Ink and Bone (15 page)

“There’s no fee unless we find your daughter,” he said. “Then we can discuss what you think is fair. We don’t do this for the money.”

Merri, who was not surprised very often, found herself taken aback. “Then
why
do you do this?”

He looked up at her, as if considering the answer.

“It’s just what we do.”

He’d polished off his patty melt, and he was working on his fries. She’d barely touched her soup, which had grown cold while they talked. She thought about what that meant, taking money out of the equation for now, how it shifted the balance of power. She could hardly insist that he take money from her. She turned it over a moment, stirring at the greasy liquid in her bowl.

“So with that said, is there anything surrounding Abbey’s disappearance, before or after that you
didn’t
tell the police?”

Merri felt a rise of indignation, of defensiveness. There had been so many accusations, suspicious stares, brows wrinkled in a kind of curious pity. Like:
I feel bad for you, but surely this is your fault somehow.
Cooper lifted a palm, as if he could see the protest in her. And maybe he could; her shoulders had hiked up around her ears.

“What I mean is, is there anything that you dismissed as incon
sequential, silly even? Ideas, feelings, suspicions. Given the nature of this investigation, is there
anything
?”

The waitress was behind the counter; there was no one else in the restaurant. Outside, the sky had gone a threatening white gray. Instead of censoring herself, she told him about Jackson’s premonition instigated by the news story he’d overheard regarding the two missing children, about Abbey’s dreams. She told him also about Jackson’s fixation on the missing man. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and started scribbling. No judgment. When she was done:

“Does that help?”

He shook his head and offered a slight shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not the psychic.”

Here he smiled a little, which made his face surprisingly warm and boyish. When she’d researched him, she’d learned that he was a former school sports star turned cop. There’d been some kind of problem that caused him to retire early—she wasn’t sure what. He was a big man, with graying brown hair, a ruddy complexion, and blue (or were they gray?) eyes, still handsome, virile. He was the kind of man that made women silly with the desire to please. And very married. Anyone could see that. It was one of the things that had always upset her about Wolf, even before she knew what it was. He never took himself off the market. He was always looking. Jones Cooper was taken—not that she was interested in him or anyone. Just an observation.

“I had already planned to go see Betty Fitzpatrick, mother of the other missing children,” he said. “And that news story about the developer caught my attention this morning.”

He was still writing.

“It’s not so different, what they do and what I do,” he said when he was done. She knew he was talking about Eloise and her granddaughter. “A lot of it has to do with instinct. Going where other people didn’t think or didn’t bother to go.”

She took a sip of her tea, which had gone cold like her soup.

“Oh,” she said, remembering. She dug into her bag and took
out Abbey’s binky. It was so tattered and worn, so threadbare that it almost looked like a rag. Once pink with hopping bunnies, it had gone gray. It had been a gift from Merri’s mother, and it had been in Abbey’s crib since before she was even born. It became her most beloved binky; she never slept without it. Merri had slept with it every night since her girl went missing. “I brought this for Eloise—or I guess Finley. Please don’t lose it.”

It was a silly thing to say. A man like Jones Cooper never lost anything.

“The change purse I gave you,” she said. “It didn’t mean anything to her, just a trinket I bought her when we got to town. But this—”

She found she couldn’t go on.

“I’d like to make promises,” he said. His voice was soothing, even though his words weren’t. “But we both know I can’t do that.”

“I know,” she said.

This was rock bottom. That same man in the support group that she and Wolf had dutifully attended had said one evening:
When you engage the psychic, you have allowed despair to separate you from reality.

She wondered if he was right. She really didn’t care. Honestly, whether it was self-delusion or not, there was a sparkle of hope that had been all but lost before she came to see Jones Cooper. And that was something, wasn’t it? Reality, especially Merri’s, was highly overrated.

“Will I get to meet her?” Merri asked. “Finley, I mean?”

Did she sound desperate? She probably did. She didn’t care about that either. That was the other thing she’d learned, that it didn’t matter a damn what people thought of you. The world was a hard, unyielding place no matter whether people thought you were a saint or a sinner.

