Bea Cannon - A Small Gray Dot

He took me to a shop and had me buy a leather jacket imbued with lightweight bulletproof mesh and a zip-out lining. Then, he took me to a lady friend’s house and she took the jacket, looked at it, nodded, and told me to come back the next day. When I went to pick it up, she’d attached a number of pockets inside – some to the zip-out lining. Lowell grinned at the look on my face.

“Carry your shit in that. Keeps your hands free for other things. If the weather’s cold, put in the lining and you’re good to go. Just don’t get too dependent on the bulletproofing. It could fail, and your head won’t have any.”

That was a good point but the jacket was a great idea, if for nothing other than being able to conveniently carry extra ammo. I saw the advantage.

Somewhere in there, I learned he and Lowell were in the marines during the twenties and fought together in one of those nasty conflicts in the Middle East back then. After getting out, they banged around the country together and finally wound up in Charlotte in the thirties where they stayed. Lowell opened the smoke shop and Simon opened his gym. He had a lot of fascinating tales to tell.

It was an interesting time for me and I learned a lot.

In spite of the difficulties in tracking, something about it clicked with me. Perhaps it was simply the challenge of the search but whatever it was, I found it was a thing for which I had a knack. I didn’t advertise I was always successful but I acquired a reputation for being exactly that, so work came in from all over.

Once they heard about me, law enforcement would occasionally request my services. They knew they weren’t hiring a bounty hunter; that I was a tracker and never forced anyone to come back with me. They were happy to pay me to do a find and provide them with a location so that all they had to do was make the arrest.

For them I’d done my job once I learned the whereabouts of the subject. I didn’t try to accost or interact with him – or her – in any way. Instead, I’d locate one of the few phone booths the phone companies managed to restore in spite of my doubts, or I’d find someone who would allow me to use their phone, and I’d give my law enforcement clients a call and tell them where to go to get their man – or woman.

With a much-diminished FBI and local governments unable to supply the police departments with enough funds to have a team of detectives solely for hunting suspects, this arrangement worked well. I made quite a few friends in many police departments and sheriffs’ offices.

It wasn’t only fugitives from the law that wanted to hide. Sometimes folk simply didn’t want contact with whomever they’d left behind. When that happened, I usually respected their wishes, so my terms were a bit different when a private citizen hired me.

In addition to advising my clients in advance that I didn’t force people to come back with me, I also informed them that if the person sought didn’t want contact with the seeker, I wouldn’t be providing addresses or locations – with one exception: an underage kid, though, I always made sure the kid wasn’t running from abuse. Other than that, I would, instead, provide proof that I’d actually made the find. This was in the form of a letter or some type of information or item that could only have been supplied by the person I’d found. Sometimes it was pictures. I gained a reputation for keeping my word.

Anybody hiring a tracker could afford it, and I’d learned a few things since that first tracking case, so I insisted on getting expenses and half up front, and the balance afterward. I did make one exception: if the subject of the search didn’t want any contact with my client and I agreed, I would forgo the remainder of my client’s fee and only charge for any extra expenses incurred.

I would’ve forgone the amount for extra expenses but tracking wasn’t cheap, especially if it involved going long distances. These were my upfront terms, and if a potential client didn’t like them then they didn’t have to deal with me. There were other trackers they could hire. Most accepted my conditions.

Someone wanting no contact didn’t happen often but when it did, after reading the letter, or examining my proof of the find, most clients paid me in full anyway. Folk generally wanted to reconnect, and it worked out okay with the ones who didn’t.

Except for once.

IT WAS ABOUT A YEAR AND A HALF AFTER I began tracking and I was relieved to get the case because I’d not had one for a while.

I liked having an occasional break from working as it allowed me a quiet stretch for writing, something I’d taken up again. But, I was getting antsy because it was a couple of months since my last case and I was getting low on cash. I was hoping something would turn up soon else, I would have to take on an odd job or two. Like dishwashing.

The guy walked into my office and introduced himself as Abe Harlow, and plunked a hog-choking bundle of green down on my desk. His promise of an equally as fat stack when the job was done got my interest right off. He said his wife got mad at him and left him for another man. He swore he loved her and just wanted her to come home so they could talk and work things out. I’d heard such stories before and it was unnecessary information that wouldn’t influence whether or not I would take the job, but I listened politely.

After I found his estranged wife, it proved to be one of those cases in which the sought after wanted to remain unfound. I informed the client that she declined to return, and gave him the letter she asked me to take to him. It bought me a broken nose.

Harlow, a man in his mid to late forties, lived on the outskirts of a town about ninety miles from Charlotte, in one of the crappy little temporary huts the government put up for people who’d been displaced because of flooding a few years back. It was my guess he’d continued to stay there because it was free. Except for him, everyone had moved on and all but a few of the empty huts deconstructed and removed. The area was pretty isolated but the fact that no one else was around didn’t faze me. I’d visited clients under similar circumstances before.

He didn’t ask me in when I knocked at his door. I got a quick look before he stepped out and closed it, and from the glimpse I got of its condition, I didn’t blame him for not wanting anybody to see inside.

He directed me into the front yard where I gave him the information. He tore open the envelope and scanned the letter his wife sent. I never open and read the letters given me to take back, so I don’t know what was in it, but whatever it was, he didn’t take it well.

He began frowning as he read, then he crumpled the letter and hurled it across the yard. Then he became enraged.

His eyes flew to mine. “Oh you gonna tell me where she is, you little fucker!” he shouted his face turning red. “You ain’t gitting shit else ‘til you do!”

I suppose I should’ve backed up but I didn’t. I said calmly, “Sir, I will remind you that according to our agreement all that was required was that I find her, not bring her back or even tell you where she is. Now—”

He punched me in the nose. I staggered back but quickly steadied myself. My ears rang, and my nose hurt like hell, but at the last moment, I’d seen the punch coming so I’d managed to jerk my head back thus mitigating some of its force. I gave a quick shake to clear my head. I was alert. I was also pissed. I hated getting interrupted mid-word.

He stood there screaming and waving his arms around. “I know she ain’t got no money – what’d she do, fuck you to keep you quiet? Bitch ain’t nothin’ but a goddam slutty whore! You might as well git to talking, old man, ‘cause I’m gonna beat your ass ‘til you do, you—”