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We ran together for most of the way back. She only dropped me when she kicked in for the last two hundred yards. I was still hurting from the pace we'd kept and I was happy to jump into the shower to rinse the buckets of sweat from my body.
Mike had texted me his sister's phone number and address. I called her after I dressed and she sounded eager to meet. After checking on Elizabeth, who was curled up on her bed with a magazine and looking like she was half-asleep already, I headed out.
Cleo Bullock's address was in the mount streets over in Clairemont, twenty minutes north of Coronado. The traffic was light on the freeway and the early morning haze had already burned off, leaving a brilliant blue sky in its place. I couldn't help but shake my head, thinking of what people in the Midwest were looking at on that same December morning.
I took the Balboa exit to the east, drove up and over the mesa, cutting through a massive canyon to get to Cleo's home. The mount streets made up a small portion of Clairemont, a working-class neighborhood that maintained a San Diego address but had never created its own unique identity that so many other neighborhoods in the city had. It was strip malls, gas stations, and low-slung ranch houses on tiny lots built in the 1950's.
Cleo's home was a small square on a small corner lot. The green exterior had faded years exterior and the yard mirrored the home’s color, the yard struggling to survive. A large crack in the cement bisected the driveway, an oasis of weeds sprouting up in that small space, and a wooden backboard was nailed above the garage, a rusted out hoop hanging limply from it.
I parked at the curb and Cleo Bullock was already at the door by the time I reached it.
She was in her early forties, with long brown hair pulled away from her tired face. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the lines at the corners of them were nearly as big as the canyon I'd crossed. She wore a worn Chargers T-shirt and denim capris that didn't fit as well as maybe she'd hoped.
“Mr. Tyler?” she asked tentatively after she'd pushed open the screen door.
I nodded. “Ms. Bullock?”
She held out her hand. “Cleo. Please come in.”
I followed her inside. The house was dark, almost like a church, and most of the drapes were pulled, exposing only the slightest slivers of light. She led me to a much sat-upon sofa that creaked when I sat down. She sat across from me in a matching and just as sat-upon easy chair. It was hard to see much in the darkened space, but I could make out a potted palm in one corner, its fronds limp, and an entertainment center that housed a television that might have been top of the line when I was in college.
“So,” she said, wringing her hands in her lap. “You know my brother?”
“I do,” I told her. I tried to find the resemblance between her and Mike, but failed. Maybe it was just the poor lighting. “I used to work with him and we've been friends for years.”
She nodded, but seemed distracted, her eyes moving from me to something else. “Ah, okay. Yes. Mike's a good brother.”
“You haven't heard from your son?” I asked, not seeing any reason to delay why I was there. “That's what Mike told me.”
Her hands continued to fidget. She rubbed her knuckles over and over, almost as if it were one of those scratch-off lottery tickets. “I'm sure he told you much more than that,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “But, yes, I haven't spoken to Patrick in several days.”
“And that's unusual?”
“These days? Yes, very. He checks in every day. Without fail.”
“And how long has that been a habit?” I added, “The checking in with you, I mean.”
“Several months,” she said. “Since his last trip to rehab.” She raised her eyebrows. “I assume Mike told you about that?”
“He mentioned it, but I'd like it if you could give me the details,” I said.
“Details,” she said, her eyes moving away from me again. “There are a lot of those.” She seemed to take notice of her busy hands for the first time and pulled them apart, balling them into fists before resting them on her knees. “Patrick has struggled with drug addiction for the last few years. He's been in and out of rehab, both by his own choice and one time ordered by the courts. He has had a pattern of doing well when he leaves and then...” Her voice fell away for a moment. She cleared her throat. “And then he falls back into it.”
I nodded. “It's hard.”
“It's more than hard, Mr. Tyler,” she said, fixing her eyes on me. “It's brutal. It's taxing. On everyone in his life.”
I thought back to what Mike told me about his being done with trying to save his nephew. Addiction had a way of not just eating up the person addicted, but it had a special knack for tearing families apart, too. It wasn't just the user that suffered.
“It just won't go away,” she continued. “It doesn't seem to matter what he's done, it drags him back.”
“So you think he's back to using?”
She shook her head emphatically. “No. That's why I'm worried.”
“I don't follow.”
She sighed and her hands unclenched, her fingers tapping at her knees. “When Patrick goes back to using, he tries to hide it. He overcompensates. He lies.” She let that sit for a moment. “So he checks in more than usual. He'll show up at the front door unannounced. He's never realized it's a pattern and I've never told him because it's the one way I know that he's fallen again.” She blinked. “Otherwise I might never know.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“So this isn't that,” she said. “I'm not some overanxious mother who is reading too much into this. Something is wrong.” She frowned. “I know something is wrong.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“I hope so.”
I did. I knew from my own experience that you couldn't underestimate a parent's instinct about their own child. If I'd listened to all of the people who had politely suggested that Elizabeth was gone forever and I needed to move on, I never would've found her. Parents knew their children.
“Tell me about the last time you spoke to him,” I said.
