Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

He said, "Call more often, goddamnit. I miss talking with you."

"I will."

Wilson fell silent; here he was, on the Banana River, talking to a man he had known from a boy, and this man was as close to a son as Wilson would ever have.

"I've always been proud of you, the way you turned yourself around-you rose above yourself, son. Every man should, but most folks don't even try. You did, and I'm proud of you. Whatever that's worth."

"I'd better go."

"It's time for me to go, too. You take care."

He was putting down the phone when he remembered one last thing.

"Elvis?"

"Sir?"

He'd caught the boy just in time.

"It doesn't matter who your father was. You're still you. You hear what I'm saying? There's no such thing as a dead end-not in this game. You keep looking. You'll find what you need to find."

"Thanks, Mr. Wilson."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

The line clicked, then Wilson put down his phone. The frogs and moths were suddenly loud again, and his screened porch was once more a dark cage. His little shack on the Banana River had seemed brighter while he spoke with the boy, but now the brightness was gone.

"Why in hell did you have to go?"

He had a last sip of the Scotch, then picked up his pistol, pushed open the cylinder, and shook out the bullets. He left all of it on the little wicker table, and went inside to his bed. He fell asleep thinking of Edie, and of the ways he had failed her, and of all the ways he had failed himself, but with a final dim hope that he had done right by the boy.

Invasion

Frederick loitered outside Cole's building until cars bled from the parking garage, then hustled up to the fifth floor, where he hid in the men's bathroom until almost eight o'clock. When Frederick sensed everyone was likely gone, he crept down to the fourth floor and back to Cole's office. He worried that a security guard or cleaning crew might find him, so he used the direct approach-he pried open Cole's door with a jack handle. Cole would immediately know that someone had broken into his office (as would a passing security guard), but Frederick moved quickly. He scooped up Cole's Rolodex and blew through the desk for bills, letters, and other correspondence. He grabbed anything that could even possibly contain Cole's home address, then ran back down the stairs, and out to his car. He had worn gloves. He didn't take the time to go through the things he stole until he was safely at home. It had been a helluva bad day, so he was relieved to be home. He enjoyed sleeping in his own bed. He felt safe. Best of all, the third bill he inspected was addressed to Cole's home. He dreamed about Cole that night. He dreamed about what he would do. He dreamed about Cole's screams.

At three-thirty that morning the traffic moved with professional grace. That time of day, big-rig truckers who knew the rules of freeway driving moved cleanly, content to let me drift among them. The city thinned and the eastern sky lightened as I reached the Coachella Valley and curved south between the jagged shoulders of the mountains.

The Salton Sea was the largest, lowest lake in California, filling the broad, flat basin of the Salton Sink like a mirror laid on the desert floor. It was shallow because the land was flat, and surrounded by barren desert and scorched rocks like some forgotten puddle in Hell. When the periodic algal blooms died, it smelled like Hell, too. During the worst of summer, the temperature could reach one-thirty on the lake's shore, but now the air rushing over me felt cool and good, and the smell was clean.

I dropped down the west side of the lake past pelicans and fishermen lining the rocks for tilapia and corvina. The valley floor rose quickly when I passed the lake, cut by irrigation canals and small farming roads without many signs, and dotted with small towns that all looked the same. At six-fifty that morning I entered Anson. Imperial was another twenty miles south, but I wanted to find George Reinnike's original homo first. A neighbor might have maintained contact with his family.

Anson was a sleepy collection of hardware stores, video rental shops, and small businesses. Eighteen-wheelers laden with tomatoes and artichokes lumbered through town, kicking up enormous clouds of dust that covered buildings and cars with a fine white powder. No one seemed to mind.

I stopped at a gas station where an overweight man behind the counter nodded past a burrito bulging with beans and eggs and cheese.

I said, "'Morning. I need a local map. You have something like that?"

He shoved the burrito toward a tattered map taped to the glass. He didn't put down the burrito. Once you get a grip on something like that, you can't set it down.

"Right up there. Help yourself."

The map was from the Bureau of Land Management, and had been taped to the glass so long its colors were bleached.

"Do you have one I can take with me?"

"Nope. You can try the Chamber of Commerce. They might have something."

"Okay. Where's that?"

"Second light down next to the State Farm office, but they don't open for another two hours. I could probably tell you how to get wherever it is you want to go."

I gave him Reinnike's address. He studied the map, then tapped L Street with his knuckle.

"Well, this here's northwest L Street, but there ain't nothing out there but fields. No one lives out there."

"Is there another L Street?"

"Not that I know of, and I've lived here all my life. You passed it on the way in."

I used his rest room, bought a cup of coffee, then followed his directions back out of town. L Street was at the three-mile marker, just as he told me. I turned left onto the northwest side and drove until I reached a county sign that said END. Two silver tanks stood quietly near the horizon, but they were the only structures I saw. Fields planted with brussels sprouts extended to the horizon in every direction. Mechanical irrigators rolled along on spindly wheels, mindlessly squirting water and chemicals on individual plants so as not to waste money on unused soil. No one lived there, and no one had likely been there for a very long time. The Burrito Man was right-the houses that once stood on L Street had long since been razed for agribusiness.

I worked my way back to the highway, and headed south to Imperial.

Edelle Reinnike lived in a simple stucco house just off the main highway at the southern edge of Imperial. The houses were white or beige, with white-rock roofs to reflect the heat. Most had trailers or trucks parked in their yards. Mrs. Reinnike opened her door as I got out of my car. It was eight-thirty that morning; still early, but hot.

"Mrs. Reinnike, I'm Elvis Cole. Thanks for seeing me."

"I know who you are. Don't mind this dog. She won't bite unless you get fancy."

Edelle Reinnike was eighty-six years old, with the dry desert skin of a golden raisin. Her dog was a fireplug-shaped pug with enormous eyes bulging on either side of its head. It looked like a goldfish. I couldn't tell what the dog was looking at, but it growled when I approached. Maybe it had radar.

Mrs. Reinnike said, "Margo, shush! You don't fool anyone."

She invited me in, showed me to her couch, then went into her kitchen for coffee. I didn't want more coffee, but it always pays to be friendly. Margo planted herself in front of me. Mrs. Reinnike called from the kitchen.

"She likes you."

"Did you have a chance to look through your mother's things?"

"I did. I found an old picture of George, but only the one. Mama couldn't stand Aunt Lita, and they had an awful falling-out. Lita was George's mother. She said Lita was loud. If Mama thought you were loud, well, that meant you were trash."

Mrs. Reinnike came back with two cups of coffee, and sat in a recliner at the end of the couch. She put on a pair of reading glasses, picked up a crumbling photo album from beside the chair, and opened the album to a page marked with a strip of tissue. She turned it so I could see.