“Lucy’s most frequent location, aside from this house, appears to be at the end of a pier. And it’s usually at night.” Blake pulled his own phone from his pocket and navigated to a screenshot of Google Maps. A teardrop shaped icon marked the point in question. He dropped the device onto the coffee table between Christa and Gwyn. “There.”

Christa picked it up and examined it. “The public pier at the East Ferry? I know a lot of people fish off it, but Lucy doesn’t fish. What else could she be doing down there?”

“Sometimes the big yachts that come in will dock there,” Gwyn said. “Christa and I will take a stroll down there once in a while to check them out, maybe that’s what she’s doing?”

“That often?” Christa wondered.

“I’m guessing it’s where she and her friends hang out,” Blake said. “They get together somewhere, right? I figure it’s a good place to start.”

“What can we do?” Gwyn asked.

“The most important thing both of you can do is get some rest. It’s been a long day. I’ll let you know what I find out first thing in the morning.”

Blake pressed his key fob. The Nissan’s headlights illuminated, cutting through the darkness beyond the candles and lighting Blake’s way off the porch.

“Thank you for doing this,” Christa said.

Blake nodded and headed to the car.

Gwyn stood up but didn’t go inside like Blake had tried to suggest. Instead, she moved over and sat on Christa’s lap, nuzzling her nose into Christa’s shoulder and neck. As Blake backed out, his headlights overpowered the orange glow, putting the couple on display like the featured act in a cabaret. Shifting into drive, he left them to it.

Blake scanned either side of the roadway as he passed through the tunnel of trees. There were no streetlights here, and the canopy effectively blocked out the moonlight. In the day, Blake had noticed a heaved sidewalk running along the north side of the street. Even in broad daylight, the asphalt path blended with the trees and overgrown bushes. At night, it had disappeared completely.

Ahead, his headlights reflected off the light blue tank top of a man, walking in the opposite lane. As he passed, the man staggered toward the shoulder.

Past the four-way stop and over the hill, streetlights cast an ominous shimmer over the sleeping village. Empty streets and dark windows welcomed him.

Halfway down the hill, there were two people standing together on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes. In the windows behind them, colorful neon signs advertising Budweiser and Corona made it clear that not every place was closed for business.

At the bottom, Blake could see the marina. Fog swirled in the radiance of the decorative lamp posts. To the left, the looming expanse of the Newport Bridge in the distance cut through the inky soup, its massive cables lit up like a string of Christmas lights draped across the bay. To the right, a row of charming shops lined a small, empty parking lot. He pulled in.

There were several piers and docks branching out from the area of the lot and the adjacent patch of grass, which featured a stone monument. He pulled up the screenshot and compared the layout to the image. He was in the right place.

Blake turned off the car and stepped out. The breeze rustled through his hair.

It was amazing how still the air was at the house. Yet, at the water’s edge, nothing was still. The waves lapped loudly against the walls, pilings, and hulls. The light escaping from skinny windows made the entire field of bobbing boats look like a miniature, undulating city. A warm, blustery breeze carried the scents of aquatic life—and death. It was peaceful. A strange contradiction to the turmoil existing within it.

Blake headed for the pier. At the end of the shops and just before the start of its wooden deck, a sign marked the entrance to a gangway leading to a floating dock.

He thought of Lucas and his biweekly adventures, traveling across the bay. The actual boat was smaller than he’d imagined while talking with Lucas.

Ironically, the last time he was on a ferry boat was in Jamestown, Virginia, while visiting Williamsburg. Traversing the James River between Jamestown and Scotland, the large ship could carry dozens of cars along with passengers. Its Rhode Island counterpart was probably less than thirty feet long and didn’t look like it could hold more than a dozen people. It made sense. With the bridge connecting the two islands, the ferry was hardly a necessity.

Blake stepped onto the narrow pier. In the distant shadows, he saw movement. For the sake of his purposes, he hoped he would find a bunch of dopey-looking kids rather than fishermen. As he approached the end, the strong odor of burning marijuana swayed the odds toward the former.

With their backs turned to him, four figures sat along the far edge of the pier with their legs hanging eight feet above the water. Two males and two females, he thought. One of the males leaned against one of the pilings supporting the wooden deck.

Blake realized he had been walking heel-to-toe. It was a habit he picked up long ago. By rolling the foot, each step was virtually silent. While useful when attempting to take an enemy by surprise, he had inadvertently startled more than a few people, including Haeli. One evening, Haeli was chopping lettuce in his kitchen. If Blake had gotten any closer before opening his mouth, he undoubtedly would have lost a lot of blood.

In this instance, he didn’t want anyone going swimming on his behalf. He intentionally let each foot fall flat to sufficiently announce his presence.

The taller of the two males looked back with little affect. He had a baby face and jet-black hair, apart from the section hanging over his eyes which had been dyed bright green. He reminded Blake of a taller Billie Joe Armstrong, although the kid was probably too young to even know who that was.

Blake stopped a few feet away. “Hi there.”

The three others looked back, then turned away again.

Blake had been wrong. He could see that they were all teenagers, but there were three males and one female. One of the males had long blonde hair that protruded from the back of his baseball cap and flowed halfway down his back. He didn’t know what Owen looked like, but he was sure Goldilocks wasn’t his guy. The other two were a possibility.

“Would one of you guys happen to be Owen?” Blake asked.

Billie Joe ignored Blake but spoke to the others. “Look at this creeper.”

“It’s a simple question.” Blake could already feel his temper heating.

