Chapter 28
Carol’s fly-tying bench is in the sunroom.
Shelves line the one wall not full of windows.
The old house has high ceilings—ten feet tall—and the shelves go all the way up.
They’re filled with clear plastic shoeboxes but the boxes don’t hold shoes.
They hold fly- and lure-making materials, each labeled in Carol’s neat hand.
Braedon reads: DRY-FLY HOOKS, STREAMER HOOKS, JIG HOOKS, PLASTIC BEADS, METAL BEADS, TUNGSTEN BEADS, ROOSTER FEATHERS, HEN FEATHERS, TURKEY FEATHERS, TURKEY BIOTS, PARTRIDGE FEATHERS, CHENILLE, SYNTHETIC FIBERS … The boxes keep going and going.
A ladder slides along a track in the floor.
The top of the ladder has pulley-like wheels that run along a track up near the ceiling.
If you wanted say, rabbit zonkers, you pushed the ladder to the left side of the wall, climbed up a few rungs, and grabbed it off the top shelf.
Zonkers are strips of rabbit fur, skin intact, usually dyed.
Braedon’s lashing a rust-colored one to a hook with thread.
“Your grandpa Judd’s going to love these,” says Carol. “You’re a natural.”
“Thanks,” says Braedon. “Should I tie this all the way up to the hook-eye or leave some room?”
“Leave a little room. That’ll give you space to make a nice head out of thread wraps.”
“And we’ll coat that with resin?”
“You got it,” says Carol. “You might want to consider making lures as a career.”
Braedon smiles. “I don’t know what I want to be yet.”
“What about a professional soccer player like your dad?”
“I don’t think so,” says Braedon. “I’m not good enough.”
Sue enters the room and says, “You’re not good enough for what?”
“Playing soccer,” says Braedon. “At least for a job. But I might want to be a police officer like my grandpa.”
“We’d love to have you down at the station,” says Sue. “Get you a uniform, maybe your own police bike. You can wear a helmet with a siren on top.”
Braedon laughs. “Maybe someday. It just seems like a job where you get to be out doing stuff all the time. Talking to people. Looking for bad guys. Don’t have to be in one place.”
“That’s the way it used to be,” says Sue.
“Used to be?” says Braedon. “It’s not anymore?”
“Technology has changed things. Most police officers nowadays have their face in front of a computer more than they do real people. They can get more done that way. When I started out—this was back before your dad was born—if the police were looking for a suspect, they had to drive around and talk to people all day and all night. Now the first place they check is Google. In less than an hour, they can accomplish what used to take a whole week.”
“Like, what do you mean?” says Braedon as he coats the head of the lure in UV resin.
“Well,” says Sue. “Let’s say someone robs a gas station.
And a security camera captures their picture.
In the old days, the police would take that picture all over town, show it around, maybe have it printed in the newspaper or broadcast on the TV, and they’d just hope someone would recognize and identify the culprit.
But today, all the police have to do is a reverse-image search online.
If that person’s image exists on the internet, either on social media or maybe on their workplace’s website, or maybe they appear in someone else’s post and they’re tagged …
Then it’s over. The police have their suspect. ”
Braedon shines a UV flashlight on the resin and says, “Really? Police just look at their computer all the time?”
“Not all the time,” says Sue. “They still go out on patrol. But a whole lot of their investigative work is done online now. All I’m saying is if you want to be a police officer, I hope you have a comfy chair.”
Clay’s night finally ends at 11:15 AM. If he had heard Sue’s speech to Braedon about investigative work being done online, he would beg to differ.
Clay hopes to sleep until five o’clock or so, then he’ll pick up Braedon, make dinner, watch a little TV, then get to bed before midnight.
He used to pull all-nighters all the time.
Soccer by day. Slip out of the team’s hotel to moonlight for the US government, then another day of soccer.
He’d catch up with little naps where he could.
Flying to the next city. Riding on the team bus.