He drained his water glass. “Do you want to?” he asked with a frown, as if he hadn’t been asked the question before.

“If you think it would help,” she said. “
Would
it help?”

“I’ll ask her how she wants to proceed,” he said. “I’ll say that Eloise didn’t often meet with clients.”

“Why not?” asked Merri.

“It just isn’t how she works,” he said. “It isn’t always about the person looking. That’s not always how she connects to the case. Maybe for Finley it’s different. Like I say, she’s untried.”

He was very matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

“And it’s hard for Eloise, I guess,” he went on. “She can’t always help, and it’s very disappointing for folks, difficult to accept. Some people become hostile; she’s had a lot of threats.”

She nodded her understanding; she could see it, remembering how bitter the man was in her grief-counseling group. How would she feel if this investigation led her back to the place where she was when she drove up here—sick with desperation, lost, afraid that the day Abbey was taken was the last of any livable life? Would she be angry, hostile? Would she level threats? No. Most likely, she would just turn to ash, blow away on the wind, unable to keep herself together even for her remaining child who needed her so badly.

FIFTEEN

W
hen Finley got home, her grandmother’s car was still gone. Something about the absence of the car in the drive unsettled her. She didn’t dwell on it long, however, because there was another car there instead. Rainer was asleep in his old Mustang, parked in the driveway. She pulled her bike up alongside him. He was so sound asleep, head leaning back, mouth agog, that he didn’t even wake up. And her engine was
loud
. She’d always envied him his deep and untroubled, dreamless slumber.

His car was old, not as in vintage, but
old
as in a hunk of junk. The fact the he’d driven it from Seattle defied the laws of physics. The whole vehicle actually rattled when he got up over fifty-five miles an hour, reeked inside of pot smoke. With its black-tinted windows and primer-only paint job, it looked like something out of a postapocalyptic science fiction movie. Finley had a weird affection for that car, though. It was uniquely Rainer, and they’d had a lot of good times driving around in it—and parking it.

How could you go out with a guy who drives a piece of garbage like that
? her father had wanted to know.
A man’s car says everything about him.

Her father had a brand-new black Range Rover and a Porsche 911 Targa 4 in electric blue, both cars that made people stare with unmasked envy. What did he think that said about him? she wondered. That he was an elitist jerk? A ridiculous middle-aged show-off? If so, then he was dead on.

I really don’t think that’s true, Dad.

It is. Trust me. A man who drives a piece of crap like that will never amount to anything.

It’s what he can afford.

Exactly.

He’s eighteen,
she’d countered
,
which he had been at the time of the argument
.
The fact that he was still driving the thing was a testament to his endurance, his ability to make anything work.
I don’t think that logic applies to teenagers.

You’re eighteen. You’re driving an Acura.

That you bought for me. If it were up to me to buy a car, I’d be taking the bus.

Well,
her father said
.
He never lost an argument; or rather never let you think that
you
had won.
It’s different for a girl.
Add sexist to his many annoying characteristics. But still, her dad always made her laugh.

She knocked on the window, and Rainer stirred awake, not one to startle. He climbed out and stretched with the relaxed ease of someone who was deeply comfortable in his own skin. He had ink on his hands, a purple stain on his jeans. He was wearing the same charcoal-gray tee-shirt he’d been wearing last night, hadn’t shaved. It was possible that he was a little high, his eyes slightly glassy. He smoked a lot of dope, nothing worse. But it was a problem for her. “Sober most of the time” was a top item on the boyfriend checklist.

“You skipped class,” he said, lifting his arms to the sky in an elaborate reach, exposing his toned belly. A little flutter of desire made Finley blush and turn away.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. It came out a little sharp, but Rainer was tone deaf.

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Check your tat. Take you out for ice cream or something.”

