Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
WILLIAM
On my drive to town, the billboard that flashes into view snags my attention.
I slam on the brakes, my mind spinning.
Something about seeing his signed photo on The Limelight’s wall yesterday has been tugging at the corners of my mind.
Is it because Salazar’s show is tonight?
Or is it Creekside that is stirring everything up?
Not long after Boxcar played at Creekside, Charlotte broke things off.
We were supposed to spend a weekend in Seattle together, but she got strep throat and said I shouldn’t come.
My life was consumed with football and learning how to support my new team while also keeping my grades up, but I still would have come even if it was only to take care of her.
But I also couldn’t get sick, not with our season opener against Texas looming.
So we rescheduled for a few weeks after that.
Charlotte was busy with school too, but I begged her to come down to Eugene.
Even if I only got to see her for a short visit, it would be worth it.
I had so much to show her. Share with her.
And I was dying to hear about her new classes, her dorm, and what was happening with her music.
And I needed to hold her. By then, it’d been almost a month since our last time together.
But before that rescheduled trip, she broke things off, and when I wouldn’t stop calling her, she blocked my number.
I stare at the billboard. Nic’s face is pinched mid-roar, both hands gripping the microphone, his black electric guitar hanging loose against his thigh, his dirty blonde hair falling across his eyes.
That summer he played with Boxcar at Creekside, Nic was on the cusp of stardom.
His songs were on the radio, he was about to go on tour to promote his first major album, and no doubt his poster graced many a teenaged girl’s bedroom wall.
In short, by that summer, Nic Salazar had everything he probably ever dreamed of, and more.
I’ve passed this billboard dozens of times. Why is it snagging my focus now?
I pull back onto the road, my mind occupied by the questions I don’t have answers for.
When I get to The Limelight, the scents of garlic and grilling food waft past the hallway.
The lunch rush is in full swing, so I tuck into my office.
Besides a lingering metallic scent from the fingerprint chemicals, there’s no sign of the hours the crime scene crew spent here yesterday.
Though I have several urgent admin tasks on my to-do list, I end up scrolling through the data sets I created for Luke.
What if the answer he’s looking for is in plain sight?
My phone chirps. It’s Zach.
“Give me good news, brother.” I set aside my glasses.
“Fingerprints are either yours, Mike’s, or Leslie’s. Whoever broke in was likely wearing gloves. And you aren’t gonna like this, but your camera went dark shortly after Mike closed up.”
“I said good news.”
“Sorry,” he says with a sigh. “Everett and I both agree this guy was a pro. He even evaded the bank’s surveillance camera in the alley. I’m waiting for Idaho DOT to send traffic cam footage from the light on Main. It’s a long shot, but it might give me a starting point. ”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“The bigger question is why someone would go to all that trouble to steal something of so little value.”
I pick up a pen and click it on, then off, thinking. “How much has Ballard told you about this case he’s working?”
“He believes someone might be targeting female artists. One of the cold cases he’s looking into is a personal one for him.”
I click the pen. “Why would Dagney Cole’s overdose be related though?”
“Ballard got a tip that Ms. Cole was sexually assaulted, and it’s since been confirmed, though she never filed charges. But even before that, Ballard had reason to believe that’s what links these women.”
Leaning back, I glance up at my window. The view from this angle only gives me a slice of the cloudy sky, but it doesn’t ground me. Or soften the anger beginning to burn up my chest.
I toss the pen onto the desk. “They were all assaulted by the same guy.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
“And somehow, he’s covered his tracks because there’s very little evidence to go on.
Not one of the women he’s looking at filed charges.
I think Ballard has intel he’s not sharing, like maybe stuff Ari’s family revealed to him that’s not public.
Something that links her to the others. Something that formed a pattern for him. ”
“I told you yesterday that one of the missing books corresponded to the year Dagney played. Another was from the year Ari Pullman was here.”
“Huh,” Zach says, his tone thoughtful. “What about the third one?”
I shoot up in my chair. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
I slip on my glasses and wake up my screen. “The third one is the year Nic Salazar first played at The Limelight. It’s the same year that Boxcar Doves first played too.”
“Okay,” Zach says slowly.
I click on the tab for the year Ari’s band played, searching for the information my brain is hungry for, but when I find it, I just blink at the screen.
Could this be it? I tell myself I’m jumping to conclusions. But the pieces are locking in, even as I try to shake them loose.
“The night Tenderhook played at The Limelight, guess who else played? Nic Salazar.”
“I’m still not following,” he says, frustrated.
“Same as the night Boxcar first played. Nic was the main event, remember?”
“Yeah, but?—”
“What if Nic’s the link?” The dull ache at the base of my skull tightens behind my ears.
“Whoa. That’s a bit of a leap.”
“Is it?”
When I talked to Charlotte after Boxcar’s show at Creekside that night, she’d been relieved it was behind them, but she was excited and proud.
Happy. The next time I talked to her was more than a day later.
Something felt off, but she said she was still exhausted from the show.