During an hour or two of quiet time in the hotel before heading to the stadium.
But now he’s out of practice. Or maybe he’s simply forty-two years old and can’t do what he used to.
Clay brushes his teeth and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror.
He can’t stop picturing Teddy on Miller’s Bluff.
Maybe Teddy slipped and hit his head and, when he came to, had amnesia.
In his confusion, he took off his earring and hoodie.
But that doesn’t explain the sawzall and glove.
Plus Clay has seen amnesia a lot in TV shows and movies, but in all his experience in the army, on the soccer pitch, and as an intelligence agent, he knows of plenty of people who hit their head one way or another, but not one forgot who they were.
Another possibility is Teddy thought he was under suspicion for a crime.
Either a crime that Clay doesn’t know about or he’s involved with the thefts up at Dorset-Cornwall or the recent spate of catalytic converter thefts.
Maybe Teddy’s hiding out on Miller’s Bluff until things settle down.
Maybe he doesn’t want to put Deb in the position of having to lie for him, and that’s why he hasn’t contacted her.
Or Judd. Or Clay, for that matter. Or maybe he’s just ashamed.
It’s all plausible but something doesn’t feel right, and Clay’s too tired to figure out what that is.
He goes into the kitchen and drinks a big glass of water in an attempt to dilute the salt and sugar in his blood from his first and second breakfasts, then walks into his bedroom when the doorbell rings.
The house is not large but, in Clay’s sleep-deprived state, the walk to the front door feels like a mile. He opens the door and says, “Steph.” It sounds stupid but he doesn’t know what else to say.
“Hi, Clay. I’m sorry about Thomas. I can’t believe he did what he did.”
Clay says, “It’s hardly your fault. Come on in.”
Steph Becker steps into Clay’s home for the first time. She wears her blond hair long and unbound. It falls like curtains on the front of her shoulders. She scans the open, modern house and says, “Nice place.”
“Thank you. And I apologize if I sound a little out of it—I haven’t slept yet.”
Steph walks from the foyer into the living room and sits on a leather lounge chair. Clay follows and takes the couch.
“Can I get you anything?” he says.
She shakes her head. “Listen. I’m sorry this is so weird. I can’t believe Thomas was involved in a fake kidnapping plot. And that he just stood there and did nothing when that Graham pulled a gun on your son.”
“Yeah,” says Clay, “I’m not crazy about that either.”
“I hate that Graham,” says Steph. “Whenever Thomas gets in trouble, Graham’s somehow involved. I hate to think a fifteen-year-old boy is rotten. But I’m getting pretty close with that one.”
“Appreciate that. And I appreciate your commiseration.”
Steph doesn’t respond right away. She drops her face into her hands, stays that way for ten long seconds, then says, “I want to come clean about something.”
Clay stares hard at the top of Steph’s head. “Okay.”
Steph sits back up and drops her hands. “I haven’t seen you very much since you moved back. Mostly just when you need a haircut. But whenever we do see each other, it feels kind of flirty. Do you think that?”
Clay considers Steph’s question, then says, “Friendly. I’d say it’s friendly more than flirty.”
“Okay … But there’s something, right? I know high school was a long time ago but we definitely had something between us then. Something kind of special, I think. And some of those feelings are still there. Is it just me who thinks that? Because it seems to me like you feel it, too.”
This is the last conversation Clay expects or wants after being awake for thirty hours straight. He’s not sharp and fears he’ll say something stupid or, worse, hurtful. “We always got along great,” says Clay. “And yeah, it feels like we still do.”
“Of course,” says Steph. “I agree. So it’s … I guess the reason I’m here is … Last night I saw you at Knut’s. I was going to come over and say hello but then the chief of police sat next to you. And she wasn’t looking like the chief of police—she looked like she was on a date. With you.”
“Ah,” says Clay, more to buy time than because he understands. “We were not on a date. I ran into Zoey there. We talked for a little bit, then I left.”