She walked toward the front door, and he followed her onto the porch. Finley gazed up the road, wondered about her grandmother again and when she’d be home. Eloise didn’t exactly
love
Rainer any more than Finley’s parents did, although she said she didn’t think he was a bad guy. Just a little lost—
rudderless
was the word Eloise
had used. It was true, to some extent. His mom was kind of a hard case, not exactly warm and fuzzy. His dad was a flake, a drummer for a Seattle band, and a lot more interested in the club scene than he was in Rainer. Eloise had never said that Rainer wasn’t welcome, but Finley had the sense that he wasn’t. She felt like she was sneaking around, having him here. Then she got mad about feeling that way. She wasn’t a child, was she?

“So where were you?” he asked.

The warmth inside the house made her realize how cold the air had turned outside. The sky seemed moody and threatening. It was too early for snow, wasn’t it? The trees weren’t even bare. She shivered a little as Rainer shut the door behind him.

“I thought we weren’t going to do this,” she said. There was a simmer of anger that she wasn’t sure was about him.

“I’m not hassling you,” he said, stripping off his leather jacket and exposing those thick arms sleeved in tattoos. “I was just wondering.”

Tracking her, being possessive, grilling her on where she’d been and what she’d been doing. Trying to catch her in lies she hadn’t told. Then being cagey about his own activities. Screwing around with any hot girl that showed up at the tattoo parlor where he’d been interning in Seattle. Just thinking about how things were with him made her throat go tight with anxiety. He brought out the worst in Finley. Maybe they brought out the worst in each other.

When your relationship to a man makes you act like someone you don’t want to be, you had better do some soul searching
, Amanda had warned.

“Let me see your back,” he said. He followed her into the kitchen. Finley turned around and leaned on the counter. She held up her tee-shirt, felt him peel away the bandage.

“Did you do Neosporin this morning?” he asked.

And
yet
he was loving, caring, talented, and good. He was a great listener, always willing to help with anything. Need to move your stuff, a ride to the airport, a place to crash—call Rainer. He was hardworking; when he had his mind on something, no one could stop him. Why were people so complicated?

“Yes,” she said. His hands were strong, but his touch always gentle.

“Looks okay,” he said. He pressed the bandage back and pulled her tee-shirt down. “Does it still ache?”

She took the ground coffee from the fridge and filled the pot with water, wondering about that for a second. Then, “How did you know it was aching?”

He smiled and gave a confused shake of his head.

“You texted me this morning,” he said. “That’s why I went to school. I didn’t see your bike, so I came here.”

He looked at his watch, an old analog Timex that belonged to his dad.

“I have to go soon anyway,” he said when she didn’t answer. “My shift starts in an hour.”

Finley still didn’t say anything, puzzling. She didn’t remember texting him. She wouldn’t have. Would she? He snaked an arm around her waist, careful to avoid the new tattoo. She felt his heat, then his lips on hers just gently, chastely. Then she was hugging him, not wanting to let go. Ever. Then she was pushing him away again. Poor Rainer.

No
, she thought.
I definitely didn’t text him.

She took the phone from her pocket, scrolled through her texts. There it was.

Tat is aching. Can you come take a look at it? It really hurts.

A pouty, childish text fishing for attention from someone she had been trying to push away.
Abigail
, she thought.

Rainer took the phone from her hand and put it on the table. Then he put his arms around her again. She tried to push back, but he held on, burying his face in her neck, kissing her there, sending tingles all over her body.

“Rainer,” she said. “Let go.”

He must have heard the anger in her voice because he released her right away and stepped back looking—what? Sad, confused, a little embarrassed. She knew that look; she’d seen it many times.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “After last night, and since you texted this morning, I just thought—I’m sorry. Boundaries, right?”

He blew out a breath, crossed his arms in front of his body.

“
I’m
sorry,” she said. “We shouldn’t have. Last night. It was my fault.”

It
was
her fault;
she
went to him. And she knew that Abigail couldn’t make her do anything that she didn’t on some level want herself—even if she didn’t remember doing some of those things
. A haunting is a relationship
, Eloise had told her.
You play your part in it.

