Misery Loves Company

  “You’re ditching me, man? What’s that about?”

  “Just for a few days.”

  “For time off? The captain said you needed some time?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Dude, I think you’re taking this Jules thing too hard. There’s absolutely no evidence that points to her being in danger.”

  “I know. I just feel a lot of guilt right now.” He left it at that. He knew that telling his partner what was going down would only jeopardize Maecoat’s own career. If Maecoat knew nothing about what he was doing, then he wouldn’t have to lie for him. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “This is indefinite? You didn’t even give the captain a return date?”

  “Just a few days. I don’t really know.”

  “Aren’t you the diva of the department.”

  “Funny.”

  A loud sigh came through the phone. “Okay, man, I obviously can’t talk you out of this. You’re already hightailing it out of town. Just . . . relax, okay? Don’t let guilt bury you alive.”

  “Just going to clear my head.”

  “While you’re there, clear mine, will you?”

  Chris laughed. “Will do. I’ll bring you a souvenir from the clear minds resort.”

  They hung up and Chris looked at the dashboard clock. Two more hours and he’d be there.

  He took the time to sort through his thoughts. He was convinced that Jason had been investigating the boat thefts on the side. All the documentation proved that. But the question was why. Chris’s first guess was that Jason might’ve known someone who was caught up in it, a friend or family member, and he wanted to find out for himself if they were involved. Knowing Jason, it wasn’t so he could cover up for them, either. He would probably confront them himself, ask them to turn themselves in. Jason had always had an unbelievably rock-solid sense of conviction. There were no gray areas for him—except for when it came to Jules.

  Jason had loved Jules the instant he saw her, despite the fact that she didn’t share his faith in God. Early on in their conversations, Chris hadn’t understood what the big deal was. Jason was in love with her. So what that they didn’t share the same religious beliefs? A lot of people didn’t. But he knew as they grew closer, Jules’s lack of faith continued to weigh on Jason. At Jason’s very core, he wanted to take care of her fully, including spiritually. And up to the day he died, Chris believed Jason had every intention of doing that by showing Jules how much she was loved.

  His deep convictions were annoying at times, but in some weird way, also comforting. Not very many people Chris knew stood for much of anything. It was kind of refreshing to know someone who would literally put himself in harm’s way to defend the truth he believed in.

  Chris had often wished truth wasn’t so murky for him. He couldn’t just believe. For Jason, it was as uncomplicated as tying his shoes. He simply had faith in the Bible, that every ounce of it was true, that it was the standard by which to measure everything.

  Jason often joked that he was certain he wasn’t going to die because God put him on the earth to convince Chris and Jules to have faith in God, and it seemed like that task was going to take an eternity. As often as Jason would joke about it, though, he would also pull Chris aside, tell him things that he felt he should know. One day as they were about to dig into some barbecue at lunch, Jason said, “God loves you, Chris.”

  Out of respect for their friendship, Chris had not sighed like he wanted to. Instead, with a sly smirk, he’d said, “Do you have a bumper sticker to go with that slogan?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Okay, fine. Whatever. God loves me.”

  “I’m going to keep telling you that until you believe me.”

  “What makes you think I don’t believe you?”

  “Because there is no peace in your eyes.”

  Chris had shaken his head, started eating. “That’s what you’re going by? Peace in the eyes? I’ve got news for you: I’m not the kind of guy that’s ever going to have peace. Too many demons, too many skeletons in the closet.” And that was just his college years.

  “It’s achievable,” Jason said. “Perfect peace. Right here on earth.”

  Chris had laughed it off and changed the subject, but the truth was that he actually believed it because he saw it every day in Jason’s eyes, in the way he conducted himself, in the way he interacted with Jules. The man brought a sense of calm wherever he arrived. And Chris had watched him in action a dozen times. Once, they’d been the first to respond to a four-car accident. One of the cars had gone down the embankment and rolled. The wife had been thrown out of the car and was okay, but her husband was pinned and badly injured, and the car was on fire. The woman was hysterical and hindering their efforts to get him free.

  Jason had grabbed her shoulders, looked her right in the eye, and said, “Pray with me.” While Chris tried to get the door open, Jason leaned in through a broken window and prayed for the man. The wife prayed too, still sobbing but saying everything Jason said.

  When the flames were about to engulf the car, Chris had grabbed the woman to pull her to safety. “Jason, now! Out!” he yelled.

  Jason touched the man one more time, stepped backward, and all of a sudden, a downpour the likes of which Chris had never seen roared to the ground like a sky-wide bucket had been dumped. Bystanders cheered in awe as the firefighters peeled the door back and got the man out. It took about thirty minutes to free him. He would’ve never made it out in time had it not been for the rain.

  It had been barely misting the hour before. No heavy rain had been predicted. Chris had checked when he got home. Yet still, he couldn’t quite believe it wasn’t a coincidence.

  That heavy downpour was a perfect metaphor for Jason Belleno. After being around him, you felt totally drenched, in the best way possible. Since his death, it was like life was parched. A drought had struck in Chris’s soul.