Those weeks after that felt strained, but then she broke things off, and it all made sense.
Or at least to my broken heart, it did.
But it’s starting to look very different to me now. Especially after yesterday and what Dr. Wilson told me. Whatever happened to her, it was violent, and it got stored as fear in her nervous system.
Could someone have hurt Charlotte that night at Creekside?
I close my eyes, but the headache is rattling my sinuses.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
The anger thickens so fast and hot inside me that I can’t breathe. I drop the phone and push to standing, then brace against the desk.
Nic Salazar hurt my blackbird. Hurt my sweet, beautiful girl.
Zach’s still rolling, but I’m not listening. I scoop up my phone. “I gotta go.” I end the call before he can protest. I welcome the silence, but it only steels my determination.
I need answers. I need …
Breathe, damn it, or your head is going to explode.
Nic threw that party after the Creekside show. Charlotte went with Emmie and Crosby. Is that when it happened? Nic targets the women he plays gigs with. He may have even groomed them. Befriended them. I know Morgan thought of Nic that way.
My god.
Morgan sold a few of her songs to some bigshot, like…six years ago maybe.
I grip the table and force in another series of breaths. Anger is so tight and thick in my chest it’s going to crack my ribs.
Nic hurt my girl, and I wasn’t there to protect her. I was too focused on fucking football. I press a fist to my lips but the sob rips free. Hot tears sting my eyes. I try to blink them away but they splat on the desk.
My girl was alone when she needed me most.
How can I ever forgive myself?
Is this why she pushed me away? Because I let her down? Because I was too busy chasing my dreams instead of supporting hers?
I think of that billboard and Nic’s upcoming show. The VIP pass waiting for me in my inbox.
Maybe it’s time I pay Nic Salazar a visit.
It starts raining as I’m ascending Lookout Pass, which takes me over the crest of the Bitterroots and into Montana.
I’ve never been to the college town where Creekside is located but according to my GPS, I’ll be there in less than an hour.
Lookout Pass closes every winter because of the heavy snowfall, usually by mid October.
By the time I get to the crest, the rain has turned to thick, wet snow that clogs my wipers.
My headache hasn’t worsened, but the steady pressure is feeding the malaise brewing inside me .
The first time I got diagnosed with Post Concussion Syndrome I shook it off, and thankfully, it was after our final game of the season, which gave me time to recover.
By the third time it happened, I was in the middle of my senior year at Oregon, and the doctor warned me that if I didn’t rest and heal, my symptoms would worsen.
The headaches, my inability to concentrate, my sensitivity to lights and noise.
That got my attention.
Because I could sacrifice a lot for the game I loved, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my cognitive capacity. Or my enjoyment of music.
Specifically, Charlotte’s music.
But the doctor also warned that my long-term neurological heath was at risk too.
The year before that, Phillip Adams, a former NFL cornerback for Atlanta, shot and killed six people then himself.
An autopsy revealed that he had Stage 2 CTE, Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, a degenerative neurological disorder that is tied to repetitive brain injuries like Post Concussive Syndrome.
CTE causes impulsive behavior, memory loss, explosive aggression, depression and anxiety.
It’s what killed Junior Seau and Frank Gifford.
There’s no way to diagnose it or treat it.
You just lose your memory, lose your ability to logic, lose your joy… until you crack.
Zach came with me to see the specialist, and I remember looking into his eyes and seeing my decision reflecting back at me. We both knew I had to walk away.
Because what if my mind was a ticking time bomb, and I only had ten good years left? Twenty? I knew in that moment that I wanted to spend what time I had left with Charlotte, if we still had a chance to start again.
I also knew securing a career that didn’t involve reading was going to be important because it almost always made my head hurt, and I needed good health care, and to be active.
Becoming a firefighter was an obvious fit.
And it felt right because it allowed me to give back to the community that took me in so long ago.
It also repaid a debt, of sorts. When an arsonist burned Dad’s vet clinic to the ground, Zach got blamed, and it’s one of the reasons he went on the run and I had to stay behind, sheltered by the McCabes.
But our fire investigator friend Brian Ambrose discovered the link to what had really happened, which saved Zach. Saved us .
As I descend Lookout Pass, I know with certainty that both Brian and Zach would tell me to stand down right now. They’re right, but I can’t.
Maybe I am losing it. Maybe this fury, my need to end that motherfucker, is a sign that I walked away from football too late, and I’m on the brink of madness.
After all, there’s a good chance I won’t come out of this.
Which means I might never see Charlotte again. But how can I do nothing while Salazar walks free?
Because I know how the law works.
If none of the women Salazar hurt reported the assault, there’s no case. It’s his word against his victims, and four of them have been silenced.
Fresh tears sting my eyes. How did Charlotte cope? She and Emmie were sharing a room that night. Did Charlotte tell her what happened? Or did Salazar threaten her not to talk?
My knuckles pale as I squeeze the steering wheel, my eyes burning.
If I don’t stop Salazar, who will?