Prodigal Blues

"Christ."  She shook her head.  "Don't take this the wrong way, Mark, but I'd really like that stuff out of our house as soon as possible.  Why not take it to the police?"

"I don't know.  Maybe because once it's done, they're going to be all over Thomas and Arnold and Rebecca for all the details.  Goddamn media vultures will come out of the woodwork wanting all the juicy details."

"Mixed metaphor, honey."

I looked at her.  "Thank you for pointing out my every mistake and flaw, regardless of how small or inconsequential."

"That's why I married you."

"No, you married me because I lied about being pregnant."

"Oh."

I set down the beer and rubbed my eyes, then stared at my hands—which were still shaking—as I thought about what had happened since I'd come back home.

The officer from the Missouri State Police who'd called the house last week was very polite and understanding, and accepted my explanation about having to run out the first chance I got to rent a car.  He swore me in over the phone and recorded my statement, then thanked me for my time and asked me if I'd like to have Denise Harker's family contact me personally; they were very grateful and wanted to thank me.  I'd told him that wasn't necessary but to make sure he told Denise that I was fine and she shouldn't worry.  I wasn't mad.

"Why would you be mad at her?" he asked.

"She thinks I was mad because she skipped out on paying for the orange juice.  It's a joke, officer.  She'll get it."

He concluded by telling me that a transcript of my testimony would arrive in the mail, and that I should read it over, sign it, and send it back as soon as possible.

Cletus called, as well, to tell Tanya that he was shipping the boxes I'd left behind and we should have them soon.  He then gave her Edna's cookie recipe and informed her that I should give him a call when I was feeling better.

"I like him," Tanya had said.  "He's a feisty one."

"He cheats at Pinochle."

"So do I."

Tanya's hand on my arm startled me from these thoughts.

"Mark?"

"What?  Huh?—oh, I'm sorry."

"Please bear in mind that I'm only asking this for practicality's sake, okay?  But—"

"—how much money is in the bag?"

She blinked.  "How'd you know I was going to—?"

I tapped my temple with my index finger.  "Psychic powers.  Sixty-two thousand dollars."

"What?"

"Sixty-two thousand dollars, minus the four or five hundred I gave to the little girl in the bus depot."

"I can't believe you did that."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And you'd do it all over again, wouldn't you?"

"Probably."

She smiled.  "Still insist you're not one of the good guys?"

"Could we not get into that old chestnut again—I know, I know, another mixed metaphor."

"Actually it's a misplaced simile, but let's not pick nits."

"You're too good to me."

She began rubbing my back.  "What happened to set you off at the bar?  I know it wasn't just the joke."

"No, but goddammit that was part of it!  I get so sick of these smartass college kids who think that just because you have to wash your hands at the end of the day's work and maybe clean grease out from under your fingernails that your intellectual level isn't quite on par with a slug.  That little fucker figured that because I was a janitor, I'd appreciate a joke like that because it's the only kind of humor I could understand.  Asshole!  It was the way he was so obvious about it, you know?  Thinking I'd laugh at it and that'd show his little prickettes what an ignorant low-life I was and—"

"Settle down."

"Sorry."

"Deep breaths."

"I'm fine."

She kissed my cheek, then continued rubbing my back.  "So what set you off?  What started it?"

"This morning when I got into work, I started checking the i

"He didn't say where he was?"

I shook my head.  "No—but then I get this bright idea and forward it to this kid I know over at the university's tech support center.  This kid locked himself out of the lab one night before he had a big paper due and I let him in.  He said if I ever needed a favor from him, so…

"I go over there and tell him that I got an e-mail from my brother who's been missing for a couple of weeks, and I ask him if there's any way he could find out where it was sent from."

"He ran a traceroute on the computer the mail came from?"

"How did you know?"

"I went to college, remember.  I read books.  Me smart girl, know many things."

"So you keep telling me.  The kid explained to me how a traceroute to an IP address will show the last few routers of the ISP through which they got the co

"Fascinating.  Where is he?"

I took out my wallet and removed the slip of paper I'd been carrying around all day, looked at it—

16  pop1-col-P6-0.atdn.net (66.185.140.55)  101.196 ms  50.611 ms  50.027 ms

17  rr-atlanta.atdn.net (66.185.146.242)  62.850 ms  63.504 ms  105.878 ms

18  srp5-0.rdcoh-rtr2.atlanta.rr.com (65.25.129.102)  64.905 ms 103.651 ms110.467 ms

19  gig2-1.rdcoh-swt7.woodstock.rr.com (65.24.3.254)  62.967 ms  63.869 ms 65.189 ms

—then handed it to Tanya.

"He's in Atlanta?"

"Woodstock.  It's a suburb.  He was there at seven a.m. this morning.  He could be anywhere now.  And the only way to get any more specific than that is to have access to the city's phone company or cable records."

"Couldn't a really clever computer hacker get that information?"

"Yes."  I looked at her.  It took a moment for her to read my expression.

"The guy in tech support?"

"It took some really sterling acting on my part to convince him that this was a genuine family emergency, and it took him a couple of hours, but he got access to the cable company's records in Woodstock."

Tanya took hold of my arm.  "Do you have an exact address?"

I nodded.

"Did he check for a phone number?"

"Yes.  There isn't one.  But guess who that cable account is registered to?"

"I have no—oh, shit, yes I do.  Beowulf Antiques, Inc.?"

I nodded once again.  "He went back to the only home he's got left."

Tanya stood up.  "All right, here's the plan; your court appearance is Friday morning.  It's now Wednesday morning—or really late Tuesday night, depending on how you want to look at it.  We get a flight out to Atlanta as soon as possible, rent a car, drive to Woodstock, and bring him back here."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that.  He's alone and probably sick with grief and sacred and… and I don't know what else.  He's got no one else to turn to but us."