Chapter Thirty-six

Although I generally need to crank my alarm clock as loud as it gets to rouse me from my sleep, I found myself emerging from the blackest of depths at the sound of my cell phone ringing.

By the fourth ring, I was almost alive again.

By the fifth, I had fumbled for it on Kingsley's nightstand. I had a brief glimpse of the time: 10:18 a.m. I also had a brief glimpse of the caller: Aaron King, the old L.A. detective with the killer smile.

I answered the phone. At least, I think I answered the phone. I touched a button on the cell and hoped for the best.

"Hello?"

"Did you just say 'hello'?" said Aaron King.

"I think so, yes."

"You sound like a dying frog."

"You're closer than you think."

"I've got news," he said.

"Don't tell me you've been working all night."

"There's no rest for the wicked. Besides, I don't sleep well these days."

I sat up a little straighter. Kingsley, I saw, was long gone. The shades in the room had been drawn tight. A blanket, a bed comforter perhaps, had also been hung over a small window above the bed. And it had been hung neatly, too. Franklin might not like me very much, but he did good work.

I said, "What's your news?"

"I just got a call from a kid in Buena Park. He recognized our guy on the flyer. Apparently, Lauren and Maddie's friend is a big-time drug runner and all-around scary man."

"You should see me trembling. What else does our contact know?"

"The guy's name is Carl Luck. Known drug dealer and pornographer."

"Mommy would be proud."

"Last our contact heard, Mr. Luck lives in Simi Valley."

"The porn capital of the world."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Eww," I said. "Is that all?"

"Nope. It gets better."

"I love better."

"Apparently Carl Luck drinks and gambles at an Indian casino near Simi, called Moon Feathers."

"A fitting name."

"I thought so," he said. "Anyway, I did a background check on Carl Luck."

"And?"

"And nothing."

I thought about that. "Maybe that's not his real name."

"Maybe it's his gambling nom de plume."

"Better than calling yourself Carl Loser."

I could almost see King grin on his end of the line.

"Anyway, his name doesn't matter," I said. "He could call himself Pepe Le Pew for all I care. Just as long as he shows up at Moon Feathers."

"Don't forget the part about him being a bad man. Remember, there's a very good chance that he killed Maddie's mother. And don't give me that shit about you being a highly trained federal agent."

"I'm a highly trained federal agent, I'll be fine."

"Shit." He paused, then added. "I want to come with you. Maybe bring the boys as back ups."

I shook my head even though Aaron couldn't see me shaking my head. "No. I want to go alone. I'll be fine. Promise."

He didn't like it, and I didn't blame him. I wouldn't have liked it either. The truth was, the boys just might get in the way. He said, "I'll keep my phone handy. Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"Promise me."

"Scout's honor."

He laughed harder. "Okay, a federal agent I believe, but I know you weren't a Boy Scout."

We fell into silence and I felt that there was something heavy on Aaron's heart. I waited for him. Twenty seconds later he spoke, and I sensed it was after much deliberation. "I saw you looking at me last night."

I waited, sensing where this would go.

"I know that look," he said.

"And what look is that?"

"Recognition," he said simply.

Just outside the bedroom, I heard the sounds of someone cleaning: items on a table being moved and then being replaced again. I knew Kingsley didn't use a house cleaner. It was just Franklin. The idea of catching the gangly, patchwork man using a feather duster almost made me laugh.

"What do you mean?" I asked, although I was certain I knew perfectly well what he meant.

"You know who I am."

"Oh?"

"Don't play coy with me, kiddo. I saw the look on your eyes last night. How did you know?"

Now I heard Franklin humming to himself. Humming and dusting. A man composed of perhaps a dozen different men. I had Frankenstein outside my door, and Elvis on the phone.

My life is weird.

"I know things," I said.

"How?"

"Some call it a gift. I don't know what to call it."

"Are we talking ESP or something?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"So then there's no secrets from you."

