David Morrell - Long lost

The vial of pills remained in my hand. Cursing, I threw it across the living room. Depression gave way to fury. What was it that Petey had said when he'd first approached me and I'd thought that he was a fake, when I'd told him to get away before I beat the shit out of him? "Brad, you'd have a harder time outfighting me than when we were kids." We'll see, I thought. In that moment, as I heard someone on the street shout to warn children away from my porch, I vowed to stop waiting for the police and the FBI to do something. I had to stop hoping that something would happen. I had to make something happen.

"A theory of substitution?" Gader asked.

"Yes." I was so distraught that I stood in front of his desk instead of sitting. "We know that Petey lied."

"Dant."

"But what if the reason he was so convincing is that he based his lies on the truth? He was in Butte and Colorado Springs at the times he said, after all. He just wasn't doing what he claimed."

"What's that got to do with this theory of-"

"You told me that West Virginia doesn't have a town called Redemption."

"That's correct."

"But what about the rest of the country? Is there a town called Redemption anywhere? Or what about towns in West Virginia whose names have a religious connotation similar to Redemption?"

Gader thought about it. "Possibly. It would help Dant to keep his stories straight."

"Could you check?"

Gader leaned back in his chair. His thin face looked even thinner from weariness. "I'll try. The Bureau has me working double time on…" He pointed toward a thick stack of documents on his desk. "What difference would it make? All that stuff Dant said about his past was a lie to make you sympathize with him."

"But what if it was only partly a lie?"

"It still won't help us find your wife and son. Every lead's been followed. The task force has been disbanded. All we can do is wait for Dant to surface."

"Petey." I strained to keep control. "Damn it, doesn't anything you learn about him take you one step closer to understanding his patterns and where he might go?"

"Sure," Gader said. "Of course." He stood and walked me to his frosted-glass door. "The theory of substitution," he said without conviction. "Certainly. I'll definitely do some checking. By all means, if you think of anything else, just let me know."

"Mr. Payne will see you now," the receptionist said.

I set down the three-month-old Newsweek, which might as well have been up-to-date, given how little I'd paid attention to what was happening in the world. Crossing the small waiting area, I entered an office that was spacious by comparison, although in my own company it would have been considered tiny.

It was austere: a wooden chair, a desk, a computer, another chair. And a fish tank into which a portly, bespectacled man tapped grains of food. His white hair contrasted with the healthy ruddiness of his cheeks. His sport coat was off. He wore yellow suspenders over a blue shirt.

"How are you this afternoon, Mr. Denning?" "Not very good, I'm afraid. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here." Payne nodded, his puffy chin bobbing slightly. "It's for sure nobody comes to me with happy news. I used to internalize it all. At the end of the day, I'd be a wreck. But then I remembered the fish tank in my dentist's office and how it calmed me before I went in to have my teeth drilled. These are just garden-variety goldfish. I don't know if they help my clients, but they do wonders for me.

Would you believe that I used to be a hundred-and-forty-pound bundle of anxiety? But ever since I got these fish, I've"-he spread his arms to his girth-"blossomed."

I had to smile a little.

"That's the spirit, Mr. Denning." Payne set down the box of fish food and eased into the chair behind his desk. "Would you like some coffee? A soft drink?"

I shook my head no.

He laced his fingers over his ample stomach and gave me the most sympathetic look I'd ever experienced. "Then tell me how I can help you."

Haltingly, I explained about Kate and Jason.

Payne nodded. "I read about it in the newspapers and saw the stories on television. A terrible thing."

"My attorney says you're the best private investigator in Denver."

"Maybe he doesn't know a lot of private investigators."

"He says you used to be with the FBI. He says you tracked down a serial killer."

"That's right."

"He says you predicted where a team of interstate bank robbers was going to hit next."

"True."

"And when they were going to do it. He also says you blocked a domestic-terrorist attempt to-"

"But that was only on the weekends."

The joke caught me unprepared.

"Please. All that flattery just makes my cheeks get redder," Payne said. "I was part of a team. We each did our share."

"My attorney says that you did more than your share."

"Did he also tell you that it cost me my first marriage, not to mention a bullet in my knee that forced me to leave the Bureau? I finally got the wisdom to stop having undue expectations of myself. You shouldn't have undue expectations either, Mr. Denning. I'm good, but only because I often see patterns others don't. For something like this, it's important to your emotional health that you don't count on the impossible."

With nowhere else to turn, I swallowed my disappointment. "Fair enough."

"So let me ask you again: How do you think I can help you?"

"The FBI and the police have given up." I tried to keep my voice steady. "It's been six months. I heard somewhere that in missing persons' cases, the more time drags on, the less chance there is of finding the people who are missing." I could barely add, "Finding them alive at least."

"It depends. Every case is different. Statistics are a record of the past, not a prediction of the future."

"In other words, you've got an open mind. You're exactly the person I need. Name any fee you want. Money isn't an issue."

"Money isn't an issue with me, either. I charge the same fee to everyone," Payne said. "But what do you expect I can do that the police and the FBI couldn't?"

"At the moment, they're not doing anything."

"Possibly because there isn't anything to be learned."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Understandably." Payne spread his hands. "But you have to realize that I can't duplicate the resources available to the FBI."

"Of course not. You can listen to new ideas, though. You can… I don't think I've made myself clear. I don't want to hire you just to continue the investigation."

"Oh?" Payne looked mystified. "Then what do you want?"

"I want you to teach me so I can continue the investigation."

"I need a handgun," I said.

"What kind?" The clerk had a beard and a pony tail.

"Whatever's the most powerful and shoots the most bullets."

"Rounds," the clerk said.

"Excuse me?"

"They're not called bullets. They're called rounds. The bullet's the part that blows away from the casing and hits the target."

"Fine. Whatever shoots the most rounds."

"Is this for target shooting or home defense? The reason I ask is, some people believe a shotgun's the best way to deal with a burglar."

"How about one of those?"

"A revolver? It only shoots six. These semiautomatics shoot more. But you'll need to decide which caliber you want: nine-millimeter or forty-five."

"Which is the biggest?"

"The forty-five."

"I'll take it."

"Just so you know your options, biggest isn't always best. The forty-five holds seven rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. But this nine-millimeter over here holds ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. A lot of power with eight rounds, versus somewhat less power but eleven rounds."