Finley left the kitchen, and he followed her into the living room, where she sat on the couch. She stared at a picture resting on the end table of her mom, Alfie, and her taken a million years ago when she and her brother were small. She realized with surprise that she missed them a lot, even her mother, who was not just anxious, controlling, and overbearing. She was also loving and generous and good. Complicated. Everything was so complicated. She wanted things she knew were bad for her. She pushed people away, then pulled them close, then pushed them away again. She wanted to explore her gifts, see what she was capable of, and yet she was afraid to know. What was wrong with her?
You’re just a kid
, her dad had said.
You’re not supposed to
have all the answers. You’re allowed to change your mind.
But she wasn’t a kid, was she? Time to grow up.

“Seriously, Finley. What’s up?” Rainer said. He stood in the doorway, looking helpless.

“I’m—” she started. “I don’t know.”

“Talk it out,” he said.

She told him about how the day had progressed, Jones Cooper, the events at the lake house. He sat on the couch beside her and just listened, keeping his hands to himself like a good friend. He was the only one outside her family that knew about her—the only one she had ever trusted enough to tell. Rainer himself was what Eloise referred to as an “Empath,” someone sensitive, in tune with the frequencies that Agatha, Eloise, Finley, and others (so
many
others) received with such clarity. They weren’t exactly gifted. They
didn’t do “the work” but tended to be in law enforcement, medicine, psychology—anything where intuition and instinct played a role. And there were lots of them, even in tattoo shops in Seattle that let underage kids get ink.

“That’s pretty intense,” he said. He looked at her with worry. “Is this what it’s going to be?”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

Faith Good walked into the room and pointed at Rainer, her face clenched into a tight, angry frown. Of all the people who didn’t like Rainer, Faith liked him least of all. She started stomping around. The little boy with the train was over by the hearth.
Choo-Choo! Choo-Choo!
Then the
squeak-clink
started up again.
God! Seriously?

“What’s wrong?” asked Rainer.

He looked around the room to see what she was seeing. But of course he couldn’t. The show was for her alone. She could barely hear him.

“Nothing,” said Finley over the din. “Nothing. Look, I have to go.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word.

She moved back toward the door, and he grabbed his jacket, followed her out. She climbed on the bike, while he stood by, still looking helpless.

“What can I do?” he said. “How can I help?”

“I’ll call you,” she said, gunning the engine.

She left him standing there, looking after her, as she took off down the road as fast as she could go, the engine wailing. She couldn’t go fast enough, drive far enough. She wasn’t going to be able to drown them out, to outrun them.

We don’t choose
, Eloise had warned.
We are chosen.

*  *  *

She wound up at school. Maybe she could catch her professor, an older, somewhat joyless guy whom she had yet to see smile. Her other professors didn’t seem much older than Finley; there was a casual air to them—jeans, call me Sam, a kind of easy aura to the
lectures, lots of “like” and “um” in their speech. But Dr. Burwell was the real deal—balding, sweater vest, leather briefcase. He always had an outline for each class—a pile of them printed and stapled, sitting in a neat stack on the corner of his desk for the taking. He did not post his outlines or assignments online.

He was packing up his things when she knocked on his door.

“Miss Montgomery,” he said. “Better late than never.”

She wouldn’t have thought he’d notice who was in class and who wasn’t. He seemed pretty wrapped up in his lectures on Jungian concepts. He nodded toward the papers on his desk, and she stepped inside and took one.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to work.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

He nodded easily, then started rifling through his briefcase. When he found what he was looking for, he looked up and handed her the essay she’d submitted last week about the Jungian concept of synchronicity. A patient of Jung’s had reached an impasse in therapy, her rational mind not allowing her to accept some of the ideas of her unconscious. One night she dreamt of a golden scarab. The next day in therapy, she and her doctor heard an insect knocking at the window only to find that it was the golden scarab from her dream, a very rare occurrence for that place and climate. This experience led Jung to explore other strange coincidences that allowed his patients to receive information in “extra-sensorial ways.” Many of Jung’s theories delved into the paranormal, due to what he referred to as “uncanny happenings” in his early childhood. He even had a psychic medium in his family, had conducted séances, and had called for a serious scientific study of spiritualistic phenomena. Finley found this particularly fascinating.