"Often, no, although I can't always control the psychic hits I get," I said.

I could almost see him nodding to himself at the other end of the line. He said, "I know a thing or two about secrets, lil' lady, especially after keeping such a big one for so long."

"I bet," I said, although I didn't like where this was going.

He paused, then said, "And you have a big one yourself."

"No comment," I said.

He chuckled lightly into the mouthpiece. "Call me if you need any help. Psychic or not, I don't like the idea of you heading out to that casino alone."

"I can take care of myself."

"Maybe," he said, and now he didn't bother to disguise his voice. A harmonious and deep southern twang came through, edged with age, but as familiar as apple pie. He said, "Either way, lil' mama, let's get a coffee some time and talk about secrets."

"Sounds like a plan," I said, and shivered. I felt like a teenager at her first concert. An Elvis concert, no less.

He chuckled lightly and hung up.

Chapter Thirty-seven

It was early afternoon, and I was sitting next to my son's bed. The blinds were drawn tight, but I was still feeling weak and miserable and utterly exhausted.

I shouldn't be awake. I should be asleep in the dark.

Of course, whether or not I actually sleep is still an unanswered question. A few years ago, just after my attack and back when Danny was still making an effort to be a supportive husband, we had done an experiment. He had watched me closely while I slept. His conclusion (and he had looked seriously rattled when he had reported this), was that I didn't appear to be moving or breathing or even alive. That I had looked like a corpse in a morgue.

Hell, that might have been when I started losing him.

Speaking of Danny, he had waited here until my arrival, and had then given me a long and creepy hug that had included a little pelvic thrust that made me want to vomit.

I mean, what the hell was that? Our son is lying in a hospital bed and he's coming on to me?

It had taken all my willpower not to drive my knee up into said groin. He then patted my shoulder, gave me a pathetic puppy dog look with a crooked grin, and then quickly departed. After all, he had ambulances to chase.

I shuddered again.

Some errant sunlight from an opening in the window splashed across the far wall, and just looking at it seemed to have an ill effect on me. Sunlight, quite simply, drained me. It also physically hurt like hell, which led me to believe that if I were exposed to it long enough, without protection, I had every reason to believe I would die a very painful and miserable death.

So much for being immortal.

My son had yet to stir. Nurses had come and gone. All of whom smiled sadly at me, although most tried to lift my spirits. For a boy to lie unconscious this long, for a boy to be this sick, for a boy to have doctors this concerned, well, things did not look good for a loving mama, and they knew it.

Still, they smiled and said kind things, and I nodded and accepted their words, and when they were gone, I wept.

I was not weeping when Detective Sherbet stepped into the room. The big guy came bearing gifts, and the sight of him daintily holding the string of a helium-filled balloon in one hand and clutching a fistful of flowers in the other was enough to make my heart smile. He stood there blinking, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

And while he blinked and adjusted, I eased off the bed and crossed the room and threw my arms around the detective in a move that I think surprised him.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but am I in the right place?" he asked.

"Most definitely," I said. I was still hugging him. God, he was so warm...and thick around the middle. Just the way I liked it.

"You do realize that you are still hugging me," he said, but I felt him switch the balloon over and then use his free hand to pat me gently on the head.

I couldn't speak. Instead, a big choking sob burst out of me and I hugged him harder than I had hugged anyone before, and my tears quickly stained his shirt.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Hidden in the crook of his arm, previously unnoticed, had been a big, greasy bag of donuts.

We were now sitting across from each other at the foot of my son's bed. The smell of the greasy donut was both delicious and nauseating. Sherbet was currently working on a maple old fashioned. Some of the frosting broke off and had sprinkled down his shirt and over his thick thigh. He ignored the frosting crumbs. I thought they looked delicious.

"I'd offer you one," he said. "Except I know you'll say no."

"Thanks anyway, but I'm not hungry."

"Gee, how did I know you were going to say that?" he asked between bites.