“Four days ago,” Cleo said. “He called at the normal time. Told me about his day. Said the band is close.”
“The band?”
“He's in a band,” she said, a thin smile on her face. “And now you can call me an overanxious mother because, yes, it does worry me that he's an addict who moves regularly in the music scene. I know what's out there.” She took a deep breath, exhaled. “But, yes. He's in a band. A good one. I may not approve of the scene or the world, but I do approve of the band. They are good. Patrick has poured his heart into it. And he told me that they are close to finally making some real money.”
I watched her for a moment. “But you don't believe that?”
“I don't know what to believe,” she said, shaking her head. “He's so stubborn about the band and he won't consider doing anything else. Patrick is talented and the band is good. But there are a lot of talented people out there and a lot of really good bands don't make it. I don't want him to shoot for something unrealistic. The thing I want most for him is stability.” She paused. “And life in music isn't stable. I appreciate that he has a passion for what he's doing and I don't want to take away from what he's created. But it isn't stable.”
“Did he say how they were going to make money?” I asked. “Sign with a label? Release something?”
She shook her head. “He didn't give me the details, but he was adamant that he felt like they were on the cusp of something.” Her hands went back together, this time steepling in her lap. “So it just doesn't make sense to me that he hasn't called or texted.”
“Can I ask what drug he's most dependent on?”
Her hands stopped moving, the right one grabbing tightly to the left one. “He's experimented with nearly everything, I think. But heroin has been the one he can’t shake.”
Mike had told me the same, but I wanted to see if there was something there that he didn't know about. Apparently, there wasn't and I wasn't surprised. Heroin had grown almost exponentially in its usage, availability, and social acceptance.
“He started out as a recreational user; I’m sure of that,” Cleo said. “Marijuana in high school, and alcohol, obviously. But then he started taking pills, I guess.” She swallowed. “Pain relievers. I don’t even remember what it was for at this point. His prescription ran out and from what he’s told me, he started buying some on the street. Graduated to heroin from there because it was cheaper, more powerful. And because he was addicted.”
It was the same story thousands of people could tell, but it didn’t make it any less sad, less devastating.
“He drained his college savings account,” she said, her voice soft. “And it was my fault. I wasn't paying attention. I didn't know how secretive and manipulative addicts become.” Her voice quivered but her eyes remained dry. “My learning curve has been steep. But he emptied the account before I knew what was happening.”
I nodded. “And this was a while ago?”
“Yes. I have no idea how he'd be paying for it right now. He's not employed, and he's been giving his full attention to the band.” She shook her head. “I don't think they're making regular money, but I can't say that for certain.” She looked at me. “So if he has...started using again, I don't know where he’d be finding the money to buy.”
I knew that addicts would be as resourceful as they needed to be in order to get what they needed. There wasn't really a bottoming out or a line that wouldn't be crossed when they were desperate. The drug always won.
But I didn’t say that.
“Do you have an address for him?” I asked.
She recited it and I typed it into my phone. She gave me his phone number, as well.
“I assume you've been to the address?” I asked. “To check on him?”
She nodded. “Yes. No one was home. He shares the home with the other guys in the band.”
“Any other friends he might be staying with?” I asked. “Or a girlfriend?”
“I'm afraid I don't know who his friends are or might be, other than the band. I've tried to give him space, to not hover. There's only so much I can do. He's an adult, and I don't want to be some overbearing mother. So I've held myself back in order to try and let him rebuild his life.” She looked down at her hands. “So I don't know who those people might be.”
“Girlfriend?” I asked again.
She blinked and thought for a moment. “Erin. I don't know her last name. I've only met her once or twice, I believe. And I don't know where their relationship is at the moment. Or was.”
There was something in her voice that made me believe she was holding back an opinion on Erin, but I couldn't decipher what that opinion was.
“Do you have a picture of him?” I asked.
She stood and left the room for a moment before returning with a four-by-six photo in her hand. She held it out to me.
“Was taken about six months ago,” she said. “Actually, I think it was Mother's Day. We'd gone to lunch down at Seaport Village.”
The photo had curled a bit at the edges, but Cleo was sitting next to a good-looking guy in his early twenties. Blond hair that swept over his forehead and ears. Bright green eyes. An easy smile. Patrick had his arm around his mother and she was leaning into him, her head on his shoulder.
“He took me to lunch,” she said. “I was fearful that he had some revelation to make to me, but I was wrong. He just wanted to take me out for a meal on Mother's Day.” She smiled and I could see tears in her eyes. “It was a nice day.”
It was clear to me that Cleo Bullock loved her son and that their relationship had suffered damage. She was doing her best to repair it, even when she wasn't sure if what she was doing was helping. I knew what that kind of frustration was like. I'd lived it in a different way for nearly ten years.
“I'll go see what I can find,” I told her, standing up.
She followed me to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Tyler. I do appreciate it.”
“You're welcome,” I said. “And, please. Call me Joe.”
“Joe,” she said, trying to smile. “Yes.” She hesitated. “What will you do if you can't find him at the house?”
I tried to smile back at her. “I'll find other places to look.”