  That’s why he had to find Jules. He had to put some meaning back into his life. Jason had always talked to him about meaning and purpose. Chris told him it was law enforcement. That’s what he lived for. But then one day, it failed to give him everything he needed or protect him in a way he thought it should.

  Two hours passed, filled with memories of Jason. They’d had such good times. Jason had a wicked sense of humor and loved practical jokes. His favorite was to sneak into a fellow cop’s car at night, while he was handling something outside, and turn on the lights, the horn, sirens—anything that made a sound or flashed. When the officer returned and started his car, everything would come on like crazy.

  Memories were cut short by the voice on Chris’s GPS indicating it was time to turn off the highway. According to the computer’s directions, he only had three more miles to go before arriving at Ike Patterson’s home, where his widow lived.

  Late last night, he’d woken up with the idea to visit her, that perhaps she knew something, knew where this cabin was. But now doubt trickled into his resolve. Was this the right thing to do? Was it even plausible that he might find a clue here? And did he have the guts to come as if on official police business? He’d already been reprimanded once.

  What would Jason do?

  Chris had three miles to figure it out.

  “STAY STILL.”

  An odd request, since she didn’t think she could move anything except her hands. And they felt like they were in gloves.

  “Please. Don’t move.”

  Jules opened her eyes. Everything was fuzzy at first. Then he came into focus but was quickly blurred again by tears.

  Patrick looked at her as he fiddled with something on her hand. “You’re awake. That’s good.”

  “Why can’t I move?” Her voice was hoarse. Panic surged through her as she tried to move her arms but couldn’t.

  “Stay still.”

  “Have you tied me up? Is that it?” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “I thought I was in heaven. I thought I was with Jason.”

  He looked at her c
almly, still with her left hand in his. “You’re not tied up.”

  Jules tried to look down to see what was rendering her unable to move. Blankets. Lots of them. Apparently wrapped tightly around her.

  She was back in the bedroom. Back staring at the terrifying words on the ceiling.

  “You almost froze to death,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve had to treat you for frostbite. Luckily I spent some time in Alaska researching a book, so I know how.”

  She looked down to find him unwrapping gauze from her hands. “They hurt,” she whispered.

  “I can only imagine,” he said. “I’ve never experienced it myself. Do you feel a prickling sensation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Let’s see what we have here.” Patrick lifted her hand, and she could see that her skin was partly white, partly the color of a ripe peach, and her knuckles looked shiny. On her pointer finger there was a blister. He studied it for a moment. “The blister isn’t a good sign.” He pressed on the skin. “It’s still mostly soft, except for your knuckles. Those are concerning me.” He put her hand on the bed. “I believe it’s superficial frostbite on your hands. You’ll be in pain, but I don’t think the hand will have to be amputated.”

  “Amputated?”

  “Let’s hope not.” He smiled reassuringly, then began taking blankets off her. At least four. Then unwrapped two from around her body. Jules sat up, trying to assist, but was surprised at how weak she felt. And her hand hurt. She winced.

  “Try not to move your hand at all,” he said.

  “My feet hurt too.”

  “Your ankles,” he said, glancing down at them. “They’re not as well off. You need to leave them wrapped. You’re not going to be able to walk for . . . until they heal.”

  “Maybe I should see a doctor.”

  “That’s not going to work out so well.”

  “It’s not an excuse. I’m really hurt.”

  “I can give you more pain medication.”

  “No. No, I don’t want any. It makes me feel weird.”

  “Suit yourself.” He rose and went to the door. “I’ve got some broth heating for you. You’ll want to drink, and then we work.”

  Jules lay back and groaned. “Work. I don’t want to work. I’m tired. My ankle feels like someone took an ax to it.”

  He stepped back in the room. “Juliet, we are running out of time.”

  Jules laughed. “Running out of time? That’s all we have here is time. Or the absence of time, I should say.”

  “By now, they know you are missing. I am not an easy man to find in the winter. But someone will come looking, someone who has the will to find you.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she mumbled.

  “And when they find you, they find me,” he said. “Then it will be too late.”

  “Too late for what?” Jules asked. But he walked away.

  The home was stately, just like what Chris imagined really smart literary types lived in. It had white columns in the front, leading to two tall oak doors. The yard was enclosed by an iron fence, but the gate was open.

  Chris pulled his truck into the circular drive and got out. It was never comfortable dropping by unannounced, but he felt it was better this way. Sometimes the element of surprise worked in law enforcement’s favor.

  He rang the doorbell. It sounded like cathedral bells.

  A man in an expensive suit answered the door. Chris wiped his sweaty hands against his jeans in case there was going to be a need for a handshake.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Chris Downey. I’m with the Wissberry police department.”

  “Identification, please.”

  Chris held up his badge. He was really hoping he wouldn’t have to do this, but the man looked to be in a perpetual state of skepticism.

  His gaze steadied on the badge for a moment, then took its time returning to Chris. “Your business here?”