"Because anyone who cared an ounce about their bodies wouldn't put that crap in it." Which was a lie. I loved donuts. I just couldn't eat them...or anything, for that matter.

"Except for those whose bodies are indestructible," said Sherbet off-handedly.

My heart slammed hard against my ribs. Sweet, Jesus, what did Sherbet know?

He stopped chewing and looked at me curiously. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Relax, my doctor tells me my heart has no business being as strong as it is."

I breathed again. Good lord.

I said, "And so you figure you might as well push your heart to the limit?"

"Not really," he said, sucking on his fingers. "I just like donuts."

I shook my head while he dug into the bag, coming up with something pink and sprinkled. He said, "I've grown rather fond of these donuts."

"And how's your son, by the way?" I asked.

Sherbet looked at me from over the donut. "I bring out a pink donut and it immediately reminds you of my son?"

"Yes and no."

He chomped into it. Pink frosting coated his thick, cop mustache. "He's fine, of course. I love him terribly, but there's something definitely wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"I keep catching him in his mother's clothing, especially her shoes."

"Is it that you catch him, or he likes to wear them?"

"Both, I think. Makes me want to cry."

We were silent, and as the wall clock behind me ticked so loudly that I could practically hear the inner gears grinding together, Sherbet figured out what an ass he was being.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "You've got your little one here fighting for his life and I'm bitching because mine likes to dress up like Nanny McPhee."

I nodded, said nothing.

Sherbet reached out and placed his warm hand over my own. He took mine tightly and didn't flinch from the cold. I think he was getting used to my icy hands.

"Let's change the subject, okay?" he suggested.

I nodded again and looked away. I wasn't going to cry. I was tired of crying.

He said, "The guy you found dead in the meth house was murdered."

"I'm shocked and outraged," I said. I was neither, of course. Drug hits were common and quickly forgotten by the police.

"Execution style, too."

"Do we care enough about him to know his name?" I asked.

"No," said Sherbet. "We don't. He was a known user and dealer. Too many suspects, too little time. The place was grand central station for meth and blow...and other things as well."

"Prostitutes," I said.

"And various child abuses that we need not get into here."

"Let's call it for what it is, detective. Child slavery and prostitution."

The detective looked sick. I felt sick, too. He nodded gravely and dropped the unfinished donut in his bag. It's hard to have an appetite for pink donuts when the talk turns to child abuse.

He said, "From what we understand, the children are used as...payments, of one sort or another."

I nodded, and felt bile rise in the back of my throat.

Sherbet continued, "Maddie's mother was no doubt caught up in it. And now she's dead, apparently."

"And little Maddie is alone," I said.

Sherbet nodded and we were silent. He turned to me. "You making any headway on the case?"

"Some," I said. I decided not to mention Aaron's hot lead in Simi Valley. Mostly because I didn't trust the police enough at this point to get Maddie out alive, wherever she was. I trusted Sherbet, certainly, but he was only one man, and Simi Valley was not his beat, not by a long shot.

"Let me know if you need some help," he said.

"You bet."

Sherbet was openly staring at me.

"What?" I said.

"I was just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself, Detective."

He ignored me. "It's funny how suspects keep ending up dead on cases you investigate."

"Whatever do you mean, Detective?"

"You were working an angle on the Jerry Blum case last month."

"You know this how?"

"I have friends in the FBI, too, Sam."

"Good for you."

"You were making inquiries for your client. A Stuart something-or-other."

"Stuart Young."

"Whatever. Anyway, Jerry Blum has been missing for a month."

"Maybe he's on the lam."

"Or maybe he's dead," said Sherbet.

I shrugged.

"Well, let's try to keep the body count down this time, Sam."

"People die," I said. "Especially bad people."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

My son made a small sound and turned over in his sleep. As he turned, the black shadow that surrounded him turned with him. My heart sank further.

Sherbet patted me on the shoulder and stood. He looked down at me long and hard, and then left.