Epilogue
“I’m staying, Tori,” Alex said, unable to temper her excitement. “I have so much to tell you. So much fucked up shit to tell you.”
“That’s amazing, Alex! That’s great. Hey, I read that article by Dwight Dozier about that Ed… what’s his name?”
“Edward Samuelson.”
“Yeah, that was you, wasn’t it? I mean, you weren’t mentioned but—”
“Maybe.” Alex smiled. “Maybe not.”
“You are such a bitch.”
“I know.”
They both laughed.
“Are you okay, though? I heard that you were in an accident,” Tori asked, growing serious.
Alex looked down at herself. She was wearing a loose-fitting top with a scooped neck. Her bruises were still there, but they’d faded considerably over the past week.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m really good, Tori.”
This was met with silence.
“Tori? Something wrong?”
“No… it’s just that I’m selfish.”
“What do you mean?” Alex crinkled her brow and was surprised that it no longer hurt to do so.
“Look, I’m super proud of you. But I just pictured us working together, rookie agents working side-by-side, you know?”
Alex understood because she’d felt the same way, imagined the exact same scenario.
“We’ll still see each other.”
“That’s going to be hard, seeing how far away we are.”
“It’s not that far. It’s like a five-hour flight from LA to Virginia.”
“Except, I’m not going to be in Virginia.”
“What are you saying?” Now, Alex was confused.
“I’m going to San Antonio.”
“What? Why? Why are you—” Then it dawned on her. “You got an assignment?” Alex nearly shrieked.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
They laughed again, this time lasting much longer than before.
“Congrats, Tori. You’re going to do awesome. And, for the record, San Antonia is even closer to LA than Virginia.”
“Thanks. I love you, Alex.”
“Love you, too, bitch. ”
***
“Hi, Mom,” Con said in a low voice. He leaned down and placed her hand between both of his.
As he touched her skin, she turned her brittle neck to look at him. Gerry Striker was relegated to a wheelchair now, as the staff at the home had informed Con that she’d fallen twice in the last month, and they were concerned that she might break a hip if it happened again.
She was so frail that Con barely recognized his own mother. Her hair was completely amelanotic and stringy.
It had been at least six months since he’d last seen Gerry, and time had not been good to either of them.
Gerry didn’t say anything, she just stared, her lined face devoid of recognition.
“Who are you?” she demanded. Even her voice sounded different.
“It’s me, Mom—it’s Constantine.”
He expected her face to change but it didn’t.
“Who?”
“I’m your son, Mom. Constantine?”
She pulled back.
“No,” Gerry said shaking her head vehemently. “I don’t have a son.”
To keep her from becoming increasingly agitated, Con gently rubbed the back of her hand.
“Mom, it’s okay. I just—”
Gerry yanked her hand back.
“No,” she intoned. “I don’t have a son. I only have a daughter. Valerie. Where’s my Valerie?”
Now Con pulled back and stood up straight.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I don’t know where she is.”
“Get away from me,” Gerry said, her voice wavering. “You… get away!”
Con gave her space, backing toward the door.
“Mom, you need to calm down—”
“ I’m not your mother! ”
The woman was sick, demented. He knew that. But this knowledge failed to lessen the sting of her words.
An orderly, drawn by the commotion, entered the room.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Striker, but Gerry has her good days and her bad days. I think today is one of her bad days. It’s best if you just let her rest.”
Con sighed and moved his focus from his mother to the window. The home that he’d chosen for his mom after Valerie disappeared was located in a rural part of Orange County. At the time, he’d thought, as most people did, that being around nature might help her condition.
Now, he hated staring out at the desert.
And he bet Gerry Striker did too.
“I love you, Mom,” he whispered, then nodded at the orderly and left.
Con got into his car and drove. He drove for a good two hours, eventually finding himself at the location that The Sandman had secretly inserted into The Great California Gold Rush.
The holes were still there but there was no evidence of what had actually gone down.
No evidence that his sister had been there at least twice. No evidence of a flipped squad car or of Edward’s blood soaking into the sand.
The harshness of the desert had reclaimed its territory as it always did.
Con pulled a cigarette out of his pack. A gust of hot air tried to prevent him from lighting it, but he persisted.
This was one battle he could win, at least.
He sucked hot, acrid air into his lungs and held it. It almost felt like penance for not stopping his sister from running back then and for letting her get away a second time on this very road.
There will be no third time.
His lungs spasmed and he coughed and spat.
And then, still staring at that rock in the distance, Constantine Striker whispered, “If you’re out here, Valerie, I will find you.”
A coyote howled in reply.
The End