  “I would like to talk to Mrs. Patterson.”

  “About?”

  Ugh. But it was the last card he had to play. “Patrick Reagan.”

  The man’s expression flickered with recognition and concern. “I see,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in. Please, have a seat in here and I will summon Mrs. Patterson. I’m Vincent Lowell, her assistant.”

  From the small sitting room, Chris observed a giant library the next room over, complete with a sliding wooden ladder. The house smelled like a flower garden. It was kind of making his nose itch.

  Distantly he heard voices. Then footsteps coming toward the room. Soon, a woman entered. Chris wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he was surprised by what he saw.

  She was dressed sharply and looked to be less than fifty years old, though she wore a lot of makeup, her eyes rimmed with so much black that it was the first thing he noticed about her.

  “Expecting someone older?” she asked with a mild smile.

  “Yes. Sorry. I . . . I just . . .”

  “Ike’s first wife died of old age. And then he married me. We were married for twenty-five years.” She offered a hand. “Leona Patterson.”

  “Sergeant Downey, with the Wissberry PD.”

  “That’s a ways, isn’t it?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Still, you must have important business.” She waved her hand, indicating they should sit. “May we offer you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  The assistant left and she turned her full attention to Chris. “Vincent said you’re here about Patrick Reagan.”

  Chris nodded, trying to find the words to explain the situation without saying too much. He wasn’t sure that was going to be possible.

  “We’re working on a case in Wissberry, where Mr. Reagan lives, as you know. We think he may have some information, but we’ve been unsuccessful at locating him. Apparently he just vanishes into thin air in the winter.”

  Leona smiled knowingly.

  “I was hoping that you might be able to help us locate him.”

  “Why do you think I would know?”

  “I met with Mr. Reagan’s current agent, Mr. Bentley Marrow.” Chris smirked as Leona let out a heavy sigh of disapproval. “Obviously you feel the same way about Marrow as Patrick does?”

  She lifted her chin. “For different reasons. But no, I do not care for the man.”

  “Do you maintain any contact with Mr. Reagan?”

  She eyed Chris. “Why? Has he finally gone off the deep end?”

  “Do you think he might?”

  “You don’t know many writers, do you, Officer Downey?” She spoke with a haughtiness that made her seem older than she was.

  “Rick Castle. But he seems stable, only a little lovesick.”

  “I see,” she said, ignoring the joke. “You have to understand—what makes them good at writing often makes them incapable of living in the very world about which they write.”

  “Is that why he escapes to his cabin every winter?”

  “Oh, that cabin. If I never have to hear about that again, I’ll be happy.”

  “Is it really impossible to get ahold of this man? His home was ransacked. Not even his maid knows how to reach him.”

  “His house was ransacked, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” she said after a brief moment of pondering, “that is Patrick Reagan. The man who controls his universe.” She sighed. “His wife died. Did they tell you that?”

  “Yes. That Mr. Reagan didn’t take it well. They also told us about Ike’s death.”

  “Sidney Sheldon once said that a blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling writers how hard it is to be God.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Writers play God, don’t you see? They create their people, their creatures, and they lay out the plans for their entire lives. They then send trouble into their paths. Lots of trouble. Why?”

  Chris shrugged.

  “Because it is the only way to make the charact
er grow, so that he is capable of achieving the end result. The writer, in the end, works all things out for the good of the main character. The character accomplishes more than he thought he could. He has acted heroically or solved the unsolvable. He continues on into the white space of literature, where he will live out his days in happiness.”

  Chris cleared his throat. “Okay.”

  “So you can imagine what happens to a fragile mind and soul, who has been used to creating happy endings for those he cares about, when his own world becomes uncontrollable. When he realizes that although he has created many happy endings, he will not get one of his own.”

  “You’re saying you think Patrick Reagan is having some sort of nervous breakdown?”

  “I couldn’t say. I haven’t spoken with Patrick since Ike’s funeral.”

  “Do you have a sense that something might be wrong?”

  She looked out a window, her eyes distant with thought. “I know that when Amelia passed away, it was very difficult. She suffered an agonizing death and there was nothing he could do. Since then, I’ve only heard snippets about what is happening with him, through certain circles. I imagine that he buried himself in work. Rumor was some police procedural thriller he was working on. He hasn’t written well since Amelia died. And who knows? Perhaps he’s not capable of writing anymore. Not without Amelia.”

  “Did she write with him?”

  Leona thought for a moment. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Can you explain it?”

  “It was sometimes like she was the left side of his brain. The part of him that put the pieces together in some logical way. Patrick was notorious for being very unstructured in his writing. He’d write scenes on napkins and take copious notes on scrap pieces of paper. He’d write scenes out of order. And he’d put it all in this cardboard box. Supposedly Amelia would take it and sort it and help him figure out how to put it all together.”

  “Do you know anything about a writer named Blake Timble?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s not yet published but supposed to be the next big thing. There’s evidence that Patrick might be upset by him coming onto the literary scene.”