“I know you left,” says Steph. “And about a minute after you left, so did Zoey. Did you two go somewhere together? I know, I know. It’s none of my business.
We’re not dating. You’re free to see whoever you want to see.
I just … I’m not in a great place right now.
I’m super vulnerable with the divorce and with everything that happened with Thomas last night …
So I guess I just don’t want to assume anything and make up stories in my brain.
My therapist says I really have to work on that.
So about an hour after you left, I was feeling very anxious about you leaving with her. ”
“I didn’t leave with—”
“I know. Technically you didn’t leave with Zoey. You left a minute before and then she left. That’s what people do in small towns hoping there won’t be gossip. But it is a small town. We all know what leaving a minute apart means.”
Clay rubs his forehead. “Zoey ended up following me but not for romantic reasons. We were talking about Teddy. I told her that I was leaving because my father and I were going to ask around to see if anyone had spotted Teddy, but Zoey thought I might be up to something else. Which I was. So she followed me. Without me knowing it, which is not easy to do. That’s how she was nearby when Thomas and the other two boys assaulted my father and stole my truck.
Then she followed the boys to the mess with Braedon and Daniel and took them into custody. ”
“Oh,” says Steph. “I see. Oh, boy, Clay. I’m sorry I came over like this. I tried calling but it kept going straight to voicemail. Like you blocked my number or—”
“My phone is in the river,” says Clay.
“What?”
“My phone went straight to voicemail because it’s underwater. Thomas and his pals tossed my phone in the river after they stole my truck. When they were going over a bridge near Chatfield. It’s probably in La Crescent by now.”
“Oh, God,” says Steph. She’s on the verge of tears and tries to blink them away. “I’m so sorry, Clay. I’ve had no real trouble with Thomas, and then out of the blue this happens. I’m shocked. And so embarrassed. He is never hanging out with that Graham again. That friendship is officially over.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” says Clay.
“Thomas is going to jail, isn’t he?” Steph can no longer hold back her tears. “My baby’s going to jail and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“That hasn’t been decided yet,” says Clay. “The police will investigate the incident further, and then they’ll decide if they want to press charges.”
“Of course they’ll press charges!”
“Not necessarily. For one thing, my father and I are not pressing charges.”
“You aren’t?” says Steph. “They knocked Judd unconscious, stole forty-five thousand dollars, and your truck.”
“We are aware of that,” says Clay. “But they’re fifteen.
A criminal conviction would be quite a hardship for all three.
We would rather give them a chance to turn things around.
The important thing right now is that we find Teddy.
Maybe the boys can be of some help. We’d rather keep them in a mindset where they might remember something rather than worrying about who their cellmate will be. ”
“Oh…” Steph places her palm over her chest. “That is so kind of you. So kind … And considerate. Thank you. Thank you so much.” Steph drops her face into one hand and adds, “I’ve made such a fool of myself.”
“No you haven’t. I got duped by three fifteen-year-old boys. That’s making a fool of yourself.”
Steph looks up at nothing and taps her foot in the air, one leg crossed over her opposite knee.
She shakes her head and says, “I’m a piece of work, huh?
I just freaked out like I’m the victim in all this.
But you’re the victim. You and your dad.
I guess I just couldn’t believe you weren’t answering my calls or returning my texts this morning and …
Okay, I’ll shut up. I know you need sleep. I’ll go.” Steph stands.
Clay considers telling Steph that after they find Teddy, he’s open to discussing the idea of him and her and …
But he can only think clearly enough right now to know that he isn’t thinking clearly.
Plus he’s pretty sure she has something going on with Eli Hensel.
Maybe it’s best not to say something he might feel differently about after he gets some rest.
Instead he says, “I’m glad you came by.”
“You are?”
“It’s better you got the truth than thinking the worst of me.”
She smiles. “Thanks for saying that.”
He walks her to the door, gives her a hug, and adds, “I’ll see you soon.”
He can feel her nod into his shoulder, then she turns, opens the front door, and leaves.