Billie Joe swung his legs onto the deck and worked his way to his feet in a slow-motion display of apathy. “Whatta you want with Owen? He owe you money or something?”

“Nothing like that,” Blake said. “I’m looking for Lucy. I was hoping you’d seen her.”

“What are you, her father?” the kid said. “The way I heard it, her father’s a child molester or somethin’. That you? How ‘bouts you get lost.”

These kids knew Owen. They knew Lucy. And Blake had no intention of parting company until he got some answers.

Goldilocks and the third kid stood up and flanked Billie Joe. Blake assumed their intention was to look intimidating. The effect was the opposite.

Blake noticed the girl remained seated but had shifted to one side so she could see what was happening. Even though he had seen pictures of Lucy, it would have been difficult to recognize her in the low light. Luckily, this girl also had long hair, which immediately dispelled any suspicion.

“I’m a friend,” Blake said. “I just need to talk to them.”

“We ain’t tellin’ you shit,” Goldilocks said.

“Come on guys, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Blake raised his open hands. “I’m not here for any trouble. Just tell me where I can find them, and I’ll be on my way.”

Billie Joe turned to Goldilocks. “This guy’s got some balls, don’t he? I think you need to show him your thing.” He bobbed his head in a slanted nod. Goldilocks didn’t move. Billie Joe nodded again.

Based on the apprehensive look on Goldilocks’s face, Blake was a little worried the whole interaction was about to take a weird and obscene left turn. Goldilocks finally reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of brass knuckles. He slid the metal device onto his fingers and dropped his fist to his side.

“I told you, guy, we ain’t playin’ around,” Billie Joe’s eyes were like slits. Blake had no doubt the weed was kicking in.

The third kid stayed silent. He was small. Much younger than the others. He avoided making eye contact with Blake. It was like a Penn and Teller act. Only it was Penn and Penn and Teller. And it was obvious Teller didn’t want any part of it.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Blake said. “You’re going to take those knuckles and throw them in the ocean. Not just because they’re illegal, but because they’re going to cause you to write checks your fists can’t cash, if you get my drift. Then you’re going to tell me exactly where I can find Owen and Lucy, like I asked. So why don’t we just cut to the chase? Save ourselves the extra steps. Whatta ya say?”

“Screw you, old man,” Billie Joe said.

Blake tried to always give sound advice. He considered himself a straight shooter and strove to be sincere when interacting in less than amiable situations. So why did no one ever take his advice? Ever?

And these three knuckleheads were a different breed altogether. Blake chalked it up to lack of experience. They had probably grown up on the island, isolated from the larger world. Anyone else in their position, if they possessed a shred of sense, would have taken one look at Blake and been afraid. But not these jamokes. They wanted to fight. Or, rather, Billie Joe wanted Goldilocks to do it for him.

The truth was, under the bravado, these were teenage kids. The last thing Blake wanted to do was hurt them. But, he figured, a good life lesson couldn’t hurt.

“Okay,” Blake said. “Do what you’ve gotta do. But understand that none of us are leaving this pier until you tell me what I need to know. Or you knock me out. Whichever comes first.”

Billie Joe stared at Goldilocks and reemployed the cockeyed nodding routine until Goldilocks stepped forward. Teller took a step backward.

Goldilocks shifted his weight and cocked back his fist. His lips scrunched together. Blake almost wanted to stop him and give him a few pointers about telegraphing. Instead, he let him roll with it.

The fist came in high, about eye level. With his right hand, Blake deflected it from coming anywhere near his face. The motion put the kid off balance, sending him toward the edge of the pier.

Blake reached out and grabbed a fist full of the kid’s hair with his left hand. With his right, Blake grabbed hold of the piling to prevent himself from being pulled in by the kid’s weight and inertia. Blake’s muscles tensed and his arms stretched. Goldilocks dangled, headfirst, above the water. His knees against the edge of the dock. Blake rotated his wrist, twisting the hair around his hand for a more stable grip. It was, after all, the only thing stopping Goldilocks from taking a swan dive. Goldilocks screamed in pain.

“Get off him,” Billie Joe yelled as he approached.

Blake swept his foot behind Billie Joe’s heels, kicking his legs out from under him and sending him to the deck. He landed on his back side. If anything was injured, it was his pride. But it was enough to convince him not to get back up.

“Toss ‘em, Goldilocks.” Blake said.

For a moment, Goldilocks paused his moaning and begging. Long enough to shake the brass knuckles free from his fingers. They landed in the water with a plop.

“Where are they?” Blake said.

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” Goldilocks panted. “I know where he’s at. Just help me, I’m gonna fall.” His hands grasped at the air as if reaching for something to hold on to, then clasped onto Blake’s wrist.

Blake pulled upward until Goldilocks’s body was perpendicular to the deck. Blake slid him backward until he could support himself on his hands and knees. Goldilocks sat with his legs stretched out in front of him. His forehead was wet with tears.

Billie Joe remained seated but had scooched himself back several feet. The girl was standing with Teller, as far as they could get to the end of the pier without being in the water.

“Where?” Blake said.

“I don’t know where Lucy is, I swear. She hasn’t been around for a bit. Owen’s in Cranston. He’s got a side piece there.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lily.” Goldilocks paused. “Shit, I don’t know her last name. But I’ve been there. I can tell you where she lives. Owen will be there. Far as I know.”

Blake patted Goldilocks on the side of the shin. The kid sucked in air as if he were expecting it to hurt.